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KETlLK^if       i^BMEXc 


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(D)IF    TMIE 

BRITISH  POETS, 

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THE  WORKS 


OF  THE 


BRITISH   POETS 


SELECTED    AND    CHEONOLOGIGALLY    AEKAKGED 


FROM 


FALCOMR  TO  SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


WITH 


BIOGEAPHICAL  AND  CEITICAL  NOTICES. 


VOLUME  III. 


A    KEW    REVISED    EDITION, 

Illttstrat^Jy  toiti]  iin  S>tnl  ^ngraljiitgs. 


NEW-TOEK : 
D.    APPLETON    &    COMPANY, 

443    &    445    BROADWAY. 
1866. 


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FEONTISPIECE— NETLY  ABBEY, 

GAME  OF  CHESS,  .........  54 

THE  MOTHEE,  ....  IO4 

THE  VISION,  -  -  ....  .  .  -  .  199 

GINEVKA, --255 

THE  SICK  CHAMBEE,     --.--.,---  284 

BASIL, ',  --  -805 

BUMMEE,     -  -  --  .  -  -  .  -  .  ..405 

A  MOTHEE'S  LOVE, 5S3 

THE  CASTLE,        -•...••...  525 


• 


• 


CONTENTS. 


The  Shipwreck 
Canto  I. 

II.      . 
III. 


FALCONER. 


BAKBAULD. 


Corsica.    Written  in  the  year  1769.    ,  .     '     . 

The  Mouse's  Petition  .... 

Characters  ...... 

An  I  n  ventory  of  the  Furniture  in  Dr.  Priestley's  Study 
On  a  Lady's  Writing      ..... 

On  the  Deserted  Village 

Hymn  to  Content 

The  Origin  of  Song-writing 

Ode  to  .Spring 

An  Address  to  the  Deity 

A  Summer  Evening's  Meditation 

To-morrow 

A  School  Eclogue  ..... 

What  do  the  "Futures  speak  of?    la  Answer  to  a 

Question  in  the  Greek  Grammar  . 
The  Rights  of  Woman 
Washing-day       .... 

To  Mr.  S.  T.  Coleridge.    1797.,     . 

The  Unknown  God 

Ode  to  Remorse 

On  the  Death  of  the  Princess  Charlotte 

The  Wake  of  the  King  of  Spain     . 

Hymns  :— 


IL 

III.  For  Easter  Sunday 

IV.  .  .       ' 
V.      . 

VI.  Pious  Friendship 

vn.   .      .      r 

VIII. 
IX.     . 

X.  A  Pastoral  Hymn 


SIR  WILLIAM  JONES. 


or,  the  Game  of  Chess 
Solima.    An  Arabian  Eclogue 
An  Ode  in  imitation  of  Alcaeus 
An  Ode  in  imitation  of  Callistratus 
The  First  Nemean  Ode  of  Pindar 
A  Chinese  Ode,  paraphrased 
A  Turkish  Ode  of  Mesihi 
Hymn  to  Camdeo      .  ,  , 

Two  Hymns  to  Pracriti. 

To  Durga         .  .  , 

To  Bhavani 
Hymn  to  Indra    . 


CRABBE. 


Sir  Eustace  Grey 
The  Hall  of  Justice. 
Part  I. 
II.  . 
Woman 


Page 


37 


Tales: 


n. 
III. 

IV. 

V. 

VI. 

vn. 

VIII. 

IX. 

X. 

XI. 

XII. 

XIII. 

XIV. 

XV. 

XVI. 

XVTI. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 

XX. 

XXI. 


The  Dumb  Orators ;  or,  the  Benefit  of  So- 
ciety .... 
The  Parting  Hour 
The  Gentleman  Farmer 
Procrastination     . 
The  Patron     .... 
The  Frank  Courtship      . 
The  Widow's  Tale    . 
The  Mother 

Arabella  .... 

The  Lover's  Journey 
Edward  Shore 
'Squire  Thomas ;  or,  the  Precipitate  Choice 
Jessy  and  Colin  .... 
The  Struggles  of  Conscience 
Advice;  or,  the  'Squire  and  the  Priest 
The  Confidant 
Resentment 

The  Wager     .... 
The  Convert 
The  Brothers 
The  Learned  Boy 


Bristow  Tragedie; 

Bawdin     . 
Mynstrelles  Songe 


CHATTERTON. 

or,  the  Dethe  of  Syr  Charles 


GIFFORD. 


76 

80 

84 

88 

91 

97 

101 

104 

107 

110 

113 

117 

1-20 

1^ 

123 

131 

136 

140 

43 

46 

150 


158 
161 


The  Baviad:  a  paraphrastic  Imitation  of  the  first 

Satire  of  Persius     .          .          .          .  .163 

TheMaeviad 173 


BURNS. 

The  twa  Dogs,  a  Tale 190 

Death  and  Dr.  Hornbook.    A  true  Story  .  .  192 

The  Brigs  of  Ayr,  a  Poem.    Inscribed  to  J.  B******, 

Esq.,  Ayr 193 

The  Death  and  Dying  Words  of  Poor  Mailie,  the  Au- 
thor's only  Pet  Yowe.    An  unco  mournfu'  Tale    195 

Poor  Mailie's  Elegy 196 

ToJ.  S****. 196 

A  Dream  .  .  .  .  .  .  .198 

The  Vision. 

Duan  First 199 

Duan  Second   .  .  .  .  .  .201 

Address  to  the  unco  Guid,  or  the  Rigidly  Righteous      202 
Tam  Samson's  Elegy     .  .  .  .  .203 

Halloween      ......         204 

The  auld  Farmer's  New- year  Morning  Salutation  to 
his  auld  Mare  Maggie,  on  giving  her  accustomed 
Ripp  of  Corn  to  hansel  in  the  New-year  .    20? 

To  a  Mouse.    On  turning  her  up  in  her  Nest  with 

the  Ploush,  November,  1785.         .  .  .208 

A  Winter's  Night 208 

Despondency,   ^n  Ode  ....    209 

Winter.   A  Dirge 210 

The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night.  Inscribed  to  R.  A****, 

Esq.    .  - 210 

Man  was  made  to  mourn.    A  Dirge  .  .         212 

A  Prayer  in  the  Prospect  of  Death       .  .  .213 

Stanzas  on  the  same  Occasion        .  .  .         213 

5 


CONTENTS. 


Verses  left  at  a  Friend's  House 

The  First  Psalm       ..... 

A  Prayer  under  the  Pressure  of  violent  Anguish 
The  first  six  "Verses  of  the  ninetieth  Psalm 
To  a  Mountain  Daisy,  on  turning  one  down  with  the 
Plough  in  April,  1786.       .... 

To  Ruin         ...... 

To  Miss  L— ,  with  Beattle's  Poems  as  a  New-year's 
Gift,  January  1,  1787.  .... 

Episile  to  a  Young  Friend.    May,  1786.    . 
On  a  Scotch  Bard  gone  to  the  West  Indies    . 
To  a  Haggis    ...... 

A  Dedication  to  Gavin  Hamilton,  Esq. 
To  a  Louse.    On  seeing  one  on  a  Lady's  Bonnet  at 
Church     ...... 

Address  to  Edinburgh     ..... 

Epistle  to  J.  Lapraik,  an  old  Scottish  Bard.    April 

1st,  1785. 

To  the  same.    April  21st,  1785. 
To  W.  S*****N,  Ochiltree  .... 
Epistle  to  J.  R******,  enclosing  some  Poems 
Tam  O'Shanter.    A  Tale    .... 
Songs  :— 

The  Lea-rig     ...... 

To  Mary 

My  Wife's  a  winsome  wee  thing 

Bonnie  Leslie        .  .  .  . 

Highland  Mary 

Auld  Bob  Morris 

Duncan  Gray  ...... 

Song 

Galla  Water    .  .  .  .  . 

Lord  Gregory  ..... 

Mary  Morison  .... 

Wandering  Willie  .... 

Jessie    ..'.... 

When  wild  War's  deadly  Blast  vraa  blawn 

Song      ....... 

Bonnie  Jean  ..... 

Auld  Lang  Syne         ..... 

Bannockburn.  Robert  Bruce's  Address  to  his  Army 

For  a'  that,  and  a'  that  .... 

Scottish  Ballad      .  .       •    . 

Song      ....... 

TheBirksofAberfeldy     .... 

I  love  my  Jean  .  .  .  .  . 

John  Anderson  my  Jo       . 

ThePosie         ...... 

The  Banks  o'  Doon  .... 

Song      ....... 

Sic  a  Wife  as  Willie  had  ... 

Wilt  thou  be  my  Dearie  ?       .  .  .  . 

For  the  sake  of  somebody 

A  red,  red  Rose  ..... 

Song  .  .  .♦        . 

The  bonnie  Lad  that's  far  awa 

Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't  .  .  .  . 


ROGERS. 


The  Pleasures  of  Memory. 

Part  I 

II 

Italy.— Part  I. 

I.  The  Lake  of  Geneva 
II.  The  Great  St.  Bernard     . 

III.  The  Descent    . 

IV.  Jorasse        .  .  . 
V.  Marguerite  de  Tours  . 

VI.  The  Alps    . 

VII.  Como    . 

VIIL  Bergamo     .  .  . 

IX.  Italy     . 
X.  Coll'alto     . 
XL  Venice .  .  . 

XII.  Luigi 

XIII.  St.  Mark's  Place 

XIV.  The  Gondola 

XV.  The  Brides  of  Venice 

XVI.  Foscari 
XVII.  Arqua   . 
XVIII.  Ginevra      . 

XIX.  Bologna 

XX.  Florence  .  ., 

XXI.  Don  Garzia      . 

XXII.  The  Campagna  of  Florence 
taly.— Part  II. 

I.  The  Pilgrim     . 
II.  An  Interview 

III.  Rome    . 

IV.  A  Funeral  . 

V,  National  Prejudices  . 

VI.  The  Campagna  of  Rome 

VII.  The  Roman  Pontiffs  . 
VIII.  Gains  Cestius 


Page 
•213 
213 
214 
214 

214 
214 

215 
215 
216 
216 

217 

218 
218 

219 
220 
221 
223 
223 

225 
225 
226 
226 
226 
226 
226 
227 
227 
227 
227 
228 
228 
228 
2-28 
229 
229 
229 
2:30 
230 
230 
231 
231 
231 
231 
231 
232 
232 
232 
232 
232 
233 
233 
233 


234 
238 

241 

212 
243 
244 
244 
a45 
245 
246 
247 
247 
248 
249 
25C 
251 
252 
253 
255 
255 
256 
257 
258 
258 

261 
262 
262 
264 
265 
265 
266 
267 


IX.  The  Nun 

X.  The  Firefly  .... 

XI.  Foreign  Travel  .  .  .  . 

XII.  The  Fountain        .... 

XIII.  Banditti 

XIV.  An  Adventure       .... 
XV.  Naples 

XVI.  The  Bag  of  Gold   .... 

XVII.  A  Character 

XVllI,  Sorrento 

XIX.  Paestum  .  ,  .  .  . 

XX.  Monte  Cassino    .  .  .  . 

XXI.  The  Harper 

XXII.  TheFeluca  .... 

XXllI.  Genoa 

Ode  to  Superstition    ..... 
Verses  written  to  be  spoken  by  Mrs.  Siddons 

On asleep       ..... 

To 

From  Euripides         .  .  .  . 

Captivity  ....... 

The  Sailor 

To  an  old  Oak 

To  two  Sisters  ..... 

On  a  Tear 

To  a  Voice  that  had  been  lost 
From  a  Greek  Epigram  .... 

To  the  Fragment  of  a  Statue  of  Hercules,  commonly 
called  the  Torso      ..... 

To 

Written  in  a  Sick  Chamber     .... 

The  Boy  of  Egremond  .... 

To  a  Friend  on  his  Marriage     .  .  .  . 

The  Alps  at  Daybreak 

Imitation  of  an  Italian  Sonnet 

A  Character    .... 

To  the  Youngest  Daughter  of  Lady  **»* 

An  Epitaph  on  a  Robin-redbreast  . 

To  the  Gnat        .... 

A  Wish 

Written  at  Midnight,  1786.       .  .  .  . 

An  Italian  Song         ..... 

An  Inscription     ...... 

Written  in  the  Highlands  of  Scotland,  September  2, 

1S12.      .       .       ,       .      :   •  . 

A  Farewell  ...... 

Inscription  for  a  Temple.    Dedicated  to  the  Graces 
To  the  Butterfly        ..... 

Written  in  Westminster  Abbey,  October  10, 1806.    . 


GRAHAME. 

The  Sabbath 
Sabbath  Walks  :— 

A  Spring  Sabbath  Wall'  . 

A  Summer  Sabbath  Walk 

An  Autumn  Sabbath  Walk 

A  Winter  Sabbath  Walk 
Biblical  Pictures  :— 

The  First  Sabbath 

The  Finding  of  Moses 

Jacob  and  Pharaoh 

Jephthah's  Vow 

Saul  and  David 

Elijah  fed  by  Ravens 

The  Birth  of  Jesus  announced     . 

Behold  my  Mother  and  my  Brethren 

Bariimeus  restored  to  Sight 

Little  Children  brought  to  Jesus 

Jesus  calms  the  Tempest  . 

Jesus  walks  on  tjie  Sea,  and  calms  the  Storm 

The  Dumb  cured   .... 

The  Death  of  Jesus     .  .  . 

The  Resurrection  . 

Jesus  appears  to  the  Disciples 

Paul  accused  before  the  Tribunal  of  the  Areopagus 

Paul  accused  before  the  Roman  Governor  of  Judea 

Paraphrase.— Psalm  ciii.  3,  4. 
On  Visiting  Melrose,  after  an  Absence  of  sixteen 
Years       ...... 

The  Wild  Duck  and  her  Brood 
To  a  Redbreast  that  flew  in  at  my  Window 
Epitaph  on  a  Blackbird  killed  by  a  Hawk    . 
The  Poor  Man's  Funeral      .... 

The  Thanksgiving  off  Cape  Trafalgar  .  , 

To  my  Son     ...... 


JOANNA  BAILLIE, 


Basil. 
Act  I. 

n. 

HI. 
IV. 
V. 


267 
267 
26S 
26S 
269 
270 
271 
273 
274 
275 
276 
277 
277 
277 
278 
279 
281 
282 
282 
282 


282 
283 
283 
283 
283 

C84 
284 
284 
2&4 
284 
285 
285 
285 
285 
285 
285 


286 
286 


287 

287 


289 

297 

297 
298 


299 

299 
299 
300 
300 
300 
300 
300 
301 
801 
501 
301 
301 
301 
301 
302 
302 
302 
302 

302 
303 

303 
303 
303 
303 


309 

314 
320 


CONTENTS. 


Page 


De  MonforU 


Act  I 

.    332 

II 

337 

III.     .... 

.    341 

IV.          .          .          . 

&45 

V.    . 

.    349 

The  Martyr. 

Act  I.          . 

356 

II 

.    360 

III. 

365 

IJhristopher  Columbia  . 

.    370 

.ady  Griseld  BaiUie 

379 

Lord  John  of  the  East     .           . 

.    387 

Malcom's  Heir 

3® 

Tho  Elden  Tree 

.    390 

The  Ghost  of  Fadon 

392 

A  November  Night's  Traveller 

.    3&i 

Sir  Maurice.    A'Ballad 

396 

Address  to  a  Steam-veael 

.    398 

To  Mrs.  Siddons 

399 

A  Volunteer  Song 

.    400 

To  a  Child      . 

'         400 

BLOOMFIELD. 


\  \e  Farmer's  Boy. 
Spring  . 
Summer 
Autumn 
Winter 


WORDSWORTH. 

The  Excurtion,  being  a  Portion  of  the  Kecluse. 
Book  I    The  Wanderer         .  .  .  , 

II.  The  Solitary        .... 

III,  Despondency 

IV,  Despondency  corrected  . 

V.  The  Pastor     .  .  .  .  , 

VI.  The  Churchyard  among  the  Mountains 
VII.  The  Churchyard  among  the  Mountains 

continued  .... 
VIII.  The  Parsonage     .... 
LX.  Discourse  of  the  Wanderer,  and  an  Even- 
ing Visit  to  the  Lake 
The  Armenian  Lady's  Love  . 

The  Somnambulist 


BOWLES. 

The  Missionary. 
Canto  L  .....  . 

n 

Ill 

IV. 

V 

VI 

VII 

VIII 

Song  cf  the  Cid  ... 

Sonnets.    Written  chiefly  during  various  Journeys. 
Pan  I. 
Sonnet.    Written  at  Tynemouth,  Northumber- 
land, after  a  tempestuous  Voyage 
Sonnet.    At  Bamboroush  Castle 
To  the  River  "\Vensbeck 
To  the  River  Tweed 


Sonnet. 
Sonnet. 
Sonnet 
Sonnet. 
Sonnet. 
Sonnet 
Sonnet. 
Sonnet. 
Sonnet. 
Sonnet. 
Sonnet. 
Sonnet 
Sonnet 
Sonnet. 
Sonnet. 
Part  II. 
Sonnet 
Sonnet. 
Sonnet. 
Sonnet. 
Sonnet. 
Sonnet. 
Sonnet 
Sonnet. 
Sonnet 
Sonnet. 
Sonnet, 
well 


On  leaving  a  Village  in  Scotland 
To  the  River  Itchin,  near  Winton 

At  Dover  Cliffs,  July  20, 1787    . 
At  Ostend,  landing,  July  21,  1787  . 
At  Ostend,  July  22,  1787 
On  the  River  Rhine 
At  a  Convent 


On  a  distant  View  of  England 
To  the  River  Cherwell,  Oxford 


October,  1792 
November,  1792 
April,  1793 
May,  1793       . 
Netley  Abbey 


May,  1793 


On  revisiting  Oxford 

On  the  Death  of  the  Rev.  William  Ben- 


402 
405 
408 
411 


417 

425 
432 
440 
451 
459 

468 
476 


.    4S1 


492 
495 
497 
501 
503 
505 
506 
509 
512 


514 
514 
514 
515 
515 
515 
515 
515 
516 
616 
516 
516 
516 
516 
517 
517 
517 

517 

517 
517 
518 
513 
518 
518 
518 
518 
518 

519 


Pagt 
Sonnet.    Written  at  Malvern,  July  11, 1793  51S 

Sonnet.    On  reviewing  the  foregoing,  Septem- 
ber 21, 1797  .  .  .  .  619 


COLERIDGE. 

Sibylline  Leaves. 

I.  Poems  occasioned  by  Political  Events,  or  Feel- 

ings connected  with  them:— 

Ode  "to  the  departing  Year .... 

France.    An  Ode  .... 

Fears  in  Solitude.  Written  in  April,  1798,  dur- 
ing the  Alarm  of  an  Invasion     . 

Fire,  Famine,  and  Slaughter.    A  War  Eclosue 

Recantation,  illustraied'in  the  Story  of  the  Mad 
Ox 

II.  Love  Poems  :— 

Introduction  to  the  Tale  of  the  Dark  Ladie 
Lewti,  or  the  Circassian  Love-chant  . 
The  Picture,  or  the  Lovers  Resolution    . 
The  Night-scene.    A  Dramatic  Fragment 
To  an  unfortunate  Woman,  whom  the  Author 

had  known  in  the  Days  of  her  Innocence 
To  an  unfortunate  Woman  at  the  Theatre    . 
Lines  composed  in  a  Concert-room 
The  Keepsake      ..... 
To  a  Lady.     With  Falconer's  "  Shipwreck" 
Home-sick.    Written  in  Germany 
Answer  lo  a  Child's  Question 
To  a  Young  Lady.    On  her  Recovery  from  a 

Fever        ...... 

The  Visionary  Hope      .... 

Something  childish,  but  very  natural.    Written 

in  Germany  ..... 

Recollections  of  Love    .... 
The  Happy  Husband.    A  Fragment 
On  revisiting  the  Seashore,  after  long  Absence, 

under  strong  medical  recommendaiioms  not  to 

bathe         ...... 

The  Composhion  of  a  Kiss 

III.  Meditative  Poems.    In  blank  verse : 

Hymn  before  Sunrise,  in  the  Vale  of  Chamouny 

Lines  writtea  in  the  Album  at  Elbingerode,  in 
the  Hartz  Forest  ..... 

On  observing  a  Blossom  on  the  first  of  February, 
1796      .  

The  Eolian  Harp.  Comjwsed  at  Clevedon,  So- 
mersetshire ..... 

Reflections  on  having  left  a  Place  of  Retirement 

To  the  Rev.  George  Coleridge  of  Ottery  Su  Mary, 
Devon,  with  some  Poems 

A  tombless  Epitaph       .... 

Inscription  for  a  Fountain  on  a  Heath     . 

This  Lime-tree  Bower  my  Prison 

To  a  Gentleman.  Composed  on  the  Night  after 
his  Recitation  of  a  Poem  on  the  Growah  of  an 
individual  Mind   ..... 

To  a  Friend,  who  had  declared  his  Intention  of 
writing  no  more  Poetry 

The  Nightingale:  a  Conversation  Poem.  Writ- 
ten in  April,  1793 ..... 

Frost  at  Midnight  .... 

To  a  Friend,  together  with  an  unfinished  Poem 

The  Hour  when  we  shall  meet  again.  Composed 
during  Illness  and  in  Absence"  . 

Lines  to  Joseph  Cottle  .... 

IV.  Odes  and  Miscellaneous  Poems:— 

The  Three  Graves.  A  Fragment  of  a  Sexton's 
Tale 

Dejection.    An  Ode       .... 

Ode  to  Georgiana,  Dutchess  of  Devonshire,  on 
the  twenty-fourth  Stanza  in  her  "Passage  over 
Mount  Golhard"         .... 

Ode  to  Tranquillity  .... 

To  a  Young  Friend,  on  his  proposing  to  domesti- 
cate with  the  Author.    Composed  in  1796 

Lines  to  W.  L.  Esq.,  while  he  sang  a  Song  to 
Purcell's  Music    ..... 

Addressed  to  a  Young  Man  of  Fortune,  who 
abandoned  himself  to  an  indolent  and  Cuuse- 
less  Melancholy  ..... 

Sonnet  to  the  River  Otter 

Sonnet.  Composed  on  a  Journey  homeward; 
the  Author  having  received  Intelligence  of  the 
Birth  of  a  Son,  September  20, 1796 

Sonnet.  To  a  Friend,  who  asked  how  I  felt 
when  the  Nurse  first  presented  my  Infant 
to  me         . 

The  Virgin's  Cradle  Hymn.  Copied  from  the 
Print  of  the  Virgin  in  a  Catholic  Village  in 
Germany   ...... 

On  the  Christening  of  a  Friend's  Child 


Epitaph  on  an  Infant 
Melancholy.    A  Fragn.ent 
A  Christmas  Carol  . 


521 


5-26 

526 

528 
529 
53C 
531 

632 
S3fZ 
533 
533 
533 
5ai 
534 

534 
b34 

535 
535 
535 


535 
536 

536 

537 

537 

537 
538 

639 
539 

540 
540 

541 

542 

543 
643 
&44 

644 
544 


545 
543 


550 
551 


551 


552 
552 


552 
663 
553 
553 
553 


8 

CONTENTS. 

Page 

Pag- 

Tell's  Birthplace.    Imitated  from  Stolber^  . 

554 

The  Falling  Leaf 

691 

Human  Life.    On  the  Denial  of  Immortal 

ty     . 
Blank 

554 

The  Adventure  of  a  Star.  Addressed  to  a  Young  Lady 

591 

Eleey,  imitated  from  one  of  Akenside's 

Make  way  for  Liberty   .           .           .           .           . 

592 

Verse  Inscriptions 

, 

554 

For  the  first  Leaf  of  a  Lady's  Album 

593 

The  Visit  of  the  Gods.    Imitated  from  Schiller 

554 

ThefirstLeafof  an  Album       .           .          .           . 

693 

Kubla  Khan  ;  or,  a  Vision  in  a  Dream 

555 

Time  employed,  Time  enjoyed.    Addressed  to  a 

The  Pains  of  Sleep 

556 

Young  Lady  from  whom  the  Author  had  re- 
ceived  an  elegantly  wrought  Watch-pocket 
A  Voyage  round  the  World  .          .          .          . 

The  Rime  of  the  Ancient  Mariner. 

594 

PartL         . 

S56 

594 

II.   .          .          .          » 

557 

III 

558 

IV 

V.         .          .          ,          • 

559 
559 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 

VI 

560 
661 

VII.         .... 

The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel. 

Christabel. 

Canto  I. 

598 

Part  I 

563 

II.                

602 

II.         .                      .           . 

566 

Ill 

606 

Youth  and  Ase   .... 
The  Devil's  Thoughts 

569 

IV 

610 

569 

V 

615 

Epigrams  ..... 
The  Gardenof  Boccaccio    . 

570 

VI 

620 

670 

Marmion.    A  Tale  of  Flodden  Field.          

Canto  I.    The  Castle             .           .           .           . 

625 

II.    The  Convent    .... 

633 

MONTGOMERY. 

m.    The  Hostel,  or  Inn 

IV.    The  Camp        .... 

640 
647 

The  Wanderer  of  Switzerland. 

V,    The  Court  .           .          ,          .          . 

655 

Part  I 

, 

, 

573 

VL    The  Battle       .... 

665 

II.         . 

, 

, 

574 

The  Lady  of  the  Lake. 

Ill 

, 

, 

575 

Canto  I.    The  Chaje 

677 

IV 

, 

577 

II.    The  Island        .          .          .          . 

683 

V. 

, 

, 

578 

in.    The  Gathering      .           .           .           . 

690 

VI 

, 

, 

580 

IV.    The  Prophecy  .           .           .           . 

697 

The  Grave           .... 

, 

, 

5SJ 

V.    The  Combat          .           .           .           . 

704 

Ode  to  the  Volunteers  of  Britain,  on  the  Prospect  of 

VI.    The  Guard-room 

711 

Invasion  .... 

, 

, 

583 

The  Fire  King «        . 

719 

Hannah    ..... 

684 

The  Wild  Huntsmen           .... 

720 

The  Ocean.    Written  at  Scarborough, 

in  the  Sum- 

The  Battle  of  Sempach            .           .           .           . 

723 

merofl805 

^ 

^ 

584 

The  Maid  of  Toro 

725 

The  Common  Lot 

. 

586 

War  Song  of  the  Royal  Edinburgh  Light  Dragoons  . 

725 

The  Harp  of  Sorrow  . 

Pope's  Willow    .... 

. 

. 

586 

MacGregor's  Gathering.    Written  for  Albyn's  An- 

586 

thology      ...              ... 

726 

The  Swiss  Cowherd's  Song  in  a  loreign 

Land. 

Irail 

Mackrimmon's  Lament       .           , 

726 

tated  from  the  French  . 

587 

Pibroch  of  Donald  Dhu.    Writtei   for  Albyn's  An- 

The Dial 

- 

587 

thology          ...... 

727 

A  Mother's  Love 

, 

* 

588 

The  Dance  of  Death            .... 

727 

The  Glowworm   .... 

588 

Farewell  to  the  Muse     ..... 

729 

The  Oak.    Imitated  from  the  Italian  of  Metastasio 

589 

Hellvellyn 

729 

The  Widow  and  the  Fatherless     . 

^ 

* 

589 

Wandering  Willie          .     •      . 

730 

Human  Life.— Job  xiv.  . 

^ 

589 

Hunting  Sung            ..... 

730 

The  Bible      .... 

, 

, 

589 

The  Bard's  Incantation.    Written  under  the  Threat 

The  Daisy  in  India 

589 

of  Invasion,  in  the  Autumn  of  1804 

730 

The  Stranger  and  his  Friend 

, 

, 

590 

Romance  of  Dunois.    From  the  French    . 

731 

Via  Crucis,  Via  Lucis    . 

, 

, 

690 

The  Troubadour 

731 

The  Ages  of  Man     . 

, 

, 

591 

Carle,  now  the  King's  come.    Being  new  Words  tc 

Aspirations  of  Youth      .          .          . 

. 

. 

591 

an  auld  Spring        ..... 

733 

WILLIAM    FALCONER. 


William  Falconer  was  a  natiT^e  of  Edinburgh, 
and  went  to  sea  at  an  early  age  in  a  merchant 
vessel  of  Leith.  He  was  afterwards  mate  of  a 
ship  that  was  wrecked  in  the  Levant,  and  was  one 
of  only  three  out  of  her  crew  that  were  saved,  a 
catastrophe  which  formed  the  subject  of  his  future 
poem.  He  was  for  some  time  in  the  capacity  of  a 
servant  to  Campbell,  the  author  of  Lexiphanes, 
when  purser  of  a  ship.  Campbell  is  said  to  have 
discovered  in  Falconer  talents  worthy  of  cultiva- 
tion, and  when  the  latter  distinguished  himself  as 
a  poet,  used  to  boast  that  he  had  been  his  scholar. 
What  he  learned  from  Campbell  it  is  not  very  easy 
to  ascertain.  His  education,  as  he  often  assured 
Governor  Hunter,  had  been  confined  to  reading, 
writing,  and  a  little  arithmetic,  though  in  the  course 
of  his  life  he  picked  up  some  acquaintance  with 
the  J'rench,  Spanish,  and  Italian  languages.  In 
these  his  countryman  was  not  likely  to  have  much 
assisted  him ;  but  he  might  have  lent  him  books, 
and  possibly  instructed  him  in  the  use  of  figures. 
Falconer  published  his  Shipwreck,  in  1762,  and  by 
the  favour  of  the  Duke  of  York,  to  whom  it  was  de- 
dicated, obtained  the  appointment  of  a  midshipman 
in  the  Royal  George,  and  afterwards  that  of  purser 
in  the  Glory  frigate.  He  soon  afterwards  married 
a  Miss  Hicks,  an  accomplished  and  beautiful  wo- 
man, the  daughter  of  the  surgeon  of  Sheerness 
yard.  At  the  peace  of  1763,  he  was  on  the  point 
of  being  reduced  to  distressed  circumstances  by  his 
ship  being  laid  up  in  ordinary  at  Chatham,  when, 
by  the  friendship  of  Commissioner  Hanway,  who 
ordered  the  cabin  of  the  Glory  to  be  fitted  up  for 
his  residence,  he  enjoyed  for  some  time  a  retreat 
for  study  without  expense  or  embarrassment.  Here 
he  employed  himself  in  compiling  his  Marine  Dic- 
tionary, which  appeared  in  1769,  and  has  been 
always  highly  spoken  of  by  those  who  are  capable 
of  estimating  its  merits.  He  embarked  also  in  the 
politics  of  the  day,  as  a  poetical  antagonist  to 
Churchill,  but  with  little  advantage  to  his  memory. 
Before  the  publication  of  his  Marine  Dictionary  he 
had  left  his  retreat  at  Chatham  for  a  less  comfort- 
able abode  in  the  metropolis,  and  appears  to  have 
struggled  with  considerable  difficulties,  in  the  midst 
of  which  he  received  proposals  from  the  late  Mr. 
Murray,  the  bookseller,  to  join  him  in  the  business 
which  he  had  newly  established.  The  cause  of 
his  refusing  this  offer  was,  in  all  probability,  the 
appointment  which  he  received  to  the  pursership 
of  the  Aurora,  East  Indiaman.  In  that  ship  he 
embarked  for  India,  in  Seotember,  1769,  but  the 


Aurora  was  never  heard  of  after  she  passed  the 
Cape,  and  was  thought  to  have  foundered  in  the 
Channel  of  Mozambique ;  so  that  the  poet  of  the 
Shipwreck  may  be  supposed  to  have  perished  by  the 
same  species  of  calamity  which  he  had  rehearsed. 

The  subject  of  the  Shipwreck,  and  the  fate  of 
its  author,  bespeak  an  uncommon  partiality  in  its 
favour.  If  we  pay  respect  to  the  ingenious  scholar 
who  can  produce  agreeable  verses  amidst  the 
shades  of  retirement,  or  the  shelves  of  his  library, 
how  much  more  interest  must  we  take  in  the  "  ship- 
boy  on  the  high  and  giddy  mast"  cherishing  refined 
visions  of  fancy  at  the  hour  which  he  may  casually 
snatch  from  fatigue  and  danger.  Nor  did  Falconer 
neglect  the  proper  acquirements  of  searnanship  in 
cultivating  poetry,  but  evinced  considerable  know 
ledge  of  his  profession,  both  in  his  Marine  Diction- 
ary and  in  the  nautical  precepts  of  the  Shipwreck. 
In  that  poem  he  may  be  said  to  have  added  a  con* 
genial  and  peculiarly  British  subject  to  the  lan- 
guage ;  at  least,  we  had  no  previous  poem  of  any 
length  of  which  the  characters  and  catastrophe 
were  purely  naval. 

The  scene  of  the  catastrophe  (though  he  followed 
only  the  fact  of  his  own  history)  was  poetically 
laid  amidst  seas  and  shores  where  the  mind  easily 
gathers  romantic  associations,  and  where  it  sup- 
poses the  most  picturesque  vicissitudes  of  scenery 
and  climate.  The  spectacle  of  a  majestic  British 
ship  on  the  shores  of  Greece  brings  as  strong  a 
a  reminiscence  to  the  mind,  as  can  well  be 
imagined,  of  the  changes  which  time  has  wrought 
in  transplanting  the  empire  of  arts  and  civilization. 
Falconer's  characters  are  few  ;  but  the  calm  saga- 
cious commander,  and  the  rough  obstinate  RocJ- 
mond,  are  well  contrasted.  Some  part  of  ttie 
love-story  of  Palemon  is  rather  swainish  and  pro- 
tracted, yet  the  effect  of  his  being  involved  in  the 
calamity  leaves  a  deeper  sympathy  in  the  mind 
for  the  daughter  of  Albert,  when  we  conceive  he 
at  once  deprived  both  of  a  father  and  a  lover. 
The  rncidents  of  the  Shipwreck,  like  those  of  a 
well-wrought  tragedy,  gradually  deepen,  while 
they  yet  leave  a  suspense  of  hope  and  fear  to  the 
imagination.  In  the  final  scene  there  is  sometning 
that  deeply  touches  our  compassion  in  the  picture 
of  the  unfortunate  man  who  is  struck  blind  by  a 
flash  of  lightning  at  the  helm.  I  remember,  by- 
the-way,  to  have  met  with  an  affecting  account  of 
the  identical  calamity  befalling  the  steersman  of  a 
forlorn  vessel  in  a  similar  moment,  given  in  a  prose 
and  veracious  history  of  the  loss  of  a  vessel  on  the 


10 


FALCONER. 


toast  of  America.  Falconer  skilfully  heightens 
this  trait  by  showing  its  effect  on  the  commisera- 
tion of  l^odmond,  the  roughest  of  his  characters, 
who  guides  the  victim  of  misfortune  to  lay  hold  of 
the  shrouds. 

"  A  flash,  quick  glancing  on  the  nerves  of  light, 
Struck  the  pale  helmsman  with  eternal  night  : 
Rodmond,  who  heard  a  pitious  groan  behind, 
'''ouch'd  with  compassion,  gaz'd  upon  the  blind ; 


And,  while  around  his  sad  companions  crowd, 
He  guides  the  unhap})y  victim  to  the  shroud. 
Hie  thee  aloft,  my  gallant  friend !  he  cries ; 
Thy  only  succour  on  the  mast  relies !" 

The  effect  of  his  sea  phrases  is  to  give  a  definite 
and  authentic  character  to  his  descriptions  ,  and  hi 
poem  has  the  sensible  charm  of  appearing  a  tran 
script  of  reality,  and  leaves  an  impression  of  trutk 
and  nature  on  the  mind. 


THE  SHIPWRECK. 

Canto  I. 

,  AiRGUMENT. 

Proposal  of  the  subject.  Invocation.  Apology.  Alle- 
gorical description  of  memory.  Appeal  to  her  assist- 
ance. The  story  begun.  Retrospect  of  the  former 
part  of  the  voyage.  The  ship  arrives  at  Candia. 
Ancient  state  of  that  island.  Present  state  of  the 
adjacent  isles  of  Greece.  The  season  of  the  year. 
Character  of  the  master  and  his  officers.  Story  of 
Palemon  and  Anna.  Evening  de.scribed.  Midnight. 
Tht  ship  weighs  anchor,  and  departs  from  the  haven. 
State  of  the  weather.  Morning.  Situation  of  the 
neighbouring  shores.  Operation  of  taking  the  sun's 
azimuth.  Description  of  the  v«ssel  asi  seen  from  the 
land. 

The  scene  is  near  the  city  of  Candia  ;  and  the  time  abotU  four  days 
and  a  half. 

While  jarring  interests  wake  the  world  to  arms, 
And  fright  the  peaceful  vale  with  dire  alarms  ; 
While  Ocean  hears  vindictive  thunders  roll, 
Along  his  trembling  wave,  from  pole  to  pole  ; 
Sick  of  the  scene,  where  war,  with  ruthless  hand, 
Spreads  desolation  o'er  the  bleeding  land  ; 
Sick  of  the  tumult,  where  the  trumpet's  breath 
Bids  ruin  smile,  and  drowns  the  groan  of  death  ! 
Tis  mine,  retired  beneath  this  cavern  hoar. 
That  stands  all  lonely  on  the  sea-beat  shore, 
far  other  themes  of  deep  distress  to  sing 
Thdn  ever  trembled  from  the  vocal  string. 
No  pomp  of  battle  swells  th'  exalted  strain, 
Nor  gleaming  arms  ring  dreadful  on  the  plain  : 
But,  o'er  the  scene  while  pale  Remembrance  weeps, 
Fate  with  fell  triumph  rides  upon  the  deeps, 
Here  hostile  elements  tumultuous  rise, 
And  lawless  floods  rebel  against  the  skies  ; 
Till  hope  expires,  and  peril  and -dismay 
Wave  their  black  ensigns  on  the  watery  way. 

Immortal  train,  who  guide  the  maze  of  song. 
To  whom  all  science,  arts,  and  arms  belong; 
Who  bid  the  trumpet  of  eternal  fame 
Exalt  the  warrior's  and  the  poet's  name  ! 
If  e'er  with  trembling  hope  I  fondly  stray'd 
In  life's  fair  morn  beneath  your  hallow'd  shade, 
To  hear  the  sweetly-mournful  lute  complain, 
And  melt  the  heart  with  ecstasy  of  pain  ; 
Or  listen,  while  th'  enchanting  voice  of  love. 
While  all  Elysium  warbled  through  the  grove  ; 
O  !  by  the  hollow  blast  that  moans  around, 
That  sweeps  the  wild  harp  with  a  plaintive  sound  ; 
•  By  the  long  surge  that  foams  through  yonder  cave. 
Whose  vaults  remurmur  to  the  roaring  wave  ,• 


With  living  colours  give  my  verse  to  glow, 
The  sad  memorial  of  a  tale  of  wo  ? 
A  scene  from  dumb  oblivion  to  restore. 
To  fame  unknown,  and  new  to  epic  lore  ! 

Alas ;  neglected  by  the  sacred  Nine, 
Their  suppliant  feels  no  genial  ray  divine  ! 
Ah !  will  they  leave  Pieria's  happy  shore, 
To  plough  the  tide  where  wintry  tempests  roar  ? 
Or  shall  a  youth  approach  their  hallow'd  fane. 
Stranger  to  Phoebus,  and  the  tuneful  train  ? — 
Far  from  the  Muses'  academic  grove, 
'Twas  his  the  vast  and  trackless  deep  to  rovo 
Alternate  change  of  climates  has  he  known, 
And  felt  the  fierce  extremes  of  either  zone ; 
Where  polar  skies  congeal  th'  eternal  snow. 
Or  equinoctial  suns  for  ever  glow. 
Smote  by  the  freezing  or  the  scorching  blast, 
"  A  ship-boy  on  the  high  and  giddy  mast,"* 
From  regiOTis  where  Peruvian  billows  roar, 
To  the  bleak  coast  of  savage  Labrador. 
From  where  Damascus,  pride  of  Asian  plains ! 
Stoops  her  proud  neck  beneath  tyrannic  chains. 
To  where  the  isthraus.t  laved  by  adverse  tides. 
Atlantic  and  Pacific  seas  divides. 
But,  while  he  measured  o'er  the  painful  race. 
In  Fortune's  wild  illimitable  chase, 
Adversity,  companion  of  his  way  ! 
Still  o'er  the  victim  hung  with  iron  sway  ; 
Bade  new  distresses  every  instant  grow. 
Marking  each  change  of  place  with  change  of  wo 
In  regions  where  th'  Almighty's  chastening  b^nd 
With  livid  pestilence  afflicts  the  land  ; 
Or  where  pale  famine  blasts  the  hopeful  year. 
Parent  of  want  and  misery  severe  ; 
Orvvhere,  all  dreadful  in  th'  embattled  line, 
The  hostile  ships  in  flaming  combat  join : 
Where  the  torn  vessel,  wind  and  wave  assail. 
Till  o'er  her  crew  distress  and  death  prevail — 
Where'er  he  wander'd  thus  vindictive  Fate 
Pursued  his  weary  steps  with  lasting  hate .' 
Roused  by  her  mandate,  storms  of  black  arraxy 
Winter'd  the  morn  of  life's  advancing  day; 
Relax'd  the  sinews  of  the  living  lyre. 
And  quench'd  the  kindling  spark  of  vital  fire.— 
Thus  while  forgotten  or  unknown  he  woos, 
What  hope  to  win  the  coy,  reluctant  Muse  ? 
Then  let  not  Censure,  with  malignant  joy. 
The  harvest  of  his  humble  hope  destroy  I 
His  verse  no  laurel  wreath  attempts  to  claim. 
Nor  seulptur'd  brass  to  tell  the  poet's  namo. 
If  terms  uncouth,  and  jarring  phrases,  wound 
The  softer  sense  with  inharmonious  sound. 


'  Shakspeare. 


t  Dari'jn. 


Canto  1. 


THE    SHIPWRECK. 


li 


Yet  here  let  listening  Sympathy  prevaih 

While  conscious  Truth  unfolds  her  piteous  tale  ! 

And  lo !  the  power  that  wakes  th'  eventful  song 

Hastes  hither  from  Lethean  banks  along: 

She  sweeps  the  gloom,  and  rushing  on  the  sight, 

Spreads  o'er  the  kindling  scene  propitious  light; 

In  her  right  hand  an  ample  roll  appears, 

Fraught  with  long  annals  of  preceding  years  ; 

With  every  wise  and  noble  art  of  man. 

Since  first  the  circling  hours  their  course  began. 

Her  left  a  silver  wand  on  high  display'd, 

Whose  magic  touch  dispels  Oblivion's  shade. 

Pensive  her  look  ,•  on  radiant  wings,  that  glow 

Like  Juno's  birds,  or  Iris'  flaming  bow, 

She  sails  ;  and  swifter  than  the  course  of  light. 

Directs  her  rapid  intellectual  flight. 

The  fugitive  ideas  she  restores,  [shores. 

And    calls   the   wandering   thought  from  Lethe's 

To  things  Im.g  past  a  second  date  she  gives. 

And  hoary  Time  from  her  fresh  youth  receives. 

Congenial  sister  of  immortal  Fame, 

She  shares  her  power,  and  Memory  is  her  name. 

O  first-born  daughter  of  primeval  Time! 
By  whom  transmitted  down  in  every  clime, 
The  deeds  of  ages  long  elapsed  are  known, 
And  blazon'd  glories  spread  from  zone  to  zone ; 
Whose  breath  dissolves  the  gloom  of  mental  night, 
And  o'er  th'  obscured  idea  pours  the  light ! 
Whose  wing  unerring  glides  through  time  and  place. 
And  trackless  scours  th'  immensity  of  space  ! 
Say  !  on  what  seas,  for  thou  alone  canst  tell. 
What  dire  mishap  a  fated  ship  befell, 
Assail'd  by  tempests  !  girt  with  hostile  shores! 
Arise  !  approach !  unlock  thy  treasured  stores  ! 

A  ship  from  Egypt,  o'er  the  deep  impell'd 
By  guiding  winds,  her  course  for  Venice  held  ; 
Of  famed  Britannia  were  the  gallant  crew, 
And  from  that  isle  her  name  the  vessel  drew. 
The  wayward  steps  of  Fortune  that  delude 
Full  oft  to  ruin,  eager  they  pursued  ; 
And,  dazzled  by  her  visionary  glare. 
Advanced  incautious  of  each  fatal  snare; 
Though  warn'd  full  oft  the  slippery  track  to  shun. 
Yet  Hope,  with  flattering  voice,  betray'd  them  on. 
Beguiled  to  danger  thus,  they  left  behind 
The  scene  of  peace,  and  social  joy  resign'd. 
Long  absent  they,  from  friends  and  native  home, 
The  cheerless  ocern  were  inured  to  roam  : 
Yet  Heaven,  in  pity  to  severe  distress. 
Had  crown'd  each  painful  voyage  with  success  ; 
Still  to  atone  for  toils  and  hazards  past. 
Restored  them  to  maternal  plains  at  last. 

Thrice  had  the  sun,  to  rule  the  varying  year 
Across  th'  equator  roll'd  his  flaming  sphere, 
Since  last  the  vessel  spread  her  ample  sail 
From  Albion's  coast,  obsequious  to  the  gale. 
She,  o'er  the  spacious  flood,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Unwearying,  wafted  her  commercial  store. 
The  richest  ports  of  Afric  she  had  vievv'd. 
Thence  to  fair  Italy  her  course  pursued  ; 
Had  left  behind  Trinacria's  burning  isle. 
And  visited  the  margin  of  the  Nile. 
And  now,  that  winter  deepens  round  the  pole, 
The  circling  voyage  hastens  to  its  goal, 
They,  blind  to  Fate's  inevitable  law. 
No  dark  event  to  blast  thsir  hope  foresaw  ; 
But  from  gay  Venice  soon  expect  to  steer 
For  Britain's  coast,  and  dread  no  perils  near. 


A  thousand  tender  thoughts  their  souls  employ, 
That  fondly  dance  to  scenes  of  future  joy. 

Thus  time  elapsed,  while  o'er  the  pathless  tide. 
Their  ship  through  Grecian  seas  the  pilots  guide. 
Occasion  call'd  to  touch  at  Candia's  shcvo. 
Which,  bless'd  with   favouring  winds,  they  soon 

explore, 
The  haven  enter,  borne  before  the  gale, 
Despatch  their  commerce,  and  prepare  to  sail 

Eternal  Powers  !  what  ruins  from  afar 
Mark  the  fell  track  of  desolating  War! 
Here  Art  and  Commerce,  with  auspicious  reign, 
Once  breathed  sweet  influence  on  the  happy  plain 
While  o'er  the  lawn,  with  dance  and  festive  song 
Young  Pleasure  led  the  jocund  hours  along. 
In  gay  luxuriance  Ceres  too  was  seen 
To  crown  the  valleys  with  eternal  green. 
For  wealth,  for  valour,  courted  and  revered. 
What  Albion  is,  fair  Candia  then  appear'd. 
Ah !  who  the  flight  of  ages  can  revoke  ? 
The  free-born  spirit  of  her  sons  is  broke  ; 
They  bow  to  Ottoman's  imperious  yoke  ! 
No  longer  Fame  the  drooping  heart  inspires, 
For  rude  Oppression  quench'd  its  genial  fires. 
But  still,  her  fields  with  golden  harvests  crown  d 
Supply  the  barren  shores  of  Greece  around. 
What  pale  distress  aflflicts  those  wretched  isles ; 
There^hope  ne'er  dawns,  and  pleasure  never  smilei 
The  vassal  wretch  obsequious  drags  his  chain, 
And  hears  his  famish'd  babes  lament  in  vain. 
These  eyes  Have  seen  the  dull  reluctant  soil 
A  seventh  year  scorn  the  weary  labourer's  toil 
No  blooming  Venus,  on  the  desert  shore. 
Now  views  with  triumph  captive  gods  adore: 
No  lovely  Helens  now,  with  fatal  charms. 
Call  forth  th'  avenging  chiefs  of  Greece  to  arms: 
No  fair  Penelopes  enchant  the  eye, 
For  whom  contending  kings  are  proud  to  die. 
Here  sullen  Beauty  sheds  a  twilight  ray, 
While  Sorrow  bids  her  vernal  bloom  decay. 
Those  charms  so  long  renown'd  in  classic  strains 
Had  dimly  shone  on  Albion's  happier  plains. 
Now,  in  the  southern  hemisphere,  the  sun 
Through  the  bright  Virgin  and  the  Scales  had  run 
And  on  th'  ecliptic  wheel'd  his  winding  way 
Till  the  fierce  Scorpion  felt  his  flaming  ray. 
The  ship  was  moor'd  beside  the  wave-worn  stranc 
Four  days  her  anchors  bite  the  golden  sand  : 
For  sick'ning  vapours  lull  the  air  to  sleep, 
And  not  a  breeze  awakes  the  silent  deep. 
This,  when  th'  autumnal  equinox  is  o'er. 
And  Phoebus  in  the  north  declines  no  more. 
The  watchful  mariner,  whom  Heaven  informs 
Oft  deems  the  prelude  of  approaching  storms. 
True  to  his  trust,  when  sacred  duty  calls. 
No  brooding  storm  the  master's  soul  appals  , 
Th'  advancing  season  warns  him  to  the  main  :— 
A  captive,  fetter'd  to  the  oar  of  gain ! 
His  anxious  heart  impatient  of  delay. 
Expects  the  winds  to  sail  from  Candia's  bay, 
Determined,  from  whatever  point  they  rise. 
To  trust  his  fortune  to  the  seas  and  skies. 

Thou  living  Ray  of  intellectual  fire. 
Whose  voluntary  gleams  my  verse  inspire  ' 
Ere  yet  the  deep'ning  incidents  prevail. 
Till  roused  attention  feel  our  plaintive  tale, 
Record  whom,  chief  among  the  gallant  crei* 
Th'  unblest  pursuit  of  fortune  hither  drew 


IS 


FALCONER. 


Canto  1 


Can  sons  of  Neptune,  generous,  brave,  and  bold, 
In  pain  and  hazard  toil  for  sordid  gold  ? 

They  can  !  for  gold,  too  oft,  with  magic  art. 
Subdues  each  nobler  impulse  of  the  heart : 
This  crowns  the  prosperous  villain  with  applause, 
To  whom,  in  vain,  sad  Merit  pleads  her  cause : 
This  strews  with  roses  life's  perplexing  road. 
And  leads  the  way  to  pleasure's  blest  abode ; 
With  slaughter'd  victims  fills  the  weeping  plain. 
And  smooths  the  furrows  of  the  treacherous  main. 

O'er  tlie  gay  vessel,  and  her  daring  band, 
Experienced  Albert  held  the  chief  command  ; 
Though  train'd  in  boisterous  elements,  his  mind 
Was  yet  by  soft  humanity  refined, 
Each  joy  of  wedded  love  at  home  he  knew  ; 
Abroad  confest  the  father  of  his  crew ! 
Brave,  liberal,  just — the  calm  domestic  scene 
Had  o'er  his  temper  breathed  a  gay  serene : 
Him  Science  taught  by  mystic  lore  to  trace 
The  planets  wheeling  in  eternal  race  ; 
To  mark  the  ship  in  floating  balance  held. 
By  earth  attracted  and  by  seas  repell'd  ;     [known, 
Or  point   her  devious   track  through   climes  un- 
That  leads  to  every  shore  and  every  zone. 
He  saw  the  moon  through  heaven's  blue  concave 

glide. 
And  into  motion  charm  th'  expanding  tide ; 
While  earth  impetuous  round  her  axle  rolls. 
Exalts  her  watery  zone,  and  sinks  the  poles. 
Light  and  attraction,  from  their  genial  source^ 
He  saw  still  wandering  with  diminish'd  force  : 
While  on  the  margin  of  declining  day, 
Niglit's  shadowy  cone  reluctant  melts  away. — 
Inured  to  peril,  with  unconquer'd  soul. 
The  chief  beheld  tempestuous  oceans  roll  j 
His  genius  ever  for  th'  event  prepared, 
Rose  with  the  storm,  and  all  its  dangers  shared. 
The  second  powers  and  office  Rodmond  bore  : 
A  hardy  son  of  England's  furthest  shore  ! 
Where  bleak  Northumbria  pours  her  savage  train 
In  sable  squadrons  o'er  the  northern  main  : 
That  with  her  pitchy  entrails  stored,  resort, 
A  sooty  tribe!  to  fair  Augusta's  port. 
Where'er  in  ambush  lurk'd  the  fatal  sands. 
They  claim  the  danger ;  proud  of  skilful  bands  ; 
For  while,  with  darkling  course,  their  vessels  sweep 
The  winding  shore,  or  plough  the  faithless  deep. 
O'er  bar*  and  shelf  the  watery  path  they  sound 
With  dextrous  arm ;  sagacious  of  the  ground ! 
Fearless  they  combat  every  hostile  wind. 
Wheeling  in  mazy  tracks  with  course  inclined. 
Expert  to  moor,  where  terrors  line  the  road. 
Or  win  the  anchor  from  its  dark  abode  : 
But  drooping  and  relax'd  in  climes  afar 
Tumultuous  and  undisciplined  in  war. 
Such  Rodmond  was ;  by  learning  unrefined, 
That  oft  enlightens  to  corrupt  the  mind. 
Boisterous  of  manners ;  train'd  in  early  youth 
To  scenes  that  shame  the  conscious  cheek  of  truth. 
To  scenes  that  Nature's  struggling  voice  control. 
And  freeze  compassion  rising  in  the  soul ! 
Where  the  grim  hell-hounds  prowling  round  the 

shore. 
With  foul  intent  the  stranded  bark  explore — 


'  A  bar  is  known,  in  hydrography,  to  be  a  mass  of  earth 
or  land  collected  by  the  surge  of  the  sea,  at  the  entrance 
of  a  river  or  haven,  so  as  to  render  the  navigation  diffi- 
cult, an'I  often  dangerous. 


Deaf  to  the  voice  of  wo,  her  decks  they  board. 
While  tardy  Justice  slumbers  o'er  her  sword — 
Th'  indignant  Muse,  severely  taught  to  feel, 
Shrinks  from  a  theme  she  blushes  to  reveal ! 
Too  oft  example,  arm'd  with  poisons  fell. 
Pollutes  the  shrine  where  Mercy  loves  to  dwell 
Thus  Rodmond,  train'd  by  this  unhallow'd  crew 
The  sacred  social  passions  never  knew : 
Unskill'd  to  argue,  in  dispute  yet  loud ; 
Bold  without  caution ;  without  honours  proud : 
In  art  unschool'd  ;  each  veteran  rule  he  prized, 
And  all  improvement  haughtily  despised. 
Vet,  though  full  oft  to  future  perils  blind, 
With  skill  superior, glow'd  his  daring  mind. 
Through  snares  of  death  the  reeling  bark  to  guide 
When  midnight  shades  involve  the  raging  tide. 

To  Rodmond  next,  in  order  of  command. 
Succeeds  the  youngest  of  our  naval  band. 
But  what  avails  it  to  record  a  name 
That  courts  no  rank  among  the  sons  of  Fame  ? 
While  yet  a  stripling,  oft  with  fond  alarms 
His  bosom  danced  to  Nature's  boundless  charms. 
On  him  fair  Science  dawn'd  in  happier  hour, 
Awakening  into  bloom  young  Fancy's  flower  ; 
But  frowning  Fortune,  with  untimely  blast. 
The  blossom  wither'd  and  the  dawn  o'ercast. 
Forlorn  of  heart,  and  by  severe  decree, 
Condemn'd  reluctant  to  the  faithless  sea. 
With  long  fiirewell  he  left  the  laurel  grove, 
Where  science  and  the  tuneful  sisters  rove. 
Hither  he  wander'd,  anxious  to  explore, 
Antiquities  of  nations  now  no  more  ; 
To  penetrate  each  distant  realm  unknown, 
And  range  excursive  o'er  th'  untravell'd  zone 
In  vain — for  rude  Adversity's  command, 
Still  on  the  margin  of  each  famous  land. 
With  unrelenting  ire  his  steps  opposed, 
And  every  gate  of  Hope  against  him  closed. 
Permit  my  verse,  ye  blest  Pierian  train, 
To  call  Arion  this  ill-fated  syvain ! 
For,  like  that  bard  unhappy,  on  his  head. 
Malignant  stars  their  hostile  influence  shed. 
Both  in  lamenting  numbers  o'er  the  deep. 
With  conscious  anguish  taught  the  harp  to  weep 
And  both  the  raging  surge  in  safety  bore 
Amid  destruction  panting  to  the  shore. 
This  last,  our  tragic  story  from  the  wave 
Of  dark  Oblivion  haply  yet  may  save  : 
With  genuine  sympathy  may  yet  complain, 
While  sad  Remembrance  bleeds  at  every  rein. 

Such  were  the  pilots — tutor'd  to  divins 
Th'  untravell'd  course  by  geometric  line  ; 
Train'd  to  command  and  range  the  varioua  sail. 
Whose  various  force  conforms  to  every  gale. 
Charged  with  the  commerce,  hither  also  came 
A  gallant  youth  :  Palemon  was  his  name ; 
A  father's  stern  resentment  doom'd  to  prove, 
He  came  the  victim  of  unhappy  love ! 
His  heart  for  Albert's  beauteous  daughter  bled ; 
For  her  a  secret  flame  his  bosom  fed. 
Nor  let  the  wretched  slaves  of  Folly  scorn 
This  genuine  passion,  Nature's  eldest  born  I 
'Twas  his  with  lasting  anguish  to  complain. 
While  blooming  Anna  mourn'd  the  cause  in  v^ 

Graceful  of  form,  by  Nature  taught  to  please 
Of  power  to  melt  the  female  breast  with  ease 
To  her  Palemon  told  his  tender  tale. 
Soft  as  the  voice  of  Summer's  evening  gale 


Canto  L 


THE    SHIPWRECK. 


in 


O'erjoy'd,  he  saw  her  lovely  eyes  relent : 
The  blushing  maiden  smiled  with  sweet  consent. 
Oft  in  the  mazes  of  a  neighbouring  grove, 
Unheard,  they  breathed  alternate  vows  of  love: 
By  fond  society  their  passion  grew. 
Like  the  young  blossom  fed  with  vernal  dew. 
In  evil  hour  th'  officious  tongue  of  Fame 
Betray'd  the  secret  of  their  mutual  flame. 
With  grief  and  anger  struggling  in  his  breast, 
Palemon's  father  heard  the  tale  confest. 
Long  had  he  listen'd  with  Suspicion's  ear, 
And  learnt,  sagacious,  this  event  to  fear. 
Too  well,  fair  youth !  thy  liberal  heart  he  knew ; 
A  heart  to  Nature's  warm  impressions  true! 
Full  oft  his  wisdom  strove,  with  fruitless  toil, 
With  avarice  to  pollute  that  generous  soil: 
That  soil  impregnated  with  nobler  seed, 
Refused  the  culture  of  so  rank  a  weed. 
Elate  with  wealth,  in  active  commerce  won. 
And  basking  in  the  smile  of  Fortune's  sun, 
With  scorn  the  parent  eyed  the  lowly  shade 
That  veil'd  the  beauties  of  this  charming  maid  : 
Indignant  he  rebuked  th'  enamoured  boy. 
The  flattering  promise  of  his  future  joy! 
He  soothed  and  menaced,  anxious  to  reclaim 
This  hopeless  passion,  or  divert  its  aim: 
Oft  led  the  youth  where  circling  joys  delight 
The  ravish'd  sense,  or  beauty  charms  the  sight. 
With  all  her  powers,  enchanting  Music  fail'd. 
And  Pleasure's  syren  voice  no  more  prevail'd. 
The  merchant,  kindling  then  with  proud  disdain. 
In  look  and  voite  assumed  a  harsher  strain  ; 
In  absence  now  his  only  hope  remain'd; 
And  such  the  stern  decree  his  will  ordain'd. 
Deep  anguish,  while  Palemon  heard  his  doom, 
Drew  o'er  his  lovely  face  a  saddening  gloom- 
In  vain  with  bitter  sorrow  he  repined, 
No  tender  pity  touch'd  that  sordid  mind  : 
To  thee,  brave  Albert,  was  the  charge  consign'd. 
The  stately  ship,  forsaking  England's  shore. 
To  regions  far  remote  Palemon  bore. 
Incapable  of  change,  th'  unhappy  youth 
Still  loved  fair  Anna  with  eternal  truth: 
From  clime  to  clime  an  exile  doom'd  to  roam, 
His  heart  still  panted  for  its  secret  home. 

The  moon  had  circled  twice  her  wayward  zone 
To  him  since  young  Arion  first  was  known  ; 
Who,  wandering  here   through  many  a  scene  re- 
in Alexandria's  port  the  vessel  found  ;       [nown'd. 
Where,  anxious  to  review  his  native  shore, 
He  on  the  roaring  wave  embark'd  once  more. 
Oft,  by  pale  Cynthia's  melancholy  light. 
With  him  Palemon  kept  the  watch  of  night! 
In  whose  sad  bosom  many  a  sigh  isuppress'd. 
Some  painful  secret  of  the  soul  conress'd. 
Perhaps  Arion  soon  the  cause  divined, 
Though  shunning  still  to  probe  a  wounded  mind : 
He  felt  the  chastity  of  silent  wo, 
Though  glad  the  balm  of  comfort  to  bestow  ; 
He,  with  Palemon,  oft  recounted  o'er 
The  tales  of  hapless  love,  in  ancient  lore, 
Recall'd  to  memory  by  th'  adjacent  shore. 
The  scene  thus  present,  and  its  story  known. 
The  lover  sigh'd  for  sorrows  not  his  own. 
Thus,  though  a  recent  date  their  friendship  bore. 
Soon  the  ripe  metal  own'd  the  quickening  ore ; 
For  in  one  tide  their  passions  seem'd  to  roll, 
By  kindred  age  and  sympathy  of  soul. 


These  o'er  th'  inferior  naval  train  preside. 
The  course  determine,  or  the  commerce  guide: 
O'er  all  the  rest,  an  undistinguish'd  crew. 
Her  wing  of  deepest  shade  Oblivion  drew. 

A  sullen  languor  still  the  skies  opprest. 
And  held  th'  unwilling  ship  in  strong  arrest 
High  in  his  chariot  glow 'd  the  lamp  of  day, 
O'er  Ida,  flaming  with  meridian  ray: 
Relax'd  from  toil,  the  sailors  range  the  shore. 
Where  famine,  war,  and  storm  are  felt  no  more  t 
The  hour  to  social  pleasure  they  resign, 
And  black  remembrance  drown  in  generous  wine. 
On  deck,  beneath  the  shading  canvass  spread, 
Redmond  a  rueful  tale  of  wonders  read. 
Of  dragons  roaring  on  th'  enchanted  coast. 
The  hideous  goblin,  and  the  yelling  ghost — 
But  with  Arion  from  the  sultry  heat 
Of  noon,  Palemon  sought  a  cool  retreat. 
And  lo !  the  shore  with  mournful  prospects  crown'd  i* 
The  rampart  torn  with  many  a  fatal  wound  ; 
The  ruin'd  bulwark  tottering  o'er  the  strand  ; 
Bewail  the  stroke  of  War's  tremendous  hand. 
What  scenes  of  wo  this  hapless  isle  o'erspread ! 
Where  late  thrice  fifty  thousand  warriors  bled. 
Full  twice  twelve  summers  were  yon  tow'rs  assail'd 
Till  barbarous  Ottoman  at  last  prevail'd  ; 
While  thundering  mines  the  lovely  plains  o'erturn'd. 
While  heroes  fell,  and  domes  and  temples  burn'd 

But  now  before  them  happier  scenes  arise . 
Elysian  vales  salute  their  ravish'd  eyes  : 
Olive  and  cedar  form'd  a  grateful  shade. 
Where  light  with  gay  romantic  error  stray'd. 
The  myrtles  here  with  fond  caresses  twine  ; 
There,  rich  with  nectar,  melts  the  pregnant  vine. 
And  lo !  the  stream  renown'd  in  classic  song, 
Sad  Lethe,  glides  the  silent  vale  along. 
On  mossy  banks,  beneath  the  citron  grove. 
The  youthful  wand'rers  found  a  wild  alcove : 
Soft  o'er  the  fairy  region  Languor  stole. 
And  with  sweet  Melancholy  charm'd  the  soul. 
Here  first  Palemon,  while  his  pensive  mind 
For  consolation  on  his  friend  reclined. 
In  Pity's  bleeding  bosom  pour'd  the  stream 
Of  love's  soft  anguish,  and  of  grief  supreme — 
Too  true  thy  words !  by  sweet  remembrance  taught 
My  heart  in  secret  bleeds  with  tender  thought : 
In  vain  it  courts  the  solitary  shade. 
By  every  action,  every  look  betray'd ! — 
The  pride  of  generous  wo  disdains  appeal 
To  hearts  that  unrelenting  frosts  congeal. 
Yet  sure,  if  right  Palemon  can  divine, 
The  sense  of  gentle  pity  dwells  in  thine. 
Yes !  all  his  cares  thy  sym^pathy  shall  know, 
And  prove  the  kind  companion  of  his  wo. 

Albert  thou  know'st  with  skill  and  science  graced 
In  humble  station  though  by  Fortune  placed. 
Yet  never  seaman  more  serenely  brave 
Led  Britain's  conquering  squadrons  o'er  the  wave. 
Where  full  in  view  Augusta's  spires  are  seen. 
With  flowery  lawns  and  waving  woods  between, 
A  peaceful  dwelling  stands  in  modest  pride, 
Where  Thames,  slow-winding,  rolls  his  ample  tide. 


*  The  intelligent  reader  will  readily  discover,  that  these 
remarks  allude  to  the  ever  memorable  siege  of  Candia, 
which  was  taken  from  the  Venetians  by  the  Turks,  in 
1CG9  ;  being  then  considered  as  impregnable,  and  esteem 
ed  the  most  formidable  fortress  in  the  universe. 


14 


FALCONER. 


Canto  1 


There  live  the  hope  and  pleasure  of  his  life, 
4  pious  daughter,  with  a  faithful  wife. 
For  his  return,  with  fond  officious  care, 
Still  every  grateful  object  these  prepare; 
Whatever  can  allure  the  smell  or  sight. 
Or  wake  the  drooping  spirits  to  delight. 

This  blooming  maid  in  virtue's  path  to  guide. 
Her  anxious  parents  all  their  cares  applied  : 
Her  spotless  soul,  where  soft  Compassion  reign'd, 
No  vice  untuned,  no  sick'ning  folly  stained. 
Not  fairer  grows  the  lily  of  the  vale, 
Whose  bosom  opens  to  the  vernal  gale  : 
Her  eyes,  unconscious  of  their  fatal  charms, 
Thrill'd  every  heart  with  exquisite  alarms  ; 
Her  face,  in  Beauty's  sweet  attraction  dress'd. 
The  smile  of  maiden-innocence  express'd  ,• 
While  Health,  that  rises  with  the  new-born  day. 
Breathed  o'er  her  cheek  the  softest  blush  of  May. 
Still  in  her  look  complacence  smiled  serene ; 
She  moved  the  charmer  of  the  rural  scene. 

'Twas  at  that  season  when  the  fields  resume 
Their  loveliest  hues,  array'd  in  vernal  bloom  ; 
yon  ship,  rich  freighted  from  th'  Italian  shore. 
To  Thames'  fair  banks  her  costly  tribute  bore  : 
While  thus  my  father  saw  his  ample  hoard. 
From  this  return,  with  recent  treasures  stored. 
Me,  with  affairs  of  commerce  charged,  he  sent 
To  Albert's  humble  mansion  ;  soon  I  went — 
Too  soon,  alas !  unconscious  of  th'  event — 
There,  struck  with  sweet  surprise  and  silent  awe, 
The  gentle  mistress  of  my  hopes  I  saw  : 
There  wounded  first  by  Love's  resistless  arms, 
My  glowing  bosom  throbb'd  with  strange  alarms. 
My  ever  charming  Anna !  who  alone 
Can  all  the  frowns  of  cruel  fate  atone ; 
O!  while  all-conscious  Memory  holds  her  power. 
Can  1  forget  that  sweetly-painful  hour. 
When    from    those    eyes,   with   lovely  lightning 

fraught. 
My  fluttering  spirits  first  th'  infection  caught: 
When  as  I  gazed,  my  fault'ring  tongue  betray'd 
The  heart's  quick  tumults,  or  refused  its  aid  ; 
While  the  dim  light  my  ravish'd  eyes  forsook. 
And  every  limb,  unstrung  with  terror,  shook ! 
With  all  her  powers  dissenting  Reason  strove 
To  tame  at  first  the  kindling  flame  of  Love ; 
She  strove  in  vain  !  subdued  by  charms  divine, 
My  soul  a  victim  fell  at  Beauty's  shrine. — 
Oft  from  the  din  of  bustling  life  I  stray'd. 
In  happier  scenes  to  see  my  lovely  maid. 
Full  oft,  where  Thames  his  wand'ring  current  leads, 
We  roved  at  evening  hour  through  flowery  meads. 
There,  while  my  heart's  soft  anguish  I  reveal'd, 
To  her  with  tender  sighs  my  hope  appeal'd. 
While  the  sweet  nymph  my  faithful  tale  believed. 
Her  snowy  breast  with  secret  tumult  heaved  ; 
For,  train'd  in  rural  scenes  from  earliest  youth 
Nature  was  hers,  and  innocence,  and  truth. 
She  never  knew  the  city  damsel's  art. 
Whose  frothy ' pertness  charms  the  vacant  heart! 
My  suit  prevail'd  ;  for  Love  inform'd  my  tongue. 
And  on  his  votary's  lips  persuasion  hung. 
Her  eyes  with  conscious  sympathy  withdrew, 
And  o'er  her  cheek  the  rosy  current  flew. — 
Thrice  happy  hours !  where,  with  no  dark  allay. 
Life's  fairest  sunshine  gilds  the  vernal  day  ! 
For  here,  the  sigh  that  soft  Aflfection  heaves. 
From  stings  of  sharper  wo  the  soul  relieves. 


Elysian  scenes,  too  happy  lonf  to  last ! 

Too  soon  a  storm  the  smiling  dawn  o'ercast ! 

Too  soon  some  demon  to  my  father  bore 

The  tidings  that  his  heart  with  anguish  tore.— 

My  pride  to  kindle,  with  dissuasive  voice. 

Awhile  he  labour'd  to  degrade  my  choice  ; 

Then,  in  the  whirling  wave  of  Pleasure,  sought 

From  its  loved  object  to  divert  my'thought. 

With  equal  hope  he  might  attempt  to  bind, 

In  chains  of  adamant,  the  lawless  wind : 

For  Love  had  aim'd  the  fatal  shaft  too  sure  ; 

Hope  fed  the  wound,  and  absence  knew  no  cute. 

With  alienated  look,  each  art  he  saw 

Still  baffled  by  superior  Nature's  law. 

His  anxious  mind  on  various  schemes  revolved  ; 

At  last  on  cruel  exile  he  resolved. 

The  rigorous  doom  was  fixed !  alas !  how  vain 

To  him  of  tender  anguish  to  complain ! 

His  soul,  that  never  Love's  sweet  influence  felt 

By  social  sympathy  could  never  melt ; 

With  stern  command  to  Albert's  charge  he  gave, 

To  waft  Palemon  o'er  the  distant  wave. 

The  ship  was  laden  and  prepared  to  sail. 
And  only  waited  now  the  leading  gale. 
'Twas  ours,  in  that  sad  period  first  to  prove 
The  heartfelt  torments  of  despairing  love  : 
Th'  impatient  wish  that  never  feels  repose. 
Desire  that  with  perpetual  current  flows  ; 
The  fluctuating  pangs  of  hope  and  fear ; 
Joy  distant  still,  and  sorrow  ever  near ! 
Thus,  while  the  pangs  of  thought  severer  grew. 
The  western  breezes  inauspicious  blew, 
Hastening  the  moment  of  our  last  adieu. 
The  vessel  parted  on  the  falling  tide ; 
Yet  Time  one  sacred  hour  to  Love  supplied. 
The  night  was  silent,  and,  advancing  fast. 
The  moon  o'er  Thames  her  silver  mantle  cast ; 
Impatient  hope  the  midnight  path  explored. 
And  led  me  to  the  nymph  my  soul  adored. 
Soon  her  quick  footsteps  struck  my  listening  ear; 
She  came  confest !  the  lovely  maid  drew  near ! 
But  ah !  what  force  of  language  can  impart 
Th'  impetuous  joy  that  glow'd  in  either  heart ! — 
O !  ye,  whose  melting  hearts  are  form'd  to  prove 
The  trembling  ecstasies  of  genuine  love  ! 
When,  with  delicious  agony,  the  thought 
Is  to  the  verge  of  high  delirium  wrought  ; 
Your  secret  sympathy  alone  can  tell 
What  raptures  then  the  throbbing  bosom  swell , 
O'er  all  the  nerves  what  tender  tumults  roll, 
While  love  with   sweet   enchantment  melts  th« 
soul! 

In  transport  lost,  by  trembling  hope  imprest, 
The  blushing  virgin  sunk  upon  my  breast ; 
While  hers  congenial  beat  with  fond  alarms; 
Dissolving  softness !  paradise  of  charms  ! 
Flash'd  from  our  eyes,  in  warm  transfusion  flew 
Our  blending  spirits,  that  each  other  drew! 
O  bliss  supreme  !  where  Virtue's  self  can  melt 
With  joys  that  guilty  Pleasure  never  felt . 
Form'd  to  refine  the  thought  with  chaste  desire. 
And  kindle  sweet  Affection's  purest  fire  ! 
Ah !  wherefore  should  rny  hopeless  love,  she  crie« 
While  sorrow  burst  with  interrupting  sighs. 
For  ever  destined  to  lament  in  vain. 
Such  flattering  fond  ideas  entertain  ? 
My  heart  through  scenes  of  fair  illusion  stray'd 
To  joys  decreed  for  some  superior  maid 


Canto  1. 


THE    SHIPWRECK. 


U 


Tis  mine  to  feel  the  sharpest  stings  of  Grief, 

Where  never  gentle  hopes  afford  relief 

Go  then,  dear  youth  !  thy  father's  rage  atone ! 

And  let  this  tortured  bosom  beat  alone  ! 

The  hovering  anger  yet  thou  may'st  appease  ; 

Go  then,  dear  youth !  nor  tempt  the  faithless  seas ! 

Find  out  some  happier  daughter  of  the  town, 

With  Fortune's  fairer  joys  thy  love  to  crown ; 

Where  smiling  o'er  thee  with  indulgent  ray, 

Prosperity  shall  hail  each  new-born  day. 

Too  well  thou  know'st  good  Albert's  niggard  fate, 

111  fitted  to  sustain  thy  father's  hate ! 

Go  then,  I  charge  thcB,  by  thy  gen'rous  love, 

That  fatal  to  my  father  thus  may  prove  : 

On  me  alone  let  dark  Affliction  fall, 

Whose  heart  for  thee  will  gladly  suffer  all. 

Then,  haste  thee  hence,  Palemon,  ere  too  late, 

Nor  rashly  hope  to  brave  opposing  Fate  ! 

She  ceased  ;  while  anguish  in  her  angel  face 
O'er  all  her  beauties  shower'd  celestial  grace : 
Not  Helen,  in  her  bridal  charms  array'd, 
Was  half  so  lovely  as  this  gentle  maid. 
O  soul  of  all  my  wishes  I  I  replied. 
Can  that  soft  fabric  stem  Affliction's  tide ! 
Canst  thou,  fair  emblem  of  exalted  Truth  I 
To  Sorrow  doom  the  summer  of  thy  youth ; 
And  I,  perfidious  !  all  that  sweetness  see 
Consign'd  to  lasting  misery  for  me  ? 
Sooner  this  moment  may  th'  eternal  doom 
Palemon  in  the  silent  earth  entomb ! 
Attest,  thou  Moon,  fair  regent  of  the  night ! 
Whose  lustre  sickens  at  this  mournful  sight ; 
By  all  the  pangs  divided  lovers  feel,  • 

That  sweet  possession  only  knows  to  heal  I 
By  all  the  horrors  brooding  o'er  the  deep ! 
Where  Fate  and  Ruin  sad  dominion  keep  ; 
Though  tyrant  duty  o!er  me  threat'ning  stands 
And  claims  obedience  to  her  stern  commands; 
Should  Fortune  cruel  or  auspicious  prove, 
Her  smile  or  frown  shall  never  change  my  love ! 
My  heart,  that  now  must  every  joy  resign, 
Incapable  of  change,  is  only  thine  I — 

O  cease  to  weep  !  this  storm  will  yet  decay, 
And  these  sad  clouds  of  Sorrow  melt  away. 
While  through  the  rugged  path  of  life  we  go. 
All  mortals  taste  the  bitter  draught  of  wo  : 
The  famed  and  great,  decreed  to  equal  pain. 
Full  oft  in  splendid  wretchedness  complain. 
For  this  Prosperity,  with  brighter  ray. 
In  smiling  contrast  gilds  our  vital  day. 
Thou  too,  sweet  maid  I  ere  twice  ten  months  are  o'er 
Shalt  hail  Palemon  to  his  native  shore, 
Where  never  Interest  shall  divide  us  more. 
Her  struggling  soul,  o'erwhelm'd   with   tender 
grief 
Now  found  an  interval  of  short  relief; 
So  melt?  the  surface  of  the  frozen  stream, 
Beneath  ".he  wintry  sun's  departing  beam. 
With  warning  has'.e  the  shades  of  night  withdrew, 
And  gave  the  signal  of  a  sad  adieu  I 
As  on  my  neck  th'  aflilctej  maiden  hung, 
A  thousand  racking  doubts  her  spirit  wrung* 
She  wept  the  terrors  of  the  fearful  wave. 
Too  oft,  alas  !  the  wandering  lover's  grave  ! 
Witli  soft  persuasion  I  dispell'd  her  fear. 
And  from  her  cheek  beguiled  the  falling  tear, 
While  dying  fondness  languish'd  in  her  eyes, 
She  pour'd  her  soul  to  heaven  in  syppliant  sighs — 


Look  down  with  pity,  O  ye  Powers  above! 
Who  hear  the  sad  complaints  of  bleeding  Love! 
Ye,  who  the  secret  laws  of  Fate  explore. 
Alone  can  tell  if  he  returns  no  more: 
Or  if  the  hour  of  future  joy  remain, 
Long-wish'd  atonement  of  long-suffer'd  pain  I 
Bid  every  guardian  minister  attend, 
And  from  all  ill  the  much-loved  youth  defend . 
— With   grief  o'erwhelm'd,   we  parted  twice  ii 

vain, 
And,  urged  by  strong  attraction,  met  again. 
At  last,  by  cruel  Fortune  torn  apart. 
While  tender  passion  stream'd  in  either  heart , 
Our  eyes  transfix'd  with  agonizing  look. 
One  sad  farewell,  one  last  embrace  we  took. 
Forlorn  of  hope  the  lovely  maid  I  left. 
Pensive  and  pale,  of  every  joy  bereft: 
She  to  her  silent  couch  retired  to  weep. 
While  her  sad  swain  embark'd  upon  the  deep. 

His  tale  thus  closed,  from  sympathy  of  grief, 
Palemon's  bosom  felt  a  sweet  relief 
The  hapless  bird,  thus  ravished  from  the  skies, 
Where  all  forlorn  his  loved  companion  flies, 
In  secret  long  bewails  his  cruel  fate, 
With  fond  remembrance  of  his  winged  mate: 
Till  grown  familiar  with  a  foreign  train. 
Composed  at  length,  his  sadly  warbling  strain, 
In  sweet  oblivion  charms  the  sense  of  pain. 

Ye  tender  maids,  in  whose  pathetic  souls 
Compassion's  sacred  stream  impetuous  rolls; 
Whose  warm  affections  exquisitely  feel 
Thb  secret  wound  you  tremble  to  reveal ! 
Ah  !  may  no  wand'rer  of  the  faithless  main 
Pour  through  your  breast  the  soft  delicious  bane 
May  never  fatal  tenderness  approve 
The  fond  effusions  of  their  ardent  love. 
O!  warn'd  by  friendship's  coimsel,  learn  to  shiin 
The  fatal  path  where  thousands  are  undone ! 

Now  as  the  youths,  returning  o'er  the  plam, 
Approach'd  the  lonely  margin  of  the  main. 
First,  with  attention  roused,  Arion  eyed 
The  graceful  lover,  form'd  in  Nature's  pride. 
His  frame  the  happiest  symmetry  display'd  ; 
And  locks  of  waving  gold  his  neck  array'd ; 
In  every  look  the  Paphian  graces  shine. 
Soft-breathing  o'er  his  cheek  their  bloom  divine. 
With  lighten'd  heart  he  smiled  serenely  gay, 
Like  young  Adonis  or  the  son  of  May; 
Not  Cytherea  from  a  fairer  swain 
Received  her  apple  on  the  Trojan  plain ! 

The  sun's  bright  orb,  decliniug  all  serene, 
Now  glanced  obliquely  o'er  the  woodland  scentt 
Creation  smiles  around  ;  on  every  spray 
The  warbling  birds  exalt  their  evening  lay. 
Blithe  skipping  o'er  yon  hill,  the  fleecy  train 
Join  the  deep  chorus  of  the  lowing  plain : 
The  golden  lime  and  orange  there  were  seen. 
On  fragrant  branches  of  perpetual  green. 
The  crystal  streams,  that  velvet  meadows  lave 
To  the  green  ocean  roll  with  chiding  wave. 
The  glassy  ocean,  hush'd,  forgets  to  roar, 
But  trembling  murmurs  on  the  sandy  shore  : 
And  lol  his  surface,  lovely  to  behold. 
Glows  in  the  west,  a  sea  of  living  gold ! 
While  all  above,  a  thousand  liveries  gay. 
The  skies  with  pomp  ineflEable  array, 
Arabian  sweets  perfume  the  happy  plains : 
Above,  beneath,  around,  enchantment  reignt 


i6 


FALCONER. 


Canto  1, 


While  yet  the  shades,  on  Time's  eternal  scale. 
With  long  vibration  deepen  o'er  the  vale ; 
While  yet  the  songsters  of  the  vocal  grove. 
With  dying  numbers  tune  the  soul  to  love ; 
With  joyful  eyes  th'  attentive  master  sees 
Th'  auspicious  omens  of  an  eastern  breeze — 
Now  radiant  Vesper  leads  the  starry  train, 
And  Night  slow  draws  her  veil  o'er  land  and  main. 
Round  the  charged  bowl  the  sailors  form  a  ring, 
By  turns  recount  the  wondrous  tale,  or  sing  ; 
As  love  or  battle,  hardships  of  the  main. 
Or  genial  wine,  awake  the  homely  strain : 
Then  some  the  watch  of  night  alternate  keep, 
The  rest  lie  buried  in  oblivious  sleep. 

Deep  midnight  now  involves  the  livid  skies, 
While  infant  breezes  from  the  shore  arise. 
The  waning  moon,  behind  a  watery  shroud, 
Pale  glimmer'd  o'er  the  long-protracted  cloud; 
A  mighty  ring  around  her  silver  throne. 
With  parting  meteors  cross'd  portentous  shone. 
This  in  the  troubled  sky  full  oft  prevails  ; 
Oft  deem'd  a  signal  of  tempestuous  gales. — 
While  young  Arion  sleeps,  before  his  sight 
Tumultuous  swim  the  visions  of  the  night. 
Now  blooming  Anna,  with  her  happy  swain, 
Approach'd  the  sacred  Hymeneal  fane, 
Anon,  tremendous  lightnings  flash  between, 
And  funeral  pomp  and  weeping  loves  are  seen . 
Now  with  Palemon  up  a  rocky  steep 
Whose  summit  trembles  o'er  the  roaring  deep, 
With  painful  step  he  clirab'd  ;  while  far  above 
Sweet  Anna  charm'd  them  with  the  voice  of  love, 
Then  sudden  from  the  slippery  height  they  fell. 
While  dreadful  yawn'd  beneath  the  jaws  of  hell. — 
Amid  this  fearful  trance,  a  thundering  sound 
He  hears — and  thrice  the  hollow  decks  rebound. 
Upstarting  from  his  couch  on  deck  he  sprung  ; 
Thrice  with  shrill  note  the  boatswain's  whistle  rung. 
All  hands  unmoor!  proclaims  a  boisterous  cry; 
All  hands  unmoor  !   the  cavern'd  rocks  reply  ! 
Roused  from  repose  aloft  the  sailors  swarm. 
And  with  their  levers  soon  the  windlass  arm.* 
The  order  given,  iipspringing  with  a  bound. 
They  lodge  the  bars,  and  wheel  their  engine  round  ; 
At  every  turn  the  clanging  pauls  resound, 
Uptorn  reluctant  from  its  oozy  cave. 
The  ponderous  anchor  rises  o'er  the  wave : 
Along  their  slippery  masts  the  yards  ascend. 
And  high  in  air  the  canvass  wings  extend  : 
Redoubling  cords  the  lofty  canvass  guide, 
And  through  inextricable  mazes  glide. 
The  lunar  rays  with  long  reflection  gleam. 
To  light  the  vessel  o'er  the  silver  stream : 
Along  the  glassy  plain  serene  she  glides. 
While  azure  radiance  trembles  on  her  sides 
From  east  to  north  the  transient  breezes  play. 
And  in  th'  Egyptian  quarter  soon  decay. 
A  calm  ensues ;  they  dread  th'  adjacent  shore  ; 
The  boats  with  rowers  arm'd  are  sent  before  : 
With  cordage  fasten'd  to  the  lofty  prow. 
Aloof  to  sea  the  stately  ship  they  tow.t 


The  nervous  crew  their  sweeping  oars  extend. 
And  pealing  shouts  the  shore  of  Candia  rend. 
Success  attends  their  skill ;  the  danger's  o'er : 
The  port  is  doubled  and  beheld  no  more. 

Now  Morn,  her  lamp  pale  glimmering  on  the  sight 
Scatter'd  before  her  van  reluctant  Night. 
She  comes  not  in  refulgent  pomp  array'd, 
But  sternly  frowning,  wrapt  in  sullen  shade. 
Above  incumbent  vapours,  Ida's  height, 
Tremendous  rock !  emerges  on  the  sight. 
North-east  the  guardian  isle  of  Standia  lies. 
And  westward  Freschin's  woody  capes  arise. 

With  winning  postures,  now  the  wanton  sails 
Spread  all  their  snares  to  charm  th'  inconstant  gales 
The  swelling  stud-sails*  now  their  wings  extend, 
Then  stay-sails  sidelong  to  the  breeze  ascend  : 
While  all  to  court  the  wandering  breeze  are  placed 
With  yards  now  thwarting,  now  obliquely  braced 

The  dim  horizon  lowering  vapours  shroud. 
And  blot  the  sun,  yet  struggling  in  the  cloud  : 
Through  the  wide   atmosphere,  condensed   with 
♦       haze. 

His  glaring  orb  emits  a  sanguine  blaze. 
The  pilots  now  their  rules  of  art  apply. 
The  mystic  needle's  devious  aim  to  try. 
The  compass,  placed  to  catch  the  rising  ray,t 
The  quadrant's  shadows  studious  they  survey ! 
Along  the  arch  the  gradual  index  slides. 
While  Phoebus  down  the  vertic  circle  glides. 
Now,  seen  on  Ocean's  utmost  yerge  to  swim. 
He  sweeps  it  vibrant  with  his  nether  limb. 
Their  sage  experience  thus  explores  the  height 
And  polar  distance  of  the  source  of  light : 
Then  through  the  chiliads  triple  maze  they  trac« 
Th'  analogy  that  proves  the  magnet's  place 
The  wayward  steel,  to  truth  thus  reconciled, 
No  more  th'  attentive  pilot's  eye  beguiled. 

The  natives,  while  the  ship  departs  the  land, 
Ashore  with  admiration  gazing  stand. 
Majestically  slow,  before  the  breeze. 
In  silent  pomp  she  marches  on  the  seas  ; 
Her  milk-white  bottom  cast  a  softer  gleam, 
While  trembling  through  the   green  translucen 

stream. 
The  wales,t  that  close  above  in  contrast  shone, 
Clasp  the  long  fabric  with  a  jetty  zone. 
Britannia,  riding  awful  on  the  prow. 
Gazed  o'er  the  vassal  wave  that  roll'd  below  : 
Where'er  she  moved  the  vassal  waves  were  seen 
To  yield  obsequious  and  confess  their  queen. 
Th'  imperial  trident  graced  her  dexter  hand. 
Of  power  to  rule  the  surge,  like  Moses'  wand, 


*  The  windlass  is  a  sort  of  large  roller,  used  to  wind 
In  the  cable,  or  heave  up  the  anchor.  It  is  turned  about 
vertically  by  a  number  of  long  bars  or  levers;  in 
which  operation,  it  is  prevented  from  recoiling,  by  the 
T»auls. 

t  Towing  is  the  operation  of  drawing  a  ship  forward,  by 


means  of  ropes,  extending  from  her  fore  part  to  one  ft 
more  of  the  boats  rowing  before  her. 

•  Studding-sails  are  long,  narrow  sails,  which  are  only 
used  in  line  weather  and  fair  winds,  on  the  outside  of 
the  larger  square  sails.  Stay-sails  are  three-cornered 
sails,  which  are  hoisted  up  on  the  stays,  when  the 
wind  crosses  the  ship's  course  either  directly  or 
obliquely. 

t  The  operation  of  taking  the  sun's  azimuth,  in  order 
to  discover  the  eastern  or  western  variation  of  the  mag- 
netic  needle. 

;The  wales,  hexe  alluded  to,  are  an  assemblage  of 
strong  planks  which  envelope  the  lower  part  of  the  ship's 
side,  wherein  they  are  broader  and  thicker  than  the  rest, 
and  appear  somewhat  like  a  range  of  hoops,  which  sep* 
rates  the  bottom  from  the  upper  works. 


Canto  11. 


THE    SHIPWRECK. 


11 


Th'  eternal  empire  of  the  main  to  keep, 

And  guide  her  squadrons  o'er  the  trembling  deep. 

Her  left,  propitious,  bore  a  mystic  shield, 

Around  whose  margin  rolls  the  watery  field : 

There  her  bold  Genius,  in  his  floating  car. 

O'er  the  wild  billow  hurls  the  storm  of  war— 

And  lo  !  the  beast  that  oft  with  jealous  rage 

In  bloody  combat  met  from  age  to  age, 

Tamed  into  Union,  yoked  in  Friendship's  chain. 

Draw  his  proud  chariot  round  the  vanquish'd  main. 

From  the  broad  margin  to  the  centre  grew 

Shelves,    rocks,    and   whirlpools,  hideous  to  the 

view  I — 
Th'  immortal  shield  from  Neptune  she  received. 
When  first  her  head  above  the  waters  heaved. 
Loose  floated  o'er  her  limbs  an  azure  vest ; 
A  figured  scutcheon  glitter'd  on  her  breast ; 
There,  from  one  parent  soil,  for  ever  young. 
The  bloommg  rose  and  hardy  thistle  sprung : 
Around  her  head  an  oaken  wreath  was  seen. 
Inwove  with  laurels  of  unfading  green. 
Such  was  the  sculptured  prow — from  van  to  rear 
Th'  artillery  frown'd,  a  black  tremendous  tier! 
Embalm'd  with  orient  gum,  above  the  wave. 
The  swelling  sides  a  yellow  radiance  gave. 
On  the  broad  stern  a  pencil  warm  and  bold, 
That  never  servile  rules  of  art  controU'd, 
An  allegoric  tale  on  high  portray'd, 
Tnere  a  young  hero,  here  a  royal  maid. 
Fair  England's  genius  in  the  youth  exprest. 
Her  ancient  foe,  but  now  her  friend  confest. 
The  warlike  nymph  with  fond  regard  survey'd  : 
No  more  his  hostile  frown  her  heart  dismay'd. 
His  look,  that  once  shot  terror  from  afar, 
Like  young  Alcides,  or  the  god  of  war. 
Serene  as  summer's  evening  skies  she  saw  ; 
Serene,  yet  firm ;  though  mild,  impressing  awe. 
Her  nervous  arm,  inured  to  toils  severe. 
Brand ish'd  th'  unconquer'd  Caledonian  spear. 
The  dreadful  falchion  of  the  hills  she  wore, 
Sung  to  the  harp  in  many  a  tale  of  yore. 
That  oft  her  rivers  dyed  with  hostile  gore. 
Blue  W'as  her  rocky  shield  ;  her  piercing  eye 
Flash'd  like  the  meteors  of  her  native  sky; 
Hercrest,  high- plumed,  was  rough  with  many  a  scar, 
And  o'er  her  helmet  gleam'd  the  northern  star. 
The  warrior  j'^outh  appear'd  of  noble  frame, 
The  hardy  oflTspring  of  some  Runic  dame : 
Loose  o'er  his  shoulders  hung  the  slacken'd  bow, 
Renown'd  in  song — the  terror  of  the  foe  I 
The  sword,  that  oft  the  barbarous  north  defied, 
The  scourge  of  tyrants  !   glitter'd  by  his  side. 
Clad  in  refulgent  arms,  in  battle  won, 
The  George  emblazon'd  on  his  corslet  shone. 
Fast  by  his  side  was  seen  a  golden  lyre, 
Pregnant  with  numbers  of  eternal  fire  : 
Whose  strings  unlock  the  witches'  midnight  spell. 
Or  waft  rapt  Fancy  through  the  gulfs  of  hell — 
Struck  with  contagion,  kindling  Fancy  hears 
The  songs  of  heaven,  the  music  of  the  spheres ! 
Borne  on  Newtonian  wing,  through  air  she  flies, 
Where  other  suns  to  other  systems  rise ! — 
These  front  the  scene  conspicuous — over  head 
Albion's  proud  oak  his  filial  branches  spread  ; 
While  on  the  sea-beat  shore  obsequious  stood, 
Beneath  their  feet,  the  father  of  the  flood  ; 
Here,  the  bold  native  of  her  cliflS  above, 
Perch'd  by  the  martial  maid  the  bird  of  Jove  ; 

YoL.  in.— 2 


There,  on  the  watch,  sagacious  of  his  prey. 
With  eyes  of  fire,  an  English  mastiflT  lay. 
Yonder  fair  Commerce  stretch'd  her  winged  sail; 
Here  frown'd  the  god  that  wakes  the  living  gale- 
High  o'er  the  poop,  the  fluttering  wings  unfurl'd 
Th'  imperial  flag  that  rules  the  watery  world. 
Deep  blushing  armours  all  the  tops  invest. 
And  warlike  trophies  either  quarter  drest;    fhigh", 
Then  tower'd  the  masts ;  the  canvass  swell'd  on 
And  waving  streamers  floated  in  the  sky. 
Thus  the  rich  vessel  moves  in  trim  array, 
Like  some  fair  virgin  on  her  bridal  day. 
Thus,  like  a  swan  she  cleaves  the  watery  plain; 
The  pride  and  wonder  of  the  .^gean  main. 

Caxto  II. 

ARGUMENT. 

Reflection  on  leaving  the  land.  The  gale  continues.  A 
water-spout.  Beauty  of  a  dying  dolphin.  The  ship's 
progress  along  the  shore.  Wind  strengthens.  The 
sails  reduced.  A  shoal  of  porpoises.  Last  appear- 
ance of  Cape  Spado.  Sea  rises.  A  squall.  The  salla 
further  diminished.  Mainsail  split.  Ship  bears  away 
before  the  wind.  Again  hauls  upon  the  wind.  An- 
other mainsail  fitted  to  the  yard.  The  gale  still  in- 
creases. Topsails  furled.  Topgallant  yards  sent 
down.  Sea  enlarges.  Sunset.  Courses  reefed.  Four 
seaman  lost  off  the  lee  main  yard-arm.  Anxiety 
of  the  pilots  from  their  dangerous  situation.  Resolute 
behaviour  of  the  sailors.  The  ship  labours  in  great 
distress.  The  artillery  thrown  overboard.  Dismal 
appearance  of  the  weather.  Very  high  and  dangerous 
sea.  Severe  fatigue  of  the  crew.  Consultation  and 
resolution  of  the  officers.  Speech  and  advice  of  Albert 
to  the  crew.  Necessary  disposition  to  veer  before  the 
wind.  Disappointment  in  the  proposed  effect.  New 
dispositions  equally  unsuccessful.  The  mizen  maat 
cut  away. 

The  scene  lies  in  the  sea,  bttwun  Cape  Freschin,in  Candia,  and  Iki 
Island  of  Falconera,  which  it  nearly  twelve  leagua  northward  «f 
Cape  Spado.— The  time  is  from  nine  «n  the  morning  till  one  o'clttii 
of  the  following  morning. 

Adieu,  ye  pleasures  of  the  rural  scene, 

Where  peace  and  calm  contentment  dwell  serene! 

To  me,  in  vain,  on  earth's  prolific  soil. 

With  summer  crown'd  th'  Elysian  valleys  smile  I 

To  me  those  happier  scenes  no  joy  impart, 

But  tantalize  with  hope  my  aching  heart. 

For  these,  alas  !  reluctant  I  forego, 

To  visit  storms  and  elements  of  wo  ! 

Ye  tempests  !  o'er  my  head  congenial  roll, 

To  suit  the  mournful  music  of  my  soul ! 

In  black  progression,  lo!  they  hover  near — 

Hail,  social  Horrors !  like  my  fate  severe  ! 

Old  Ocean,  hail !  beneath  whose  azure  zone 

The  secret  deep  lies  unexplored,  unknown. 

Approach,  ye  brave  companions  of  the  sea. 

And  fearless  view  this  awful  scene  with  me ! 

Ye  native  guardians  of  your  country's  laws 

Ye  bold  assertors  of  her  sacred  cause  ! 

The  muse  invites  you,  judge  if  she  depart. 

Unequal,  from  the  precepts  of  your  art 

In  practice  train'd,  and  conscious  of  her  power. 

Her  steps  intrepid  meet  the  trying  hour. 

O'er  the  smooth  bosom  of  the  faithless  tides, 

Propell'd  by  gentle  gales,  the  vessel  glides. 

Rodmond,  exulting,  felt  th'  auspicious  wind. 

And  by  a  mystic  charm  its  aim  confined. — 

The  thoughts  of  home,  that  o'er  his  fancy  roll. 

With  trembling  joy  dilate  Palemon's  soul : 


IS 


FALCONER. 


Canto  II, 


Hope  lifts  his  heart,  before  whose  vivid  ray 
Distress  recedes,  and  danger  melts  away. 
Already  Britain's  parent  cliffs  arise, 
And  in  idea  greet  his  longing  eyes ! 
Each  amorrus  sailor  too,  with  heart  elate. 
Dwells  on  the  beauties  of  his  gentle  mate. 
E'en  they  th'  impressive  dart  of  Love  can  feel. 
Whose  stubborn  souls  are  sheathed  in  triple  steel 
Nor  less  o'erjoy'd,  perhaps  with  equal  truth, 
Each  faithful  maid  expects  th'  approaching  youth. 
In  distant  bosoms  equal  ardours  glow  ; 
And  mutual  passions  mutual  joy  bestow. — 
Tall  Ida's  summit  now  more  distant  grew, 
And  Jove's  high  hill  was  rising  on  the  view; 
When,  from  the  left  approaching,  they  descry 
•    A  liquid  column,  towering,  shoot  on  high  : 
The  foaming  base  an  angry  whirlwind  sweeps. 
Where  curling  billows  rouse  the  fearful  deeps  : 
Still  round  and  round  the  fluid  vortex  flies, 
Scattering  dun  night  and  horror  through  the  skies. 
The  swift  volution  and  th'  enormous  train 
Let  sages  versed  in  Nature's  lore  explain ! 
The  horrid  apparition  still  draws  nigh,  ' 

And  white  with  foam  the  whirling  surges  fly  , 
The   guns   were    primed — the   vessel   northward 

veers. 
Till  her  black  battery  on  the  column  bears. 
The  nitre  fired  ;  and  while  the  dreadful  sound. 
Convulsive,  shook  the  slumbering  air  around. 
The  watery  volume,  trembling  to  the  sky, 
Burst  down  the  dreadful  deluge  from  on  high  ; 
Th'  affrighted  surge,  recoiling  as  it  fell. 
Rolling  in  hills  disclosed  th'  abyss  of  hell. 
But  soon  this  transient  undulation  o'er. 
The  sea  subsides,  the  whirlwinds  rage  no  more. 
While    southward    now    th'    increasing   breezes 

veer. 
Dark  clouds  incumbent  on  their  wings  appear. 
In  front  they  view  the  consecrated  grove 
Of  Cypress,  sacred  once  to  Cretan  Jove. 
The  thirsty  canvass,  all  around  supplied. 
Still  drinks  unquench'd  the  full  aerial  tide ; 
And  now,  approaching  near  the  lofty  stern, 
A  shoal  of  sportive  dolphins  they  discern. 
From  burnish'd  scales  they  beam'd  refulgent  rays, 
Till  all  the  glowing  ocean  seems  to  blaze. 
Soon  to  the  sport  of  death  the  crew  repair. 
Dart  the  long  lance,  or  spread  the  baited  snare. 
One  in  redoubling  mazes  wheels  along. 
And  glides,  unhappy !  near  the  triple  prong. 
Rodmond,  unerring,  o'er  his  head  suspends 
The  barbed  steel,  and  every  turn  attends. 
Unerring  aim'd  the  missile  weapon  flew. 
And,  plunging,  struck  the  fated  victim  through. 
Th'  upturning  points  his  ponderous  bulk  sustain  ; 
On  deck  he  struggles  with  convulsive  pain. 
But  while  his  heart  the  fatal  javelin  thrills 
And  flitting  life  escapes  in  sanguine  rills. 
What  radiant  changes  strike  th'  astonished  sight ! 
What  glowing  hues  of  mingled  shade  and  light! 
NX  cjual  beauties  gild  the  lucid  west. 
With  parting  beams  all  o'er  profusely  drest; 
Not  lovelier  colours  paint  the  vernal  dawn, 
When  orient  dews  impearl  th'  enamell'd  lawn. 
Than  from  his  sides  in  bright  sufflasion  flow. 
That  now  with  gold  empyreal  seem'd  to  glow  ; 
Now  in  pellucid  sapphires  meet  the  view, 
4.nd  emulate  the  soft  celestial  hue  ; 


Now  beam  a  flaming  crimson  on  the  eye  ; 
And  now  assume  the  purple's  deeper  dye. 
But  hpre  description  clouds  each  shining  ray — 
What  terms  ol  Art  can  Nature's  powers  display  ? 
Now,  while  on  high  the  freshening  gale  sne  feel« 
The  ship  beneath  her  lofty  pressure  reels. 
Th'  auxiliar  sails  that  court  a  gentle  breeze. 
From  their  high  stations  sink  by  slow  degrees. 
The  watchful  ruler  of  the  helm  no  more 
With  fix'd  attention  eyes  th  adjacent  shore  ; 
But  by  the  oracle  of  truth  below. 
The  wondrous  magnet,  guides  the  wayward  prow— 
The  wind,  that  still  th'  impressive  canvjiss  sweli'd 
Swift  and  more  swift  the  yielding  bark  impell'd. 
Impatient  thus  she  glides  along  the  coast. 
Till,  far  behind,  the  hill  of  Jove  is  lost: 
And  while  aloof  from  Retimo  she  steers, 
Malacha's  foreland  full  in  front  appears. 
Wide  o'er  yon  isthmus  stands  the  cypress  grove 
That  once  enclosed  the  hallow'd  fane  of  Jove. 
Here  too,  memorial  of  his  name!  is  found 
A  tomb,  in  marble  ruins  on  the  ground. 
This  gloomy  tyrant,  whose  triumphant  yoke 
The  trembling  states  around  to  slavery  broke  ; 
Through  Greece,  for  murder,  rape,  and  incest  known. 
The  muses  raised  to  high  Olympus  throne.— 
For  oft,  alas  !  their  venal  strains  adorn 
The  prince  whom  blushing  Virtue  holds  in  scorn. 
Still  Rome  and  Greece  record  his  endless  fame. 
And  hence  yon  mountain  yet  retains  his  name. 

But  see !  in  confluence  borne  before  the  blast, 
Clouds  roli'd  on  clouds  the  dusky  noon  o'ercast ; 
The  blackening  ocean  curls  ;  the  winds  arise  ; 
And  the  tlark  scud*  in  swift  succession  flies. 
While  the  swoln  canvass  bends  the  masts  on  higt 
Low  in  the  wave  the  leeward  cannon  lie,t 
The  sailors  now,  to  give  the  ship  relief. 
Reduce  the  topsails  by  a  single  reef  | 
Each  lofty  yard  with  slacken'd  cordage  reels, 
Rattle  the  creaking  blocks  and  ringing  wheels. 
Down  the  tall  masts  the  topsails  sink  amain ; 
And,  soon  reduced,  assume  their  post  again. 
More  distant  grew  receding  Candia's  shore; 
And  southward  of  the  west  Cape  Spado  bore. 

Four  hours  the  sun  his  high  meridian  throne 
Had  left,  and  o'er  Atlantic  regions  shone  : 
Still  blacker  clouds,  that  all  the  skies  invade, 
Draw  o'er  his  sullied  orb  a  dismal  ehade. 
A  squall  deep  lowering  blots  the  southern  sky, 
Before  whose  boisterous  breath  the  waters  fly. 
Its  weight  the  topsails  cag  no  more  sustain : 
•  Reef  topsails,  reef!'  the  boatswain  calls  again ! 


*  Scud  is  a  name  given  by  seamen  to  the  lowest  clouda, 
which  are  driven  with  great  rapidity  along  the  atmo- 
sphere, in  squally  or  tempestuous  weather. 

t  When  the  wind  crosses  a  ship's  course,  either 
directly  or  obliquely,  that  side  of  the  ship  upon  which  it 
acts,  is  called  the  weather  side :  and  the  opposite  one, 
which  is  then  pressed  downwards,  is  called  the  lee  side. 
Hence  all  the  rigging  and  furniture  of  the  ship  are,  at  thia 
time,  distinguished  by  the  side,  on  which  they  are  situ- 
ated; as  the  lee  cannon,  the  lee  braces,  the  weather 
braces,  &c. 

X  Tlie  topsails  are  large  square  sails,  of  the  second 
degree  in  height  and  magnitude.  Reefs  arc  certain 
divisions  or  spaces  by  which  the  principal  sails  are  re- 
duced when  the  wind  increases;  and  again  enlarged 
proportionably,  when  its  ibrce  abates. 


/ANTO  II. 


THE    SHIPWRECK. 


VJ 


The  haliards*  and  top-bow-linest  soon  are  gone, 
To  clue-linesl  and  reef-tackles  next  they  run  : 
The  shivering  sails  descend  ;  and  now  they  square 
The  yards,  while  ready  sailors  mount  in  air. 
The  w.eather-earings^  and  the  lee  they  past  ; 
The  reefs  enroll'd,  and  every  point  made  fast. 
Their  task  above  thus  finish'd,  they  descend, 
And  vigilant  th'  approaching  squall  attend. 
It  comes  resistless  ;  and  with  foaming  sweep, 
Upturns  the  whitening  surface  of  the  deep. 
In  such  a  tempest,  borne  to  deeds  of  death, 
The  w  ay  ward  sisters  scour  the  blasted  heath. 
With  ruin  pregnant  now  the  clouds  impend. 
And  storm  and  cataract  tumultuous  blend. 
Deep  on  her  side  the  reeling  vessel  lies — 
"Brail  up  the  mizen,!l  quick!"  the  master  cries, 
"  Mar.  the  clue-garnets  IIT  let  the  main  sheet  fly  !"** 
The  boisterous  squall  still  presses  from  on  high, 
And  swift,  and  fatal,  as  the  lightning's  course. 
Through  the  torn  mainsail  bursts  with  thundering 

force, 
While  the  rent  canvass  flutter'd  in  the  wind. 
Still  on  her  flank  the  stooping  bark  inclined. — 
'  Bear  up  the  helmtt  a-weather !"  Rodmond  cries  ; 
Swift,  at  the  word,  the  helm  a-weather  flies. 
The  prow,  w^ith  secret  instinct  veers  apace  : 
And  now  the  foresail  right  athwart  they  brace  ; 
With  equal  sheets  restrain'd,  the  bellying  sail 
Spreads  a  broad  concave  to  the  sweeping  gale. 
While  o'er  the  foam  the  ship  impetuous  flies, 
Th'  attentive  timoneertf  the  helm  applies. 
As  in  pursuit  along  the  aerial  way. 
With  ardent  eye  the  falcon  marks  his  prey. 


•  Haliards  are  either  single  ropes  or  tackles,  by  which 
the  sails  are  hoisted  up  and  lowered,  when  the  sail  is  to 
be  extended  or  reduced. 

t  Bow-lines  are  ropes  extended  to  keep  the  windward 
edge  of  the  sail  steady,  and  to  prevent  it  from  shaking  in 
an  unfavourable  wind. 

I  Clue-lines  are  ropes  used  to  truss  up  the  clues,  or 
lower  corners  of  the  principal  sails  to  their  respective 
yards,  particularly  when  the  sail  is  to  be  close  reefed 
or  furled. — Reef-tackles  are  ropes  employed  to  facilitate 
the  operation  of  reefing,  by  confining  the  extremities  of 
the  reef  close  up  to  the  yard,  so  that  the  interval  becomes 
slack,  and  is  therefore  easily  rolled  up  and  fastened  to 
the  yard  by  the  points  employed  for  this  purpose. 

§  Barings  are  small  cords,  by  which  the  upper  corners 
of  the  principal  sails,  and  also  the  extremities  of  the  reefs, 
are  fastened  to  the  yard-arms. 

E  The  mizen  is  a  large  sail  of  an  oblong  figure,  extended 
npon  the  mizen  masi. 

II  Clue  garnets  are  employed  for  the  same  purposes 
on  the  mainsail  and  foresail,  as  the  clue-lines  are  upon 
all  other  square  sails.    See  note  +,  above. 

••  It  is  necessary  in  this  place  to  remark  that  the  sheets, 
which  are  universally  mistaken  by  the  English  poets  and 
Uieir  readers  for  the  sails  themselves,  are  no  other  than 
the  ropes  used  to  extend  the  clues  or  lower  corners  of 
th3  sails  to  which  they  are  attached.  To  the  mainsail 
and  foresail  there  is  a  sheet  and  a  lack  on  each  side ;  the 
latter  of  which  is  a  thick  rope,  serving  to  confine  the 
weather  clue  of  the  sail  down  to  the  ship's  side,  whilst 
the  former  draws  out  of  the  lee-clue  or  lower  corner  on 
the  opposite  side.    Tacks  are  only  used  in  a  side  wind. 

tt  The  helm  is  said  to  be  c.-weather,  when  the  bar  by 
which  it  is  managed  is  turned  to  the  side  of  the  ship  next 
the  wind, 

+J  Timoneer,  (from  timonnier,  Fr.)  the  helmsman  or 
st«*<*rsinan. 


Each  motion  watches  of  the  doubtful  chase. 
Obliquely  wheeling  through  the  liquid  space  ; 
So,  govern'd  by  the  steersman's  glowmg  hands, 
The  regent  helm  her  motion  still  commands. 

But  now  the  transient  squall  to  leeward  past, 
Again  she  rallies  to  the  sullen  blast. 
The  helm  to  starboard*  turns — with  wings  inclined 
The  sidelong  canvass  clasps  the  faithless  wind. 
The  mizen  draws  ;  she  springs  aloof  once  more. 
While  the  Ibre-staysailt  balances  before. 
The  fore-sail  braced  obliquely  to  the  wind. 
They  near  the  prow  th'  extended  tack  confined  ; 
Then  on  the  leeward  sheet  the  seamen  bend, 
And  haul  the  bow-line  to  the  bowsprit  end. 
To  topsails  next  they  haste — the  bunt-lines  gone. 
The  clue-linesthrough  their  wheel'd  machinery  null 
On  either  side  below  the  sheets  are  mann'd  : 
Again  the  fluttering  sails  their  skirts  expand. 
Once  more  the  topsails,  though  with  humbler  plume 
Mounting  aloft  their  ancient  post  resume. 
Again  the  bow-lines  and  the  yards  are  braced,t 
And  all  th'  entangled  cords  in  order  placed. 

The  sail,  by  whirlwinds  thus  so  lately  rent. 
In  tatter'd  ruins  fluttering,  is  unbent. 
With  brails'J  refix  another  soon  prepared. 
Ascending,  spreads  along  beneath  the  yard. 
To  each  yard-arm  the  head  ropell  they  extend. 
And  soon  their  earings  and  the  roebinsTi  bend. 
That  task  perform'd,  they  first  the  braces**  slack, 
Then  to  its  station  drag  th'  unwilling  tack ; 
And,  while  the  lee  clue-garnet's  lower'd  away. 
Taught  aft  the  sheet  they  tally  and  belay.it 

Now  to  the  north,  from  Afric's  burning  shore, 
A  troop  of  porpoises  their  course  explore  ; 
In  curling  wreaths  they  gambol  on  the  tide. 
Now  bound  aloft,  now  down  the  billow  glide. 
Their  tracks  awhile  the  hoary  waves  retain. 
That  burn  in  sparkling  trails  along  the  main. 
These  fleetest  coursers  of  the  finny  race. 
When  threat'ning  clouds  th'  etherial  vault  deface, 
Their  rout  to  leeward  still  sagacious  form, 
To  shun  the  fury  of  th'  approaching  storm. 

*  The  helm  being  turned  to  starboard,  or  to  the  right 
side  of  the  ship,  directs  the  prow  to  the  left,  or  to  port, 
and  vice  versa.  Hence  the  helm  being  put  a  starboard, 
when  the  ship  is  running  northward,  directs  her  prow 
towards  the  west. 

t  This  sail,  which  is  with  more  propriety  called  the 
fore-topmast-staysail,  is  a  triangular  sail,  that  runs  upon 
the  fore-topmast-stay,  over  the  bowsprit.  It  is  used  to 
command  the  fore  part  of  the  ship,  and  counterbalance 
the  sails  extended  towards  the  stern.  See  also  the  last 
note  of  this  Canto. 

t  A  yard  is  said  to  be  braced  when  it  is  turned  about  the 
mast  horizontally,  either  to  the  right  or  left ;  the  ropes 
employed  in  this  servj',e  are  accordingly  called  bracss. 

§  The  ropes  used  ••  truss  up  a  sail  to  the  yard  or  mast 
whereto  it  is  attached  are,in  a  general  sense,  called  brails. 

I!  The  head-rope  is  a  cord  to  which  the  upper  part  oi 
the  sail  is  sewed. 

II  Rope-bands,  pronounced  roebins,  are  small  cords 
used  to  fasten  the  upper  edge  of  any  sail  to  its  respective 
yard. 

**  Because  the  lee-brace' confines  the  yard  so  that  the 
tack  will  not  come  down  to  its  place  till  the  braces  are 
cast  loose. 

tt  Taught  implies  stifl^  tense,  or  extended  straight ;  and' 
taHy  is  a  phrase  particularly  applied  to  the  operation  of 
hauling  afl  the  sheets,  or  drawing  them  towards  the  ship's 
stern.    To  belay  is  to  fasten. 


FALCONEK. 


Canto  11 


Fair  Candia  now  no  more  beneath  her  lee 
Protects  the  vessel  from  th'  insulting  sea : 
Round  her  broad  arms,  impatient  of  control, 
Roused  from  their  secret  deeps,  the  billows  roll. 
Sunk  were  the  bulwarks  of  the  friendly  ohcre, 
And  all  the  scene  an  hostile  aspect  were.. 
The  flattering  wind,  that  late,  with  prom'se-l  sid, 
From  Candia's  bay  th'  unwilling  ship  betray'd, 
No  long»3r  fawns  beneath  the  fair  disguise, 
Buit  K'.ie  a  ruflian  on  his  quarry  flies. — 
Tost  on  the  tide  she  feels  the  tempest  blow, 
And  dreads  the  vengeance  of  so  fell  a  foe. 
As  the  proud  horse,  with  costly  trappings  gay, 
Exulting,  prances  to  the  bloody  fray. 
Spurning  the  ground,  he  glories  in  his  might, 
But  reels  tumultuous  in  the  shock  of  fight : 
Even  so  caparison'd  in  gaudy  pride. 
The  bouncling  vessel  dances  on  the  tide — 
Fierce,  and  more  fierce  the  southern  demon  blew. 
And  more  incensed  the  roaring  waters  grew : 
The  ship  no  longer  can  her  topsails  spread. 
And  every  hope  of  fairer  skies  is  fled. 
Bow-lines  and  haliafds  are  relax'd  again, 
Clue-lines  haul'd  down,  and  sheets  let  fly  amain  ; 
Clued  up  each  top-sail,  and  by  braces  squared. 
The  seamen  climb  aloft  on  either  yard  ; 
They  furl'd  the  sail,  and  pointed  to  the  wind 
The  yard,  by  rolling  tackles*  then  confined. 
While  o'er  the  ship  the  gallant  boatswain  flies  : 
Like  a  hoarse  mastiff  through  the  storm  he  cries  : 
Prompt  to  direct  th'  unskilful  still  appears  ; 
Th'  expert  he  praises,  and  the  fearful  cheers. 
Now  some  to  strike  top-gallant  yards  attend  ;t 
Some  travellers^  up  the  weather-backstays$  seai. 
At  each  mast-head  the  top-ropesH  others  bend. 
The  youngest  sailors  from  the  yards  above 
Their  parrels.lF  lifts,**  and  braces  soon  remove  : 
Then  topt  an-end,  and  to  travellers  tied,        [slide 
Charged  with  their  sails,  they  dovm  the  backstays 
The  yards  secure  along  the  boomstt  reclined, 
While  some  the  flying  cords  aloft  confined. — 


*The  rolling  tackle  is  an  assemblage  of  pulleys,  used 
to  confine  the  yard  to  the  weather-sido  of  the  mast,  and 
prevent  the  former  from  rubbing  against  the  latter  by 
the  fluctuating  motion  of  the  .ship  in  a  turbulent  sea. 

tit  is  usual  to  send  down  the  topgallant  yards  on  the 
approach  of  a  storni.  They  are  the  highest  yards  that 
are  rigged  in  a  ship. 

i  Travellers  are  slender  iron  rings,  encircling  the 
backstays,  and  used  to  facilitate  the  hoisting  or  lowering 
of  the  top-gallant  yards,  by  confining  them  to  the  back- 
stays, in  their  ascent  or  descent,  so  as  to  prevent  them 
from  swinging  about  by  the  agitation  of  the  vessel. 

§  Backstays  are  long  r6pes  extending  from  the  right 
and  left  side  of  the  ship  to  the  top-mast  heads,  which 
they  are  intended  to  secure,  by  counteracting  the  effort 
of  the  wind  upon  the  sails. 

I  Top  ropes  are  the  cords  by  which  the  top-gallant 
yards  are  hoisted  up  from  the  deck,  or  lowered  again  in 
gtoniiy  weather. 

UThe  parrel,  which  is  usually  a  movable  band  of  rope, 
iir  employed  to  confine  the  yard  to  ifs  respective  mast. 

'•Lifts  are  ropes  extending  from  the  head  of  any  mast 
to  the  extremities  of  its  particular  yard,  to  support  the 
weight  of  the  latter ;  to  retain  it  in  balance  ;  or  to  raise 
one  yard-arm  higher  than  the  other,  which  is  accord- 
ingly called  topping. 

tt  The  booms,  in  this  place,  imply  any  masts  or  yards 
lying  on  deck  in  reserve,  to  supply  the  place  of  others 
vhich  may  be  carried  away  by  distress  of  weather,  &c. 


Their  sails  reduced,  and  all  the  rigging  clear, 
A  while  the  crew  relax  from  toils  severe. 
A  while  their  spirits,  with  fatigue  opprest, 
In  vain  expect  th'  alternate  hour  of  rest  ; 
But  with  redoubling  force  the  tempests  blow 
And  watery  hills  in  fell  succession  flow ; 
A  dismal  shade  o'ercasts  the  frowning  skies. 
New  troubles  grow  ;  new  difficulties  rise. 
No  season  this  from  duty  to  descend  ! — 
All  hands  on  deck  th'  eventful  hour  attend. 

His  race  perform'd,  the  sacred  lamp  of  day 
Now  dipt  in  western  clouds  his  parting  ray 
His  sick'ning  fires,  half-lost  in  ambient  haze, 
Refract  along  the  dusk  a  crimson  blaze  ; 
Till  deep  immerged  tlie  languid  orbdeclines, 
And  now  to  cheerless  night  the  sky  resigns  ! 
Sad  evening's  hour,  how  different  from  the  pasl 
No  flaming  pomp,  no  blushing  glories  cast; 
No  ray  of  friendly  light  is  seen  around  : 
The   moon    and    stars    in    hopeless    shade  ar« 
drown'd. 

The  ship  no  longer  can  her  coursfes*  bear : 
To  reef  the  courses  is  the  master's  care : 
The  sailors,  summon'd  aft,  a  daring  band ! 
Attend  th'  enfolding  brails  at  his  command. 
But  here  the  doubtful  oflicers  dispute, 
'Till  skill  and  judgment  prejudice  confute. 
Rodmond,  whose  genius  never  soar'd  beyond 
The  narrow  rules  of  art  his  youth  had  conn'd, 
Still  to  the  hostile  fury  of  the  wind 
Released  the  sheet,  and  kept  the  lack  confined  \ 
To  long-tried  practice  obstinately  warm. 
He  doubts  conviction,  and  relies  on  form. 
But  the  sage  master  this  advice  declines  ; 
With  whom  Arion  in  opinion  joins. — 
The  watchful  seaman,  whose  sagacious  eye 
On  sure  experience  may  with  truth  rely, 
Who  from  the  reigning  cause  foretells  th'  eflte.5' 
This  barbarous  practice  ever  will  reject. 
For,  fluttering  loose  in  air,  the  rigid  sail 
Soon  flits  to  ruins  in  the  furious  gale  ! 
And  he  who  strives  the  tempest  to  disarm, 
Will  never  first  embrail  the  lee-yard  arm. 
The  master  said  ; — obedient  to  command. 
To  raise  the  tack,  the  ready  sailors  standt— 
Gradual  it  loosens,  while  th'  involving  clue 
Swell'd  by  the  wind,  aloft  unruflling  flew 
The   sheet  and  weather-brace    they   now  stttBd 

by;t 
The  lee  clue-garnet  and  the  bunt-lines  ply. 
Thus  all  prepared.  Let  go  the  sheet!  he  cries  ; 
Impetuous  round  the  ringing  wheels  it  flies: 
Shivering  at  first,  till  by  the  blast  impell'd. 
High  o'er  the  lee-yard  arm  the  canvass  swell'd  ; 


»The  courses  are  generally  understood  to  be  the 
main  sail,  foresail,  and  mizen,  which  are  the  largest  an^ 
lowest  sails  of  their  several  masts ;  the  term  is,  however, 
sometimes  taken  in  a  larger  sense. 

tit  has  been  remarked  before  in  note  **,  p.  19,  coi.  \, 
that  the  tack  is  always  fastened  to  windward;  accordingly, 
as  soon  as  it  is  cast  loose,  and  the  cliie-garnet  hauled  up, 
the  weather  clue  of  the  sail  immediately  mounts  to  th© 
yard  :  and  this  operation  must  be  carefully  performed  in 
a  storm,  to  prevent  the  sail  from  splitting  or  being  torn 
to  pieces  by  shivering. 

X  It  is  necessary  to  pull  in  the  weather-brace  when, 
ever  the  sheet  is  cast  otT)  to  preserve  the  sail  from  shak 
ing  violently. 


Canto  IL 


THE    SHIPWRECK. 


21 


By  spilliag-lines*  embraced,  with  brails  confined 
It  lies  at  length  unshaken  by  the  wind. 
The  foresail  then  secured  with  equal  care, 
Again  to  reef  the  mainsail  they  repair. — 
While  some,  high-mounted,  overhaul  the  tye, 
Below  the  down-haul  tacklet  others  ply. 
Jears,|:  lifts,  and  brails,  a  seaman  each  attends, 
Along  the  mast  the  willing  yard  descends. 
When  lower'd  sufficient,  they  securely  brace, 
And  fix'd  the  rolling-tackle  in  its  place  ; 
The  reef-lines$  and  their  earings  now  prepared, 
Mounting  on  pliant  shrouds, il  they  man  the  yard. 
Far  on  th'  extremes  two  able  hands  appear, 
Arion  there,  the  hardy  boatswain  here ; 
That  in  the  van  to  front  the  tempest  hung ; 
This  round  the  lee  yard-arm,  ill-omen'd  !    clung. 
Each  earing  to  its  station  first  they  bend  ; 
The  reef-band^  then  along  the  yard  extend  : 
The  circling  earings,  round  th'  extremes  entwined. 
By  outer  and  by  inner  turns**  they  bind. 
From  hand  to  hand  the  reef-lines  next  received. 
Through  eye-let  holes  and  roebin  legs  were  reeved. 
The  reef  in  double  folds  involved  they  lay  ; 
Strain  the  firm  cord,  and  either  end  belay. 

Hadst  thou,  Arion  !  held  the  leeward  post. 
While  on  the  yard  by  mountain  billows  tost. 
Perhaps  oblivion  o'er  our  tragic  tale 
Had  then  for  ever  drawn  her  dusky  veil. — 
But  ruling  heaven  prolong'd  thy  vital  date. 
Severer  ills  to  suffer  and  relate  I 

For,  while  their  orders  those  aloft  attend, 
To  furl  the  mainsail,  or  on  deck  descend, 
A  seatt  up  surging  with  tremendous  roll, 
To  instant  ruin  seems  to  doom  the  whole. 
"  O  friends  I  secure  your  hold  !"  Arion  cries  ; 
It  comes  all  dreadful,  stooping  from  the  skies  ; 

*  The  spilling-lincs,  which  are  only  used  on  particular 
occasions  in  tempestuous  weather,  are  employed  to 
draw  together  and  confine  the  belly  of  the  sail,  when  it 
is  inflated  by  the  wind  over  the  yard. 

t  The  violence  of  the  wind  forces  the  yard  so  much 
outward  from  the  mast  on  these  ociasions,  that  it  cannot 
easily  be  lowered  so  as  to  reef  the  sail,  without  the  ap- 
f  iication  of  a  tackle  to  haul  it  down  on  the  mast.  This 
is  afterwards  converted  into  roUing  tackle.  See  note  *, 
■.tet  col.  p.  20. 

X  Jears  arc  the  same  to  the  mainsail,  foresail,  and 
mizen,  as  the  haliards  (note  *,  Isr  col.  p.  19)  are  to  all 
iiferior  sails.    The  tye  is  the  upper  part  of  the  jears. 

§  Reef-lines  are  only  used  to  reef  the  mainsail  and 
"oresail.  They  are  past  in  spiral  turns  through  the  eye- 
.et  holes  of  the  reef,  and  over  the  head  of  the  sails 
between  the  rope-band  legs,  till  they  reach  the  extremi- 
ties of  the  reef,  to  which  they  are  firmly  extended,,  so  as 
to  lace  the  reef  close  up  to  the  yard. 

i  Shrouds  are  thick  ropes,  stretching  from  the  mast- 
heads downwards  to  the  outside  of  the  ship,  serving  to 
Bupport  the  masts.  They  are  also  used  as  a  range  of 
tope-ladders,  by  which  the  seamen  ascend  or  descend, 
to  perform  v.-hatever  is  necessary  about  the  sails  and 
Tigging. 

U  The  reef-band  is  a  long  piece  of  canvass  sewed 
across  the  sail,  to  strengthen  the  canvass  in  the  place 
where  the  eye  let  holes  of  the  reef  are  formed. 

••  The  outer  turns  of  the  earing  serve  to  extend  the 
sail  along  the  yard  ;  and  the  inner  turns  are  employed  to 
confine  its  head-rope  close  to  its  surface.  See  note  0, 
>d  col.  p.  19. 

tt  A  sea  is  the  general  name  given  by  sailors  to  a  single 
wave  or  billow :  hence,  when  a  wave  bursts  over  the 
ilcck,  the  vessel  is  saic^  to  have  skipped  a  sea. 


Uplifted  on  its  horrid  edge  she  feels 

The  shock,  and  on  her  side  half-buried  reels : 

The  sail  half  bury'd  in  the  whelming  wave, 

A  fearful  warning  to  the  seamen  g.-rve  : 

While  from  its  margin,  terrible  to  tell ! 

Three  sailors,  with  their  gallant  boats>MBin,  fell. 

Torn  with  resistless  fury  from  their  hold. 

In  vain  their  struggling  arras  the  yard  infold  . 

In  vain  to  grapple  flying  cords  they  try. 

The  cords,  alas!  a  solid  gripe  deny ! 

Prone  on  the  midnight  surge,  with  panting  breath 

They  cry  for  aid,  and  long  contend  with  Death. 

High  o'er  their  heads  the  rolling  billows  sweep, 

And  down  they  sink  in  everlasting  sleep. 

Bereft  of  power  to  help,  their  comrades  see 

The  wretched  victims  die  beneath  the  lee ! 

With  fruitless  sorrow  their  lost  state  bemoan; 

Perhaps  a  fatal  prelude  to  their  own  ! 

In  dark  suspense  on  deck  the  pilots  stand. 
Nor  van  determine  on  the  next  command 
Thougii  still  they  knew^  the  vessel's  armed  side 
Impenetrable  to  the  clasping  tide  ; 
Though  still  the  waters  by  no  secret  wound 
A  passage  to  her  deep  recesses  found  ; 
Surrounding  evils  yet  they  ponder  o'er — 
A  storm,  a  dangerous  sea,  and  leeward  shore  ' 
Should  they,  though  reef 'd,  again  their  sails  extend 
Again  in  fluttering  fragments  they  may  rend  ; 
Or  should  they  stand,  beneath  the  dreadful  strain, 
The  down-press'd  ship  may  never  rise  again  ; 
Too  late  to  weather*  now  Morea's  land, 
Yet  verging  fast  to  Alhen's  rocky  strand. — 
Thus  they  lament  the  consequence  severe, 
Where  perils  unallay'd  by  hope  appear. 
Long  in  their  minds  revolving  each  event. 
At  last  to  furl  the  courses  they  consent ; 
That  done,  to  reef  the  mizen  next  agree, 
And  try,t  beneath  it,  sidelong  in  the  sea. 

Now  down  the  mast  the  sloping  yard  declined, 
Till  by  the  jears  and  topping  liftt  confined  ; 
The  head,  with  doubling  canvass  fenced  around. 
In  balance  near  the  lofty  peak,  they  bound. 
The  reef  enwrapt,  th'  inserted  knittles  tied, 
To  hoist  the  shorten'd  sail  again  they  hied. 
The  order  given,  the  yard  aloft  they  sway'd  ; 
The  brails  relax'd,  th'  extended  sheet  belay'd  : 
The  helm  its  post  forsook,  and  lash'd  a-lee,$ 
Inclined  the  wayward  prow  to  front  the  sea. 

When  sacred  Orpheus,  on  the  Stygian  coast, 
With  notes  divine  implored  his  consort  lost ; 


•  To  weather  a  shore  is  to  pass  to  the  windward  of  it, 
which  at  this  time  is  prevented  by  the  violence  of  the 
storm. 

t  To  try,  is  to  lay  the  ship,  with  her  near  side  in  the 
direction  of  the  wind  and  sea,  with  the  head  somewhat 
inclined  to  the  windward  ;  the  helm  being  laid  a-lee  to 
retain  her  in  this  position.  See  a  farther  illustration  of 
this  in  the  last  note  of  this  Canto. 

t  The  topping  lift,  which  tops  the  upper  part  of  the 
mizen-yard,  (see  note  **,  p.  20.)  This  line  and  the  six 
following  describe  the  operation  of  reefing  and  balanc- 
ing the  mizen.  The  reef  of  this  sail  is  towards  the  lower 
end,  the  knittles  being  small  short  lines  used  in  the  room 
of  points  for  this  purpose,  (see  note  i,  1st  col.  p.  19,  and 
note**,  p.  20;)  they  are  accordingly  knotted  under  the 
foot-rope  or  lower  edge  of  the  sail. 

§  Lash'd  a-lee  is  fastened  to  the  lee-side.  See  note  t 
p.  18. 


29 


FALCONER. 


Canto  fl 


Though  round  him  perils  grew  in  fell  array, 

And  fates  and  furies  stood  to  bar  his  way ; 

Not  more  adventurous  was  the  attempt,  to  move 

The  powers  of  hell  with  strains  of  heavenly  love. 

Than  mine,  to  bid  the  unwilling  Muse  explore 

The  wilderness  of  rude  mechanic  lore. 

Such  toil  ih'  unwearied  Daedalus  endured, 

When  in  the  Cretan  labyrinth  immured  ; 

Till  Art  her  salutary  help  bestow'd, 

To  guide  him  through  that  intricate  abode. 

Thus  long  entangled  in  a  thorny  way, 

That  never  heard  the  sweet  Pierian  lay. 

The   Muse   that  tuned  to    barbarous  sounds  her 

string. 
Now  spreads,  like  Daedalus,  a  bolder  wing; 
The  verse  begins  in  softer  strains  to  flow, 
Replete  with  sad  variety  of  wo. 

As  yet,  amid  this  elemental  war, 
That  scatters  desolation  from  afar. 
Nor  toil,  nor  hazard,  nor  distress  appear 
To  sink  the  seamen  with  unmanly  feai. 
Though  their  firm  hearts  no  pageant  honour  boast. 
They  scorn  the  wretch  that  trembles  in  his  post ; 
Who  from  the  face  of  danger  strives  to  turn. 
Indignant  from  the  social  hour  they  spurn. 
Though  now  full  oft  they  felt  the  raging  tide 
In  proud  rebellion  climb  the  vessel's  side, 
No  future  ills  unknown  their  souls  appal  ; 
They  know  no  danger,  or  they  scorn  it  all! 
But  e'en  the  generous  spirits  of  the  brave. 
Subdued  by  toil,  a  friendly  respite  crave  : 
A  short  repose  alone  their  thoughts  implore. 
Their  harass'd  powers  by  slumber  to  restore. 

Far  other  cares  the  master's  mind  employ  ; 
A  pproaching  perils  all  his  hopes  destroy. 
In  vain  he  spreads  the  graduated  chart. 
And  bounds  the  distance  by  the  rules  of  art ; 
In  vain  athwart  the  mimic  seas  expands 
The  compasses  to  circumjacent  lands. 
Ungrateful  task !  for  no  asylum  traced 
A  passage  open'd  from  the  watery  waste  : 
Fate  seem'd  to  guard,  with  adamantine  mound, 
The  path  to  every  friendly  port  around. 
While  Albert  thus,  with  secret  doubts  dismay'd. 
The  geometric  distances  survey'd, 
On  deck  the  watchful  Rodmond  cries  aloud, 
"  Secure  your  lives  I  grasp  every  man  a  shroud  !" — 
Roused   from    his  trance,  he   mounts  with  ev«3 

aghast ; 
Wuen  o  er  the  ship,  in  undulation  vhsl, 
A  giant  surge  down  rushws  trora  on  nigh. 
And  fore  and  aft  dissever'd  ruins  lie. — 
As  when,  Britannia's  empire  to  maintain, 
Great  Hawke  descends  in  thunder  on  the  main. 
Around  the  brazen  voice  of  battle  roars, 
And  fatal  lightnings  blast  the  hostile  shores  ; 
Beneath  the  storm  their  shatter'd  navies  groan. 
The  trembling  deep  recoils  from  zone  to  zone  : 
Thus  the  torn  vessel  felt  th'  enormous  stroke : 
The  boats  beneath  the  thundering  deluge  broke. 
Forth  started  from  their  planks  the  bursting  rings, 
Th'  extended  cordage  all  asunder  springs  ; 
The  pilot's  fair  machinery  strews  the  deck. 
And  cards  and  needles  swim  in  floating  wreck. 
The  balanced  mizen,  rending  to  the  head, 
•  n  streaming  ruins  fr  jm  the  margin  fled, 
The  sides  convulsive  shook  on  groaning  beams, 
And,  rent  v;ith  labour,  yawn'd  the  pitcliy  seams  ; 


They  sound  the  well,*  and,  terrible  to  hear ! 
Five  feet  immersed  along  the  line  appear. 
At  either  pump  they  ply  the  clanking  brako,T 
And  turn  by  turn  th'  ungrateful  oflice  take. 
Rodmond,  Arion,  and  Palemon  here, 
At  this  sad  task,  all  diligent  appear. 
As  some  fair  castle,  shook  by  rude  alarms. 
Opposes  long  th'  approach  of  hostile  arms ; 
Grim  war  around  her  plants  his  black  array. 
And  death  and  sorrow  mark  his  horrid  way ; 
Till,  in  some  destined  hour,  against  her  wall 
In  tenfold  rage  the  fatal  thunders  full : 
The  ramparts  crack,  the  solid  bulwarks  rend, 
And  hostile  troops  the  shatter'd  breach  ascend. 
Her  valiant  inmates  still  the  foe  retard. 
Resolved  till  death  their  sacred  charge  to  guard 

So  the  brave  mariners  their  pumps  attend, 
And  help,  incessant,  by  rotation  lend  ; 
But  all  in  vain, — for  now  the  sounding  cord, 
Updrawn,  an  undiminish'd  depth  explored. 
Nor  this  severe  distress  is  found  alone  ; 
The  ribs,  oppress'd  by  ponderous  cannon,  groan 
Deep  rolling  from  the  watery  volume's  height, 
The  tortured  sides  seem  bursting  with  their  weigJ 
So  reels  Pelorns  with  convulsive  throes, 
When  in  his  veins  the  burning  earthquake  glows 
Hoarse  througli  his  entrails  roars  th'  infernal  flanrt^ 
And  central  thunders  rend  his  groaning  frame. — 
Accumulated  mischiefs  thus  arise. 
And  Fate,  vindictive,  all  their  skill  defies. 
One  only  remedy  the  season  gave  ; 
To  plunge  the  nerves  of  battle  in  the  wave  : 
From  their  high  platforms,  thus,  th' artillery  throwa, 
Eased  of  their  load,  the  timbers  less  shall  groan: 
But  arduous  is  the  task  their  lot  requires  ; 
A  task  that  hovering  fate  alone  inspires  : 
For  while  intent  the  yawning  decks  to  ease. 
That  ever  and  anon  are  drench'd  with  seas, 
Some  fatal  billow  with  recoiling  sweep, 
May  hurl  the  helpless  wretches  in  the  deep. 

No  season  this  for  counsel  or  delay  ! 
Too  soon  th'  eventful  moments  haste  away ! 
Here  perseverance,  with  each  heip  o.  aru 
Must  join  the  boldest  efforts  of  the  neart ; 
These  only  now  their  ml--2f7  c.n  -"elieve  ; 
These  only  now  a  dawn  o:  safe.y  give! 
While  o'er  the  quivering  deck,  from  van  to  rear 
Inroad  jurges  roll    a  terrible  career, 
k.jfiniood,  Arion  a.id  a  chosen  crew. 
This  office  in  tne  face  of  death  pursue  ; 
The  wheel'd  artillery  o'er  the  deck  to  guide, 
Rodmond  descending  claim'd  the  v;eatlier  side: 
Fearless  of  heart  the  chief  his  orders  gave, 
Fronting  the  rude  assaults  of  every  wave,    [deep, 
Like  some  strong  watch-tower,  nodding  o'er  th« 
Whose  rocky  base  the  foaming  waters  sweep. 
Untamed  he  stood  ;  the  stern  aiirial  war 
Had  marked  his  honest  face  with  many  a  scar  — 
Meanwhile  Arion,  traversing  the  waist.t 


*  The  well  is  an  apartment  in  the  ship's  hold,  serving 
to  enclose  the  pumps.  It  is  sounded  by  dropping  a  mes' 
sured  iron  rod  down  into  it  by  a  long  line.  Hence  the  in' 
crease  or  diminution  of  the  leaks  are  easily  discovered. 

t  The  brake  is  the  lever  or  handle  of  the  pump,  by 
which  it  is  wrought. 

X  The  waist  of  a  ship  of  this  kind  is  a  hollow  space, 
about  five  feet  in  depth,  between  the  elevations  cf  lh« 


Canto  II. 


THE    SHIPWRECK. 


S3 


Tho  cordage  of  the  leeward-guns  unbraced, 
.  And  pointed  crows  beneath  the  metal  placed. 
Watching  the  roll,  their  forelocks  they  withdrew, 
And  from  their  beds  the  reeling  cannon  threw  : 
Then  from  the  windward  battlements  unboimd, 
Rodmond's  associates  wheel'd  th'  artillery  round  ; 
Pointed  with  iron  fangs,  their  bars  beguile 
The  }x>nderous  arms  across  the  steep  defile  ; 
Theii;  hurl'd  from  sounding  hinges  o'er  the  side, 
Thundering  they  plunge  into  the  flashing  tide. 

The  ship,  thus  eased,  some  little  respite  finds 
In  this  rude  conflict  of  the  seas  and  winds. 
Such  ease  Alcides  felt,  when,  clogg'd  with  gore, 
Th'  envenomed  mantle  from  his  side  he  tore ; 
When,  stung  with  burning  pain,  he  strove  too  late 
To  scop  the  swift  career  of  cruel  fate. 
Yet  then  his  heart  one  ray  of  hope  procured, 
Sad  harbinger  of  sevenfold  pangs  endured! 
Such,  and  so  short  the  pause  of  wo  she  found! 
Cimmerian  darkness  shades  the  deep  around. 
Save  when  the  lightnings,  gleaming  on  the  sight, 
Flash  through  the  gloom,  a  pale  disastrous  light. 
Above,  all  ether,  fraught  with  scenes  of  wo. 
With  grim  destruction  threatens  all  below. 
Beneath,  the  storm-lash'd  surges  furious  rise, 
And  wave  uproU'd  on  wave,  assails  the  skies ; 
With  ever-floating  bulwarks  they  surround 
The  ship,  half-swallow'd  in  the  black  profound  I 
With  ceaseless  hazard  and  fatigue  opprest. 
Dismay  and  anguish  every  heart  possest ! 
For,  while  with  boundless  inundation  o'er 
The  sea-beat  ship  th'  involving  waters  roar, 
Displaced  beneath  by  her  capacious  womb. 
They  rage  their  ancient  station  to  resume  ; 
By  secret  ambushes  their  force  to  prove, 
Through  many  a  winding  channel  first  they  rove; 
Till,  gathering  fury,  like  the  fever'd  blood. 
Through  her  dark  veins  they  roll  a  rapid  flood. 
While  unrelenting  thus  the  leaks  they  found. 
The  pump  with  ever-clanking  strokes  resound. 
Around  each   leaping  valve,  by  toil  subdued, 
The  tough  bull  hide  must  ever  be  renew'd. 
Their  sinking  hearts  unusual  horrors  chill: 
And  down  their  weary  limbs  tliick  dews  distil. 
No  ray  of  light  their  dying  hope  redeems  ! 
Pregnant  with  some  new  wo  each  moment  teems. 
Again  the  chief  th'  instructive  draught  extends. 
And  o'er  the  figured  plain  attentive  bends  : 
To  him  the  motion  of  each  orb  was  known, 
That  wheels  around  the  sun's  refulgent  throne : 
But  here  alas  !  his  science  naught  avails  I 
Art  droops  unequal,  and  experience  fails. 
The  difl!erent  traverses,  since  twilight  made. 
He  on  the  hydrographic  circle  laid  ; 
Then  the  broad  angle  of  lee-way*  explored. 
As  swept  across  the  graduated  chord. 
Her  place  discovered  by  the  rules  of  art. 
Unusual  terrors  shook  the  master's  heart  ; 
When  Falconera's  rugged  isle  he  found, 
Within  her  drift,  with  shelves  and  breakers  bound 
For,  if  on  those  destructive  shallows  tost, 
The  helpless  bark  with  all  her  crew  are  lost: 

quarter-deck  and  fore-castle,  and  having  the  upper  dock 
for  its  oase,  or  platform. 

♦  The  lee-way,  or  drift,  which  in  this  place  are  synony. 
mous  terms,  is  the  movement  by  which  a  ship  is  driven 
sideways  at  the  mercy  of  the  wind  and  sea,  when  she  is 
deprived  of  the  government  of  the  sails  and  helm. 


As  fatal  still  appears,  that  danger  o'er. 
The  steep  St.  George,  and  rocky  Gardalor. 
With  him  tlie  pilots,  of  their  hopeless  state 
In  mournful  consultation  now  debate. 
Not  more  perplexing  doubts  her  chiefs  appal, 
When  some  proud  city  verges  to  her  fall ; 
While  Ruin  glares  around,  and  pale  AflTright 
Convenes  her  councils  in  the  dead  of  night — 
No  blazon'd  trophies  o'er  their  concave  spread. 
Nor  storied  pillars  raised  aloft  their  head  : 
But  here  the  Queen  of  shade  around  them  threw 
Her  dragon  wing,  disastrous  to  the  view ! 
Direwasthe  scene,  with  whirlwind,hail,andshoweH 
Black  Melancholy  ruled  the  fearful  hour ! 
Beneath  tremendous  roH'd  the  flashing  tide. 
Where  Fate  on  every  billow  seem'd  to  ride — 
Enclosed  with  ills,  by  peril  unsubdued. 
Great  in  distress  the  master-seaman  stood : 
Skill'd  to  command  ;  deliberate  to  advise  , 
Expert  in  action  ;  and  in  council  wise  ; 
Thus  to  his  partners,  by  the  crew  unheard. 
The  dictates  of  his  soul  the  chief  referr'd. 

"  Ye  faithful  mates,  who  all  my  troubles  share 
Approved  companions  of  your  master's  care  ! 
To  you,  alas  I  'twere  fruitless  now  to  tell 
Our  sad  distress,  already  known  too  well ! 
This  morn  with  favouring  gales  the  port  we  left. 
Though  now  of  every  flattering  hope  bereft : 
No  skill  Ror  long  experience  could  forecast 
Th'  unseen  approach  of  this  destructive  blast, 
These  seas,  where  storms  at  various  seasons  blow 
No  reigning  winds  nor  certain  omens  know. 
The  hour,  the  occasion  all  your  skill  demands; 
A  leaky  ship,  embay'd  by  dangerous  lands. 
Our  bark  no  transient  jeopardy  surrounds; 
Groaning  she  lies  beneath  unnumber'd  wounds: 
'Tis  ours  the  doubtful  remedy  to  find. 
To  shun  the  fury  of  the  seas  and  wind  ; 
For  in  this  hollow  swell,  w  ith  labour  sore. 
Her  flank  can  bear  the  bursting  floods  no  more . 
Yet  this  or  other  ills  she  must  endure ; 
A  dire  disease,  and  desperate  is  the  cure  ! 
Thus  two  expedients  oflfer'd  to  your  choice, 
Alone  require  your  counsel  and  your  voice. 
These  only  in  our  power  are  left  to  try ; 
To  perish  here  or  from  the  storm  to  fly, 
The  doubtful  balance  ni  my  judgment  cast, 
For  various  reasons  I  prefer  the  last. 
'Tis  true  the  vessel  and  her  costly  freight, 
To  m.e  consign'd,  my  orders  only  wait ; 
Yet,  since  the  charge  of  every  life  is  mine, 
To  equal  votes  our  counsels  I  resign. 
Forbid  it.  Heaven,  that,  in  this  dreadful  nour 
I  claim  the  dangerous  reins  of  purblind  power! 
But  should  we  now  resolve  to  bear  away, 
Our  hopeless  stale  can  suffer  no  delay. 
Nor  can  we,  thus  bereft  of  every  sail. 
Attempt  to  stfeer  obliquely  on  the  gale  : 
For  then,  if  broaching  sideward  on  the  sea, 
Our  dropsied  ship  may  founder  on  the  lee  : 
No  more  obedient  to  the  pilot's  power,        [vour.** 
Th'  o'erwhelming  wave  may  soon  her  frame  d» 

He  said  ;  the  listening  mates  with  fix'd  regard 
And  silent  reverence  his  opinion  heard. 
Important  was  the  question  in  debate. 
And  o'er  their  councils  hung  impending  Fate 
Rodmond,  in  many  a  scene  of  peril  tried, 
Had  oft  the  master's  happier  skill  descried. 


04 


FALCONER. 


Canto  II. 


Yet  now,  the  hour,  the  scene,  th'  occasion  known, 
Perhaps  with  equal  right  preferr'd  his  own 
Of  long  experience  in  the  naval  art, 
Blunt  was  his  speech,  and  nalied  was  his  heart : 
Alike  to  him  each  climate  and  each  blast; 
The  first  in  danger,  in  retreat  the  last : 
Sagacious  balancing  th'  opposed  events, 
"rom  Albert  his  opinion  thus  dissents. 

"  Too  true  the  perils  of  the  present  hour, 
Where  toils  succeeding  toils  our   strength  o'er- 

power ! 
Yet  whither  can  we  turn,  what  road  pursue. 
With  death  before  still  opening  on  the  view  ? 
Our  bark,  'tis  true,  no  shelter  here  can  find, 
Sore  shatter'd  by  the  ruffian  seas  and  wind  ; 
Yet  with  what  hope  of  refuge  can  we  flee. 
Chased  by  this  tempest  and  outrageous  sea  ? 
For  while  its  violence  the  tempest  keeps, 
Bereft  of  every  sail  we  roam  the  deeps  ; 
At  random  driven,  to  present  death'we  haste, 
And  one  short  hour  perhaps  may  be  our  last. 
In  vain  the  Gulf  of  Corinth  on  our  lee 
Now  opens  to  her  ports  a  passage  free ; 
Since,  if  before  the  blast  the  vessel  flies, 
Full  in  her  track  unnumber'd  dangers  rise. 
Here  Falconera  spreads  her  lurking  snares  ; 
There  distant  Greece  her  rugged  shelves  prepares, 
Should  once  her  bottom  strike  that  rocky  shore, 
The  splitting  bark  tliat  instant  were  no  more  ; 
Nor  she  alone,  but  with  her  all  the  crew, 
Beyond  relief,  were  doom'd  to  perish  too. 
Thus  if  to  scud  too  rashly  we  consent, 
Too  late  in  fatal  hour  we  may  repent. 

"  Then  of  our  purpose  this  appears  the  scope, 
To  weigh  the  danger  with  a  doubtful  hope. 
Though  sorely  buffeted  by  every  sea. 
Our  hull  unbroken  long  may  try  a-lee  , 
The  crew,  though  harass'd  long  with  toils  severe. 
Still  at  their  pumps  perceive  no  hazards  near. 
Shall  we,  incautious  then,  the  dangers  tell. 
At  once  their  courage  and  their  hopes  to  quell ! 
Prudence  forbids ! — This  southern  tempest  soon 
May  change  its  quarter  with  the  changing  moon  : 
Its  rage  though  terrible  may  soon  subside, 
Nor  into  mountains  lash  th'  unruly  tide. 
These  leaks  shall  then  decrease :   the  sails  once 

more 
Direct  our  course  to  some  relieving  shore." 

Thus  while  he  spoke  around  from  man  to  man, 
At  either  pump,  a  hollow  murmur  ran. 
For  while  the  vessel  through  unnumber'd  chinks, 
Above,  below  th'  invading  water  drinks, 
Sounding  her  ^^tpth,  they  eyed  the  wetted  scale, 
And,  lo!  the  leak  o'er  all  their  powers  prevail, 
Yet  in  their  post,  by  terrors  unsubdued. 
They  with  redoubled  force  their  task  pursued. 

And  now  the  senior  pilots  seem'd  to  wait 
Arion's  voice  to  close  the  dark  debate. 
Though  many  a  bitter  storm,  with  peril  fraught. 
In    Neptune  s  school     the     wandering    stripling 

taught, 
Not  twice  nine  summers  yet  matured  his  thought. 
So  oft  he  bled  by  Fortune's  cruel  dart, 
It  fell  at  last  innoxious  on  his  heart. 
His  mind  still  shunning  care  with  secret  hate, 
In  patient  indolence  resign'd  to  Fate. 
But  now  the  horrors  that  around  him  roll. 
Thus  rous'd  to  action  his  rekindling  soul. 


"  With  fix'd  attention,  pondering  in  my  mind 
The  dark  distresses  on  each  side  combined  ; 
While  here  we  linger  in  the  pass  of  Fate, 
I  see  no  moment  left  for  sad  debate. 
For,  some  decision  if  we  wish  to  form, 
Ere  yet  our  vessel  sink  beneath  the  storm. 
Her  shattered  state,  and  yon  desponding  crew, 
At  once  suggest  what  measures  to  pursue. 
The  labouring  hull  already  seems  half-fill'd 
With  waters,  through  a  hundred  leaks  distill'd, 
As  in  a  dropsy,  wallowing  with  her  freight, 
Half-drown'd  she  lies,  a  dead  inactive  weight 
Thus  drenched  by  every  wave,  her  riven  deck 
Stript  and  defenceless,  floats  a  naked  wreck; 
Her  wounded  flanks  no  longer  caii  sustain 
These  fell  invasions  of  the  bursting  main: 
At  every  pitch  th'  o'erwhelming  billows  bend, 
Beneath  their  load,  the  quivering  bowsprit  end 
A  fearful  warning !  since  the  masts  on  high 
On  that  support  with  trembling  hope  rely. 
At  either  pump  our  seamen  pant  for  breath, 
In  dark  djsmay  anticipating  death. 
Still  all  our  powers  th'  increasing  leaks  defy: 
We  sink  at  sea,  no  shore,  no  haven  nigh. 
One  dawn  of  hope  yet  breaks  athwart  the  gloom 
To  light  and  save  us  from  the  watery  tomb ; 
That  bids  us  shun  the  death  impending  here  ; 
Fly  from  the  following  blast,  and"  shoreward  steei 

'■  'Tis  urged  indeed,  the  fury  of  the  gale 
Precludes  the  help  of  every  guiding  sail ; 
And,  driven  before  it  on  the  watery  waste, 
To  rocky  shores  and  scenes  of  death  we  haste 
But  haply  Falconera  we  may  shun : 
And  far  to  Grecian  coasts  is  yet  the  run : 
Less  harass'd  then,  our  scudding  ship  may  bear 
Th'  assaulting  surge  repell'd  upon  her  rear. 
E'en  then  the  wearied  storm  as  soon  shall  die, 
Or  less  torment  the  groaning  pines  on  high. 
Should  we  at  last  be  driven  by  dire  decree 
Too  near  the  fatal  margin  of  the  sea. 
The  hull  dismasted  there  awhile  may  ride, 
With  lengthen'd  cables  on  the  raging  tide. 
Perhaps  kind  Heaven,  with  interposing  power, 
May  curb  the  tempest  ere  that  dreadful  hour. 
But  here  ingulf 'd  and  foundering  while  we  stay, 
Fate  hovers  o'er,  and  marks  us  for  her  prey." 

He  said  ;  Palemon  saw,  with  grief  of  heart: 
The  storm  prevailing  o'er  the  pilot's  art; 
In  silent  terror  and  distress  involved, 
He  heard  their  last  alternative  resolved. 
High  beat  his  bosom:  with  such  fear  subdued, 
Beneath  the  gloom  of  some  enchanted  wood. 
Oft  in  old  time  the  wandering  swain  explored 
The  midnigh'.;  wizards  breathing  rites  abhorr'd'; 
Trembling  approach'd  their  incantations  fell, 
And,  chill'd  with  horror,  heard  the  songs  of  hell 
Arion  saw,  with  secret  anguish  moved. 
The  deep  affliction  of  the  friend  he  loved; 
And,  all  awake  lo  Friendship's  genial  heat. 
His  bosom  felt  consenting  tumults  beat. 
Alas!  no  season  this  for  lender  love  ; 
Far  hence  the  music  of  the  myrtle  grove. — 
With  Comfort's  soothing  voice,  from  Hope  derived 
Palemon's  drooping  spirit  he  revived. 
For  Consolation  oft,  with  healing  art, 
Retunes  the  jarring  numbers  of  the  heart.-— 
Now  had  the  pilots  all  th'  events  revolved. 
And  on  their  final  refuge  thus  resolved; 


Canto  TI. 


THE    SHIPWRECK. 


When,  like  the  faithful  shepherd,  who  beholds 
Some  prowling  wolf  approach  his  fleecy  folds; 
To  the  brave  crew,  whom  racking  doubts  perplex, 
The  dreadful  purpose  Albert  thus  directs. 
"  Unhappy  partners  in  a  wayward  fate ! 
Whose  gallant  spirits  now  are  known  too  late ; 
ye !  who  unmoved  behold  this  angry  storm 
With  terrors  all  the  rolling  deep  deibrm  ; 
Who,  patient  in  adversity,  still  bear 
The  firmest  front  when  greatest  ills  are  near! 
The  truth,  though  grievous,  I  must  now  reveal. 
That  long,  in  vain,  I  purposed  to  conceal. 
Ingulf 'd,  all  help  of  arts  we  vainly  try, 
To  weather  leeward  shores,  alas !  too  nigh. 
Our  crazy  bark  no  longer  can  abide 
The  seas  that  thimder  o'er  her  batter'd  side  ; 
And,  while  the  leaks  a  fatal  warning  give. 
That  in  this  raging  sea  she  cannot  live, 
One  only  refuge  from  despair  we  find  ; 
At  once  to  wear  and  scud  before  the  wind.* 
Perhaps  e'en  then  to  ruin  we  may  steer; 
For  broken  shores  beneath  our  lee  appear ; 
But  that's  remote,  and  instant  deatli  is  here; 
Yet  there,  by  Heaven's  assistance,  we  may  gain 
Some  creek  or  inlet  of  the  Grecian  main  ; 
Or  sheltered  by  some  rock,  at  anchor  ride. 
Till  with  abating  rage  the  blast  subside. 

"  But,  if  determined  by  the  w'ill  of  Heaven, 
Our  helpless  bark  at  last  ashore  is  driven, 
These  counsels  foUow'd,  from  the  w-atery  grave 
Our  floating  sailors  on  the  surf  may  ■save. 
'  And  first,  let  all  our  axes  be  secured, 
To  cut  the  masts  and  rigging  from  aboard. 
Then  to  the  quarters  bind  each  plank  and  oar, 
To  float  between  the  vessel  and  the  shore. 
The  longest  cordage,  too,  must  be  convey'd 
On  deck,  and  to  the  weather  rails  belay'd  ; 
So  they,  who  haply  reach  alive  the  land, 
Th'  extended  lines  may  fasten  on  the  strand. 
Whene'er,  loud  thundering  on  the  leeward  shore, 
While  yet  aloof  we  hear  the  breakers  roar. 
Thus  for  the  terrible  event  prepared, 
Brace  fore  and  aft  to  starboard  every  yard  ; 
So  shall  our  masts  swim  lighter  on  the  wave, 
And  from  the  broken  rocks  our  seamen  save. 
Then  westward  turn  the  stem,  that  every  mast 
May  shoreward  fall,  when  from  the  vessel  cast. — 
When  o'er  her  side  once  more  the  billows  bound, 
Ascend  the  rigging  till  she  strikes  the  ground  : 
And  w^heii  you  hear  aloft  th'  alarming  shock 
That  strikes  her  bottom  on  some  pointed  rock, 
The  boldest  of  our  sailors  must  descend, 
The  dangerous  business  of  the  deck  to  tend  ; 
Then  each,  secured  by  some  convenient  cord. 
Should  cut  the  shrouds  and  rigging  from  the  board  ; 
Let  the  brood  axes  next  assail  each  mast ; 
And  booms,  and  oars,  and  rafts,  to  leeward  cast. 
Thus,  while  the  cordage  stretch'd  ashore  may  guide 
Our  brave  companions  through  the  swelling  tide, 
This  floating  lumber  shall  sustain  them,  o'er 
The  rocky  shelves,  in  safety  to  the  shore. 
But  as  your  firmest  succour,  till  the  last, 
O  cling  securely  on  each  faithful  mast  I 
Though  great  the  danger,  and  the  task  severe, 
'  Yet  bow  not  to  the  tyranny  of  fear  I 


•  For  an  explanation  of  these  manoeuvres,  the  reader 
s  referred  to  the  last  note  of  this  Canto, 


If  once  that  slavish  yoke  your  spirits  quell. 
Adieu  to  hope  I  to  life  itself  farewell ! 

"I  know,  among  you  some  full  oft  have  view'd 
With  murdering  weapons  arm'd,  a  lawless  brood. 
On  England's  vile  inhuman  shore  who  stand, 
The  foul  reproach  and  scandal  of  our  land ! 
To  rob  the  wanderers  wreck'd  upon  the  strand. 
These,  w^hile  their  savage  office  they  pursue. 
Oft  wound  to  death  the  helpless  plunder'd  crew, 
Who  'scaped  from  every  horror  of  the  main. 
Implored  their  mercy,  but  implored  in  vain. 
But  dread  not  this  I — a  crime  to  Greece  unknown 
Such  blood-hounds  all  her  circling  shores  disown. 
Her  sons,  by  barbarous  tyranny  opprest, 
Can  share  affliction  with  the  wretch  distrest: 
Their  hearts,  by  cruel  fate  inured  to  grief. 
Oft  to  the  friendless  stranger  yield  relief" 

With  conscious  horror  struck,  the  naval  band 
Detested  for  a  while  their  native  land  ; 
They  cursed  the  sleeping  vengeance  of  the  laws, 
That  thus  forgot  her  guardian  sailors'  cause. 
Meanwhile  the  master's  voice  again  they  heard. 
Whom,  as  with  filial  duty,  all  revered. 

"  No  more  remains — but  now  a  trusty  band 
Must  ever  at  the  pump  industrious  stand  : 
And  while  with  us  the  rest  attend  to  wear, 
Two  skiliul  seamen  to  the  helm  repair  ! — 
O  Source  of  Life!  our  refuge  and  our  stay  ' 
Whose  voice  the  warring  elements  obey, 
On  thy  supreme  assistance  we  rely  ; 
Thy  mercy  supplicate,  if  doom'd  to  die  ! 
Perhaps  this  storm  is  sent,  with  healing  breath, 
From  neighbouring  shores  to  scourge  disease  and 

deaihl 
'Tis  ours  on  thine  unerring  laws  to  trust: 
With  thee,  great  Lord  !  '  Whatever  is,  is  just.'  ' 

He  said  ;  and  with  consenting  reverence  fraught 
The  sailors  join'd  his  prayer  in  silent  thought. 
His  intellectual  eyes,  serenely  bright ! 
Saw  distant  objects  with  prophetic  light. 
Thus  in  a  land,  that  lasting  wars  oppress. 
That  groans  beneath  misfortune  and  distress ; 
Whose  W"ealth  to  conquering  armies  falls  a  prey. 
Her  bulwarks  sinking,  as  her  troops  decay ; 
Some  bold  sagacious  statesman,  from  the  helm. 
Sees  desolation  gathering  o'er  his  realm  : 
He  darts  around  his  penetrating  eyes. 
Where  dangers  grow,  and  hostile  unions  rise  ) 
With  deep  attention  marks  th'  invading  Ibe, 
Eludes  their  wiles,  and  frustrates  every  blow : 
Tries  his  last  art  the  tottering  state  to  save, 
Or  in  its  ruins  finds  a  glorious  grave. 

Still  in  the  yawning  trough  the  vessel  reels,  ^ 
Ingulfd  beneath  two  fluctuating  hills  : 
On  either  side  they  rise  ;  tremendous  scene  ! 
A  long  dark  melancholy  valo  between.* 


*  That  the  reader,  who  is  unacquainted  with  the  ma* 
noeuvres  of  navigation,  may  conceive  a  clearer  idea  of  a 
ship's  state  wlien  trying,  and  of  the  change  of  her  situ- 
ation to  that  of  scudding,  I  have  quoted  a  part  of  the  e* 
planation  of  those  articles  as  they  appear  in  the  "  Dic- 
tionary of  the  Marine." 

Trying  is  the  situation  in  which  a  ship  lies  nearly  in 
the  trough  or  hollow  of  the  sea  in  a  tempest,  particularly 
when  it  blows  contrary  to  her  course. 

In  trying  as  well  as  in  scudding,  the  sails  are  alwayi 
reduced  in  proportion  to  the  increase  of  tho  storm  ;  and 
in  either  state,  if  the  storm  is  excessive,  she  may  hav« 


2G 


FALCONER. 


Canto  III 


The  balanced  ship,  now  forward,  now  behind, 

Still  felt  th'  impression  of  the  waves  and  wind, 

And  to  the  right  and  left  by  turns  ^inclined  ; 

But  Albert  from  behind  the  balance  drew. 

And  on  the  prow  its  double  efforts  threw. — 

The  order  now  was  given  to  bear  away; 

The  order  given  the  timoneers  obey. 

High  o'er  the  bowsprit  stretch'd  the  tortured  sail, 

As  on  the  rack,  distends  beneath  the  gale. 

But  scarce  the  yielding  prow  its  impulse  knew, 

When  in  a  thousand  flitting  shreds  it  flew  I — 

Yet  Albert  new  resources  still  prepares, 

And,  brid.ing  grief,  redoubles  all  his  cares. 

**  Away  there  !   lower  the  mizen  yard  on  deck!" 

He  calls,  "  and  brace  the  foremost  yards  aback !" 

His  great  example  every  bosom  fires, 

New  life  rekindles,  and  new  hope  inspires, 

While  to  the  helm  unfaithful  still  she  lies. 

One  desperate  remedy  at  last  he  tries, — 

"  Haste,  with  your  weapons  cut  the  shrouds  and 

stay; 
And  hew  at  once  the  mizen-mast  away !" 
He  said  ;  th*  attentive  sailors  on  each  side 
At  his  command  the  trembling  cords  divide. 
Fast  by  the  fated  pine  bold  Rodmond  stands; 
Th'  impatient  axe  hung  gleaming  in  his  hands  ; 


all  her  sails  furled  :  or  be,  according  to  the  sea-phrase, 
under  bare  poles. 

The  intent  of  spreading  a  sail  at  this  time,  is  to  keep 
the  ship  more  steady,  and  to  prevent  her  from  rolling 
violently  by  pressing  her  side  down  in  the  water  ;  and 
also  to  turn  her  head  towards  the  source  of  the  wind,  so 
that  the  shock  of  the  seas  may  fall  more  obliquely  on  her 
flank,  than  when  she  lies  along  the  trough  of  the  sea,  or 
in  the  interval  between  two  waves.  While  she  lies  in 
this  situation,  the  helm  is  fastened  close  to  the  lee  side,  to 
prevent  her,  as  much  as  possible,  from  falling  to  leeward. 
But  as  the  ship  is  not  then  kept  in  equilibrio  by  the  ope- 
ration of  her  sails,  which  at  other  times  counterbalance 
each  other  at  tlie  head  and  stern,  she  is  moved  by  a 
slow  but  continual  vibration,  which  turns  her  head 
alternately  to  windward  and  to  leeward,  forming  an  angle 
of  30  or  40  degrees  in  the  interval.  That  part  where 
she  stops  in  approaching  the  direction  of  the  wind  is 
called  her  coming-to :  and  the  contrary  excess  of  the 
angle  to  leeward  is  called  her  falling-ofF. 

Veering,  or  wearing,  (see  line  55,  2d  col.  p.  23,  and 
line  20,  1st  col.  y.  25 ;)  as  used  in  the  present  sense,  may 
be  defined,  the  movement  by  which  a  ship  changes  her 
state  from  trying  to  that  of  scudding,  or  of  running  be- 
fore the  direction  of  the  wind  and  sea. 

It  is  an  axiom  in  natural  philosophy,  that  "every  body 
will  persevere  in  a  stale  of  rest,  or  of  moving  uniformly 
in  a  right  line,  unless  it  be  compelled  to  change  its  state 
by  forces  impressed :  and  that  the  change  of  motion  is 
proportional  to  the  moving  force  impressed,  and  made 
according  to  the  right  line  in  which  that  force  acts." 

Hence  it  is  easy  to  conceive  how  a  ship  is  compelled 
to  turn  into  any  direction  by  the  force  of  the  wind,  act- 
ing upon  any  part  of  her  length  in  lines  parallel  to  the 
plane  of  the  horizon.  Thus,  in  the  act  of  veering, 
which  is  a  necessary  consequence  of  this  invariable 
principle,  the  object  of  the  seamen  is  to  reduce  the 
action  of  the  wind  on  the  ship's  hinder  part,  and  to  re- 
ceive its  utmost  exertion  on  her  fore  part,  so  that  the  lat- 
ter may  be  pushed  to  leeward.  This  effect  is  either  pro- 
duced by  the  operation  of  the  sails,  or  by  the  impression 
of  the  wind  on  the  masts  and  yards.  In  the  former  case, 
the  sails  on  the  hind  part  of  the  ship  are  either  furled  or 
arranged  nearly  parallel  to  the  direction  of  the  wind, 
which  then  glides  ineffectually  along  their  surfaces;  at 
\J><j  same  time  the  foremast  sails  are  spread  abroad,  so 


Brandish'd  on  high,  it  fell  with  dreadful  sound  , 
The  tall  mast,  groaning,  felt  the  deadly  wound. 
Deep  gash'd   with  sores,   the  tottering  structur* 

rings  I 
And  crashing,  thundering  o'er  the  quarter  swings. 
Thus  when  some  limb,  convulsed  with  pangs  ol 
death. 
Imbibes  the  gangrene's  pestilential  breath ! 
Th'  experienced  artist  from  the  blood  betrays 
The  latent  venom,  or  its  course  delays  :    * 
But  if  th'  infection  triumphs  o'er  his  art, 
Tainting  the  vital  stream  that  warms  the  heart, 
Resolved  at  last,  he  quits  th'  unequal  strife, 
Severs  the  member,  and  preserves  the  life. 

Canto  III. 

ARGUMENT. 

The  design  and  influence  of  poetry.  Applied  to  the 
subject.  Wre^k  of  the  mizen-mast  cleared  away. 
Ship  veers  befc.i'O  the  wind.  Her  violent  agitation. 
Different  stations  of  the  officers.  Appearance  of  the 
island  of  Falconera.  Excursion  to  the  adjacent  na- 
tions of  Greece  renowned  in  antiquity.  Athens.  So- 
crates. Plato.  Aristides.  Solon.  Corinth.  Sparta. 
Leonidas.  Invasion  of  Xerxes.  Lycurgus.  Epami- 
nondas.    Modern  appearance.      Arcadia;  its  former 


as  to  receive  the  greatest  exertion  of  the  wind.  See  lino 
9  of  preceding  column.  The  fore  part  accordingly  yields 
to  this  impulse,  and  is  put  in  motion ;  and  this  motion 
necessarily  conspiring  with  that  of  the  wind,  pushes  the 
ship  about  as  much  as  is  requisite  to  preduce  the  de- 
sired effect. 

But  when  the  tempest  is  so  violent  as  to  preclude  the 
use  of  sails,  the  effort  of  the  wind  operates  abuost 
equally  on  the  opposite  end  of  the  ship,  because  the 
masts  and  yards  situated  near  the  head  and  stern  serve 
to  counterbalance  each  other  in  receiving  its  impression. 
The  effect  of  the  helm  is  also  considerably  diminished, 
because  the  headway,  which  gives  life  and  vigour  to  all 
its  operations,  is  at  this  time  feeble  and  ineffectual. 
Hence  it  becomes  necessary  to  destroy  this  equilibrium 
which  subsists  between  the  masts  and  yards  before  and 
behind,  and  to  throw  the  balance  forward  to  prepare  for 
veering.  If  this  cannot  be  effected  by  the  arrangement 
of  the  yards  on  the  masts,  and  it  becomes  absolutely 
neces.^ary  to  veer,  in  order  to  save  the  ship  from  de- 
struction, (see  line  20  of  preceding  column,)  the  mizen- 
mast  must  be  cut  away,  and  even  the  main-mast,  if  she 
still  remains  incapable  of  answering  the  helm  by  turning 
her  prow  to  leeward. 

Scudding  is  that  movement  in  navigation  by  which  a 
ship  is  carried  precipitately  before  a  tempest.  See  line 
20,  1st  col  p.  25. 

As  a  ship  tlios  with  amazing  rapidity  through  the  wa- 
ter whenever  this  expedient  is  put  in  practice,  it  is  never 
attempted  in  a  contrary  wind,  unless  when  her  condition 
renders  her  incapable  of  sustaining  the  mutual  effort  of 
the  wind  and  waves  any  longer  on  her  side,  without  being 
exposed  to  the  most  imminent  danger. 

A  ship  either  scuds  with  a  sail  extended  on  her  fore- 
mast, or,  if  the  storm  is  excessive,  without  any  sail,  which 
in  the  sea-phrase  is  called  scudding  under  bare  poles. 

The  principal  hazards  incident  to  scudding  are  gene- 
rally a  sea  striking  a  ship's  stern;  the  difficult)  of  steering, 
which  perpetually  exposes  her  to  the  danger  of  broach- 
ing-to  ;  and  the  want  of  sufficient  sea-room.  A  sea  which 
strikes  the  stern  violently  may  shatter  it  to  pieces,  by 
which  the  ship  must  inevitably  founder.  By  broaching, 
to  suddenly,  she  is  threatened  with  losing  all  hor  mcsti 
and  sails,  or  being  immediately  overturned;  and  'oj 
want  of  sea-room  she  is  exposed  to  the  dangers  of  beinf 
wrecked  on  a  lee-shore. 


Canto  III. 


THE    SHIPWRECK. 


happiness  and  fertility.  Present  distress,  the  effect  of 
slavery.  Ithaca.  Ulysses  and  Penelope.  Argos  and 
iMycenfB.  Agamemnon.  Macronisi.  Lernnos.  \  ul- 
can  and  Venus.  Delos.  Apollo  and  Diana.  Troy. 
Leander  and  Hero.  Delphos.  Temple  of 
Parnassus.  The  Muses.  The  subject  re- 
Prodigious  tempest, 
Darkness, 


Sestos, 

Apollo. 

sumed.    Sparkling  of  the  sea. 

accompanied  with  rain,  hail,  and  meteors 

li-htning,  and  thunder.    Aj.proach  of  day.    Discovery 

of  land.  The  ship,  in  great  danger,  passes  the  island  of 

St.  George.    Turns  her  broadside  to  the  shore.     Her 

bowsprit?  foremast,  and  main  topmast  carried  away. 

Sl.e  strikes  a  rock.    Splits  asunder.     Fate  of  the 

craw. 

Thtfctnt  strttcha  from  that  part  of  the  Archipelago  which  litt  ten 
miles  to  the  7xorthivard  of  Falconera,  to  Cape  Colmna  m  Attica.- 
The  time  is  aUiU  seven  hours,  heing  from,  mit  till  eight  in  the 
mominS' 

When  in  a  barbarous  age  with  blood  defiled. 

The  human  savage  roam'd  the  gloomy  wild  ; 

When  sullen  Ignorance  her  flag  display'd, 

And  Rapine  and  Revenge  her  voice  obey'd  ; 

Sent  from  the  shores  of  light,  the  Muses  came, 

The  dark  and  solitary  race  to  tame ; 

'Twas  theirs  the  lawless  passions  to  control. 

And  melt  in  tender  sympathy  the  soul: 

The  heart  from  vice  and  error  to  reclaim, 

And  breathe  in  human  breasts  celestial  flame. 

The  kindling  spirit  caught  th'  empyreal  ray, 

And  glow'd  congenial  with  the  swelling  lay.     • 

Roused  from  the  chaos  of  primeval  night, 

At  once  fair  Truth  and  Reason  sprung  to  light. 

When  great  Maeonides,  in  rapid  song, 

The  thundering  tide  of  battle  rolls  along. 

Each  ravish'd  bosom  feels  the  high  alarms, 

And  all  the  burning  pulses  beat  to  arms. 

From  earth  upborne,  on  Pegasean  wings, 

Far  through  the  boundless  realms  of  thought  he 

springs ; 
While  distant  poets,  trembling  as  they  view 
•  His  sunward  flight,  the  dazzling  track  pursue. 
But  when  his  strings,  with  mournful  magic,  tell 
What  dire  distress  Laertes'  son  befell, 
The  strains,  meandering  through  the  maze  of  wo, 
Bid  sacred  sympathy  the  heart  o'erflow. 
Thus,  in  old  time,  the  Muses'  heavenly  breath 
With  vital  force  dissolved  the  chains  of  death  ; 
Each  bard  in  Epic  lays  began  to  sing. 
Taught  by  the  master  of  the  vocal  string. — 
'Tis  mine,  alas!  through  dangerous  scenes  to  stray 
Far  from  the  light  of  his  unerring  ray! 
While,  all  unused  the  wayward  path  to  tread. 
Darkling  I  wander  with  prophetic  dread. 
To  me  in  vain  the  bold  Mseonian  lyre 
Awakes  the  numbers,  fraught  with  living  fire  I 
Full  oft,  indeed,  that  mournful  harp  of  yore 
Wept  the  sad  wanderer  lost  upon  the  shore  ; 
But  o'er  that  scene  th'  impatient  numbers  ran. 
Subservient  only  to  a  nobler  plan. 
'Tis  mine,  th'  unravell'd  prospect  to  display, 
And  chain  th'  events  in  regular  array. 
Though  hard  the  task,  to  sing  in  varied  strains. 
While  all  unchanged  the  tragic  theme  remains ! 
Thrice  happy  !  might  the  secret  powers  of  art 
Unlock  the  latent  windings  of  the  heart. 
Might  the  sad  numbers  draw  Compassion's  tear 
For  kindred  miseries,  oft  beheld  too  near  ; 
For  kindred  wretches,  oft  in  ruin  cast 
On  Albion's  strand  beneath  the  wintry  blast : 


For  all  the  pangs,  the  complicated  wo, 
Her  bravest  sons,  her  faithful  sailors  know ! 
So  pity,  gushing  o'er  each  British  breast, 
Might  sympathize  with  Briton's  sons  distrest: 
For  this,  my  theme  through  mazes  I  pursue, 
Which  nor  Maeonides  nor  Maro  knew  ! 

A  while  the  mast  in  ruins  dragg'd  behind. 
Balanced  th'  impression  of  the  helm  and  wind  : 
The  wounded  serpent,  agonized  with  pain, 
Thus  trails  his  mangled  volume  on  the  plain. 
But  now  the  wreck  dissever'd  from  the  rear. 
The  long  reluctant  prow  began  to  veer; 
And  while  around  before  the  wind  it  falls, 
"  Square  all  the  yards  !"*  th'  attentive  master  calls 
"  You  timoneers,  her  motion  still  attend ! 
For  on  your  steerage  all  our  lives  depend. 
So,  steady  !  t  meet  her,  watch  the  blast  behind. 
And  steer  her  right  before  the  seas  and  wind!" 
"  Starboard,  again!"  the  watchful  pilot  cries; 
"  Starboard  !"  the  obedient  timoneer  replies. 
Then  to  the  left  the  ruling  helm  returns ; 
The  wheell  revolves  .  the  ringing  axle  burns! 
The  ship,  no  longer  foundering  by  the  lee. 
Bears  on  her  side  th'  invasions  of  the  sea : 
All  lonely,  o'er  the  desert  waste  she  flies, 
Scourged  on  by  surges,  storm,  and  bursting  skies 
As  when  the  masters  of  the  lance  assail, 
In  Hyperborean  seas,  the  slumbering  whale; 
Soon  as  the  javelins  pierce  his  scaly  hide, 
With  anguish  stung,  he  cleaves  the  downward  tide 
In  vain  he  flies  !  no  friendly  respite  found  ; 
His  life-blood  gushes  through  th'  inflaming  wound. 
The  wounded  bark,  thus  smarting  with  her  pain 
Scuds  from  pursuing  waves  along  the  main  ; 
While,  dash'd  apart  by  her  dividing  prow. 
Like  burning  adamant  the  waters  glow. 
Her  joints  forget  their  firm  elastic  tone ; 
Her  long  keel  trembles,  and  her  timbers  groan ; 
Upheaved  behind  her  in  tremendous  height 
The  billows  frown,  with  fearful  radiance  bright! 
Now  shivering  o'er  the  topmost  wave  she  rides. 
While  deep  beneath  th'  enormous  gulf  divides. 
Now  launching  headlong  down  the  horrid  vale. 
She  hears  no  more  the  roaring  of  the  gale ; 
Till  up  the  dreadful  height  again  she  flies. 
Trembling  beneath  the  current  of  the  skies. 
As  that  rebellious  angel  who,  from  heaven. 
To  regions  of  eternal  pain  was  driven; 
When  dreadless  he  forsook  the  Stygian  shore, 
The  distant  realms  of  Eden  to  explore ; 
Here,  on  sulphureous  clouds  sublime  upheaved, 
With  daring  wing  th'  infernal  air  he  cleaved ; 
There,  in  some  hideous  gulf  descending  prone. 
Far  in  the  rayless  void  of  night  was  thrown. 

E'en  so  she  scales  the  briny  mountain's  height. 
Then  down  the  black  abyss  precipiiaies  her  flight 
The  masts  around  whose  tops  the  whirlwinds  sing, 
With  long  vibrations  round  her  axle  swing. 
To  guide  the  wayward  course  amid  the  gloom, 
The  watchful  pilots  different  posts  assume. 


•  To  square  the  yards,  in  this  place,  is  meant  to  ar- 
range them  directly  athwart  the  ship's  length. 

t  Steady  is  the  order  to  steer  the  ship  according  to  the 
line  on  which  she  advances  at  this  instant,  without  devi- 
ating  to  the  right  or  left  thereof. 

t  In  all  large  ships,  the  helm  is  managed  by  a  wheel 


23 


FALCONER. 


Cantc  IlL 


Albert  and  Rodmond,  station'd  on  the  rear, 

With  warning  voice  direct  each  timoneer  ; 

High  on  the  prow  the  guard  Arion  keeps, 

To  shuu  the  cruisers  wandering  o'er  the  deeps; 

Where'er  he  moves  Palemon  still  attends, 

As  if  on  him  his  only  hope  depends  ; 

While  Rodmond, fearful  of  some  neighbouring  shore, 

Cries,  ever  and  anon,  •'  Look  out  afore  I" 

Four  hours  thus  scudding  on  the  tide  she  flew, 

When  Falconera's  rocky  height  they  view  : 

High  o'er  its  summit,  through  the  gloom  of  night, 

The  glimmering  watch-tower  casta  mournful  light. 

In  dire  amazement  riveted  they  stand. 

And  hear  the  breakers  lash  the  rugged  strand  : 

But  soon  beyond  this  shore  the  vessel  flies, 

Swift  as  the  rapid  eagle  cleaves  the  skies. 

So  from  the  fangs  of  her  insatiate  foe. 

O'er  the  broad  champaign  scuds  the  trembling  roe. 

That  danger  past,  reflects  a  feeble  joy  ; 

But  soon  returning  fears  their  hopes  destroy. 

Thus,  in  th'  Atlantic,  oft  the  sailor  eyes, 

While  melting  in  the  reign  of  softer  skies, 

Some  alp  of  ice  from  polar  regions  blown. 

Hail  the  glad  influence  of  a  warmer  zone  : 

Its  frozen  cliffs  attemper'd  gales  supply  ; 

In  cooling  streams  th'  aerial  billows  fly  ; 

A  while  deliver'd  from  the  scorching  heat. 

In  gentle  tides  the  feverish  pulses  beat. 

So,  when  their  trembling  vessel  pass'd  this  isle. 
Such  visionary  joys  the  crew  beguile  ; 
Th'  illusive  meteors  of  a  lifeless  fire  ; 
Too  soon  they  kindle,  and  too  soon  expire ! 

Say,  Memory  !  thou,  from  whose  unerring  tongue 
Instructive  flows  the  animated  song  ! 
What  regions  now  the  flying  ship  surround  ? 
Regions  of  old  through  all  the  world  renown'd  ; 
That  once  the  Poet's  theme,  the  Muses'  boast. 
Now  lie  in  ruins  ;  in  oblivion  lost ! 
Did  they,  whose  sad  distress  these  lays  deplore, 
Unskill'd  in  Grecian  or  in  Roman  lore, 
Unconcious  pass  each  famous  circling  shore  ? 

They  did  ;  for  blasted  in  the  barren  shade. 
Here,  all  too  soon,  the  buds  of  science  fade  : 
Sad  Ocean's  genius,  in  untimely  hour. 
Withers  tlie  bloom  of  every  springing  flower: 
Here  Fancy  droops,  while  sullen  cloud  and  storm 
The  generous  climate  of  the  soul  deform. 
Then  if  among  the  wandering  naval  train, 
One  stripling  exiled  from  th'  Aonian  plain. 
Had  e'er,  entranced  in  Fancy's  soothing  dream, 
Approach'd  to  taste  the  sweet  Castalian  stream, 
(Since  those  salubrious  streams  with  power  di- 
vine. 
To  purer  sense  th'  attemper'd  soul  refine,) 
His  heart  with  liberal  commerce  here  unblest, 
Alien  to  joy  !  sincerer  grief  possest. 
Yet  on  the  youthful  mind,  th'  impression  cast. 
Of  ancient  glory,  shall  for  ever  last. 
There,  all  unquench'd  by  cruel  Fortune's  ir^. 
It  glows  with  inextinguishable  fire. 

Immortal  Athens  first,  in  ruin  spread. 
Contiguous  lies  at  Port  Liono's  head. 
Great  source  of  science  !  whose  immortal  name 
Stands  foremost  in  the  glorious  roll  of  Fame ; 
Here  godlike  Socrates  and  Plato  shone, 
And,  firm  to  truth,  eternal  honour  won. 
The  first  in  Virtue's  cause  his  life  resign'd. 
By  Heaven  pronounced  the  wisest  of  mankind ; 


The  last  foretold  the  spark  of  vital  fire 

The  soul's  fine  essence,  never  couia  expire. 

Here  Solon  dwelt,  the  philosophic  sage. 

That  fled  Pisistratus'  vindictive  rage. 

Just  Aristides  here  maintain'd  the  cause. 

Whose  sacred  precepts  shine  through  Solon's  luwi 

Of  all  her  tow^ering  structures,  now  alone. 

Some  scatter'd  columns  stand,  with  weeds  o'er 

grown. 
The  wandering  stranger  near  the  port  descries 
A  milk-white  lion  of  stupendous  size  ; 
Unknown  the  sculpture  ;  marble  is  the  frame  ; 
And  hence  the  adjacent  haven  drew  its  name. 

Next,  in  the  gulf  of  Engia,  Corinth  lies. 
Whose  gorgeous  fabrics  seem'd  to  strike  the  skiea% 
Whom,  though  by  tyrant  victors  ofl  subsued, 
Greece,  Egypt,  Rome,  with  awful  wonder  view'd. 
Her  name,  for  Pallas'  heavenly  art  renown'd,* 
Spread,  like  the  foliage  which  her  pillars  crown'd, 
But  now,  in  fatal  desolation  laid, 
Oblivion  o'er  it  draws  a  dismal. shade. 

Then  further  westward,  on  Morea's  land. 
Fair  Misitral  thy  modern  turrets  stand. 
Ah !  who,  unmoved  with  secret  wo,  can  tell 
That  here  great  Lacedaemon's  glory  fell  ? 
Here    once    she    flourish'd    at    whose    trumpet'! 

sound 
War  burst  his  chains,  and  nations  shook  around. 
Here  brave  Leonidas,  from  shore  to  shore. 
Through  all  Achaia  bade  her  thunders  roar. 
He,  when  imperial  Xerxes,  from  afar. 
Advanced  vt'ith  Persia's  sumless  troops  to  war, 
Till  Macedonia  shrunk  beneath  his  spear. 
And  Greece  dismay'd  beheld  the  chief  draw  near 
He,  at  Thermopylffi's  immortal  plain. 
His  force  repell'd  with  Sparta's  glorious  train. 
Tall  CEla  saw  the  tyrant's  conquer'd  bands. 
In  gasping  millions,  bleed  on  hostile  lands. 
Thus  vanquish'd  Asia  trembling  heard  thy  name, 
And  Thebes  and  Athens  sicken'd  at  thy  fame ! 
Thy  state,  supported  by  Lycurgus'  laws. 
Drew,  like  thine  arms,  superlative  applause  : 
E'en  great  Epaminondas  strove  in  vain 
To  curb  that  spirit  with  a  Theban  chain. 
But  ah  !  how  low  her  free-born  spirit  now! 
Her  abject  sons  to  haughty  tyrants  bow  ; 
A  false,  degenerate,  superstitious  race 
Infest  thy  region,  and  thy  name  disgrace ! 

Not  distant  far,  Arcadia's  blest  domains 
Peloponnesus'  circling  shore  contains. 
Thrice  happy  soil !  where  still  serenely  gay, 
Indulgent  Flora  breathed  perpetual  May  ! 
Where  buxom  Ceres  taught  th'  obsequious  field. 
Rich  without  art,  spontaneous  gifts  to  yield  ; 
Then  with  some  rural  nymph  supremely  blest. 
While  transport  glow'd  in  each  enamour'd  broaBt 
Each  faithful  shepherd  told  his  tender  pain, 
And  sung  of  sylvan  sports  in  artless  strain. 
Now,  sad  reverse!    Oppression's  iron  hand 
Enslaves  her  natives,  and  despoils  the  land. 
In  lawless  rapine  bred,  a  sanguine  train 
With  midnight  ravage  scour  th'  uncultured  plaiiw 

Westward  of  these,  beyond  the  isthmus  lies 
The  long-lost  isle  of  Ithacus  the  wise  ; 
Where  fair  Penelope  her  absent  lord 
Full  twice  ten  years  with  faithful  love  deplored. 


•  Architecture 


Canto  111. 


THE    SHIPWRECK 


2? 


Though  many  a  princely  heart  her  beauty  won, 
She,  guarded  only  by  a  stripling  son, 
Each  bold  attempt  of  suitor-kings  repell'd. 
And  undefiled  the  nuptial  contract  held. 
With  various  arts  to  win  her  love  they  toil'd. 
But  all  their  wiles  by  virtuous  fraud  she  foil'd. 
True  to  her  vows,  and  resolutely  chaste, 
The  beauteous  princess  triumph'd  at  the  last. 

Argos,  in  Greece  forgotten  and  unknown. 
Still  seems  her  cruel  fortune  to  bemoan  ; 
Argos,  whose  monarch  led  the  Grecian  hosts 
Far  o'er  the  ^gean  main  to  Dardan  coasts. 
Unhappy  prince  I  who  on  a  hostile  shore, 
roil,  peril,  anguish,  ten  long  winters  bore. 
And  when  to  native  realms  restored  at  last, 
To  reap  the  harvest  of  thy  labours  past, 
A  perjured  friend,  alas!  and  faithless  wife, 
There  sacrificed  to  impious  lust  thy  life  ; — 
Fast  by  Arcadia,  stretch  these  desert  plains ; 
And  o'er  the  land  a  gloomy  tyrant  reigns. 

Next  the  fair  isle  of  Helena*  is  seen. 
Where  adverse  winds  detain'd  the  Spartan  queen 
For  whom,  m  arms  combined,  the  Grecian  host, 
With  vengeance  fired,  invaded  Phrygia's  coast; 
For  whom  so  long  they  labour'd  to  destroy 
The  sacred  turrets  of  imperial  Troy. 
Here,  driven  by  Juno's  rage,  the  hapless  dame, 
Forlorn  of  heart,  from  ruin'd  Ilion  came. 
The  port  an  image  bears  of  Parian  stone, 
Of  ancient  fabric,  but  of  date  unknown. 

Due  east  from  this  appears  th'  immortal  shore 
That  sacred  Phoebus  and  Diana  bore. 
Delos,  through  all  th'  ^gean  seas  renown'd  : 
(Whose  coast  the  rocky  Cyclades  surround) 
By  Phoebus  honour'd  and  by  Greece  revered  ! 
Her  hallow'd  groves  e'en  distant  Persia  fear'd  : 
But  now,  a  silent  unfrequented  land  ! 
No  human  footstep  marks  the  trackless  sand. 

Thence  to  the  north,  by  Asia's  western  bound 
Fair  Lemnos  stands,  with  rising  marble  crown'd  ; 
Where,  in  her  rage,  avenging  Juno  hurl'd 
Ill-fated  Vulcan  from  th'  ethereal  world. 
There  his  eternal  anvils  first  he  rear'd  ; 
Then,  forged  by  Cyclopean  art,  appear'd 
Thunders,  that  shook  the  skies  with  dire  alarms, 
And,  form'd  by  skill  divine,  Vulcanian  arms. 
There,  wdth  this  crippled  wretch,  the  foul  disgrace 
And  living  scandal  of  th'  empyreal  race, 
The  beauteous  queen  of  Love  in  wedlock  dwelt. 
In  fires  profane,  can  heavenly  bosoms  melt  ? 

Eastward  of  this  appears  the  Dardan  shore, 
That  once  th'  imperial  towers  of  Ilium  bore. 
Illustrious  Troy!  renown'd  in  every  clime, 
Tlirough  the  long  annals  of  unfolding  time  ! 
How  oft,  thy  royal  bulwarks  to  defend. 
Thou  saw'st  thy  tutelar  gods  in  vain  descend  ! 
Though  chiefs  unnumber'd   in    her    cause   were 

slain. 
Though  nations  perish'd  on  her  bloody  plain ; 
That  refuge  of  perfidious  Helen's  shame 
Was  doom'd  at  length  to  sink  in  Grecian  flame. 
\nd  now,  by  Time's  deep  ploughshare  harrow'd 

o'er. 
The  seat  of  sacred  Troy  is  found  no  more  : 
No  trace  of  all  her  glories  now  remains  I 
But  corn  and  vines  enrich  her  cultured  plains. 


•  Now  known  by  the  name  of  Micronisi. 


Silver  Scamander  laves  the  verdant  shore  ; 
Scamander  oft  o'erflow'd  with  hostile  gore  ! 
Not  far  removed  from  Ilion's  famous  land. 
In  counter  view,  appears  the  Thracian  strand  ; 
Where  beauteous  Hero,  from  the  turret's  height, 
Display'd  her  cresiiet  each  revolving  night ;        • 
Whose  gleam  directed  loved  Leander  o'er 
The  rolling  Hellespont  to  Asia's  shore. 
Till,  in  a  fated  hour,  on  Thracia's  coast. 
She  saw  her  lover's  lifeless  body  tost  ; 
Then  felt  her  bosom  agony  severe ; 
Her  eyes,  sad  gazing,  pour'd  th'  incessant  tear! 
O'erwhelm'd  with  anguish,  frantic  with  despair. 
She  beat  her  beauteous  breast  and  tore  her  hair-» 
On  dear  Leander's  name  in  vain  she  cried  ; 
Then  headlong  plunged  into  the  parting  tide  : 
The  parting  tide  received  the  lovely  weight,       * 
And  proudly  flow'd,  exulting  in  its  freight! 

Far  west  of  Thrace,  beyond  th'  ^gean  main. 
Remote  from  ocean,  lies  the  Delphic  plain. 
The  sacred  oracle  of  Phoebus  there 
High  o'er  the  mount  arose,  divinely  fair! 
Achaian  marble  form'd  the  gorgeous  pile; 
August  the  fabric  !  elegant  its  style  ! 
On  brazen  hinges  turn'd  the  silver  doors  ; 
And  checker'd  marble  paved  the  polish'd  floors. 
The  roofs,  where  storied  tablature  appear'd, 
On  columns  of  Corinthian  mould  were  rear'd  : 
Of  shining  porphyry  the  shafts  were  framed, 
And  round  the  hollow  dome  bright  jewels  flamed 
Apollo's  suppliant  priests,  a  blameless  train ! 
Framed  their  oblation  on  the  holy  fane  : 
To  front  the  sun's  declining  ray  'twas  placed  ; 
With  golden  harps  and  living  laurels  graced. 
The  sciences  and  arts  around  the  shrine 
Conspicuous  shone,  engraved  by  hands  divine! 
Here  iEsculapius'  snake  display'd  his  crest, 
And  burning  glories  sparkled  on  his  breast ; 
While,  from  his  eye's  insufferable  light. 
Disease  and  Death  recoil'd,  in  headlong  flight. 
Of  this  great  temple,  through  all  time  renown'(? 
Sunk  in  oblivion,  no  remains  are  found. 
Contiguous  here,  with   hallow'd    woods    o' 
spread, 
Parnassus  lifts  to  heaven  its  honoifr'd  head  ; 
Where  from  the  deluge  saved,  by  Heaven's  coiii 

mand, 
Deucalion  leading  Pyrrha,  hand  in  hand- 
Repeopled  all  the  desolated  land. 
Around  the  scene  unfading  laurels  grow, 
And  aromatic  flowers  forever  blow. 
The  winged  choirs,  on  every  tree  above, 
Carol  sweet  numbers  through  the  vocal  grove; 
While  o'er  th'  eternal  spring  that  smiles  beneath 
Young  zephyrs  borne  on  rosy  pinions  breathe. 
Fair  daughters  of  the  Sun  I  the  sacred  Nine, 
Here  wake  to  ecstasy  their  songs  divine  ; 
Or  crown'd  with  myrtle  in  some  sweet  alcove. 
Attune  the  tender  strings  to  bleeding  love  ; 
All  sadly  sweet  the  balmy  currents  roll. 
Soothing  to  softest  peace  the  tortured  soul, 
While  hill  and  vale  with  choral  voice  around 
The  music  of  immortal  harps  resound. 
Fair  Pleasure  leads  in  dance  the  happy  hours. 
Still  scattering  where  she  moves  Elysian  flowers. 
Even  now,  the  strains,  with   sweet   contagion 
fraught. 
Shed  a  delicious  languor  o'er  the  thought — 
c   2 


30 


FALCONER. 


Canto  III 


Adieu,  ye  vales,  that  smiling  peace  bestow, 
Where  Eden's  blossoms  ever  vernal  blow! 
Adieu,  ye  streams,  that  o'er  enchanted  ground 
In  lucid  maze  the  Aonian  hills  surround  ! 
i''e  fairy  scenes,  where  Fancy  loves  to  dwell, 
And  young  Delight,  ibr  ever,  O  farewell ! 
The  soul  with  tender  luxury  you  fill, 
And  o'er  the  sense  Lethean  dews  distil ! 
Awake,  O  Memory,  from  th'  inglorious  dream         I 
With  brazen  lungs  resume  the  kindling  theme  ! 
Collect  thy  powers !  arouse  thy  vital  fire !  ' 

Ye  spirits  of  the  storm,  my  verse  inspire ! 
Hoarse  as  the  whirlwinds  that  enrage  the  main, 
in  torrents  pour  along  the  swelling  strain ! 

Now,  borne  impetuous  o'er  the  boiling  deeps, 
Her  course  to  Attic  shores  the  vessel  keeps  : 
The  pilots,  as  the  waves  behind  her  swell. 
Still  vWih  the  wheeling  stern  their  force  repel. 
For,  this  assault  should  either  quarter*  feel. 
Again  to  flank  the  tempest  she  might  reel. 
The  steersmen  every  bidden  turn  apply  ; 
To  right  and  left  the  spokes  alternate  fly. 
Thus  v.'hen  some  conquer'd  host  retreats  in  fear, 
The  bravest  leaders  guard  the  broken  rear  : 
Indignant  they  retire,  and  long  oppose 
Superior  armies  that  around  them  close  ; 
Still  shield  the  flanks,  the  routed  squadrons  join. 
And  guide  the  flight  in  one  imbodied  line. 

So  they  direct  the  flying  bark  before 
Th'  impelling  floods,  that  lash  her  to  the  shore. 
As  some  benighted  traveller,. through  the  shade. 
Explores  the  devious  path  with  heart  dismay'd  , 
While  prowling  savages  behind  him  roar. 
And  yawning  pits  and  quagmires  lurk  before — 
High  o'er  the  poop  the  audacious  seas  aspire, 
Uproll'd  in  hills  of  fluctuating  fire. 
As  some  fell  conqueror,  irantic  with  success, 
Sheds  o'er  the  nations  ruin  and  distress  ; 
So,  v.'hile  the  watery  wilderness  he  roams. 
Incensed  to  sevenfold  rage  the  tempest  foams  ; 
And  o'er  the  trembling  pines,  above,  below, 
Shrill  through  the  cordage  howls,  with  notes  of  wo. 
Now  thunders  wafted  from  the  burning  zone. 
Growl  from  afar,  a  deaf  and  hollow  groan ! 
The  ship's  high  battlements,  to  either  side 
For  ever  rocking,  drink  the  briny  tide  ; 
Her  joints  unhinged,  in  palsied  languors  play. 
As  ice  dissolves  beneath  the  noontide  ray. 
The  skies  asunder  torn,  a  deluge  pour  ; 
The  impetuous  hail  descends  in  whirling  shower. 
High  on  the  masts,  with  pale  and  livid  rays. 
Amid  the  gloom  portentous  rr:3teors  blaze. 
Th'  ethereal  dome,  in  mournful  pomp  array'd, 
Now  lurks  behind  impenetrable  shade  ; 
Now,  flashing  round  intolerable  light. 
Redoubles  all  the  terrors  of  the  night. 
Such  terrors  Sinai's  quaking  hill  o'erspread. 
When  heaven's   loud   trumpet  sounded  o'er   its 

head. 
It  seem'd,  the  wrathful  angel  of  the  wind 
Had  all  the  horrors  of 'the  skies  combined  ; 
And  here,  to  one  ill-fated  ship  opposed. 
At  once  the  dreadful  magazine  disclosed. 
And  lo  !  tremendous  o'er  the  deep  he  springs, 
Th'  inflaming  sulphur  flashing  from  his  wings ! — 


•  The  quarter  is  the  hinder  part  of  a  ship  side ;  or  that 
jart  which  is  near  the  stern. 


Hark!  his  strong  voice  the  dismal  silence  bieaks: 
Mad  chaos  from  the  chains  of  death  awakes ! 
Loud  and  more  loud  the  rolling  peals  enlarge  ; 
And  blue  on  deck  their  blazing  sides  discharge  ; 
There,  all  aghast,  the  shivering  wretches  stood  ; 
While  chill  suspense  and  fear  congeal'd  their  blood 
Now  in  a  deluge  burst  the  living  flame. 
And  dread  concussion  rends  th'  ethereal  frame. 
Sick  Earth,  convulsive,  groans  from  shore  to  shoTfr, 
And  Nature,  shuddering,  feels  the  horrid  roar. 

Still  the  sad  prospect  rises  on  my  sight, 
Reveal'd  in  all  its  mournful  shade  and  light ; 
Swift  through  my  pulses  glides  the  r.indling  firo. 
As  lightning  glances  on  th'  electric  wire 
But,  ah !  the  force  of  numbers  strives  in  vain, 
The  glowing  scene  unequal  to  sustain. 

But,  lo !  at  last,  from  tenfold  darkness  born, 
Forth  issues  o'er  the  wave  the  weeping  morn. 
Hail,  sacred  Vision !  who,  on  orient  Avings, 
The  cheering  dawn  of  light  propitious  brings! 
All  Nature,  smiling,  hail'd  the  vivid  vay, 
That  gave  her  beauties  to  returninj  day : 
All  but  our  ship,  that,  groaning  on  the  tide, 
No  kind  relief,  no  gleam  of  hope  descried. 
For  now,  in  front,  her  trembling  inmates  see 
The  hills  of  Greece  emerging  on  the  lee. 
So  the  lost  lover  views  that  fatal  morn, 
On  which,  for  ever  from  his  bosom  torn, 
The  nymph  adored  resigns  her  blooming  charmj 
To  bless  with  love  some  happier  rival's  arms 
So  to  Eliza  dawn'd  that  cruel  day 
That  tore  ^neas  from  her  arms  away; 
That  saw  him  parting  never  to  return. 
Herself  in  funeral  flames  decreed  to  burn. 
O  yet  in  clouds,  thou  genial  source  of  light. 
Conceal  thy  radiant  glories  from  our  sight! 
Go,  with  thy  smile  adorn  the  happy  plain,  [reign 
And  gild  the  scenes  where  health  and  pl»nisur« 
But  let  not  here,  in  scorn,  thy  wanton  beam 
Insult  the  dreadful  grandeur  of  my  theme! 

While  shoreward  now  the  bounding  VMsel flies, 
Full  in  her  van  St.  George's  cliflS  arise  ; 
High  o'er  the  rest  a  pointed  crag  is  se«in. 
That  hung  projecting  o'er  a  mossy  green. 
Nearer  and  nearer  now  the  danger  grows 
And  all  their  skill  relentless  fates  oppose  ; 
For,  while  more  eastward  they  direct  the  prow, 
Enormous  waves  the  quivering  deck  o'erflow. 
While,  as  she  wheels,  unable  to  subdue 
Her  sallies,  still  they  dread  her  broaching-tc* 
Alarming  thought !  for  now  no  more  a-lee 
Her  riven  side  could  bear  th'  invading  sea  ; 
And  if  the  follov/ing  surge  she  scuds  before. 
Headlong  she  runs  upon  the  dreadful  shore : 
A  shore  where  shelves  and  hidden  rocks  abound 
Where  Death  in  secret  ambush  lurks  around. 
Far  less  dismay'd,  Anchises'  wandering  son 
Was  seen  the  straits  of  Sicily  to  shun  : 
When  Palinurus,  from  the  helm  descried 
The  rocks  of  Scylla  on  his  eastern  side; 


*  Broaching-to  is  a  sudden  and  involuntary  movemen* 
in  navigation,  wherein  a  ship,  whilst  sailing  or  scudding 
before  the  wind,  unexpectedly  turns  her  side  to  wind 
ward.  It  is  generally  occasioned  by  the  difficulty  o. 
steering  her,  or  by  some  disaster  happening  to  the 
machinery  of  the  helm.  See  the  last  note  of  the  cecond 
Canto. 


Canto  III. 


THE    SHIPWRECK. 


31 


While  in  the  west,  with  hideous  yawn  disclosed, 
His  onward  path  Charybdis'  gulf  opposed. 
The  double  danger  as  by  turns  he  view'd, 
His  wheeling  bark  her  arduous  track  pursued. 
Thus  while  to  right  and  left  destruction  lies, 
Between  the  extremes  die  daring  vessel  flies. 
With  boundless  involution,  bursting  o'er 
The  marble  cliffs,  loud  dashing  surges  roar  ; 
Hoarse  through  each  winding  creek  the  tempest 

raves, 
And  hollow  roclis  repeat  the  groan  of  waves  ; 
Destruction  round  th'  insatiate  coast  prepares, 
To  crush  the  trembling  ship,  unnumber'd  snares. 
But  haply  now  she  'scapes  the  fatal  strand. 
Though  scarce  ten  fathoms  distant  from  the  land ; 
Swift  as  the  weapon  issuing  from  the  bow. 
She  cleaves  the  burning  waters  with  her  prow ; 
And  forward  leaping,  with  tumultuous  haste. 
As  on  the  tempest's  wing  the  isle  she  past. 
With  longing  eyes  and  agony  of  mind, 
The  sailors  view  this  refuge  left  behind; 
Happy  to  bribe,  with  India's  richest  ore, 
A  safe  accession  to  that  barren  shore  i 

When  in  the  dark  Peruvian  mine  confined. 
Lost  to  the  cheerful  commerce  of  mankind, 
The  groaning  captive  wastes  his  life  away, 
For  ever  exiled  from  the  realms  of  day; 
No  equal  pangs  his  bosom  agonize. 
When  far  above  the  sacred  light  he  eyes, 
While,  all  forlorn,  the  victim  pines  in  vain. 
For  scenes  he  never  shall  possess  again. 

But  now  Athenian  mountains  they  descry, 
And  o'er  the  surge  Colonna  frowns  on  high : 
Besidfe  the  cape's  projecting  verge  arc  placed 
A  range  of  columns,  long  by  time  defaced ; 
First  planted  by  devotion  to  sustain, 
In  elder  times,  Tritonia's  sacred  fane. 
FoaiTis  the   wild    beach  below,  with  maddening 

ft    rage, 
Where  waves  and  rocks  a  dreadful  combat  wage. 
The  sickly  heaven,  fermenting  with  its  freight, 
Still  vomits  o'er  the  main  the  feverish  weight : 
And  now,  while  vving'd  with  ruin  from  on  high, 
Through  the  rent  cloud  the  ragged  lightnings  fly, 
A  flash,  quick  glancing  on  the  nerves  of  light. 
Struck  the  pale  helmsman  with  eternal  night : 
Redmond,  who  heard  the  piteous  groan  behind, 
Touch'd  with  compassion  gazed  upon  the  blind  : 
And,  while  around  his  sad  companions  crowd, 
He  guides  the  unhappy  victim  to  the  shroud. 
"Hie  thee  aloft,  my  gallant  friend  !"  he  cries  ; 
••  Thy  only  succour  on  the  mast  relies !" — 
The  helm  bereft  of  half  its  vital  force. 
Now  scarce  subdued  the  wild  unbridled  course: 
Quick  to  th'  abandon'd  wheel  Arion  came, 
The  ship's  tempestuous  sallies  to  reclaim. 
Amazed  he  saw  her,  o'er  the  sounding  foam 
Upborne,  to  right  and  left  distracted  roam. 
So  gazed  young  Phaeton,  with  pale  dismay. 
When,  mounted  in  the  flaming  car  of  day. 
With  rash  and  impious  hand  the  stripling  tried 
The  immortal  coursers  of  the  sun  to  guide. — 
The  vessel,  while  the  dread  eVent  draws  nigh. 
Seems  more  impatient  o'er  the  waves  to  fly ; 
Fate  spurs  her  on : — thus  issuing  from  afar, 
Advances  to  the  sun  some  blazing  star  ; 
And,  as  it  feels  th'  attraction's  kindling  force. 
Springs  onward  with  accelerated  course. 


With  mournful  look  the  seamen  eyed  the  strar  d 
Where  Death's  inexorable  jaws  expand  : 
Swift  from  their  minds  elapsed  all  dangers  past. 
As,  dumb  with  terror  they  beheld  the  last. 
Now,  on  the  trembling  shrouds,  before,  behind, 
In  mute  suspense  they  mount  into  the  wind.— 
The  genius  of  the  deep,  on  rapid  wing, 
The  black  eventful  moment  seem'd  to  bring , 
The  fatal  sister*  on  the  surge  before. 
Yoked  their  i.iiernal  horses  to  the  prore. — 
The  steersmen  now  received  their  last  command. 
To  wheel  the  vessel  sidelong  to  the  strand. 
Twelve  sailors,  on  the  foremast  who  depend. 
High  on  the  platform  of  the  top  ascend  ; 
Fatal  retreat !  for  while  the  plunging  prow 
Immerges  headlong  in  the  wave  below, 
Down-prest  by  watery  weight  the  bowsprit  bcnda 
And  from  above  the  stem  deep-crushing  rends. 
Beneath  her  beak  the  floating  ruins  lie  ; 
The  foremast  totters,  unsustain'd  on  high : 
And  now  the  ship,  fore-lifted  by  the  sea, 
Hurls  the  tall  fabric  backward  o'er  the  lee ; 
While,  ia  tlie  general  wreck,  the  faithful  stay 
Drags  the  main  topmast  from  its  post  away. 
Flung  from  the  mast,  the  seamen  strive  in  vain 
Through  hostile  floods  their  vessels  to  regain; 
The  waves  they  butfot,  till  bereft  of  strength, 
O'erpower'd  they  yield  to  cruel  fate  at  length. 
The  hostile  waters  close  around  their  head, 
Tliey  sink,  for  ever,  number'd  with  the  dead  ! 

Those  who  remain,  their  fearful  doom  await. 
Nor  longer  mourn  their  lost  companions'  fate ; 
The  heart,  that  bleeds  with  sorrows  all  its  oun. 
Forgets  the  pangs  of  friendship  to  bemoan. — 
Albert  and  Redmond,  and  Palemon  here. 
With  young  Arion,  on  the  mast  appear; 
E'en  they,  amid  th'  unspeakable  distress, 
In  every  look  distracting  thoughts  confess; 
In  every  vein  the  refluent  blood  congeals; 
And  every  bosom  fatal  terror  feels. 
Enclosed  with  all  the  demons  of  the  main, 
They  view'd  th'  adjacent  shore,  but  view'd  ir 

vain. 
Such  torments  in  the  drear  abodes  of  hell. 
Where  sad  despair  laments  with  rueful  yell, 
Such  torments  agonize  the  damned  breast, 
While  Fancy  views  the  mansions  of  the  blesU 
For  Heaven's  sweet  help,  their   suppliant  crie« 

implore  ; 
But  Heaven  relentless  deigns  to  help  no  more . 

And  now,  lash'd  on  by  destiny  severe, 
With  horror  fraught,  the  dreadful  scene  drew  near 
The  ship  hangs  hovering  on  the  verge  of  death. 
Hell  yawns,  rocks  rise,  and  breakers  roar  beneath 
In  vain,  alas  I  the  sacred  shades  of  yore 
Would  arm  the  mind  with  philosophic  lore ; 
In  vain  they'd  teach  us,  at  the  latest  breath, 
To  smile  serene  amid  the  pangs  of  death. 
E'en  Zeno's  self,  and  Epictetus  old. 
This  fell  abyss  had  shudder'd  to  behold. 
Had  Socrates,  for  godlike  virtue  famed, 
And  wisest  of  the  sons  of  men  proclaim'd, 
Beheld  this  scene  of  frenzy  and  distress. 
His  soul  had  trembled  to  its  last  recess ! 
O  yet  confirm  my  heart,  ye  Powers  above, 
This  last  tremendous  shock  of  Fate  to  prove; 
The  tottering  frame  of  Reason  yet  sustain! 
Nor  let  this  total  ruin  whirl  my  brain! 


n 


FALCONER. 


Canto  IJl 


In  vain  the  cords  and  axes  were  prepared. 
For  now  th'  audacious  seas  insult  the  yard ; 
High  o'er  the  ship  they  throw  a  horrid  shade, 
And  o'er  her  burst  in  terrible  cascade. 
Uplifted  on  the  surge,  to  heaven  she  flies, 
Her  shatler'd  top  half-buried  in  the  skies, 
Then  headlong  plunging  thunders  on  the  ground, 
Earth  groans  I  air  trembles  !  and  the  deeps  resound; 
Her  giant  bulk  the  dread  concussion  feels, 
And  quivering  with  the  wound,  in  torment  reels : 
So  reels,  convulsed  with  agonizing  throes, 
The  bleeding  bull  beneath  the  murderer's  blows. 
Again  she  plunges:  hark!  a  second  shock 
Tears  her  strong  bottom  on  the  marble  rock : 
Down  on  the  vale  of  Death,  with  dismal  cries. 
The  fated  victims  shuddering  roll  their  eyes, 
In  wild  despair  ;  while  yet  another  stroke. 
With  deep  convulsion,  rends  the  solid  oak; 
Till  like  the  mine,  in  whose  infernal  cell 
The  lurking  demons  of  destruction  dwell. 
At  length  asunder  torn,  her  frame  divides: 
And  crashing  spreads  in  ruin  o'er  the  tides. 

O  were  it  mine  with  tuneful  Maro's  art 
To  wake  to  sympathy  the  feeling  heart. 
Like  him  the  smooth  and  mournful  verse  to  dress 
In  all  the  pomp  of  exquisite  distress ! 
Then  too  severely  taught  by  cruel  Fate, 
To  share  in  all  the  perils  1  relate. 
Then  might  I,  with  unrivall'd  strains,  deplore 
Th'  impervious  horrors  of  a  leeward  shore. 

As  o'er  the  surge,  the  stooping  mainmast  hung. 
Still  on  the  rigging  thirty  seamen  clung ; 
Some,  struggling,  on  a  broken  crag  were  cast. 
And  there  by  oozy  tangles  grappled  fast : 
Awile  they  bore  th'  o'erwhelming  billow's  rage. 
Unequal  combat  with  their  fate  to  wage ; 
Till  all  benumb'd  and  feeble  they  forego 
Their  slippery  hold,  and  sink  to  shades  below. 
Some,  from  the  main-yardarm  impetuous  thrown, 
On  marble  ridges  die  without  a  groan. 
Three,  with  Palemon,  on  their  skill  depend, 
And  from  the  wreck  on  oars  and  rafts  descend. 
Now  on  the  mountain-wave  on  high  they  ride, 
Then  downward  plunge  beneath  th'  involving  tide; 
Till  one,  who  seems  in  agony  to  strive. 
The  whirling  breakers  heave  on  shore  alive  : 
The  rest  a  speedier  end  of  anguish  knew, 
And  prest  the  stony  beach  a  lifeless  crew. 

Next,  O  unhappy  chief!  th'  eternal  doom 
Of  Heaven  decreed  thee  to  the  briny  tomb! 
What  scenes  of  misery  torment  thy  view  ! 
What  painful  struggles  of  thy  dying  crew  ! 
Thy  perish'd  hopes  all  buried  in  the  flood, 
O'erspread  with  corses  !  red  with  human  blood ! 
So,  pierced  with  anguish,  hoary  Priam  gazed, 
When  Troy's  imperial  domes  in  ruin  blazed  ; 
While  he,  severest  sorrow  doom'd  to  feel. 
Expired  beneath  the  victor's  murdering  steel. 
Thus  with  his  helpless  partners  to  the  last, 
Sad  refuge  !  Albert  hugs  the  floating  mast ; 
His  soul  could  yet  sustain  this  mortal  blow, 
But  droops,  alas  !  beneath  superior  wo! 
For  now  soft  nature's  sympathetic  chain 
Tugs  at  liis  yearning  heart  with  powerful  strain  ; 
His  faithful  wife  for  ever  doom'd  to  mourn 
For  him,  alas !  who  never  shall  return  ; 
To  black  Adversity's  approach  exposed. 
With  want  and  hardships  unforeseen  enclosed : 


His  lovely  daughter  left  without  a  friend, 
Her  innocence  to  succour  and  defend  ; 
By  youth  and  indigence  set  forth  a  prey 
To  lawless  guilt,  that  flatters  to  betray. — 
While  these  reflections  rack  his  feeling  mind, 
Redmond,  who  hung  beside,  his  grasp  resign'd; 
And,  as  the  tumbling  waters  o'er  him  roll'd. 
His  outstretch'd  arms  the  master's  legs  enfold— 
Sad  Albert  feels  the  dissolution  near. 
And  strives  in  vain  his  fetler'd  limbs  to  clear; 
For  Death  bids  every  clenching  joint  adhere. 
All  faint,  to  heaven  he  throws  his  dying  eyes. 
And  "O  protect  my  wife  and  child  !"  he  cries  • 
The   gushing    stream    rolls    back  th'   unfinish'd 

sound  I 
He  gasps  !  he  dies!  and  tumbles  to  the  ground! 

Five  only  left  of  all  the  perish'd  throng. 
Yet  ride  the  pine  which  shoreward  drives  along  j 
With  these  Arion  still  his  hold  secures. 
And  all  trh'  assaults  of  hostile  waves  endures. 
O'er  the  dire  prospect  as  for  life  he  strives. 
He  looks  if  poor  Palemon  yet  survives. 
"  Ah,  wherefore,  trusting  to  unequal  art. 
Didst  thou  incautious!  from  the  wjeck  depart? 
Alas !  these  rocks  all  human  skill  defy. 
Who  strikes  them  once  beyond  relief  must  die  ; 
And,  now,  sore  wounded,  thou  perhaps  art  tost 
On  these,  or  in  some  oozy  cavern  lost !" 
Thus  thought  Arion,  anxious  gazing  round. 
In  vain,  his  eyes  no  more  Palemon  found. 
The  demons  of  destruction  hover  nigh; 
And  thick  their  mortal  shafts  commission  d  fly  : 
And  now  a  breaking  surge,  with  forceful  sway, 
Two  next  Arion  furious  tears  away; 
Hurl'd   on  the   crags,    behold,   they  gasp!    they 

bleed ! 
And  groaning,  cling  upon  th' illusive  weed; — 
Another  billow  burst  in  boundless  roar  ! 
Arion  sinks  !  and  Memory  views  no  more  ! 

Ah,  total  night  and  horror  here  preside  ! 
My  stunn'd  ear  tingles  to  the  whizzing  tide ! 
It  is  the  funeral  knell ;  and  gliding  near, 
Methinks  the  phantoms  of  the  dead  appear! 

But  lo !  emerging  from  the  watery  grave. 
Again  they  float  incumbent  on  the  wave  ! 
Again  the  dismal  prospect  opens  round. 
The  wreck,  the  shores,  the  dying,  and  the  drovirn'd. 
And  see !  enfeebled  by  repeated  shocks, 
Those  two  who  scramble  on  th'  adjacent  rocks, 
Their  faithless  hold  no  longer  can  retain. 
They  sink  o'erwhelm'd,  and  never  rise  again ! 

Two,  with  Arion,  yet  the  mast  upbore, 
That  now  above  the  ridges  reach'd  the  shore : 
Still  trembling  to  descend,  they  downward  gazo 
With  horror  pale,  and  torpid  with  amaze  : 
The  floods  recoil !  the  ground  appears  below ! 
And  life's  faint  embers  now  rekindling  glow  ; 
A  while  they  wait  th'  exhausted  weaves'  retreat. 
Then  climb  slow  up  the  beach  with  hands  and 

feet. 
O  Heaven  !  deliver'd  by  whose  sovereign  hand. 
Still  on  the  brink  of  hell  they  shuddering  stand, 
Receive  the  languid  incense  they  bestow. 
That  damp  with  death  appears  not  yet  to  glow 
To  Thee  each  soul  the  warm  oblation  pays. 
With  trembling  ardour  of  unequal  praise. 
In  every  heart  dismay  with  w-onder  strives, 
And  hope  the  sicken'd  spark  of  life  revives  j 


Canto  III. 


THE    SHIPWRECK. 


33 


Her  magic  powers  their  exiled  health  restore, 
Till  horror  and  despair  are  felt  no  more. 

A  troop  of  Grecians  who  inhabit  nigh, 
And  oft  these  perils  of  the  deep  descry. 
Roused  by  the  blustering  tempest  of  the  night. 
Anxious     had     climb'd    Colonna's    neighbouring 

height; 
When  gazing  downward  on  th'  adjacent  flood. 
Full  to  their  view  the  scene  of  ruin  stood, 
The  surf  with  mangled  bodies  strew'd  around. 
And  those  yet  breathing  on  the  sea-wash'd  ground ! 
Though  lost  to  science  and  the  nobler  arts, 
Yet  Nature's  lore  inform'd  their  feeling  hearts ; 
Straight  down  the  vale  with  hastening  steps  they 

hied, 
Th'  unhappy  sufferers  to  assist  and  guide. 

Meanwhile  those  three  escaped  beneath  explore 
The  first  adventurous  youth  who  reach'd  the  shore  ; 
Panting,  with  eyes  averted  from  the  day. 
Prone,  helpless  on  the  tangled  beach  he  lay — 
It  is  Paleraon  ; — O  what  tumults  roll 
With  hope  and  terror  in  Arion's  soul ! 
If  yet  unhurt  he  lives  again  to  view 
His  friend,  and  this  sole  remnant  of  our  crew ! 
With  us  to  travel  through  this  foreign  zone. 
And  share  the  future  good  or  ill-unknown  ! 
Arion  thus  :  but  ah !  sad  doom  of  Fate ! 
That  bleeding  Memory  sorrows  to  relate  : 
While  yet  afloat,  on  some  resisting  rock 
His  ribs  were  dash'd,  and  fractured  with  the  shock  : 
Heart-piercing  sight !  those  cheeks,  so  late  array'd 
In  beauty's  bloom  are  pale,  with  mortal  shade  ! 
Distilling  blood  his  lovely  breast  o'erspread, 
And  clogg'd  the  golden  tresses  of  his  head  . 
Nor  yet  the  lungs  by  this  pernicious  stroke 
Were  wounded,  or  the  vocal  organs  broke. 
Down  from  his  neck,  with  blazing  gems  array'd, 
Thy  image,  lovely  Anna,  hung  portray 'd  ; 
Th'  unconscious  figu  e  smiling  aJl  serene, 
Suspended  in  a  golden  chain  was  seen. 
Hadst  thou,  soft  maiden ;  in  this  hour  of  w^o. 
Beheld  Aim  writhing  from  the  deadly  blow. 
What  force  of  art,  what  language  could  express 
Thine  agony?  thine  exquisite  distress? 
But  thou,  alas !  art  doom'd  to  weep  (n  vain 
For  him  thine  eyes  shall  never  see  t  gain  ! 
With  dumb  amazement  pale,  Arion  gazed, 
Ajid  cautiously  the  wounded  youth  upraised. 
Palemon  then,  with  cruel  pangs  oppress'd. 
In  faltering  accents  thus  his  friend  address'd  : 

"O  rescued  from  destruction  late  so  nigh, 
Beneath  whose  fatal  influence  doom'd  I  lie ; 
Are  we  then  exiled  to  this  last  retreat 
Of  life,  unhappy  !  thus  decreed  to  meet  ? 
Ah  .'  how  unlike  what  yester-morn  enjoy'd 
Enchanting  hopes,  for  ever  now  destroy'd ! 
For,  wounded  far  beyond  all  healing  power, 
Palemon  dies,  and  this  his  final  hour: 
By  those  fell  breakers,  where  in  vain  I  strove, 
At  once  cut  off  from  fortune,  life,  and  love ! 
Far  other  scenes  must  soon  present  my  sight, 
That  lie  deep  buried  yet  in  tenfold  night 
Ah!  wretched  father  of  a  wretched  son. 
Whom  thy  paternal  prudence  has  undone  ! 
How  will  remembrance  of  this  blinded  care 
Bend  down  thy  head  with  anguish  and  despair! 
Such  dire  effects  from  avarice  arise. 
That  deaf  to  Nature's  voice  and  vainly  wise, 
Vol.  III.— 3 


With  force  severe  endeavours  to  control 
The  noblest  passions  that  inspire  the  soul. 
But,  O  thou  sacred  Power  !  whose  law  connect* 
Th'  eternal  chain  of  causes  and  eflfects, 
Let  not  thy  chastening  ministers  of  rage 
Afflict  with  sharp  remorse  his  feeble  age  I 
And  you,  Arion!  who  with  these  the  last 
Of  all  our  crew  survive  the  shipwreck  past — 
Ah!  cease  to  mourn!  those  friendly  tears  restrain; 
Nor  give  my  dying  moments  keener  pain  ! 
Since  Heaven  may  soon  thy  wandering  steps  re- 
store. 
When  parted,  hence,  to  England's  distant  shore 
Shouldst  thou  th'  unwilling  messenger  of  Fate 
To  him  the  tragic  story  first  relate, 
O !  friendship's  generous  ardour  then  suppress, 
Nor  hint  the  fatal  cause  of  my  distress  ; 
Nor  let  each  horrid  incident  sustain 
The  lengthen'd  tale  to  aggravate  his  pain. 
Ah  !  then  remember  well  my  last  request, 
For  her  who  reigns  for  ever  in  my  breast ; 
Yet  let  him  prove  a  father  and  a  friend. 
The  helpless  maid  to  succour  and  defend. 
Say,  I  this  suit  implored  with  parting  breath. 
So  Heaven  befriend  him  at  his  hour  of  death! 
But  O,  to  lovely  Anna  shouldst  thou  tell 
What  dire  untimely  end  thy  friend  befell, 
Draw  o'er  the  dismal  scene  soft  Pity's  veil ; 
And  lightly  touch  the  lamentable  tale : 
Say  that  my  love,  inviolably  true. 
No  change,  no  diminution  ever  knew;  ' 

Lo !  her  bright  image  pendant  on  my  neck. 
Is  all  Palemon  rescued  from  the  wreck : 
Take  it,  and  say,  when  panting  in  the  wave, 
I  struggled  life  and  this  alone  to  save! 

"  My  soul,  that  fluttering  hastens  to  be  free, 
Would  yet  a  train  of  thoughts  impart  to  thee  ; 
But  strives  in  vain  ; — the  chilling  ice  of  Death 
Congeals   my  blood,  and   choaks   the  stream  of 

breath  : 
Resign'd,  she  quits  her  comfortless  abode, 
To  course  that  long,  unknown,  eternal  road. — 
O  sacred  source  of  ever-living  light ! 
Conduct  the  weary  wanderer  in  her  flight! 
Direct  her  onward  to  that  peaceful  shore. 
Where  peril,  pain,  and  death  are  felt  no  more ! 
"When  thou  some  tale  of  hapless  love  shal; 
hear. 
That  steals  from  Pity's  eye  the  melting  tear. 
Of  two  chaste  hearts  by  mutual  passion  join'd 
To  absence,  sorrow,  and  despair  consign'd, 
O!  then  to  swell  the  tides  of  social  wo 
That  heal  th'  afflicted  bosom  they  o'erflow. 
While  Memory  dictates,  this  sad  shipwreck  tell, 
And  what  distress  thy  wretched  friend  befell  I 
Then  while  in  streams  of  soft  compassion  drown'd 
The  swains  lament  and  maidens  weep  around  ; 
While  lisping  children,  touch'd  with  infant  fear. 
With  wonder  gaze,  and  drop  th'  unconscious  tear 
O  !  then  this  moral  bid  their  souls  retain. 
All  thoughts  of  happiness  on  earth  are  vain."* 
The  last  faint  accents  trembled  on  his  tongue, 
That  now  inactive  to  the  palate  clung  ; 


• sad  scilicet  ultima  semper 

Expectanda  dies  horaini ;  "  dicique  bealus 
Ante  obitum  nemo  gupremaquefunera  debet." 

Ovid.  Met. 


34 


FALCONER. 


Canto  1  * 


His  bosom  heaves  a  mortal  groan — he  dies ! 
And  shades  eternal  sink  upon  his  eyes ! 

As  thus  defaced  in  death  Palemon  lay, 
Arion  gazed  upon  the  lifeless  clay : 
Transfix'd  he  stood  with  awful  terror  fill'd, 
While  down  his  cheek  the  silent  drops  distill'd 

"  O  ill-starr'd  votary,  of  unspotted  truth ! 
Untimely  perish'd  in  the  bloom  of  youth, 
Should  e'er  thy  friend  arrive  on  Albion's  land, 
He  will  obey,  though  painful,  thy  demand  : 
His  tongue  the  dreadful  story  shall  display, 
And  all  the  horrors  of  this  dismal  day ! 
Disastrous  day !  what  ruin  has  thou  bred ! 
What  anguish  to  the  living  and  the  dead ! 
How  hast  thou  left  the  widow  all  forlorn. 
And  ever  doom'd  the  orphan  child  to  mourn 


Through  life's  sad  journey  hopeless  to  complain' 
Can  sacred  Justice  these  events  ordain  ? 
But,  O  my  soul !  avoid  that  wondrous  maze 
Where  Reason,  lost  in  endless  error,  strays ! 
As  through  this  thorny  vale  of  life  we  run, 
Great  Cause  of  all  effects,  Thy  will  be  done.'** 
Now  had  the  Grecians  on'  the  beach  arrived 
To  aid  the  helpless  few  who  yet  survived  : 
While  passing  they  behold  the  waves  o'erspread 
With  shatter'd  rafts  and  corses  of  the  dead. 
Three  still  alive,  benumb'd  and  faint  they  find, 
In  mournful  silence  on  a  rock  reclined  ; 
The  generous  natives,  moved  with  social  pain, 
The  feeble  strangers  in  their  arms  sustain ; 
With  pitying  sighs  their  hapless  lot  deplore. 
And  lead  them  trembling  from  the  fatal  show 


ANNE  LETITIA  BARBAULD. 


This  gifted  authoress,  the  daughter  of  Dc.  John 
Aikin,  was  born  at  Kilworth  Harcourt,  in  Leices- 
tershire, on  the  20th  of  June,  1743.  Her  education 
was  entirely  domestic,  but  the  quickness  of  appre- 
hension, and  desire  for  learning  which  she  mani- 
fested, induced  her  father  to  lend  her  his  assist- 
ance towards  enabling  her  to  obtain  a  knowledge 
of  Latin  and  Greek.  On  the  removai  of  Dr.  Aikin 
to  superintend  the  dissenting  academy  at  Warring- 
ton, in  Lancashire,  she  accompanied  him  thither, 
in  her  fifteenth  year,  when  she  is  said  to  have 
possessed  great  beauty  of  person  and  vivacity  of 
intellect.  The  associates  she  met  with  at  War- 
rington were  in  every  way  congenial  to  her  mind, 
and  among  others,  were  Drs.  Priestley  and  En- 
field, with  whom  she  formed  an  intimate  acquaint- 
ance. In  1773,  she  was  induced  to  publish  a  vo- 
lume of  her  poems,  which,  in  the  course  of  the 
same  year,  went  through  four  editions.  They 
were  followed  by  miscellaneous  pieces  in  prose, 
by  J.  (her  brother)  and  A.  L.  Aikin,  which  con- 
siderably added  to  her  reputation. 

In  1774,  she  married  the  Rev.  Rochemont  Bar- 
bauld,  with  whom  she  removed  to  Palgrave,  near 
Dis,  in  Suffolk,  where  her  husband  had  charge  of 
a  dissenting  congregation,  and  was  about  to  open 
a  boarding-school.  Mrs.  Barbauld  assisted  him  in 
the  task  of  instruction ;  and  some  of  her  pupils, 
who  have  since  risen  to  literary  eminence,  among 
whom  were  the  present  Mr.  Denman  and  Sir 
William  Gell,  have  acknowledged  the  value  of 
her  lessons  in  English  composition,  and  declama- 
tion. In  1775,  appeared  a  small  volume  from  her 
pen,  entitled  Devotional  Pieces,  compiled  from  the 
Psalms  of  David,  &c. ;  a  collection  which  met 
with  little  success  and  some  animadversion.  In 
1778,  she  published  her  Lessons  for  Children  from 
Two  to  Three  years  Old  ;  and,  in  1781,  Hymns  in 
Prose,  for  Children;  both  of  which  may  be  said  to 
have  formed  an  era  in  the  art  of  instruction,  and 
the  former  has  been  translated  into  French,  by  M. 
Pasquier. 

In  1785,  Mrs.  Barbauld  and  her  husband  gave 
up  their  school  and  visited  the  continent,  whence 
they  returned  to  England  in  June,  1786,  and  in  the 
following  year  took  up  their  residence  at  Hamp- 
stead.  Our  authoress  now  began  to  use  her  pen 
©a  the  popular  side  of  politics,  and  published,  suc- 
cessively, An  Address  to  the  Opposers  of  the  Re- 
peal of  the  Corporation  and  Test  Acts;  A  Poetical 
Epistle  to  Mr.  Wilberforce  on  the  Rejection  of  the 
Bill  for  Abolishing  the  Slave  Trade  ;  Remarks  on 
Gilbert  \^'akefield's  Inquiry  into  the   Expediency  | 


and  Propriety  of  Public  or  Social  Worship;  and 
Sins  of  Government,  Sins  of  the  Nation,  or  a  Dis- 
course for  the  Fast,  which  last  appeared  in  1793 
In  1802,  she  removed,  with  Mr.  Barbauld,  to 
Stoke  Newington ;  and  in  1804,  published  selec- 
tions from  the  Spectator,  Tatler,  Guardian,  and 
Freeholder,  vi'ith  a  preliminary  essay,  which  is 
regarded  as  her  most  successful  effort  in  literary 
criticism.  In  the  same  year,  appeared  her  edition 
of  The  Correspondence  of  Richardson,  in  six  vo- 
lumes, duodecimo;  but  the  most  valuable  part  of 
this  work  is  the  very  elegant  and  interesting  life 
of  that  novelist,  and  the  able  review  of  his  works, 
from  the  pen  of  our  authoress.  In  1808,  she  be- 
came a  widow ;  and  in  1810,  appeared  her  edition 
of  The  British  Novelists,  with  an  introductory 
essay,  and  biographical  and  critical  notices  prefixed 
to  the  works  of  each  author.  In  the  following 
year  she  published  a  collection  of  prose  and  verse, 
under  the  title  of  The  Female  Spectator;  and  in 
the  sajne  year,  appeared  that  original  offspring  ot 
her  genius,  Eighteen  Hundred  and  Eleven,  a 
poem.  This  was  the  last  separate  publication  of 
Mrs.  Barbauld,  who  died  on  the  9th  of  March, 
1825,  in  the  eighty-second  year  of  her  ag«.  Au 
edition  of  her  works  appeared  in  the  same  year, 
in  two  octavo  volumes,  with  a  memoir,  by  Iiucy 
Aikin. 

Mrs.  Barbauld  is  one  of  the  most  eminent  femalb 
writers  which  England  has  produced ;  and  both  in 
prose  and  poetry  she  is  hardly  surpassed  by  any 
of  her  sex,  in  the  present  age.  With  respect  to  the 
style,  we  shall,  perhaps,  best  describe  it,  by  calling 
it  that  of  a  female  Johnson ;  and  her  Essay  on 
Romances  is  a  professed  imitation  of  the  manner 
of  that  great  critic.  He  is  himself  said  to  have 
allowed  it  to  be  the  best  that  was  ever  attempted  ; 
"  because  it  reflected  the  colour  of  his  thoughts,  no 
less  than  the  turn  of  his  expressions."  She  is, 
however,  not  without  a  style  of  her  own,  which 
is  graceful,  easy,  and  natural :  alike  calculated  to 
engage  the  most  common,  and  the  most  elevated 
understanding.  Her  poems  are  addressed  more  to 
the  feelings  than  to  the  imagination, — more  to  the 
reason  than  the  senses ;  but  the  language  never 
becomes  prosaic,  and  has  sublimity  and  pathos, 
totally  free  from  bombast  and  affectation.  The 
spirit  of  piety  and  benevolence  that  breathes 
through  her  works  pervaded  her  life,  and  she  is  an 
amiable  example  to  her  sex  that  it  is  possible  to 
combine,  without  danger  to  its  morals  or  religious 
principles,  a  manly  understanding  with  a  feminine 
and  susceptible  heart. 


36 


B  A  R  B  A  U  L  D. 


CORSICA. 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  YEAR  1765.. 

A  manly  race 

Of  unsubmitting  spirit,  wise  and  brave  ; 
Who  still  through  bleeding  ages  struggled  hard 
To  hold  a  generous  undiminish'd  state ; 
Too  much  in  vain 

Thomson. 

Hail,  generous  Corsica  !  unconquer'd  isle  ! 
The  fort  of  freedom ;  that  amidst  the  waves 
Stands  like  a  rock  of  adamant,  and  dares 
The  wildest  furj'  of  the  beating  storm. 

And  are  there  yet,  in  this  late  sickly  age,       , 
Unkindly  to  the  towering  growths  of  virtue, 
Such  bold  exalted  spirits  ?    Men  whose  deeds. 
To  the  bright  annals  of  old  Greece  opposed. 
Would  throw  m  shades  her  yet  unrivall'd  name. 
And  dim  the  lustre  of  her  fairest  page  ! 
And  glows  the  flame  of  Liberty  so  strong 
In  this  lone  speck  of  earth  !  this  spot  obscure, 
Shaggy  with  woods,  and  crusted  o'er  with  rock, 
By  slaves  surrounded,  and  by  slaves  oppress'd! 
What  then  should  Britons  feel  ? — should  they  not 

catch 
The  warm  contagion  of  heroic  ardour. 
And  kindle  at  a  fire  so  like  their  own  ? 

Such  were  the  working  thoughts  which  swell'd 
the  breast 
Of  generous  Boswell ;  when  with  nobler  aim 
And  views  beyond  the  narrow  beaten  track 
By  trivial  fancy  trod,  he  turn'd  his  course 
From  polish'd  Gallia's  soft  delicious  vales, 
From  the  gray  relics  of  imperial  Rome, 
From  her  long  galleries  of  laurell'd  stone; 
Her  chisell'd  heroes  and  her  marble  gods, 
Whose  dumb  majestic  pomp  yet  awes  the  world, 
To  animated  forms  of  patriot  zeal; 
Warm  in  the  living  majesty  of  virtue ; 
Elate  with  fearless  spirit;  firm;  resolved  ; 
By  fortune  nor  subdued,  nor  awed  by  power. 
How  raptured    fancy   burns,   while    warm    k 
thought 
I  trace  the  pictured  landscape ;  while  I  kiss 
With  pilgrim  lips  devout  the  sacred  soil 
Stain'd  with  the  blood  of  heroes.    Cyrnus,  hail ! 
Hail  to  thy  rocky,  deep  indented  shores. 
And  pointed  cliffs,  which  hear  the  chafing  deep 
Incessant  foaming  round  thy  shaggy  sides. 
Hail  to  thy  winding  bays,  thy  sheltering  ports, 
And  ample  harbours,  which  inviting  stretch 
Their  hospitable  arms  to  every  sail : 
Thy  numerous  streams,   that   bursting   from   the 

cliffs 
Down  the  steep  channell'd  rock  impetuous  pour 
With  grateful  murmur :  on  the  fearful  edge 
Of  the  rude  precipice,  thy  hamlets  brown 
And  straw-roof d  cots,  which  from  the  level  vale 
Scarce  seen,  amongst  the  craggy  hanging  cliffs 
Seem  like  an  eagle's  nest  aerial  built. 
Thy  swelling  mountains,  brown  with  solemn 

shade 
Of  various  trees,  that  wave  their  giant  arms 
O'er  the  rough  sons  of  freedom ;  lofty  pines, 
And  hardy  fir,  and  ilex  ever  green. 
And  spreading  chestnut,  with  each  humbler  plant, 


And  shrub  of  fragrant  leaf,  that  clothes  their  sides 
With  living  verdure ;  whence  the  clustering  bee 
Extracts  her  golden  dews  :  the  shinmg  box 
And  sweet-leaved  myrtle,  aromatic  thyme. 
The  prickly  juniper,  and  the  green  leaf 
Which  feeds  the  spinning  worm;  while  glowing 

bright 
Beneath  the  various  foliage,  wildly  spreads 
The  arbutus,  and  rears  his  scarlet  fruit 
Luxuriant,  mantling  o'er  the  craggy  steeps  ; 
And  thy  own  native  laurel  crowns  the  scene. 
Hail  to  thy  savage  forests,  awful,  deep ; 
Thy  tangled  thickets,  and  thy  crowded  woods, 
The  haunt  of  herds  untamed  ;  which  sullen  bound 
From  rock  to  rock  with  fierce  unsocial  air. 
And  wilder  gaze,  as  conscious  of  the  power 
That  loves  to  reign  amid  the  lonely  scenes 
Of  unquell'd  nature  :  precipices  huge, 
And  tumbling  torrents ;  trackless  deserts,  plains 
Fenced  in  with  guardian  rocks,  jvhose  quarries 

teem 
With  shining  steel,  that  to  the  cultured  fields 
And  sunny  hills  which  wave  with  bearded  grain, 
Defends  their  homely  produce.     Liberty, 
The  mountain  goddess,  loves  to  range  at  large 
AmJd  such  scenes,  and  on  the  iron  soil 
Prints  her  majestic  step.     For  these  she  scorns 
The  green  enamell'd  vales,  the  velvet  lap 
Of  smooth  savannahs,  where  the  pillow'd  head 
Of  luxury  reposes;  balmy  gales. 
And   bovvers   that   breathe   of  bliss.     For  theeek 

when  first 
This  isle  emerging  like  a  beauteous  gem 
From  the  dark  bosom  of  the  Tyrrhene  main, 
Rear'd  its  fair  front,  she  mark'd  it  for  her  own. 
And  with  her  spirit  warm'd.     Her  genuine  sons, 
A  broken  remnant,  from  the  generous  stock 
Of  ancient  Greece,  from  Sparta's  sad  remains, 
True  to  their  high  descent,  preserved  unquench'd 
The  sacred  fire  through  many  a  barbarous  age  : 
Whom,  nor  the  iron  rod  of  cruel  Carthage, 
Nor  the  dread  sceptre  of  imperial  Rome, 
Nor  bloody  Goth,  nor  grisly  Saracen, 
Nor  the  long  galling  yoke  of  proud  Liguria, 
Could  crush  into  subjection.     Still  unquell'd 
They  rose  superior,  bursting  from  their  chains. 
And  claim'd  man's  dearest  birthright,  liberty  : 
And  long,  through  many  a  hard  unequal  strife. 
Maintain'd  the  glorious  conflict ;  long  withstood, 
With  single  arm,  the  whole  collected  force 
Of  haughty  Genoa,  and  ambitious  Gaul. 
And  shall  withstand  it — Trust  the  faithful  muse' 
It  is  not  in  the  force  of  mortal  arm, 
Scarcely  in  fate,  to  bind  the  struggling  soul 
That  gall'd  by  wanton  power,  indignant  swells 
Against  oppression ;  breathing  great  revenge, 
Careless  of  life,  determined  to  be  free. 
And  favouring  Heaven   approves  :    for  see  the 

man. 
Born  to  exalt  his  own,  and  give  mankind 
A  glimpse  of  higher  natures :  just,  as  great; 
The  soul  of  council,  and  the  nerve  of  war  j 
Of  high  unshaken  spirit,  temper'd  sweet 
With  soft  urbanity,  and  polish'd  grace. 
And  attic  wit,  and  gay  unstudied  smiles  : 
Whom  Heaven  in  some  propitious  hour  endow 'd 
With  every  purer  virtue  :  gave  him  all 
That  lifts  the  hero,  or  adorns  the  man. 


THE  MOUSE'S  PETITION. 


37 


Gave  him  the  eye  sublime ;  the  searching  glance, 

Keen,  scanning  deep,  that  smites  the  guilty  soul 

As  with  a  beam  from  heaven  :  on  his  brow 

Serene,  and  spacious  front,  set  the  broad  seal 

Of  dignity  and  rule  ;  then  smiled  benign 

On  this  fair  pattern  of  a  God  below,  [breast 

High   wrought,   and    breathed    into  his   swelling 

The  large  ambitious  wish  to  save  his  country. 

O  beauteous  title  to  immortal  fame  ! 

The  man  devoted  to  the  public,  stands 

In  the  bright  records  of  superior  worth, 

A  step  below  the  skies  :  if  he  succeed, 

The  first  fair  lot  which  earth  affords,  is  his : 

And  if  he  falls,  he  falls  above  a  throne. 

When  such  their  leader,  can  the  brave  despair? 

Freedom  the  cause,  and  Paoli  the  chief  I 

Success  to  your  fair  hopes  '     A  British  muse, 

Though   weak  and  powerless,  lifts   her   fervent 

%oice. 
And  breathes  a  prayer  for  your  success.    O  could 
She  scatter  blessings  as  the  morn  sheds  dews, 
To  drop  upon  your  heads !    But  patient  hope 
Must  wait  th'  appointed  hour  ;  secure  of  this, 
That  never  with  the  indolent  and  weak 
Will  Freedom  deign  to  dwell  ;  she  must  be  seized 
By  that  bold  arm  that  wrestles  for  the  blessing : 
Tis  Heaven's  best  prize,  and  must  be  bought  with 

blood. 
When  the  storm  thickens,  when  the  combat  burns, 
•And  pain  and  death  in  every  horrid  shape 
That  can  appal  the  feeble,  prowl  around, 
Then  Virtue  triumphs  ;  then  her  towering  form 
Dilates  with  kindling  majesty  ;  her  mien 
Breathes  a  diviner  spirit,  and  enlarged 
Each  spreading  feature,  with  an  ampler  port 
And  bolder  tone,  exulting,  rides  the  storm. 
And  joys  amidst  the  tempest.    Then  she  reaps 
Her  golden  harvest ;  fruits  of  nobler  growth 
And  higher  relish  than  meridian  suns 
Can  ever  ripen ;  fair,  heroic  deeds, 
And  godlike  action.     'Tis  not  meats  and  drinks, 
And  balmy  airs,  and  vernal  suns  and  showers,' 
That  feed  and  ripen  minds;  'tis  toil  and  danger; 
And  wrestling  with  the  stubborn  gripe  of  fate  ; 
And  war,  and  sharp  distress,  and  paths  obscure 
And  dubious.    The  bold  swimmer  joys  not  so 
To  feel  the  proud  w-aves  under  him,  and  beat 
With  strong  repelling  arm  the  billowy  surge ; 
The  generous  courser  does  not  so  exult 
To  toss  his  floating  mane  against  the  wind, 
And  neigh  amidst  the  thunder  of  the  war, 
As  Virtue  to  oppose  her  swelling  breast 
Like  a  firm  shield  against  the  darts  of  fate. 
And  when  her  sons   in  that  rough  school  have 

learn'd 
To  smile  at  danger,  then  the  hand  that  raised, 
Shall  hush  the  storm,  and  lead  the  shining  train 
Of  peaceful  years  in  bright  procession  on. 
Then  shall  the  shepherd's  pipe,  the  muse's  lyre. 
On  Cyrnus'  shores  be  heard  :  her  grateful  sons 
With  loud  acclaim  and  hymns  of  cordial  praise 
Shall  hail  their  high  deliverers;  every  name 
To  virtue  dear  be  from  oblivion  snatched 
And  placed  among  the  stars  :  but  chiefly  thine, 
Thme,  Paoli,  with  sweetest  sound  shall  dwell 
On  their  applauding  lips  ;  thy  sacred  name, 
Endear'd  to  long  posterity,  some  muse, 
More  worthy  of  the  theme,  shall  consecrate 


To  after-ages,  and  applauding  worlds 

Shall  bless  the  godlike  man  who  saved  his  country. 

So  vainly  wish'd,  so  fondly  hoped  the  muse  : 
Too  fondly  hoped.     The  iron  fates  prevail, 
And  Cyrnus  is  no  more.     Her  generous  sons. 
Less   vanquish'd   than  o'erwhelm'd,  by  number* 

crush'd, 
Admired,  unaided  fell.    So  strives  the  moon 
In  dubious  battle  with  the  gathering  clouds. 
And   strikes   a  splendour   through   them ;   till  at 

length 
Storms  rolled  on  storms  involve  the  face  of  heaven 
And  quench  her  struggling  fires.    Forgive  the  zeal 
That,  too  presumptuous,  whisper'd  better  things. 
And  read  the  book  of  destiny  amiss. 
Not  with  the  purple  colouring  of  success 
Is  virtue  best  adorn'd  :  th'  attempt  is  praise 
There  yet  remains  a  freedom,  nobler  far 
Than  kings  or  senates  can  destroy  or  give  : 
Beyond  the  proud  oppressor's  cruel  grasp 
Seated  secure,  uninjured,  undestroy'd  ; 
Worthy  of  gods  : — the  freedom  of  the  mind 


THE  MOUSE'S  PETITION.* 

O  HEAR  a  pensive  prisoner's  prayer, 

For  liberty  that  sighs  : 
And  never  let  thine  heart  be  shut 

Against  the  wretch's  cries  ! 

For  here  forlorn  and  sad  I  sif. 

Witliin  the  wiry  grate  ; 
And  tremble  at  th'  approaching  mom, 

W^hich  brings  impending  fate. 

If  e'er  thy  breast  with  freedom  glow'd, 
And  spurn'd  a  tyrant's  chain, 

Let  not  thy  strong  oppressive  force 
A  free-born  mouse  detain ! 

O  do  not  stain  with  guiltless  blood 

Thy  hospitable  hearth ; 
Nor  triumph  that  thy  wiles  betray'd 

A  prize  so  little  worth. 

The  scatter'd  gleanings  of  a  feast 

My  frugal  meals  supply  ; 
But  if  thine  unrelenting  heart 

That  slender  boon  deny, — 

The  cheerful  light,  the  vital  air. 
Are  blessings  widely  given; 

Let  Nature's  commoners  enjoy 
The  common  gifts  of  heaven. 

The  well-taught  philosophic  mind 

To  all  compassion  gives  ; 
Casts  round  the  world  an  equal  eyo 

And  feels  for  all  that  lives. 


*  Found  in  the  trap  where  he  had  been  confined  all 
night  by  Dr.  Priestley,  for  t  he  sake  of  making  expryi 
ments  with  different  kinds  o  air. 


33 


BARBAULD. 


'J  mind, — as  ancient  sages  taught, — 

A  never-dying  flame, 
"Still  shifts  through  matter's  varying  forms. 

In  every  form  the  same  ; 

Beware,  lest  in  the  worm  you  crush, 

A  brother's  soul  you  find  ; 
And  tremble  lest  thy  luckless  hand 

Dislodge  a  kindred  mind. 

Or,  if  this  transient  gleam  of  day 

Be  all  of  life  we  share. 
Let  pity  plead  within  thy  breast 

That  little  all  to  spare. 

So  may  thy  hospitable  board 
With  health  and  peace  be  crown'd  ; 

And  every  charm  of  heartfelt  ease 
Beneath  thy  roof  be  found, 

So  when  destruction  lurks  unseen. 
Which  men,  like  mice,  may  share. 

May  some  kind  angel  clear  thy  path, 
And  break  the  hidden  snare. 


CHARACTERS. 

O  BORN  to  soothe  distress  and  lighten  care. 

Lively  as  soft,  and  innocent  as  fair ! 

Blest  with  that  sweet  simplicity  of  thought 

So  rarely  found,  and  never  to  be  taught ; 

Of  winning  speech,  endearing,  artless,  kind. 

The  loveliest  pattern  of  a  female  mind  ; 

Like  some  fair  spirit  from  the  realms  of  rest. 

With  all  her  native  heaven  within  her  breast; 

So  pure,  so  good,  she  scarce  can  gues^at  sin. 

But  thinks  the  world  without  like  that  within ; 

Such  melting  tenderness,  so  fond  to  bless, 

Her  charity  almost  become  excess. 

Wealth  may  be  courted,  Wisdom  be  revered. 

And  Beauty  praised,  and  brutal  Strength  be  fear'd  ; 

But  Goodness  only  can  affection  move. 

And  love  must  owe  its  origin  to  love 


•    lllam  quicquid  agit,  quoquo  vestigia  flectit, 
Componit,  furtim,  subsequlturque  decor. 

TlBUL. 

Of  gentle  manners,  and  of  taste  refined. 

With  all  the  graces  of  a  polish'd  mind  ; 

Clear  sense  and  truth  still  shone  in  all  she  spoke. 

And  from  her  lips  no  idle  sentence  broke. 

Each  nicer  elegance  of  art  she  knew  ; 

Correctly  fair,  and  regularly  true. 

Her  ready  fingers  plied  with  equal  skill 

The  pencil's  task,  the  needle,  or  the  quill  ; 

So  poised  her  feelings,  so  composed  her  soul, 

So  subject  all  to  reason's  calm  control, — 

One  only  passion,  strong  and  unconfined, 

Disturb'd  the  balance  of  her  even  mind 

In  every  word,  and  look,  and  thought  confest  — 

One  passion  ruled  despotic  in  lier  breast. 

But  that  was  love ;  and  love  delights  to  bless 

The  generous  transpoits  of  a  fond  excess. 


Happy  old  mar. ,  who  stretch'd  beneath  the  shade 
Of  large  growr.  :rees,  or  in  the  rustic  porch 
With  woodbine  canopied,  where  linger  yet 
The  hospitable  virtues,  calm  enjoy'st 
Nature's  best  blessings  all ; — a  healthy  age 
Ruddy  and  vigorous,  native  cheerfulness. 
Plain-hearted  friendship,  simple  piety. 
The  rural  manners  and  the  rural  joys 
Friendly  to  life.    O  rude  of  speech,  yet  rich 
In  genuine  worth,  not  unobserved  shall  pass 
Thy  bashful  virtues !  for  the  muse  shall  mark, 
Detect  thy  charities,  and  call  to  light 
Thy  secret  deeds  of  mercy  ;  while  the  poor, 
The  desolate,  and  friendless,  at  thy  gate, 
A  numerous  family,  with  better  praise 
Shall  hallow  in  their  hearts  thy  spotless  name 


Such  were  the  dames  of  old  heroic  days. 
Which  faithful  story  yet  delights  to  praise  ; 
Who,  great  in  useful  works,  hung  o'er  the  loom,— 
The  mighty  mothers  of  immortal  Rome  : 
Obscure,  in  sober  dignity  retired, 
They  more  deserved  than  sought  to  be  admired ; 
The  household  virtues  o'er  their  honour'd  head 
Their  simple  grace  and  modest  lustre  shed  : 
Chaste  their  attire,  their  feet  unused  to  roam, 
They  loved  the  sacred  threshold  of  their  home  , 
Yet  true  to  glory,  flinn'd  the  generous  flame, 
Bade  lovers,  brothers,  sons  aspire  to  fame  ; 
In  the  young  bosom  cherish'd  Virtue's  seed. 
The  secret  springs  of  many  a  godlike  deed. 
So  the  fair  stream  in  some  sequestor'd  glade 
With  lowly  state  glides  silent  through  the  shade , 
Yet  by  the  smiling  meads  her  urn  is  blest. 
With  freshest  flowers  her  rising  banks  are  drest. 
And  groves  of  laurel  by  her  sweetness  fed. 
High  o'er  the  forest  lift  their  verdant  head. 


the 


Is  there  whom  genius  and  whom  taste  adorn 
With  rare  but  happy  union  ;  in  whose  breast 
Calm,  philosophic,  thoughtful,  largely  fraught 
With   stores   of  various    knowledge,   dwell 

powers 
That  trace  out  secret  causes,  and  unveil 
Great  Nature's  awful  face  ?    Is  there  whose  hour* 
Of  still  domestic  leisure  breathe  the  soul 
Of  friendship,  peace,  and  elegant  delight 
Beneath  poetic  shades,  where  leads  the  muse 
Through  walks  of  fragance,  and  the  fairy  groves 
Where  young  ideas  blossom  ? — Is  there  one 
Whose  tender  hand,  lenient  of  human  woes. 
Wards  off  the  dart  of  death,  and  smooths  the  couch 
Of  torturing  anguish  ?    On  so  dear  a  name 
May  blessings  dwell,  honour  and  cordial  praise ; 
Nor  heed  he  be  a  brother  to  be  loved. 


Champion  of  Truth,  alike  through  Nature's  field, 
And  where  in  sacred  leaves  she  shines  reveal  d,— 
Alike  in  both,  eccentric,  piercing,  bold. 
Like  his   own  lightnings,   which  no  chains    can 

hold  ; 
Neglecting  caution,  and  disdaining  art, 
He  seeks  no  armour  for  a  naked  heart : — 
Pursue  the  track  thy  ardent  genius  shows. 
That  like  the  sun  illumines  where  it  goes  • 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


Travel  the  various  map  of  Science  o'er, 
Record  past  wonders,  and  discover  more  ; 
Pour  thy  free  spirit  o'er  the  breathing  page, 
And  waiie  the  virtue  of  a  careless  age. 
But  O  forgive,  if  touched  with  fond  regret 
Fancy  recalls  the  scenes  she  can't  forget. 
Recalls  the  vacant  smile,  the  social  hours 
Which   charm'd  us  once,  for  once  those  scenes 

were  ours ! 
And  while  thy  praises  through  wide  realms  extend, 
We  sit  in  shades,  and  mourn  the  absent  friend. 
So  where  th'  impetuous  river  sweeps  ifae  plain, 
Itself  a  sea,  and  rushes  to  the  main  ; 
While  its  firm  banks  repel  conflicting  tides, 
And  stalely  on  its  breast  the  vessel  glides ; 
Admiring  much  the  shepherd  stands  to  gaze. 
Awe-struck,  and  mingling  wonder  with  his  praise  ; 
Yet  more  he  loves  its  winding  path  to  trace 
Through  beds  of  flowers,  and  Nature's  rural  face, 
While  yet  a  stream  the  silent  vale  is  cheer'd. 
By  many  a  recollected  scene  endear'd, 
Where  trembling  first  beneath  the  poplar  shade 
He  tuned  his  pipe,  to  suit  the  wild  cascade. 


AN  INVENTORY   OF  THE  FURNITURE  IN 
R    PRIESTLEY'S  STUDY 

A  MAP  of  every  country  known. 

With  not  a  foot  of  land  his  own. 

A  list  of  folks  that  kick'd  a  dust 

On  this  poor  globe,  from  Ptol.  the  First ; 

He  hopes, — indeed  it  is  but  fair, — 

Some  day  to  get  a  corner  there. 

A  group  of  all  the  British  kings. 

Fair  emblem !  on  a  packthread  swings. 

The  fathers,  ranged  in  goodly  row, 

\.  decent,  venerable  show. 

Writ  a  great  while  ago,  they  tell  us, 

And  many  an  inch  o'ertop  their  fellows. 

A  Juvenal  to  hunt  for  mottoes  ; 

And  Ovid's  tales  of  nymphs  and  grottoes. 

The  meek-robed  lawyers,  all  in  white  ; 

Pure  as  the  lamb, — at  least  to  sight 

A  shelf  of  bottles,  jar  and  phial. 

By  which  the  rogues  he  can  defy  all, — 

Ail  fill'd  with  lightning  keen  and  genuine, 

And  many  a  little  imp  he'll  pen  you  in; 

Which,  like  Le  Sage's  sprite,  let  out 

Among  the  neighbours  makes  a  rout ; 

Brings  down  the  lightning  on  their  houses, 

And  kills  their  geese,  and  frights  their  spouses. 

A  rare  thermometer,  by  which 

He  settles  to  the  nicest  pitch. 

The  just  degrees  of  heat,  to  raise 

Sermons,  or  politics,  or  plays. 

Papers  and  books,  a  strange  mix'd  olio. 

From  chilling  touch  to  pompous  folio ; 

Answer,  remark,  reply,  rejoinder. 

Fresh  from  the  mint,  all  stamp'd  and  coin'd  here  - 

Likft  new-made  glass,  set  by  to  cool, 

BeOre  it  bears  the  workman's  tool. 

A  blotted  proof-sheet,  wet  from  Bowling. 

— "  How  can  a  man  his  anger  hold  in  ?" — 

Forgotten  rhymes,  and  college  themes, 

*-Vorm-«aten  plans,  and  embryo  schemes ; — 


A  mass  of  heterogeneous  matter, 

A  chaos  dark,  nor  land  nor  water ; — 

New  books,  like  new-bom  infants,  stand, 

Waiting  the  printer's  clothing  hand  ; — 

Others,  a  motley  ragged  brood, 

Their  limbs  unfashion'd  all,  and  rudo. 

Like  Cadmus'  half-form'd  men  appear ; 

One  rears  a  helm,  one  lifts  a  spear. 

And  feet  were  lopp'd  and  fingers  torn 

Before  their  fellow  limbs  were  born ; 

A  leg  began  to  kick  and  sprawl 

Before  the  head  was  seen  at  all, 

Which  quiet  as  a  mushroom  lay 

Till  crumbling  hillocks  gave  it  way ; 

And  all,  like  controversial  writing. 

Were  born  with  teeth,  and  sprung  up  figh  ing 

"  But  what  is  this,"  I  hear  you  cry , 
"  \Vhich  saucily  provokes  my  eye  ?" — 
A  thing  unknown,  without  a  name. 
Born  of  the  air  and  doom'd  to  flame. 


ON  A  LADY'S  WRITING. 

Her  even  lines  her  steady  temper  show. 
Neat  as  her  dress,  and  polish'd  as  her  brow ; 
Strong  as  her  judgment,  easy  as  her  air ; 
Correct  though  free,  and  regular  though  fair: 
And  the  same  graces  o'er  her  pen  preside. 
That  form  her  manners  and  her  footsteps  guide 


ON  THE  DESERTED  VILLAGE. 

In  vain  fair  Auburn  weeps  her  desert  plains, 
She  moves  our  envy  who  so  well  complains  ; 
In  vgin  has  proud  oppression  laid  her  low, 
So  sweet  a  garland  on  her  faded  brow. 
Now,  Auburn,  now  absolve  impartial  fate, 
^Vhich  if  it  made  thee  wretched,  makes  thee  gretl 
So,  unobserved,  some  humble  plant  may  bloom. 
Till  crush'd  it  fills  the  air  with  sweet  perfume ; 
So,  had  thy  swains  in  ease  and  plenty  slept, 
Thy  poet  had  not  sung,  nor  Britain  wept. 
Nor  let  Britannia  mourn  her  drooping  bay, 
Unhonour'd  genius,  and  her  swift  decay ; 
O  patron  of  the  poor !  it  cannot  be, 
While  one — one  poet  yet  remains  like  thee ! 
Nor  can  the  muse  desert  our  favour'd  isle, 
Till  thou  desert  the  muse  and  scorn  her  smile 


HYMN  TO  CONTENT. 

natura  beatis 

Omnibus  esse  dedit,  si  quis  cognoverit  uti. 

Claudiaw. 

O  THOU,  the  nymph  with  placid  eye ! 
O  seldom  found,  yet  ever  nigh  ! 

Receive  my  temperate  vow: 
Not  all  the  storms  that  shake  the  pole 
Can  e'er  disturb  thy  halcyon  soul 

And  smooth  unalter'd  brow 


40 


BARBAULD. 


O  come,  in  simple  vest  array'd, 
With  -all  thy  sober  cheer  display'd, 

To  bless  my  longing  sight  ; 
Thy  mien  composed,  thy  even  pace, 
Thy  meek  regard,  thy  matron  grace. 

And  chaste  subdued  delight. 

No  more  by  varying  passions  beat, 
O  gently  guide  my  pilgrim  feet 

To  find  thy  hermit  cell  ; 
Where  in  some  pure  and  equal  sky, 
Beneath  thy  soft  indulgent  eye. 

The  modest  virtues  dwell. 

Simplicity  in  Attic  vest, 

And  Innocence  with  candid  breast. 

And  clear  undaunted  eye  ; 
And  Hope,  who  points  to  distant  years. 
Fair  opening  through  this  vale  of  tears 

A  vista  to  the  sky. 

There  Health,  through  whose  calm  bosom  glide 
The  temperate  joys  in  even  tide, 

That  rarely  ebb  or  flow  ; 
And  Patience  there,  thy  sister  meek. 
Presents  her  mild  unvarying  cheek 

To  meet  the  offer'd  blow. 

Her  influence  taught  the  Phrygian  sage 
A  tyrant  master's  wanton  rage 

With  settled  smiles  to  meet : 
Inured  to  toil  and  bitter  bread, 
He  bow'd  his  meek  submitted  head. 

And  kiss'd  thy  sainted  feet. 

But  thou,  O  nymph  retired  and  coy  I 
In  what  brown  hamlet  dost  thou  joy 

To  tell  thy  tender  tale  ? 
The  lowliest  children  of  the  ground. 
Moss-rose,  and  violet  blossom  round. 

And  lily  of  the  vale. 

0  say  what  soft  propitious  hour 

1  best  may  choose  to  hail  thy  power, 

And  court  thy  gentle  sway  ? 
When  Autumn  friendly  to  the  muse, 
Shall  thy  own  modest  tints  difl!use, 

And  shed  thy  milder  day. 

When  Eve,  her  dewy  star  beneath, 
Thy  balmy  spirit  loves  to  breathe, 

And  every  storm  is  laid  ; — 
If  such  an  hour  was  e'er  thy  choice. 
Oft  let  me  hear  thy  soothing  voice 

Low  whispering  through  the  shade. 


THE  ORIGIN  OF  SONG-WRITING-* 

Illic  indocto  pri^num  se  exercuit  arcu ; 

Hei  mihi  quam  doc*ns  nunc  habet  ille  manus  ! 

TiBUL. 

When  Cupid,  wanton  boy !  was  young, 
His  wings  unfledged,  and  rude  his  tongue, 
He  loiler'd  in  Arcadian  bowers. 
And  hid  his  bow  in  wreaths  of  flowers : 


'  Addressed  to  the  Author  of  Essays  on  Song-writing. 


Or  pierced  some  fond  unguarded  heart 
With  now  and  then  a  random  dart , 
But  heroes  scorned  the  idle  boy, 
And  love  was  but  a  shepherd's  toy. 
When  Venus,  vex'd  to  see  her  child 
Amid  the  forests  thus  run  wild. 
Would  point  him  out  some  nobler  gamt 
Gods  and  godlike  men  to  tame. 
She  seized  the  boy's  reluctant  hand, 
And  led  him  to  the  virgin  band, 
Where  the  sister  muses  round 
Swell  the  deep  majestic  sound ; 
And  in  solemn  strains  unite, 
Breathing  chaste,  severe  delight ; 
Songs  of  chiefs  and  heroes  old. 
In  unsubmitting  virtue  bold': 
Of  even  valour's  temperate  heat. 
And  toils  to  stubborn  patience  sweet ; 
Of  nodding  plumes  &jjd  burnish'd  arms 
And  glory's  bright  terrific  charms. 

The  potent  sounds  like  lightning  dart 
Resistless  through  the  glowing  heart; 
Of  power  to  lift  the  fixed  soul 
High  o'er  Fortune's  proud  control ; 
Kindling  deep,  prophetic  musing  ; 
Love  of  beauteous  death  infusing  ,* 
Scorn,  and  unconquerable  hate 
Of  tyrant  pride's  unhallow'd  state. 
The  boy  abash'd,  and  half  afraid, 
Beheld  each  chaste  immortal  maid  : 
Pallas  spread  her  Egis  there  ; 
Mars  stood  by  with  threatening  air; 
And  stem  Diana's  icy  look 
With  sudden  chill  his  bosom  struck. 

"  Daughters  of  Jove,  receive  the  child,' 
The  queen  of  beauty  said,  and  smiled  ; — 
Her  rosy  breath  perfumed  the  air. 
And  scatter'd  sweet  contagion  there 
Relenting  Nature  learn'd  to  languish, 
And  sicken'd  with  delightful  anguish : — 
"  Receive  him  artless  yet  and  young ; 
Refine  his  air,  and  smooth  his  tongue: 
Conduct  him  through  your  favourite  bower 
Enrich'd  with  fair  perennial  flowers. 
To  solemn  shades  and  springs  that  lie 
Remote  from  each  unhallow'd  eye  ; 
Teach  him  to  spell  those  mystic  names 
That  kindle  bright  immortal  flames  : 
And  guide  bis  young  unpractised  feet 
To  reach  coy  Learning's  lofty  seat." 

Ah,  luckless  hour  !  mistaken  maids. 
When  Cupid  sought  the  muses'  shades . 
Of  their  sweetest  notes  beguiled. 
By  the  sly  insiduous  child  ; 
Now  of  power  his  darts  are  found 
Twice  ten  thousand  times  to  wound. 
Now  no  more  the  slacken'd  strings 
Breathe  of  high  immortal  things, 
But  Cupid  tunes  the  Muse's  lyre 
To  languid  notes  of  soft  desire. 
In  every  clime,  in  every  tongue, 
'Tis  love  inspires  the  poet's  song. 
Hence  Sappho's  soft  infectious  page  ; 
Monimia's  wo  ;  Othello's  rage  ; 
Abandon'd  Dido's  fruitless  prayer  ; 
And  Eloisa's  long  despair; 
The  garland,  blest  with  many  a  vow. 
For  haughty  Sacharissa's  brow  ; 


ADDRESS    TO    THE    DEITY. 


41 


And  wash'd  with  tears,  the  mournful  verse 

That  Petrarch  laid  on  Laura's  hearse. 

But  more  than  all  the  sister  choir, 

Music  confess'd  the  pleasing  fire. 

Here  sovereign  Cupid  reign'd  alone  ; 

Music  and  song  were  all  his  own. 

Sweet  as  in  old  Arcadian  plains, 

The  British  pipe  has  caught  the  strains  : 

And  where  the  Tweed's  pure  current  glides, 

Or  Liffy  rolls  her  limpid  tides  ; 

Or  Thames  his  oozy  waters  leads 

Through  rural  bowers  or  yellow  meads, — 

With  many  an  old  romantic  tale 

Has  cheer'd  the  lone  sequester'd  vale  ; 

With  many  a  sweet  and  tender  lay 

Deceived  the  tiresome  summer  day. 

'Tis  yours  to  cull  with  happy  art 

Each  meaning  verse  that  speaks  the  heart ; 

And  fair  array'd,  in  order  meet. 

To  lay  the  wreath  at  Beauty's  feet. 


ODE  TO  SPRING. 

Sweet  daughter  of  a  rough  and  stormy  sire, 
Hoar  Winter's  blooming  child;  delightful  Spring- 

Whose  unshorn  locks  with  leaves 

And  swelling  buds  are  crown'd  ; 

From  tlie  green  islands  of  eternal  youth, — 
Crown'd   with  fresh  blooms  and   ever  springing 
shade, — 

Turn,  hither  turn  thy  step, 

O  thou,  whose  powerful  voice 

More  sweet  than  softest  touch  of  Doric  reed. 
Or  Lydian  flute,  can  sooth  the  madding  wind, — 

And  through  the  stormy  deep 

Breathe  thine  own  tender  calm. 

Thee,  best- beloved  !  the  virgin  train  await 
With  songs  and  festal  rites,  and  joy  to  rove 

Thy  blooming  wilds  among. 

And  vales  and  dewy  lawns, 

With  untired  feet ;  and  cull  thy  earliest  sweets  . 

To  weave  fresh  garlands  for  the  glowing  brow 
Of  him,  the  favoured  youth 
That  prompts  their  whisper'd  sigh. 

Unlock  thy  copious  stores, — those  tender  showers 
That  drop  their  sweetness  on  the  infant  buds  ; 

And  silent  dews  that  swell 

The  milky  ear's  green  stem. 

And  feed  the  flowering  osier's  early  shoots  ; 
And  call  those  winds  which  through  the  whispering 
boughs 

With  warm  and  pleasant  breath 

Salute  the  blowing  flowers. 

iN'ow  let  me  sit  beneath  the  whitening  thorn, 
\nd  mark  thy  spreading  tints  steal  o'er  the  dale  ; 
I  And  watch  with  patient  eye 

'    Thy  fair  unfolding  charms. 

O  nymph,  approach!  while  yet  the  temperate  sun 
With  bashful  forehead  through  the  cold  moist  air 

Throws  his  young  maiden  beams, 

And  with  chaste  kisses  woos 


The  earth's  fair  bosom ;  while  the  streammg  veil 
Of  lucid  clouds  with  kind  and  frequent  shade 

Protects  thy  modest  blooms 

From  his  severer  blaze. 

Sweet  is  thy  reign,  but  short : — The  red  dog-star 
Shall  scorch  thy  tresses,  and  the  mower's  scythe 

Thy  greens,  thy  flowerets  all. 

Remorseless  shall  destroy. 

Reluctant  shall  1  bid  thee  then  farewell ; 
For  O,  not  all  that  Autumn's  lap  contains. 

Nor  Summer's  ruddiest  fruits, 

Can  aught  for  thee  atone. 

Fair  Spring !  whose  simplest  ji'cuiise  more  delights 
Than  all  their  largest  wealth,  and  through  the  heart 

Each  joy  and  new-born  hope 

With  softest  influence  breathes. 


AN  ADDRESS  TO  THE  DEITY. 

God  of  my  life!  and  Author  of  my  days! 
Permit  my  feeble  voice  to  lisp  thy  praise; 
And  trembling,  take  upon  a  mortal  tongue 
That  hallowed  name,  to  harps  of  seraphs  sung. 
Yet  here  the  brightest  seraphs  could  no  more 
Than  veil  their  faces,  tremble,  and  adore. 
Worms,  angels,  men,  in  every  different  sphere, 
Are  equal  all, — for  all  are  nothing  here. 
All  nature  faints  beneath  the  mighty  name. 
Which   nature's    works   through  all    their    part* 

proclaim. 
I  feel  that  name  my  inmost  thoughts  control, 
And  breathe  an  awful  stillness  through  my  soul ; 
As  by  a  charm,  the  waves  of  grief  subside  ; 
Impetuous  Passion  stops  her  headlong  tide  : 
At  thy  felt  presence  all  emotions  cease, 
And  my  hush'd  spirit  finds  a  sudden  peace, 
Till  every  worldly  thought  within  me  dies. 
And  earth's  gay  pageants  vanish  from  my  eyes; 
Till  all  my  sense  is  lost  in  infinite. 
And  one  vast  object  fills  my  aching  sight. 

But  soon,  alas  !  this  holy  calm  is  broke  ; 
My  soul  submits  to  wear  her  wonted  yoke  ; 
With  shackled  pinions  strives  to  soar  in  vain, 
And  mingles  with  the  dross  of  earth  again. 
But  he,  our  gracious  Master,  kind  as  just, 
Knowing  our  frame,  remembers  man  is  dust. 
His  spirit,  ever  brooding  o'er  our  mind. 
Sees  the  first  wish  to  better  hopes  inclined  ; 
Marks  the  young  dawn  of  every  virtuous  aim, 
And  fans  the  smoking  flax  into  a  flame. 
His  ears  are  open  to  the  softest  cry. 
His  grace  descends  to  meet  the  lifted  eye  ; 
He  reads  the  language  of  a  silent  tear, 
And  sighs  are  incense  from  a  heart  sincere. 
Such  are  the  vows,  the  sacrifice  I  give ; 
Accept  the  vow,  and  bi  ^  the  suppliant  live : 
From  each  terrestrial  bondage  set  me  free ; 
Still  every  wish  that  aenlres  not  in  thee ; 
Bid  my  fond  hopes,  my  vain  disquiets  cease, 
And  point  my  path  to  everlasting  peace. 

If  the  soft  hand  of  winning  Pleasure  leads 
By  living  waters,  and  through  flowery  meads, 
When  all  is  smiling,  tranquil,  and  serene. 
And  vernal  beauty  paints  the  flattering  scene 


43 


J3ARBAULD. 


0  teach  me  to  elude  each  latent  snare, 
And  whisper  to  my  sliding  heart, — Beware ! 
With  caution  let  me  hear  the  syren's  voice, 
And  doubtful,  with  a  trembling  heart,  rejoice. 
If  friendless,  in  a  vale  of  tears  I  stray. 

Where  briars  w-ound,  and  thorns  perplex  my  way, 
Still  let  my  steady  soul  thy  goodness  see. 
And  with  strong  confidence  lay  hold  on  thee ; 
With  equal  eye  my  various  lot  receive, 
Resign'd  to  die,  or  resolute  to  live  ; 
Prepared  to  kiss  the  sceptre  or  the  rod. 
While  God  is  seen  in  all,  and  all  in  God. 

I  read  his  awful  name,  emblazon'd  high 
With  golden  letters  on  th'  illumined  sky ; 
Nor  less  the  mystic  characters  I  see 
Wrought  in  each  flower,  inscribed  in  every  tree  ; 
In  every  leaf  that  trembles  to  the  breeze 

1  hear  the  voice  of  God  among  the  trees  ; 
With  thee  in  shady  solitudes  I  walk, 
With  thee  in  busy  crowded  cities  talk  ; 
In  every  creature  own  thy  forming  power. 
In  each  event  thy  providence  adore. 
Thy  hopes  shall  animate  my  drooping  soul. 
Thy  precepts  guide  me,  and  thy  fears  control : 
Thus  shall  I  rest,  unmoved  by  all  alarms, 
Secure  within  the  temple  of  thine  arms  ; 
From  anxious  cares,  from  gloomy  terrors  free, 
And  feel  myself  omnipotent  in  thee. 

Then  when  the  last,  the  closing  hour,  draws  nigh, 
And  earth  recedes  before  my  swimming  eye  ; 
When  trembling  on  the  doubtful  edge  of  fate 
I  stand,  and  stretch  my  view  to  either  state  : 
Teach  me  to  quit  this  transitory  scene 
With  decent  triumph,  and  a  look  serene ; 
Teach  me  to  fix  my  ardent  hopes  on  high. 
And  having  lived  to  Thee,  in  Thee  to  die. 


A  SUMMER  EVENING'S  MEDITATION. 

'Tis  past !  the  sultry  tyrant  of  the  south 
Has  spent  his  short-lived  rage  ;  more  grateful  hours 
Move  silent  on ;  the  skies  no  more  repel 
The  dazzled  sight,  but  with  mild  maiden  beams 
Of  temper'd  lustre  court  the  cherish'd  eye 
To  wander  o'er  their  sphere  ;  where  hung  aloft 
Dian's  bright  crescent,  like  a  silver  bow 
New  strung  in  heaven,  lifts  high  its  beamy  horns 
Impatient  for  the  night,  and  seems  to  push 
Her  brother  down  the  sky.    Fair  Venus  shines 
E'en  in  the  eye  of  day  ;  with  sweetest  beam 
Propitious  shines,  and  shakes  a  trembling  flood 
Of  soften'd  radiance  from  her  dewy  locks. 
The  shadows  spread  apace  ;  while  meeken'd  Eve, 
Her  cheek  yet  warm  with  blushes,  slow  retires 
Through  the  Hesperian  gardens  of  the  west. 
And  shuts  the  gates  of  day,     'Tis  now  the  hour 
When  Contemplation  from  her  sunless  haunts, 
The  cool  damp  grotto,  or  the  lonely  depth 
Of  unpierced  woods,  where  wrapt  in  solid  shade 
She  mused  away  the  gaudy  hours  of  noon, 
And  fed  on  thoughts  unripen'd  by  the  sun. 
Moves  forward  ;  and  with  radiant  finger  points 
To  yon  blue  concave  swell'd  by  breath  divine. 
Where,  one  by  one,  the  living  eyes  of  heaven 
A. wake,  quick  kindling  o'er  the  face  of  ether 
One  boundless  blaze  ;  ten  thousand  trem'iling  fires, 


And  dancmg  lustres,  where  the  unsteady  eye, 

Restless  and  dazzled,  wanders  unconfined 

O'er  all  this  field  of  glories ;  spacious  field. 

And  worthy  of  the  Master :  he,  whose  hand 

With  hieroglyphics  elder  than  the  Nile 

Inscribed  the  mystic  tablet,  hung  on  high 

To  public  gaze,  and  said,  "  Adore,  O  man ! 

The  finger  of  thy  God."    From  what  pure  we.la 

Of  milky  light,  what  soft  o'erflowing  urn. 

Are  all  these  lamps  so  fill'd  ?  these  friendly  lam  m 

For  ever  streaming  o'er  the  azure  deep 

To  point  our  path,  and  light  us  to  our  home. 

How  soft  they  slide  along  their  lucid  spheres ! 

And  silent  as  the  foot  of  Time,  fulfil 

Their  destined  courses  :  Nature's  self  is  hush'd 

And,  but  a  scatter 'd  leaf,  which  rustit^  through 

The  thick-wove  foliage,  not  a  sound  is  heard 

To  break  the  midnight  air ;  though  the  raised  ear 

Intensely  listening,  drinks  in  every  breath. 

How  deep  the  silence,  yet  how  loud  the  praise  I 

But  are  they  silent  all  ?  or  is  there  not 

A  tongue  in  every  star,  that  talks  with  man, 

And  woos  him  to  be  wise  ?  nor  woos  in  vain : 

This  dead  of  midnight  is  the  noon  of  thought, 

And  Wisdom  mounts  her  zenith  with  the  stars. 

At  this  still  hour  the  self-collected  soul 

Turns  inward,  and  beholds  a  stranger  there 

Of  high  descent,  and  more  than  mortal  rank; 

An  embryo  god  ;  a  spark  of  fire  divine, 

Which  must  burn  on  for  ages,  when  the  sun, — 

Fair  transitory  creature  of  a  day  ! — 

Has  closed  his  golden  eye,  and  wrapped  in  shades 

Forgets  his  wonted  journey  through  the  east. 

Ye  citadels  of  light,  and  seats  of  gods ! 
Perhaps  my  future  home,  from  whence  the  soul. 
Revolving  periods  past,  may  oft  look  back 
With  recollected  tenderness  on  all 
The  various  busy  scenes  she  left  below, 
Its  deep-laid  projects,  and  its  strange  events. 
As  on  some  fond  and  doating  tale  that  sooth'd 
Her  infant  hours — O  be  it  lawful  now 
To  tread  the  hallow'd  circle  of  your  courts. 
And  with  mute  wonder  and  delighted  awe 
Approach    your    burning    confines.      Seized    in 

thought. 
Oh  Fancy's  wild  and  roving  wing  I  sail, 
From  the  green  borders  of  the  peopled  Earth, 
And  the  pale  Moon,  her  duteous  fair  attendant ; 
From  solitary  Mars  ;  from  the  vast  orb 
Of  Jupiter,  whose  huge  gigantic  bulk 
Dances  in  ether  like  the  lightest  leaf; 
To  the  dim  verge,  the  suburbs  of  the  system. 
Where  cheerless  Saturn  midst  his  watery  moons 
Girt  with  a  lucid  zone,  in  gloomy  pomp. 
Sits  like  an  exiled  monarch  :  fearless  thence 
I  launch  into  the  trackless  deeps  of  space. 
Where,  burning  round,  ten  thousand  suns  appear, 
Of  elder  beam,  which  ask  no  leave  to  shine 
Of  our  terrestrial  star,  nor  borrow  light 
From  the  proud  regent  of  our  scanty  day  ; 
Sons  of  the  morning,  first-born  of  creation. 
And  only  less  than  Him  who  marks  their  track. 
And  guides  their  fiery  wheels.    Here  must  I  stop 
Or  is  there  aught  beyond  ?    What  hand  unsee 
Impels  me  onward  through  the  glowing  orbs 
Of  habitable  nature,  far  remote. 
To  the  dread  confines  of  eternal  night, 
To  solitudes  of  vast  unpeopled  space, 


»A  SCHOOL    ECLOGUE. 


4£ 


The  deserts  of  creation,  wide  and  wild  ; 
Where  embryo  systems  and  unkindled  suns 
Sleep  in  the  womb  of  chaos  ?  fancy  droops, 
And  thought  astonish'd  stops  her  bold  career. 
But  O  thou  mighty  Mind  !  whose  powerful  word 
Said,  thus  let  all  things  be,  and  thus  they  were, 
Where  shall  I  seek  thy  presence  ?  how  unblamed 
Invoke  thy  dread  perfection  ? 
Have  the  broad  eyelids  of  the  morn  beheld  thee  ? 
Or  does  the  beamy  shoulder  of  Orion 
Support  thy  throne?    O  look  with  pity  down 
On  erring,  guilty  man !  not  in  thy  names 
Of  terror  clad  •  not  with  those  thunders  arm'd 
That  conscious  Sinai  felt,  when  fear  appall'd 
The  scatter'd  tribes  ; — thou  hast  a  gentler  voice, 
That  whispers  comfort  to  the  swelling  heart 
Abash'd,  yet  longing  to  behold  her  Maker. 
But  now  my  soul,  unused  to  stretch  her  powers 
In  flight  so  daring,  drops  her  weary  wing. 
And  seeks  again  the  known  accuslom'd  spot, 
Drest  up   with  sun,  and  shade,  and  lawns  and 

streams, 
A  mansion  fair,  and  spacious  for  its  guest, 
And  full  replete  with  wonders.    Let  me  here, 
Content  and  grateful,  w'ait  th'  appointed  time, 
And  ripen  for  the  skies  :  the  hour  will  come 
When  all  these  splendours  bursting  on  my  sight 
Shall  stand  unveiled,  and  to  my  ravished  sense 
Unlock  the  glories  of  the  world  unknown. 


TO-MORROW. 

See  where  the  falling  day 

In  silence  steals  away 
Behind  the  western  hills  withdrawn  : 
Her  fires  are  quench'd,  her  beauty  fled. 
While  blushes  all  her  face  o'erspread. 
As  conscious  she  had  ill  fulfill'd 

The  promise  of  the  dawn. 

Another  morning  soon  shall  rise, 
Another  day  salute  our  eyes, 
As  smiling  and  as  fair  as  she, 
And  make  as  many  promises : 

But  do  not  thou 

The  tale  believe, 

They're  sisters  all, 

And  all  deceive. 


A  SCHOOL  ECLOGUE. 
Edward. 
Hist,  William  !  hist !  what  means  that  air  so  gay  ? 
Thy  looks,  thy  dress,  bespeak  some  holyday  : 
Thy  hat    is   briish'd  ;   thy  hands,  with  wondrous 

pains, 
Are  cleansed  from  garden  mould  and  inky  stains ; 
Thy  glossy  shoes  confess  the  lackey's  care  ; 
And  recent  from  the  comb  shines  thy  sleek  hair. 
What  god,  what  saint,  this  prodigy  has  wrought?* 
Declare  the  cause,  and  ease  my  labouring  thought? 


Sed  tamen,  ille  Deus  qui  sit,  da  Tityre  nobis. 


William. 

John,  faithful  John,  is  with  the  horses  come ; 
Mamma  prevails,  and  I  am  sent  for  home. 

Harry. 

Thrice  happy  whom  such  welcome  tidings  greet** 
Thrice  happy  who  reviews  his  native  seat ! 
For  him  the  matron  spreads  her  candied  hoard. 
And  early  strawberries  crown  the  smiling  board, 
For  him   crush'd  gooseberries  with   rich    cream 

combine, 
And  bending  boughs  th^ir  fragrant  fruit  resign: 
Custards  and  sillabubs  his  taste  invite  ; 
Sports  fill  the  day,  and  feasts  prolong  the  night. 
Think  not  I  envy,  I  admire  thy  fate  :t 
Yet,  ah  !  what  different  tasks  thy  comrades  wait! 
Some  in  the  grammar's  thorny  maze  to  toil. 
Some  with  rude  strokes  the  snowy  paper  soil. 
Some  o'er  barbaric  climes  in  maps  to  roam. 
Far  from   their  mother-tongue,   and   dear  loved 

home.t 
Harsh  names,of  uncouth  sound,  their  memories  load 
And  oft  their  shoulders  feel  th'  unpleasant  goad. 

Edward. 
Doubt  not  our  turn  will  come  some  future  time. 
Now,  William,  hear  us  twain  contend  in  rhyme, 
For  yet  thy  horses  have  not  eat  their  hay. 
And  unconsumed  as  yet  th'  allotted  hour  of  play 

Willi  A3I. 
Then  spout  alternate,  I  consent  to  hear,$ — 
Let  no  false  rhyme  offend  my  critic  ear  ; — 
But  say,  what  prizes  shall  the  victor  hold  ? 
I  guess  your  pockets  are  not  lined  with  gold  ! 

Harry. 

A  ship  these  hands  have  built,  in  every  part 
Carved,  rigg'd,  and  painted,  with  the  nicest  art ; 
The  ridgy  sides  are  black  with  pitchy  store. 
From  stem  to  stern  'tis  twice  ten  inches  o'er. 
The  lofty  mast,  a  straight  smooth  hazel  framed, 
The  tackling  silk,  the  Charming  Sally  named  ; 
And, — but  take  heed  lest  thou  divulge  the  tale,— ' 
The  lappet  of  my  shirt  supplied  the  sail , 
An  azure  riband  for  a  pendant  flies  : — 
Now,  if  thy  verse  excel,  be  this  the  prize. 

Edward. 

For  me  at  home  the  careful  housewives  make, 
With  plums  and  almonds  rich,  an  ample  cake. 
Smooth  is  the  top,  a  plain  of  shining  ice, 
The  West  its  sweetness  gives,  the  East  its  spice  : 
From  soft  Ionian  isles,  well  known  to  fame, 
Ulysses  once,  the  luscious  currant  came 
The  green  transparent  citron  Spain  bestows. 
And  from  her  golden  groves  the  orange  glows. 
So  vast  the  heaving  mass,  it  scarce  has  room 
Within  the  oven's  dark  capacious  womb; 
'Twill  be  consign'd  to  the  next  carrier's  care, 
I  cannot  yield  it  all, — be  half  thy  share. 


•  Fortunate  senex,  his  inter  flumina  nota. 
tNon  equidem  invideo,  niiror  magis. 
I  At  nos  hinc  alii  sitient.es  ibimus  Afros, 
Pars  Scythiam,  et  rapidum  Cretae  veniemus  Oaxeia 
§Alternisdicetis. 


14 


BARBAULD. 


Well  does  the  gift  thy  liquorish  palate  suit ; 
I  know  who  robb'd  the  orchard  of  its  fruit.* 
When  all  were  wrapt  in  sleep,  one  early  morn, 
While  yet  the  dew-drop  trembled  on  the  thorn, 
I  mark'd  when  o'er  the  quickset  hedge  you  leapt, 
And,  sly,  beneath  the  gooseberry  bushes  crept  ;t 
Then  shook  the  trees  ;  a  shower  of  apples  fell, — 
And  where  the  hoard  you  kept,  I  know  full  well ; 
The  mellow  gooseberries  did  themselves  produce, 
For  through  thy  pocket  oozed  the  viscous  juice. 

Harry 
I  scorn  a  telltale,  or  I  could  declare 
How,  leave  unask'd,  you  sought  the  neighbouring 

fair; 
Then  home  by  moonlight  spurr'd  your  jaded  steed, 
And  scarce  return'd  before  the  hour  of  bed. 
Think  how  thy  trembling  heart  had  felt  affright. 
Had  notour  master  supp'd  abroad  that  night. 

Edward. 
On  the  smooth  whitewash'd  ceiling  r.ear  thy  bed, 
Mix'd  with  thine  own,  is  Anna's  cipher  read ; 
From  wreaths  of  dusky  smoke  the  letters  flow ; — 
Whose  hand  the  waving  candle  held,  I  know. 
Fines  and  jobations  shall  thy  soul  appal, 
Whene'er  our  mistress  spies  the  sullied  wall. 

Harry. 
Unconn'd  hei*  lesson  once,  in  idle  mood, 
Trembling  before  her  master,  Anna  stood 
I  mark'd  what  prompter  near  her  took  his  place, 
And,  whispering,  saved  the  virgin  from  disgrace : 
Much  is  the  youth  belied,  and  much  the  maid. 
Or  more  than  words  the  whisper  soft  convey'd. 

Edward. 
Think  not  I  blush  to  own  so  bright  a  flame, 
E'en  boys  for  her  assume  the  lover's  name  ;— 
As  far  as  alleys  beyond  taws  we  prize,|: 
Or  venison  pasty  ranks  above  school  pies ; 
As  much  as  peaches  beyond  apples  please, 
Or  Parmesan  excels  a  Suffolk  cheese  ; 
Or  Palgrave  donkeys  lag  behind  a  steed,— 
So  far  do  Anna's  charms  all  other  charms  exceed. 

Harry. 
Tell,  if  thou  canst,  where  is  that  creature  bred, 
Whose  wide-stretch'd  mouth  is  larger  than  its  head; 
Guess,  and  my  great  Apollo  thou  shalt  be,$ 
And  cake  and  ship  shall  both  remain  with  thee. 

Edward. 
Explain  thou  first,  what  portent  late  was  seen, 
With  strides  impetuous,  posting  o'er  the  green ; 
Three  heads,  like  Cerberus,  the  monster  bore, 
And  one  was  sidelong  fix'd,  and  two  before  ; 
Eight  legs,  depending  from  his  ample  sides. 
Each  well-built  flank  unequally  divides; 
For  five  on  this,  on  that  side  three,  are  found. 
Four  swiftly  move,  aud  four  not  touch  the  ground. 
Long  time  the  moving  prodigy  I  view'd, 
By  gazing  men  and  barking  dogs  pursued. 


•  Non  ego,  te  vidi,  Damonis 

t Tu  post  carecta  latebas. 

}  Lenta  salix  quantum  pallenti  cedit  olivse. 

<  Die  quibus  in  terris,  et  eris  riiihi  magnus  Apollo. 


William. 

Cease !  cease  your  carols,  both  I  for  lo  the  bell, 
With  jarring  notes,  has  rung  out  Pleasure's  knell. 
Your  startled  comrades,  ere  the  game  be  done, 
Quit  their  unfinish'd  sports,  and  trembling  run. 
Haste  to  your  forms  before  the  master  call ! 
With  thoughtful  step  he  paces  o'er  the  hall. 
Does  with  stern  looks  each  playful  loiterer  greet, 
Counts  with  his  eye,  and  marks  each  vacant  seat ; 
Intense  the  buzzing  murmur  grows  around, 
Loud  through  the  dome  the  usher's  strokes  resound 
Sneak  off,  and  to  your  places  slyly  steal, 
Before  the  prowess  of  his  arm  you  feel. 


WHAT  DO  THE  FUTURES  SPEAK  OF 

IN  ANSWER  TO  A  QUESTION  IN  THE  GREEK  GRAMMA* 

They  speak  of  never-withering  shades. 

And  bowers  of  opening  joy ; 
They  promise  mines  of  fairy  gold. 

And  bliss  without  alloy 

They  whi,<»per  strange  enchanting  things 

Within  Hope's  greedy  ears  ; 
And  sure  this  tuneful  voice  exceeds 

The  music  of  the  spheres 

They  speak  of  pleasure  to  the  gay. 

And  wisdom  lo  the  A»'ise ; 
And  soothe  the  poet's  beating  heart 

With  fame  that  never  dies 

To  virgins  languishing  in  lov<», 

They  speak  the  minute  nigh  , 
And  warm  consenting  hearts  they  joitt-, 

And  paint  the  rapture  high. 

In  every  language,  every  tongue. 
The  same  kind  things  they  say ; 

In  gentle  slumbers  speak  by  night 
In  waking  dreams  by  day. 

Cassandra's  fate  reversed  is  theirs  • 
She,  true,  no  faith  could  gain, — 

They,  every  passing  hour  deceive, 
Yet  are  believed  again. 


THE  RIGHTS  OF  WOMAN. 

Yes,  injured  woman !  rise,  assert  thy  right! 

Woman !  too  long  degraded,  scorn'd,  opprest , 
O  born  lo  rule  in  partial  Law's  despite. 

Resume  thy  native  empire  o'er  the  breast' 

Go  forth  array'd  in  panoply  divine  ; 

That  angel  pureness  which  admits  no  stain , 
Go,  bid  proud  man  his  boasted  rule  resign. 

And  kiss  the  golden  sceptre  of  thy  reign 

Go,  gird  thyself  with  grace  ;  collect  thy  store 
Of  bright  artillery  glancing  from  afar; 

Soft  melting  tones  thy  thundering  cannon's  roai 
Blushes  and  fears  thy  magazine  of  war. 


WASHING-DAY 


45 


Thy  rights  are  empire  :  urge  no  meaner  claim, — 
Felt,  not  defined,  and  if  debated,  lost ; 

Like  sacred  mysteries,  which  withheld  from  fame, 
Shunning  discussion,  are  revered  the  most. 

Try  all  that  wit  and  art  suggest  to  bend 
Of  thy  imperial  foe  the  stubborn  knee; 

Make  treacherous  man  thy  subject,  not  thy  friend  ; 
Thou  mayst  command,  but  never  canst  be  free. 

Awe  the  licentious,  and  restrain  the  rude  ; 

Soften  the  sullen,  clear  the  cloudy  brow  : 
Be,  more  than  princes'  gifts,  thy  favours  sued  ; 

She  hazards  all,  who  will  the  least  allow. 

But  hope  not,  courted  idol  of  mankind, 
On  this  proud  eminence  secure  to  stay  ; 

Subduing  and  subdued,  thou  soon  shall  find 
Thy  coldness  soften,  and  thy  pride  give  way. 

Then,  then,  abandon  each  ambitious  thought, 
Conquest  or  rule  thy  heart  shall  feebly  move, 

In  Nature's  school,  by  her  soft  maxims  taught, 
That  separate  rights  are  lost  in  mutual  love. 


WASHING-DAY. 

And  their  voice, 

Turning  again  towards  childish  treble,  pipes 
And  whistles  in  its  sound. 

The  muses  ave  turn'd  gossips;  they  have  lost 

The  buskin'd  step,  and  clear  high-sounding  phrase. 

Language  of  gods.    Come  then,  domestic  muse. 

In  slipshod  measure  loosely  prattling  on 

Of  farm  or  orchard,  pleasant  curds  and  cream. 

Or  drowning  flies,  or  shoe  lost  in  the  mire 

By  little  whimpering  boy,  with  rueful  face ; 

Come,  muse,  and  sing  the  dreaded  washing-day. 

Ye  who  beneath  the  yoke  of  wedlock  bend, 

With  bow'd  soul,  full  well  ye  ken  the  day 

Which  week,  smooth  sliding  after  week,  brings  on 

Too  soon  ; — for  to  that  day  nor  peace  belongs 

Nor  comfort ; — ere  the  first  gray  streak  of  dawn. 

The  red-arm'd  washers  come  and  chase  repose. 

Nor  pleasant  smile,  nor  quaint  device  of  mirth, 

E'er  visited  that  day  :  the  very  cat, 

From  the  wet  kitchen  scared  and  reeking  hearth. 

Visits  the  parlour, — an  unwonted  guest. 

The  silent  breakfast-meal  is  soon  despatch'd  ; 

Uninterrupted,  save  by  anxious  looks 

Cast  at  the  lowering  sky,  if  sky  should  lower. 

From  that  last  evil,  O  preserve  us,  heavens ! 

For  should  the  skies  pour  down,  adieu  to  all 

Remains  of  quiet:  then  expect  to  hear 

Of  sad  disasters, — dirt  and  gravel  stains 

Hard  to  efface,  and  loaded  lines  at  once 

Snapp'd  short, — and  linen  horse    by  dog  thrown 

down. 
And  all  the  petty  miseries  of  life. 
Saints  have  been  calm  while  stretch'd  upon  the 

rack. 
And  Guatimozin  smiled  on  burning  coals  ; 
But  never  yet  did  housewife  notable 
Greet  with  a  smile  a  rainy  washing-day. 
—But  grant  the  welkin  fair,  require  not  thoii 
>Vho  '-all'st  thyself  perchance  the  master  there, 


Or  study  swept,  or  nicely  dusted  coat, 

Or  usual  'tendance  ; — ask  not,  indiscreet, 

Thy  stockings  mended,  though  the  yawning  renta 

Gape  wide  as  Erebus;  nor  hope  to  find 

Some  snug  recess  impervious :  shouldst  thou  try 

The  'custom'd  garden  walks,  thine  eye  shall  rue 

The  budding  fragrance  of  thy  tender  shrubs. 

Myrtle  or  rose,  all  crush'd  beneath  the  weight 

Of  coarse  check'd  apron, — with  impatient  hand» 

Twitch'd  ofT  when  showers  impend  :  or  crossing 

lines 
Shall  mar  thy  musings,  as  the  wet  cold  sheet 
Flaps  in  thy  face  abrupt.     Wo  to  the  friend 
Whose  evil  stars  have  urged  him  forth  to  claim 
On  such  a  day  the  hospitable  rites  ! 
Looks  blank  at  best,  and  stinted  courtesy. 
Shall  he  receive.     Vainly  he  feeds  his  hopes 
With  dinner  of  roast  chickens,  savoury  pie. 
Or  tart  or  pudding: — pudding  he  nor  tart 
That  day  shall  eat ;  nor,  though  the  husband  try, 
Mending  what  can't  be  help'd,  to  kindle  mirth 
From  cheer  deficient,  shall  his  consort's  brow 
Clear  up  propitious  : — the  unlucky  guest 
In  silence  dines,  and  early  slinks  away. 
I  well  remember,  when  a  child,  the  awe 
This  day  struck  into  me ,  w>r  then  the  maids, 
I  scarce  knew  why,  look'd  cross,  and  drove  me 

from  them : 
Nor  soft  caress  could  I  obtain,  nor  hope 
Usual  indulgencies;  jelly  or  creams, 
Relic  of  costly  suppers,  and  set  by 
For  me  their  petted  one  ;  or  butter'd  toast. 
When  butter  was  forbid  ;  or  thrilling  tale 
Of  ghost  or  witch,  or  murder — so  I  went 
And  shelter'd  me  beside  the  parlour  fire  : 
There  my  dear  grandmother,  eldest  of  forms. 
Tended  the  little  ones,  and  watch'd  from  harm, 
Anxiously  fond,  though  oft  her  spectacles 
With  elfin  cunning  hid,  and  oft  the  pins 
Drawn  from  her  ravell'd  stockings,  might  have 

sour'd 
One  less  indulgent. — 
At  intervals  my  mother's  voice  was  heard, 
Urging  despatch  :  briskly  the  work  went  on. 
All  hands  employ'd  to  wash,  to  rinse,  to  wring. 
To  fold,  and  starch,  and  clap,  and  iron,  and  plait 
Then  would  I  sit  me  down,  and  ponder  much 
Why  washings  were.    Sometimes  through  hollow 

bowl 
Of  pipe  amused  we  blew,  and  sent  aloft 
The  floating  bubbles  ;  little  dreaming  then 
To  see,  Montgolfier,  thy  silken  ball 
Ride  buoyant  through  the  clouds — so  near  approach 
The  sports  of  children  and  the  toils  of  men. 
Earth,  air,  and  sky,  and  ocean,  hath  its  bubbles. 
And  verse  is  one  of  them — this  most  of  all. 


TO  MR.  S.  T.  COLERIDGE.— 1797. 

Midway  the  hill  of  science  after  steep 
And  rugged  paths  that  tire  the  unpractised  feet, 
A  grove  extends  in  tangled  mazes  wrought. 
And  fiU'd  with  strange  enchantment: — dubioiw 

shapes 
Flit  through  dim  glades,  and  lure  the  eager  foot 


46 


BARBAULD. 


Of  youthful  ardour  to  eternal  chase. 

Dreams  hang  on  every  leaf;  unearthly  forms 

Glide  through  the  gloom  ;  and  mystic  visions  swim 

Before  the  cheated  sense.    Athwart  the  mists, 

Far  into  vacant  space,  huge  shadows  stretch, 

And  seem  realities;  while  things  of  life, 

Obvious  to  sight  and  touch,  all  glowing  round, 

Fade  to  the  hue  of  shadows. — Scruples  here. 

With  filmy  net,  most  like  th'  autumnal  webs 

W  floating  gossamer,  arrest  the  foot 

Of  generous  enterprise  ;  and  palsy  hope 

And  fair  ambition  with  the  chilling  touch 

Of  sickly  hesitation  and  blank  fear. 

Nor  seldom  Indolence  these  lawns  among 

Fixes  her  turf  built  seat ;  and  wears  the  garb 

Of  deep  philosophy,  and  museful  sits. 

In  dreamy  twilight  of  the  vacant  mind. 

Soothed  by  the  whispering  shade  ;  for  soothing  soft 

The  shades  ;  and  vistas  lengthening  into  air. 

With  moonbeam  rainbows  tinted. — Here  each  mind 

Of  finer  mould  acute  and  delicate, 

tn  its  high  progress  to  eternal  truth 

Rests  for  a  space,  in  fairy  bowers  entranced  ; 

And  loves  the  soften'd  light  and  tender  gloom ; 

And,  pamper'd  with  most  unsubstantial  food, 

Looks  down  indignant  on  the  grosser  world. 

And  matters  cumbrous  shaping.     Youth  beloved 

Of  Science — of  the  Muse  beloved, — not  here. 

Not  in  the  maze  of  metaphysic  lore. 

Build  thou  thy  place  of  resting !  lightly  tread 

The  dangerous  ground,  on  noble  aims  intent ; 

And  be  this  Circe  of  the  studious  cell 

Enjoy'd  but  still  subservient.    Active  scenes 

Shall  soon  with  healthful  spirit  brace  thy  mind  ; 

And  fair  exertion  for  bright  fame  sustain'd. 

For  friends,  for  country  chase  each  spleen-fed  fog 

That  blots  the  wide  creation. — 

Now  Heaven  conduct  thee  with  a  parent's  love ! 


THE  UNKNOWN  GOD. 

To  learned  Athens,  led  by  fame, 
As  once  the  man  of  Tarsus  came, 

With  pity  and  surprise, 
Midst  idol  altars  as  he  stood. 
O'er  sculptured  marble,  brass,  and  wood, 

He  roll'd  his  awful  eyes. 

But  one,  apart,  his  notice  caught. 

That  seem'd  with  higher  meaning  fraught, 

Graved  on  the  wounded  stone  ; 
Nor  form  nor  name  was  there  express'd  ; 
Deep  reverence  fiU'd  the  musing  breast. 

Perusing,  "  To  the  God  unknown." 

Ag^  after  age  has  roll'd  away. 
Altars  and  thrones  have  felt  decay, 

Sages  and  saints  have  risen  ; 
And,  like  a  giant  roused  from  sleep, 
Man  has  explored  the  pathless  deep. 

And  lightnings  snatch'd  from  heaven. 

And  many  a  shrine  in  dust  is  laid. 
Where  kneeling  nations  homage  paid, 
By  rock,  or  fount,  or  grove ; 


Ephesian  Dian  sees  no  more 
Her  workmen  fuse  the  silver  ore. 
Nor  Capitol ian  Jove. 

E'en  Salem's  hallow'd  courts  have  ceased 
With  solemn  pomps  her  tribes  to  feast. 

No  more  the  victim  bleeds  ; 
To  censers  fill'd  with  rare  perfumes. 
And  vestments  from  Egyptian  looms, 

A  purer  rite  succeeds. 

Yet  still,  where'er  presumptuous  man 
His  Maker's  essence  strives  to  scan. 

And  lifts  his  feeble  hands. 
Though  saint  and  sage  their  powers  unite. 
To  fathom  that  abyss  of  light, 

Ah  !  still  that  altar  stands. 


ODE  TO   REMORSE. 

Dread  offspring  of  the  holy  light  within. 

Offspring  of  Conscience  and  of  Sin, 
Stern  as  thine  awful  sire,  and  fraught  with  wo. 
From  bitter  springs  thy  mother  taught  to  flow,— 
Remorse  !  To  man  alone  'tis  given 
Of  all  on  earth,  or  all  in  heaven. 
To  wretched  man  thy  bitter  cup  to  drain, 
Feel  thy  awakening  stings,  and  taste  thy  whole 
some  pain. 

Midst  Eden's  blissful  bowers, 
And  amaranthine  flowers, 
Thy  birth  portentous  dimm'd  the  orient  day. 
What  time  our  hapless  sire, 
O'ercome  by  fond  desire, 
The  high  command  presumed  to  disobey ; 
Then  didst  thou  rear  thy  snaky  crest, 
And   raise  thy  scorpion  lash  to   tear   the  guilty 
breast : 
And  never,  since  that  fatal  hour. 
May  man,  of  woman  born,  expect  t'  escape  thy 
power. 

Thy  goading  stings  tlie  branded  Cain 

Cross  th'  untrodden  desert  drove. 

Ere  from  his  cradling  home  and  native  plain 

Domestic  man  had  learnt  to  rove. 

By  gloomy  shade  or  lonely  flood 
Of  vast  primeval  solitude. 
Thy  step  his  hurried  steps  pursued, 
Thy  voice  awoke  his  conscious  fears. 
For  ever  sounding  in  his  ears 

A  father's  curse,  a  brother's  blood  , 
Till  life  was  misery  too  great  to  bear, 
And  torturing  thought  was  lost  in  sullen,  dumb 

despair. 

The  king  who  sat  on  Judah's  throne, 
By  guilty  love  to  murder  wrought, 
Was  taught  thy  searching  power  to  own. 
When,  sent  of  Heaven,  the  seer  his  royal  presence 
sought. 
As,  wrapt  in  artful  phrase,  with  sorrow  feign' d. 
He  told  of  helpless,  meek  distress. 
And  wrongs  that  sought  from  power  redress 
Tho  pity-moving  tale  his  ear  obtain'd 


ODE    TO   REMORSE. 


47 


And  bade  his  better  feelings  wake  : 
Then,  sudden  as  the  trodden  snake 
On  the  scared  traveller  darts  his  fangs, 
The  prophet's    bold  rebuke  aroused  thy  keenest 
pangs. 

And  O  that  look,  that  soft  upbraiding  look  ! 
A  thousand  cutting,  tender  things  it  spoke, — 
The  sword  so  lately  drawn  was  not  so  keen, — 
Which,  as  the  injured  Master  tum'd  him  round, 

In  the  strange  solemn  scene. 
And  the  shrill  clarion  gave  ih'  appointed  sound. 
Pierced  sudden  through  the  reins, 
*         Awakening  all  thy  pains. 

And  drew  a  silent  shower  of  bitter  tears 
Down  Peter's  blushing  cheek,  late  pale  with  cow- 
ard fears. 

Cruel   Remorse!    where   Youth  and  Pleasure 

sport. 
And  thoughtless  Folly  keeps  her  court, — 
Crouching  midst  rosy  bowers  thou  lurk'st  unseen ; 

Slumbering  the  festal  hours  away. 
While  Youth  disports  in  that  enchanting  scene ; 
Till  on  some  fated  day 
rhou  with  a  tiger-spring  dost  leap  upon  thy  prey, 
4.nd  tear  his  helpless  breast,  o'erwhelm'd,  with 
wild  dismay. 
Mark  that  poor  wretch  with  clasped  hands ! 
Pale  o'er  his  parent's  grave  he  stands, — 
The  grave  by  his  ingratitude  prepared  ; 
Ah  then,  where'er  he  rests  his  head. 
On  roses  pillow'd  or  the  softest  down. 

Though  festal  wreaths  his  temples  crown. 
He  well  might  envy  Gualimozin's  bed. 
With  burning  coals  and  sulphur  spread, 
Ind   with  less  agony  his  torturing  hour   have 
shared. 

For  Thou  art  by  to  point  the  keen  reproach  ; 
Thou  draw'st  the  curtains  of  his  nightly  couch, 
Bring'st    back    the    reverend     face   with    tears 
bedew'd. 
That  o'er  his  follies  yearn'd ; 
The  warnings  oft  in  vain  renew'd, 
The  looks  of  anguish  and  of  love. 
His  stubborn  breast  that  failed  to  move, 
When  in  the  scorner's  chair  he  sat,  and  wholesome 
counsel  spurn'd. 

Lives  there  a  man  whose  labouring  breast 
Is  with  some  dark  and  guilty  secret  prest, 
^Vho  hides  within  its  inmost  fold 
Strange  crimes  to  mortal  ear  untold  ? 
In  vain  to  sad  Chartreuse  he  flies. 
Midst  savage  rocks  and  cloisters  dim  and  drear, 

And  there  to  shun  thee  tries  : 
In  vain  untold  his  crime  to  mortal  ear, 
Silence  and  whisper'd  sounds  but  make  thy  voice 
more  clear. 

Lo.  where  the  cowled  monk  with  frantic  rage 
IJfls   high   the   sounding    scourge,   his   bleeding 
shoulders  smites ! 
Penance  and  fasts  his  anxious  thoughts  engage. 
Weary  his  days  and  joyless  are  his  nights. 
His  naked  feet  the  flinty  pavement  tears. 
His  knee  at  every  shrine  the  marble  wears ; — 


Why  does  he  lift  the  cruel  scourge? 
The  restless  pilgrimage  why  urge  ? 
'Tis  all  to  quell  thy  fiercer  rage, 
'Tis  all  to  sooth  thy  deep  despair,  [bear. 

He  courts  the  body's  pangs,  for  thine  he  cannol 

See  o'er  the  bleeding  corse  of  her  he  loved 

The  jealous  murderer  bends  unmoved. 
Trembling  with  rage,  his  livid  lips  express 
His  frantic  passion's  wild  and  rash  excess. 
O  God,  she's  innocent  I — transfixt  he  stands. 
Pierced  through  with  shafts  from  thine  avengiag 
hands ; 
Down  his  pale  cheek  no  tear  will  flow. 
Nor  can  he  shun,  nor  can  he  bear,  his  wo. 

'Twas  phantoms  summon'd  by  thy  power 

Round  Richard's  couch  at  midnight  hour. 
That  scared  the  tyrant  from  unblest  repose  ; 
With  frantic  haste,  "To  horse!  to  horse  ^  he  cries, 
While  on  his  crowned  brow  cold  sweat-drops  rig-*- 

And  fancied  spears  his  spear  oppose  ; 
But  not  the  swiftest  steed  can  bear  away 
From  thy  firm  grasp  thine  agonizing  prey, 

Thou  wast  the  fiend,  and  thou  alone, 

That  stood'st  by  Beaufort's  mitred  head. 
With  upright  hair  and  visage  ghastly  pale: 

Thy  terrors  shook  his  dying  bed, 
Past  crimes  and  blood  his  sinking  heart  assail. 
His  hands  are  clasp'd, — hark  to  that  hollow  groan! 
See  how  his  glazed,  dim  e\'e-balls  wildly  roll, 
'Tis  not  dissolving  Nature's  pains  ;  that  pang  is  dL 

the  soul. 

Where  guilty  souls  are  doom'd  to  dwell, 
'Tis  thou  that  makest  their  fiercest  hell. 
The  vulture  thou  that  on  their  liver  feeds. 
As  rise  to  view  their  past  unhallow'd  deeds; 
With  thee  condemn'd  to  stay, 
Till  time  has  roll'd  away 
Long  eras  of  uncounted  years. 
And  every  stain  is  wash'd  in  soft  repentant  tears. 

Servant  of  God — but  unbeloved — proceed. 
For  thou  must  live  and  ply  thy  scorpion  scourge  • 
Thy  sharp  upbraidings  urge 
Against  th'  unrighteous  deed. 
Till  thine  accursed  mother  shall  expire. 
And  a  new  world  spring  forth  from  renovating  fire 

O !  when  the  glare  of  day  is  fled, 
And  calm,  beneath  the  evening  star. 
Reflection  leans  her  pensive  head. 

And  calls  the  passions  to  her  solemn  bar; 

Reviews  the  censure  rash,  the  hasty  word, 
The  purposed  act  too  long  deferr'd, 
Of  time  the  wasted  treasures  lent. 
And  fair  occasions  lost,  and  golden  hours  mispent; 

When  anxious  Memory  numbers  o'er 
Each  offer'd  prize  we  failed  to  seize ; 
Or  friends  laid  low,  whom  now  no  more 
Our  fondest  love  can  serve  or  please, 
And  thou,  dread  power!  bring'st  back,  in  terrors 
drest, 
Th'  irrevocable  past,  to  sting  the  careless  breast ;  - 

O !  in  that  hour  be  mine  to  know. 
While  fast  the  silent  sorrows  flow, 


48 


BARBAULD. 


And  wisdom  cherishes  Ihe  wholesome  pain, 

No  heavier  guilt,  no  deeper  stain, 
Than  tears  of  meek  contrition  may  atone, 
Shed  at  the  mercy-seat  of  Heaven's  eternal  throne. 


OU"    THE 

DEATH  OF  THE  PRINCESS    CHARLOTTE. 

Yes,  Britain  mourns,  as  with  electric  touch. 

For  youth,  for  love,  for  happiness  destroy 'd, 

Her  universal  population  melts 

In  grief  spontaneous,  and  hard  hearts  are  moved. 

And  rough,  unpolish'd  natures  learn  to  feel 

For  those  they  envied,  levell'd  in  the  dust 

By  Fate's  impartial  stroke;  and  pulpits  sound 

With  vanity  and  wo  to  earthly  goods, 

And  urge  and  dry  the  tear. — Yet  one  there  is 

Who  midst  this  general  burst  of  grief  remains 

In  strange  tranquillity  ;  whom  not  the  stir 

And  long-drawn  murmurs  of  the  gathering  crowd, 

That  by  his  very  windows  trail  the  pomp 

Of  hearse,  and  blazon'd  arms,  and  long  array 

Of  sad  funereal  rites,  nor  the  loud  groans 

And  deep-felt  anguish  of  a  husband's  heart, 

Can  move  to  mingle  with  this  flood  one  tear : 

In  careless  apathy,  perhaps  in  mirth. 

He  wears  the  day.     Yet  is  he  near  in  blood, 

The  very  stem  on  which  this  blossom  grew, 

And  at  his  knees  she  fondled  in  the  charm 

And  grace  spontaneous  which  alone  belongs 

To  untaught  infancy: — Yet,  O  forbear! 

Nor  deem  him  hard  of  heart;  for  awful,  struck 

By  Heaven's  severest  visitation,  sad. 

Like  a  scathed  oak  amidst  the  forest  trees. 

Lonely  he  stands; — leaves  bud, and  shoot,  and  fall. 

Ho  holds  no  sympathy  with  living  nature 

Or  time's  incessant  change.     Then  in  this  hour, 

While  pensive  thought  is  busy  with  the  woes 

And  restless  change  of  poor  humanity, 

Think  then,  O  think  of  him,  and  breathe  one 

prayer, 
From  the  full  tide  of  sorrow  spare  one  tear, 
For  him  who  does  not  weep ! 


THE  WAKE  OF  THE  KING  OF  SPAIN. 

Array'd  in  robes  of  regal  state. 
But  stiff  and  cold  the  monarch  sate  ; 
In  gorgeous  vests,  his  chair  beside. 
Stood  prince  and  peer,  the  nation's  pride  ; 
And  paladin  and  high-born  dame 
Their  place  amid  the  circle  claim: 
And  wands  of  office  lifted  high. 
And  arms  and  blazon'd  heraldry, — 
All  mute  like  marble  statues  stand, 
Nor  raise  the  eye,  nor  move  the  hand  : 
No  voice,  no  sound  to  stir  the  air, 
The  silence  of  the  grave  is  there. 


•  The  kings  of  Spain  for  nine  days  after  dealh  are 
placed  .sitting  in  robes  of  state  with  their  attendants 
around  them,  and  solemnly  summoned  by  the  proper 
•fficors  to  their  meals  and  their  amusements,  as  if  living. 


The  portal  opens — hark,  a  voice  ! 
"  Come  forth,  O  king !  O  king,  rejoice ! 
The  bowl  is  fill'd,  the  feast  is  spread, 
Come  forth,  O  king !"— The  king  is  dead. 
The  bowl,  the  feast,  he  tastes  no  more. 
The  feast  of  life  for  him  is  o'er. 

Again  the  sounding  portals  shake, 
And  speaks  again  the  voice  that  spake ; 
— "  The  sun  is  high,  the  sun  is  warm, 
Forth  to  the  field  the  gallants  swarm, 
The  foaming  bit  the  courser  champs, 
His  hoof  the  turf  impatient  stamps  ; 
Light  on  their  steeds  the  hunters  spring  , 
The  sun  is  high — Come  forth,  O  king!" 

Along  these  melancholy  walls 
In  vain  the  voice  of  pleasure  calls : 
The  horse  may  neigh,  and  bay  the  houndv<— 
He  hears  no  more  ;  his  sleep  is  sound. 
Retire  ; — once  more  the  portals  close ; 
Leave,  leave  him  to  his  dread  repose 


HYMNS. 
HYMN  I. 

Jehovah  reigns :  let  every  nation  hear, 
And  at  his  footstool  bow  with  holy  fear; 
Let  heaven's  high  arches  echo  with  his  name, 
And  the  wide  peopled  earth  his  praise  proclaim , 

Then  send  it  down  to  hell's  deep  glooms  resound^ 
ing,  [ing. 

Through  all  her  caves  in  dreadful  murmurs  sound- 
He  rules  with  wide  and  absolute  command 
O'er  the  broad  ocean  and  the  steadfast  land : 
Jehovah  reigns,  unbounded,  and  alone. 
And  all  creation  hangs  beneath  his  throne  -    ^ 

He  reigns  alone  ;  let  no  inferior  nature 

Usurp,  or  share  the  throne  of  the  Creator. 

He  saw  the  struggling  beams  of  infant  light 
Shoot  through  the  massy  gloom  of  ancient  night ; 
His  spirit  hush'd  the  elemental  strife. 
And  brooded  o'er  the  kindling  seeds  of  life : 
Seasons  and  months  began  their  long  procession, 
And  measured  o'er  the  year  in  bright  succession. 

The  joyful  sun  sprung  up  th'  ethereal  way, 
Strong  as  a  giant,  as  a  bridegroom  gay  ; 
And  the  pale  moon  diffused  her  shadowy  light 
Superior  o'er  the  dusky  brow  of  night; 
Ten  thousand  glittering  lamps  the  skies  adorning. 
Numerous  as  dew-drops  from  the  womb  of  morning 

Earth's  blooming  face  with  rising  flowers  he  drest; 

And  spread  a  verdant  mantle  o'er  her  breast ; 

Then  from  the  hollow  of  his  hand  he  pours 

The  circling  water  round  her  winding  shores. 
The  new-born  world  in  their  cool  arms  embracing 
And  with  soft  murmurs  still  her  banks  caressing. 

At  length  she  rose  complete  in  fini&b'd  pride. 
All  fair  and  spotless,  like  a  virgin  bride ; 
Fresh  with  untarnish'd  lustre  as  she  stood, 
Her  Maker  bless'd  his  work,  and  call'd  it  good 
The  morning  stars  with  joyful  acclamation 
Exulting  sang,  and  hail'd  the  new  creation 


HYMNS. 


49 


Yet  this  fair  world,  the  creature  of  a  day, 
Though  built  by  God's  right  hand,   must  pass 

away  ; 
And  long  oblivion  creep  o'er  mortal  things, 
The  fate  of  empires,  and  the  pride  of  kings : 
Eternal  night  shail  veil  their  proudest  story, 
And  drop  the  curtain  o'er  all  human  glory. 

The  sun  himself,  with  weary  clouds  opprest. 
Shall  in  his  silent,  dark  pavilion  rest; 
His  golden  urn  shall  broke  and  useless  lie, 
Amidst  the  common  ruins  of  the  sky ; 
The  stars  rush  headlong  in  the  wild  commotion, 
And  bathe  their  glittering  foreheads  in  the  ocean 

But  fix'd,  O  God  !  for  ever  stands  thy  throne  ; 

Jehovah  reigns,  a  universe  alone  ; 

Th'  eternal  fire  that  feeds  each  vital  flame, 

Collected,  or  diffused,  is  still  the  same. 
He  dwells  within  his  own  unfathom'd  essence. 
And  fills  all  space  with  his  unbounded  presence. 

But  O !  our  highest  notes  the  theme  debase, 
And  silence  is  our  least  injurious  praise  ; 
Cease,  cease  your  songs,  the  daring  flight  control, 
Revere  him  in  the  stillness  of  the  soul ; 
With  silent  duty  meekly  bend  before  him. 
And  deep  within  your  inmost  hearts  adore  him. 


HYMX  II. 

Praise  to  God  immortal  praise,* 
For  the  love  that  crowns  our  days  ; 
Bounteous  scource  of  every  joy. 
Let  thy  praise  our  tongues  employ  ; 

For  the  blessings  of  the  field, 
For  the  stores  the  gardens  yield, 
For  the  vine's  exalted  juice. 
For  the  generous  olive's  use  ; 

Flocks  that  whiten  all  the  plain. 
Yellow  sheaves  of  ripen'd  grain; 
Clouds  that  drop  their  fattening  dews, 
Suns  that  temperate  warmth  diffuse  ; 

All  that  Spring  with  bounteous  hand 
Scatters  o'er  the  smiling  land  ; 
All  that  liberal  Autumn  pours 
From  her  rich  o'erflowing  stores : 

These  to  thee,  my  God,  we  owe  ; 
Source  whence  all  our  blessings  flow ; 
And  for  these  my  soul  shall  raise 
Grateful  vows  and  solemn  praise. 

Yet  should  rising  whirlwinds  tear 
From  its  stem  the  ripening  ear  ; 
Should  the  fig  tree's  blasted  shoot 
Drop  her  green  untimely  fruit; 

Should  the  vine  put  forth  no  more. 
Nor  the  olive  yield  her  store ; 


*  Althoush  the  fig  tree  shall  not  blossom,  neither  shall 
Aait  be  in  the  vines,  the  labour  of  the  olive  shall  fail, 
and  the  fields  shall  yield  no  meat,  the  flocks  shall  be  cut 
off  from  the  fold,  and  there  shall  be  no  herd  in  the  stalls : 
Yet  I  will  rejoice  in  the  Lord.  I  will  joy  in  the  God  of  my 
salvation.— Hab.  ill.  17,  19. 

YOL.  III.— 4 


Though  the  sickening  flocks  should  fall, 
And  the  herds  desert  the  stall ; 

Should  thine  alter'd  hand  restrain 
The  early  and  the  latter  rain ; 
Blast  each  opening  bud  of  joy. 
And  the  rising  year  destroy  : 

Yet  to  thee  my  soul  should  raise 
Grateful  vows,  and  solemn  praise  ; 
And,  when  every  blessing's  flown, 
Love  thee — for  thyself  alone. 


HYMN  III. 

FOR  EASTER   SUNDAY. 

Again  the  Lord  of  life  and  light 

Awakes  the  kindling  ray  ; 
Unseals  the  eyelids  of  the  morn. 

And  pours  increasing  day. 

O  what  a  night  was  that,  which  wrapt 
The  heathen  world  in  gloom  ! 

O  what  a  sun  which  broke  this  day. 
Triumphant  from  the  tomb  ! 

This  day  be  grateful  homage  paid. 

And  loud  hosannas  sung  ; 
Let  gladness  dwell  in  every  heart, 

And  praise  on  every  tongue. 

Ten  thousand  diflfering  lips  shall  join 

To  hail  this  welcome  morn. 
Which  scatters  blessings  from  its  wingc, 

To  nations  yet  unborn. 

Jesus  the  friend  of  human  kind. 
With  strong  compassion  moved, 

Descended  like  a  pitying  God, 
To  save  the  souls  he  loved. 

The  powers  of  darkness  leagued  in  vain 

To  bind  his  soul  in  death  ; 
He  shook  their  kingdom  when  he  fell, 

With  his  expiring  breath. 

Not  long  the  toils  of  hell  could  keep 

The  hope  of  Judah's  line  ; 
Corruption  never  could  take  hold 

On  aught  so  much  divine. 

And  now  his  conquering  chariot  wheels 

Ascend  the  lofty  skies ; 
While  broke  beneath  his  powerful  croos. 

Death's  iron  sceptre  lies. 

Exalted  high  at  God's  right  hand. 

The  Lord  of  all  below, 
Through  him  is  pardonmg  love  dispense^ 

And  boundless  blessings  flow. 

And  still  for  erring,  guilty  man, 

A  brother's  pity  flows  ; 
And  still  his  bleeding  heart  is  touch'd 

With  memory  of  our  woes. 

To  thee,  my  Saviour  and  my  King, 

Glad  homage  let  me  give , 
And  stand  prepared  like  thee  to  die 
With  thee  that  I  may  live. 


50 


BARBA  ULD. 


HYMN  IV. 

Behold,  where  breathing  love  divine, 

Our  dying  Master  stands ! 
His  weeping  followers  gathering  round, 

Receive  his  last  commands. 

From  that  mild  teacher's  parting  lips 

What  tender  accents  fell ! 
The  gentle  precept  which  he  gave. 

Became  its  author  well 

"  Blest  is  the  man  whose  softening  heart 

Feels  all  another's  pain  ; 
To  whom  the  supplicating  eye 

Was  never  raised  in  vain. 

Whose  breast  expands  with  generous  warmth 

A  stranger's  w^oes  to  feel ; 
And  bleeds  in  pity  o'er  the  wound 

He  wants  the  power  to  heal. 

"  He  spreads  his  kind  supporting  arms 

To  every  child  of  grief; 
His  secret  bounty  largely  flows, 

And  brings  unask'd  relief. 

"  To  gentle  offices  of  love 

His  feet  are  never  slow : 
He  views  through  mercy's  melting  eye 

A  brother  in  a  foe. 

"  Peace  from  the  bosom  of  his  God, 

My  peace  to  him  I  give ; 
And  when  he  kneels  before  the  throne, 

His  trembling  soul  shall  live. 

"  To  him  protection  shall  be  shown, 

And  mercy  from  above 
Descend  on  those  who  thus  fulfil 

The  perfect  law  of  love." 


HYMN  V. 

Awake,  my  soul !  lift  up  thine  eyes. 
See  where  thy  foes  against  thee  rise, 
In  long  array,  a  numerous  host ; 
Awake,  my  soul !  or  thou  art  lost. 

Here  giant  Danger  threatening  stands, 
Mustering  his  pale  terrific  bands  ; 
There  Pleasure's  silken  banners  spread. 
And  willing  souls  are  captive  led. 

See  where  rebellious  passions  rage, 
And  fierce  desires  and  lusts  engage ; 
The  meanest  foe  of  all  the  train 
Has  thousands  and  ten  thousands  slain. 

Thou  tread'st  upon  enchanted  ground, 
Perils  and  snares  beset  thee  round  ,* 
Beware  of  all,  guard  every  part. 
But  most,  the  traitor  in  thy  heart. 

"  Come  then,  my  soul,  now  learn  to  wield 
The  weight  of  thine  immortal  shield  ; " 
Put  on  the  armour  from  above 
Of  heavenly  truth  and  heavenly  love. 

The  terror  and  the  .charm  repel. 
And  powers  of  earth,  and  powers  of  hell; 
The  Man  of  Calvary  triumph'd  here; 
Why  should  his  faithful  followers  fear  ? 


HYMN  VI. 

PIOUS   FRIENDSHIP. 

How  blest  the  sacred  tie  that  binds 

In  uaion  sweet  according  minds ! 

How  swift  the  heavenly  course  they  run. 

Whose  hearts,  whose  faith,  whose  hopes  are  on© 

To  each,  the  soul  of  each  how  dear, 
What  jealous  love,  what  holy  fear ! 
How  doth  the  generous  flame  within 
Refine  from  earth  and  cleanse  from  sin ! 

Their  streaming  tears  together  flow 
For  human  guilt  and  mortal  wo ; 
Their  ardent  prayers  together  rise. 
Like  mingling  flames  in  sacrifice. 

Together  both  they  seek  the  place 
Where  God  reveals  his  awful  face ; 
How  high,  how  strong,  their  raptures  swell, 
There's  none  but  kindred  souls  can  tell. 

Nor  shall  the  glowing  flame  expire 
When  nature  droops  her  sickening  fire ; 
Then  shall  they  meet  in  realms  above, 
A  heaven  of  joy — because  of  love. 


>    HYMN  VII. 

'  Come  unto  me  all  that  are  weary  and  heavy  laden,  and 
I  will  give  you  rest." 
Come,  said  Jesus'  sacred  voice. 
Come  and  make  my  paths  your  choice ; 
I  will  guide  you  to  your  home  ; 
Weary  pilgrim,  hither  come  ! 

Thou,  who  houseless,  sole,  forlorn. 
Long  hast  borne  the  proud  world's  scorn, 
Long  hast  roam'd  the  barren  waste, — 
Weary  pilgrim,  hither  haste  ! 

Ye,  who  toss'd  on  beds  of  pain. 
Seek  for  ease,  but  seek  in  vain. 
Ye  whose  swoll'n  and  sleepless  eyes 
Watch  to  see  the  morning  rise  ; 

Ye,  by  fiercer  anguish  torn. 
In  remorse  for  guilt  who  mourn  ; 
Here  repose  your  heavy  care, 
A  wounded  spirit  who  can  bear  ! 

Sinner,  come !  for  here  is  found 
Balm  that  flows  for  every  wound  : 
Peace,  that  ever  shall  endure. 
Rest  eternal,  sacred,  sure. 


HYMN  VIII. 

The  world  is  not  their  friend,  nor  the  world's  Law.* 

Lo  where  a  crowd  of  pilgrims  toil 

Yon  craggy  steeps  among ! 
Strange  their  attire,  and  strange  their  mien, 

As  wild  they  press  along. 

Their  eyes  with  bitter  streaming  tears 
Now  bent  towards  the  ground. 

Now  rapt,  to  heaven  their  looks  they  raise, 
And  bursts  of  song  resound. 


HYMNS. 


51 


And  hark  I  a  voice  from  'midst  the  throng 
Cries,  "  Stranger,  wouldst  thou  know 

Our  name,  our  race,  our  destined  home, 
Our  cause  of  joy  or  wo  ? — 

"  Our  country  is  Immanuel's  land, 

We  seek  that  promised  soil  ; 
The  songs  of  Zion  cheer  our  hearts, 

While  strangers  here  we  toil, 

"  Oft  do  our  eyes  with  joy  o'erflow, 

And  oft  are  bathed  in  tears  : 
Fet  naught  but  heaven  our  hopes  can  raise, 

And  naught  but  sin  our  fears. 

"  The  flowers  that  spring  along  the  road. 

We  scarcely  stoop  to  pluck  ; 
We  walk  o'er  beds  of  shining  ore 

Nor  waste  one  wishful  look  : 

'  We  tread  the  path  cur  Master  trod, 

We  bear  the  cross  he  bore  ; 
And  every  thorn  that  wounds  our  feet. 

His  temples  pierced  before  : 

"  Our  powers  are  oft  dissolved  away 

In  ecstasies  of  love  ; 
And  while  our  bodies  wander  here, 

Our  souls  are  fix'd  above  : 

"  We  purge  our  mortal  dross  away, 

Refining  as  we  run  ; 
But  while  we  die  to  earth  and  sense, 

Our  heaven  is  begun." 


HYMN  IX. 

Joy  to  the  followers  of  the  Lord ! 
Thus  saith  the  sure,  the  eternal  word ; 
Not  of  earth  the  joy  it  brings, 
Temper'd  in  celestial  springs : 

'Tis  the  joy  of  pardon'd  sin. 

When  conscience  cries,  'Tis  well  within  ; 

'Tis  the  joy  that  fills  the  breast 

When  the  passions  sink  to  rest : 

'Tis  the  joy  that  seated  deep. 
Leaves  not  when  we  sigh  and  weep ; 
It  spreads  itself  in  virtuous  deeds. 
With  sorrow  sighs,  in  pity  bleeds. 


Stern  and  awful  are  its  tones 
When  the  patriot  martyr  groans. 
And  the  throbbing  pulse  beats  high 
To  rapture  raix'd  with  agony. 

A  tenderer,  softer  form  it  wears. 
Dissolved  in  love,  dissolved  in  tears. 
When  humble  souls  a  Saviour  greet, 
And  sinners  clasp  the  mercy  seat. 

'Tis  joy  e'en  here!  a  budding  flower, 
Struggling  with  snows  and  storm  and  shower 
And  waits  the  moment  to  expand. 
Transplanted  to  its  native  land. 


HYMN  X. 

A    PASTORAL   HYMN. 

"Gentle  pilgrim,  tell  me  why 

Dost  thou  fold  thine  arms  and  sigh, 

And  wistful  cast  thine  eyes  around  ?— 

Whither,  pilgrim,  art  thou  bound  ?" 

"  The  road  to  Zion's  gates  I  seek  ; 

If  thou  canst  inform  me,  speak." 

"  Keep  yon  right-hand  path  with  care, 

Though  crags  obstruct,  and  brambles  tear 

You  just  discern  a  narrow  track,— 

Enter  there  and  turn  not  back." 

"  Say  where  that  pleasant  pathway  leads. 

Winding  down  yon  flowery  meads  ? 

Songs  and  dance  the  way  beguiles. 

Every  face  is  drest  in  smiles." 

"  Shun  with  care  that  flowery  way  ; 

'Twill  lead  thee,  pilgrim,  far  astray." 

"  Guide  or  counsel  do  I  need  ?" 

"  Pilgrim,  he  who  runs  may  read." 

"  Is  the  way  that  I  must  keep, 

Cross'd  by  waters  wide  and  deep  ?" 

"  Did  it  lead  through  flood  and  fire, 

Thou  must  not  stop — thou  must  not  tire. 

"  Till  I  have  my  journey  past. 

Tell  me  will  the  daylight  last  ? 

Will  the  sky  be  bright  and  clear 

Till  the  evening  shades  appear  ?" 

"  Though  the  sun  now  rides  so  high. 

Clouds  may  veil  the  evening  sky  ; 

Fast  sinks  the  sun,  fast  wears  the  day. 

Thou  must  not  stop,  thou  must  not  stay 

God  speed  thee,  pilgrim,  on  thy  way  .' 


SIR  WILLIAM  JONES. 


William  Jones,  the  scm  of  an  eminent  mathe- 
matician, was  born  in  London,  in  the  year  1746. 
Losing  his  father,  when  only  three  years  of  age,  he 
was  left  to  the  entire  care  of  his  mother,  a  woman 
of  strong  mind  and  good  sense,  and  from  whom  he 
imbibed  an  early  taste  for  literature.  In  1753,  he 
was  sent  to  Harrow  School,  where  he  soon  attract- 
ed the  attention  of  the  masters,  and  the  admiration 
of  his  associates,  by  his  extraordinary  diligence 
and  superior  talents.  Among  his  school  fellows 
were  Dr.  Parr,  and  Bennett,  afterwards  Bishop  of 
Cloyne,  who,  in  speaking  of  young  Jones,  at  the 
age  eight  or  nine,  says,  he  was  even  then  "  an  un- 
common boy."  Describing  his  subsequent  progress 
at  Harrow,  he  says,  "  great  abilities,  great  particu 
larity  of  thinkmg,  fondness  for  writing  verses  and 
plays  of  various  kinds,  and  a  degree  of  integrity 
and  manly  courage,  distinguished  him  even  at  that 
period.  1  loved  him  and  revered  him,  and,  though 
one  or  two  years  older  than  he  was,  was  always 
instructed  by  him  from  my  earliest  age."  Such  was 
his  devotion  to  study,  that  he  used  to  pass  whole 
nights  over  his  books,  imtil  his  eyesight  became 
affected  ;  and  Dr.  Thackeray,  the  master  of  Har- 
row, said,  "so  active  was  the  mind  of  Jones,  that 
if  he  were  left,  naked  and  friendless,  on  Salisbury 
Plain,  he  would,  nevertheless,  find  the  road  to 
fame  and  riches." 

In  1764,  he  was  entered  at  University  College, 
Oxford,  in  opposition  to  the  wishes  of  his  friends, 
who  advised  his  mother  to  place  him  under  the 
superintendence  of  some  special  pleader,  as  at  that 
early  age  he  had  made  such  a  voluntary  progress 
in  legal  acquirements,  as  to  be  able  to  put  cases 
from  an  abridgement  of  Coke's  Institutes.  At  the 
university,  instead  of  confining  himself  to  the 
usual  discipline,  he  continued  the  course  of  classi- 
cal reading  which  he  had  commenced  at  Harrow, 
and  devoted  a  considerable  portion  of  his  time  to 
the  study  of  the  oriental  languages.  During  his 
vacations,  which  he  generally  spent  in  London,  he 
learnt  riding  and  fencing ;  and  at  home  he  occu- 
pied himself  in  the  perusal  of  the  best  Italian, 
Spanish,  French,  and  Portuguese  authors.  In  1765, 
he  became  private  tutor  to  Lord  Althorp,  the  son  of 
Earl  Spencer  ;  and  shortly  afterwards  he  was  elect- 
ed fellow  on  the  foundation  of  Sir  Simon  Bennett. 

In  1767,  he  accompanied  the  Spencer  family  to 
Germany  ;  and  whilst  at  Spa,  he  learnt  dancing, 
the  broad-sword  exercise,  music,  besides  the  art  of 
Dlaying  on  the  Welsh  harp;  "  thus,"  to  transcribe 
an  observation  of  his  own,  "  with  the  fortune  of 
a  peasant,  giving  himself  the  education  of  a 
prince."  On  his  return,  he  resided  with  his  pupil 
at  Harrow,  and,  during  his  abode  there,  he  trans- 
lated into  French  the  life  of  Nadir  Shah  from  the 


Persian,  at  the  request  of  the  King  of  Denmark 
After  making  another  tour,  he  gave  up  his  tutor- 
ship, and,  in  September,  1770,  entered  himself  a 
student  of  the  Temple,  for  the  purpose  of  studying 
for  the  bar.  He  took  this  step  in  compliance  with 
the  earnest  solicitations  of  his  friends.  "Theii 
advice,"  he  says,  in  a  letter  to  his  friend  Reviczki 
"  was  conformable  to  my  own  inclinations ;  for  the 
only  road  to  the  highest  stations  in  this  country,  is 
that  of  the  law  ;  and  I  need  not  add  how  ambitious 
and  laborious  I  am."  The  mode  in  which  he 
occupied  himself  in  chambers  is  best  described  by 
his  own  pen,  in  a  letter  to  his  friend,  Dr.  Bennett , 
— "I  have  learned  so  much,"  he  says,  "seen  sc 
much,  written  so  much,  said  so  much,  and  thought 
so  much,  since  I  conversed  with  you,  that  were  I  to 
attempt  to  tell  half  what  I  have  learned,  seen, 
writ,  said,  and  thought,  my  letter  would  have  no 
end.  I  spend  the  whole  winter  in  attending  the 
public  speeches  of  our  greatest  lawyers  and  sena- 
tors, and  in  studying  our  own  admirable  laws.  I 
give  up  my  leisure  hours  to  a  Political  Treatise  on 
the  Turks,  from  which  I  expect  some  reputation  ; 
and  I  have  several  objects  of  ambition  which  I 
cannot  trust  to  letter,  but  will  impart  to  you  when 
we  meet."  In  the  midst  of  all  these  engagements 
he  found  time  to  attend  Dr.  William  Hunter's  lec- 
tures on  anatomy,  and  to  read  Newton's  Principia  : 
and  in  1772,  he  published  a  collection  of  poems, 
consisting,  principally,  of  translations  from  the 
Asiatic  languages.  In  the  same  year  he  was  elect- 
ed a  fellow  of  the  Royal  Society ;  and,  in  1774, 
appeared  his  celebrated  commentaries  De  Poesi 
Asiatica,  which  procured  him  great  reputation  both 
at  home  and  abroad. 

Being  now  called  to  the  bar,  he  suspended  all 
literary  pursuits,  and  devoted  himself,  with  intense 
earnestness,  to  the  study  of  his  profession.  In 
1775,  he  became  a  regular  attendant  at  Westmin- 
ster Hall,  and  went  the  circuit  and  sessions  at 
Oxford  ;  and  in  the  following  year  he  was,  without 
solicitation,  made  a  commissioner  of  bankrupt,  by 
Lord-chancellor  Bathurst,  It  would  seem,  from  the 
correspondence  of  our  author,  that  soon  after  his 
call  to  the  bar,  he  acquired  considerable  practice, 
as  he  says,  in  a  letter  to  Mr.  Schultens,  dated  July, 
1777,  "  My  law  employments,  attendance  in  tho 
courts,  incessant  studies,  the  arrangement  of  plead 
ings,  trials  of  causes,  and  opinions  to  clients, 
scarcely  allow  me  a  few  moments  for  eating  and 
sleeping."  In  1778,  he  published  his  translation 
of  the  Orations  of  Isseus,  with  a  Prefatory  Dis- 
course, Notes,  and  Commentary,  which  displayed 
profound  critical  and  historical  research,  and  ex- 
cited much  admiration.  In  March  1780,  he  pub- 
lished a  Latin  Ode  in  favour  of  American  freedom  ; 

52 


SIR    WILLIAM   JONES. 


6^ 


and,  shortly  afterwards,  on  the  resignation  of  Sir 
Roger  Newdigate,  he  was  induced  to  become  a 
candidate  for  the  representation  of  the  University 
of  Oxford  ;  but  the  liberality  of  his  political  prin- 
ciples rendering  his  success  hopeless,  he  declined 
a  poll.  The  tumults  of  this  year  induced  him  to 
write  a  pamphlet,  entitled,  An  Inquiry  into  the 
Legal  Mode  of  suppressing  Riots,  with  a  Constitu- 
tional Plan  of  Future  Defence  ;  and  about  the 
same  period  he  published  his  celebrated  essay  on 
the  Law  of  Bailments,  in  which  he  treated  his 
subject,  says  Mr.  Roscoe,  with  an  accuracy  of 
method  hitherto  seldom  exhibited  by  our  legal 
writers.  In  1782,  he  spoke  at  a  public  meeting  in 
favour  of  parliamentary  reform,  and  also  became 
a  member  of  the  Society  for  Contitutional  Reform- 
ation. In  a  letter  to  the  Dean  of  St.  Asaph,  this 
year,  he  says  it  is  "  his  wish  to  become  as  great  a 
lawyer  as  Sulpicius ;"  and  hints  at  giving  up 
politics,  to  the  resignation  of  which  he  was  the 
more  inclined  in  consequence  of  a  bill  of  indict- 
ment being  preferred  against  the  divine  above- 
mentioned,  for  publishing  a  tract,  composed  by 
Jones,  entitled,  A  Dialogue  between  a  Farmer  and 
a  Country  Gentleman,  on  the  Principles  of  Govern- 
ment. Of  this  our  author  immediately  avowed 
himself  the  writer,  by  a  letter  addressed  t«  Lord 
Kenyon,  in  which  he  defended  his  positions,  and 
contended  that  they  were  conformable  to  the  laws 
of  England. 

His  political  principles  had  for  some  time  pre- 
vented him  obtaining  the  grand  object  of  his  am- 
bition,— an  Indian  judge-ship ;  but  he  was  at 
length,  in  March,  1783,  appointed  judge  of  the 
Supremo  Court  of  Judicature  in  Bengal,  through 
the  influence  of  Lord  Ashburton.  Previous  to  his 
departure  he  received  the  honour  of  knighthood, 
and  married  Miss  Shipley,  daughter  to  the  Bishop 
of  St.  Asaph,  with  whom  he  arrived  in  Calcutta,  in 
September,  and  entered  upon  his  judicial  functions 
in  the  following  December.  Law,  literature,  and 
philosophy,  now  engrossed  his  attention  to  such  a 
degree,  that  his  health,  on  which  the  climate  also 
had  a  prejudicial  influeticc,  was  quickly  impaired. 
In  a  letter  to  Dr.  Patrick  Russell,  dated  March, 
1784,  he  says,  "  I  do  not  expect,  as  long  as  I  stay  in 
India,  to  be  free  from  a  bad  digestion,  the  morbus 
literatorum,  for  which  there  is  hardly  any  remedy 
but  abstinence  from  too  much  food,  literary  and 
culinary.  I  rise  before  the  sun,  and  bathe  after  a 
gentle  ride  ;  my  diet  is  light  and  sparing,  and  I  go 
early  to  rest ;  yet  the  activity  of  my  mind  is  too 
strong  for  my  constitution,  though  naturally  not 
infirm,  and  I  must  be  satisfied  with  a  valetudina- 
rian state  of  health."  Soon  after  his  arrival  he 
projected  the  scheme  of  the  Asiatic  Society,  of 
which  he  became  the  first  president,  and  contri- 
buted many  papers  to  its  memoirs.  With  a  view 
to  rendering  himself  a  proficient  in  the  science  of 
Sanscrit  and  Hindoo  laws,  he  studied  the  Sanscrit 
and  Arabic  languages  with  great  ardour;  and 
tvhilst  on  a  tour  through  the  district  of  Benares, 
for  tVie  recovery  of  his  health,  he  composed  a  tale, 
in  verse,  called  The  Enchanted  Fruit,  and  A  Trea- 
tise on  the  Gods  of  Greece,  Italy,  and  India.  In 
1790,  he  appears  to  have  received  an  offer  of  some 
augmentation  of  his  salary,  as,  in  a  letter  of  that 
vear  to  Sir  James  Macpherson,  he  says,  "  Really  I 


want  no  addition  to  my  fortune,  which  is  enough 
for  me ;  and  if  the  whole  legislature  of  Britain 
were  to  offer  me  a  station  different  from  that  I  now 
fill,  I  should  most  gratefully  and  respectfully  de- 
cline it."  He  continued,  w'ith  indefatigable  zeal, 
his  compilation  of  the  Hindoo  and  Mahometan 
Digest;  on  the  completion  of  which  he  was  to 
have  followed  his  wife  to  England,  who  had  pro- 
ceeded thither,  for  the  recovery  of  her  health,  in 
the  December  of  1793.  This  intention,  however, 
he  did  not  live  to  carry  into  effect,  being  shortly 
afterwards  attacked  with  an  inflammation  of  the 
liver,  which  terminated  his  existence  on  the  27th 
of  April,  1794.  Ilis  epitaph,  written  by  himself 
is  equally  admirable  lor  its  truth  and  its  elegance. 

Here  was  deposited 

the  mortal  part  of  a  mao 

who  feared  God,  but  not  death  ; 

and  maintained  independence, 

but  sought  not  riches  ; 

who  thought  none  below  him 

but  the  base  and  unjust  ; 

none  above  him  but  the  wise  and  virtuous  ; 

who  loved  his  parents,  kindred,  friends,  and  country  ; 

and  having  devoted  his  life  to  their  service, 

♦  and  the  improvement  of  his  mind, 

resigned  it  calmly,  giving  glory  to  his  Creator, 

wishing  peace  on  earth, 

and  good  will  to  all  his  creatures. 

His  character  was,  itideed,  truly  estimable  ir. 
every  respect.  "  To  exquisite  taste  and  learning 
quite  unparalleled,"  says  Dr.  Parr,  "  Spr  William 
Jones  is  known  to  have  united  the  most  benevolent 
temper,  and  the  purest  morals."  His  whole  life 
was  one  unceasing  st<ruggle  for  the  interests  of  his 
fellow  creatures,  and,  unconnected  with  this  object, 
he  knew  no  ambition.  He  was  a  sincere  aad  pious 
Christian ;  and  in  one  of  his  latest  discourses  to 
the  Asiatic  Society,  he  has  done  more  to  give 
validity  to  the  Mosaic  account  of  the  creation, 
than  the  researches  of  any  contemporary  writerg. 
His  acquirements  as  a  linguist  were  absolutely 
wonderful :  he  understood,  critically,  English, 
Latin,  French,  Italian,  Greek,  Arabic,  Persian,  and 
Sanscrit :  he  could  translate,  with  the  aid  of  a 
dictionary,  the  Spanish,  Portuguese,  German,  Ru- 
nic, Hebrew,  Bengalee,  Hindoo,  and  Turkish ;  and 
he  had  bestowed  considerable  attention  on  the 
Russian,  Swedish,  Coptic,  Welsh,  Chinese,  Dutch, 
Syriac,  and  several  other  languages.  In  addition 
to  his  vast  stock  of  literary  information,  he  pos- 
sessed extensive  legal  knowledge;  and,  as  far  as 
we  may  judge  from  his  translations,  had  sufficient 
capacity  and  taste  for  a  first-rate  original  poet. 
His  indefatigable  application  and  industry  have, 
perhaps,  never  been  equalled  ;  even  when  in  ill- 
health  he  rose  at  three  in  the  morning,  and  what 
were  called  his  hours  of  relaxation,  were  devoted 
to  studies,  which  would  have  appalled  the  most 
vigorous  minds.  In  1799,  his  widow  published  a 
splendid  edition  of  his  works,  in  six  volumes,  folio, 
and  placed,  at  her  own  expense,  a  marble  statue 
of  him,  executed  by  Flaxman,  in  the  anti-chamber 
of  University  College,  Oxford;  and,  among  other 
public  testimonies  of  respect  to  his  memory,  the 
directors  of  the  East  India  Company  voted  him  o 
monument  in  St.  Paul's  Cathedral,  and  a  statue  ir 
Bengal. 


64 


SIR    WILLIAM    JONES. 


CAISSA: 

OR,  THE    GAME    OF    CHESS. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 

The  first  idea  of  the  following  piece  was  taken  from  a 
Latin  poem  of  Vida,  entitled  Scacchia  Ludus,  which  was 
translated  into  Italian  by  Marino,  and  inserted  in  the 
fifteenth  canto  of  his  Adonis:  the  author  thought  it  fair 
to  make  an  acknowledgment,  in  the  notes,  for  the  pas- 
sages which  he  borrowed  from  those  two  poets ;  but  he 
must  also  do  them  the  justice  to  declare,  that  most  of 
the  descriptions,  and  the  whole  story  of  Caissa,  which 
is  written  in  imitation  of  Ovid,  are  his  own ;  and  their 
faults  must  be  imputed  to  him  only.  The  characters  in 
the  poem  are  no  less  imaginary  than  those  in  the  episode  ; 
in  which  the  invention  of  chess  is  poetically  ascribed  to 
Mars,  though  it  is  certain  that  the  game  was  originally 
brought  from  India. 

Of  armies  on  the  chequer'cl  field  array'd,* 
And  guiltless  war  in  pleasing  form  display'd  ; 
When  two  bold  kings  contend  with  vain  alarms, 
In  ivory  this,  and  that  in  ebon  arms  ; 
Sing,  sportive  maids,  that  haunt  the  sacred  hill 
Of  Find  us,  and  the  famed  Pierian  rill, 
t  Thou,  joy  of  all  below,  and  all  above,  . 
Mild  Venus,  queen  of  laughter,  queen  of  love  : 
Leave  thy  bright  island,  where  on  many  a  rose 
And  many  a  pink  thy  blooming  train  repose ; 
Assist  me,  goddess  !  since  a  lovely  pair 
Command  my  song,  like  thee  divinely  fair. 

Near  yon  cool  stream,  whose  living  waters  play, 
And  rise  translucent,  in  the  solar  ray  ; 
Beneath  the  covert  of  a  fragrant  bower. 
Where  Spring's  soft  influence  purpled  every  flower; 
Two  smiling  nymphs  reclined  in  calm  retreat, 
And  envying  blossoms  crowded  round  their  seat; 
Here,  Delia  was  enthroned,  and  by  her  side 
The  sweet  Sirena  ;  both  in  beauty's  pride  : 
Thus  shine  two  roses,  fresh  with  early  bloom. 
That  from  their  native  stalk  dispense  perfume ; 
Their  leaves  unfolding  to  the  dawning  day. 
Gems  of  the  glowing  mead,  and  eyes  of  May. 
A  band  of  youths  and  damsels  sat  around. 
Their  flowing  locks  with  braided  myrtle  bound  ; 
Agatis,  in  the  graceful  dance  admired. 
And  gentle  Thyrsis,  by  the  muse  inspired ; 
With  Sylvia,  fairest  of  the  mirthful  train ; 
And  Dapl'.^is,  doom'd  to  love,  yet  love  in  vain. 
Now,  whilst  a  purer  blush  o'erspreads  her  cheeks, 
With  soothing  accents  |Jius  Sirena  speaks  : 
"  The  meads  and  lawns  are  tinged  with  beamy 
light. 
And  wakeful  larks  begin  their  vocal  flight; 
Whilst  on  each  bank  the  dew-drops  sweetly  smile ; 
What  sport,  my  Delia,  shall  the  hours  beguile  ? 
Shall  heavenly  notes,  prolong'd  with  various  art, 
Charm  the  fond  ear,  and  warm  the  rapturous  heart? 
At  distance  shall  we  view  the  sylvan  chase ; 
Dr  catch  with  silken  lines  the  finny  race?" 


IMITATIONS. 

•  Lndimus  effigiem  belli,  simulataque  veris 
Proelia,  buxo  acies  fictas,  et  ludicra  regna: 
Ut  gemini  inter  se  reges,  albusque  nigerque, 
Pro  laude  oppositi  certent  bicoloribus  arrais. 
Dicite,  Seriades  Nympha?,  certamina  tanta.        Vida. 

f  .fflneadum  genitrix,  hominum  divumque  volnptas, 
Alma  Venus !  «&c.  Lucretius. 


Then  Delia  thus  :  "  Or  rather,  smce  we  meet 
By  chance,  assembled  in  this  cool  retreat, 
In  artful  contest  let  our  warlike  train 
Move,  well-directed,  o'er  the  colour'd  plain ; 
Daphnis,  who  taught  us  first,  the  play  shall  guide, 
Explain  its  laws,  and  o'er  the  field  preside: 
No  prize  we  need,  our  ardour  to  inflame ; 
We  fight  with  pleasure,  if  we  fight  for  fame." 
The  nymph   consents:   the  maids  and  youth] 

prepare 
To  view  the  combat,  and  the  sport  to  share ; 
But  Daphnis  most  approved  the  bold  design, 
Whom  love  instructed,  and  the  tuneful  Nine. 
He  rose,  and  on  the  cedar  table  placed 
A  polish'd  board,  with  diiferent  colours  graced ; 
Squares  eight  times  eight  in  equal  order  lie  ;* 
These  bright  as  snow,  those  dark  with  sable  dye ; 
Like  the  broad  target  by  the  tortoise  borne, 
Or  like  the  hide  by  spotted  panthers  worn. 
Then  from  a  chest,  with  harmless  heroes  stored, 
O'er  the  smooth  plain  two  well-wrought  hosts  he 

pour'd ; 
The  champions  burn'd  their  rivals  to  assail, 
Twice  eight  in  black,  twice  eight  in  milk-whita 

mail;t 
In  shape  and  station  different,  as  in  name. 
Their  motions  various,  nor  their  power  the  same. 
Say,   muse !   ( for    Jove    has    naught    from    thee 

conceal'd,) 
Who  form'd  the  legions  on  the  level  field  ? 

High  in  the  midst  the  reverend  kings  appear. 
And  o'er  the  rest  their  pearly  sceptres  rear: 
One  solemn  step,  majestically  slow. 
They  gravely  move,  and  shun  the  dangerous  foe « 
If  e'er  they  call,  the  watchful  subjects  spring, 
And  die  vi^ith  rapture,  if  they  save  their  king; 
On  him  the  glory  of  the  day  depends, 
He,  once  imprison'd,  all  the  conflict  ends. 

The  queens  exulting  near  their  consorts  stand; 
Each  bears  a  deadly  falchion  in  her  hand  ; 
Now  here,  now  there,  they  bound  with  furious  pride, 
And  thin  the  trembling  ranks  from  side  to  side ; 
Swift  as  Camilla  flying  o'er  the  main. 
Or  lightly  skimming  o'er  the  dewy  plain  : 
Fierce  as  they  seem,  some  bold  plebeian  spear 
May  pierce  their  shield,  or  stop  their  full  career. 
The  valiant  guards,  their  minds  on  havoc  bent. 
Fill  the  next  squares,  and  watch  the  royal  tent; 
Though  weak  their  spears,  though  dwarfish  be  theil 

height. 
Compact  they  move,  the  bulwark  of  the  fight-t 


IMITATIONS. 

*  Sexaginta  insunt  et  quatuor  ordine  sedes 
Octono ;  parte  ex  omni,  via  limite  quadrat 
Ordinibus  paribus;  necnon  forma  omnibus  una 
Sedibus,  sequale  et  spatium,  sed  non  color  unus. 
Alternant  semper  varise,  subeuntque  vicissim 
Albentes  nigris ;  testudo  picta  superne 
Qualia  devexo  gestat  discrimina  tergo.  Vida, 

1  Agmina  bina  pari  numeroque,  et  viribus  jequis, 
Bis  nivea  cum  veste  octo,  totidemquc  nigranti. 
Ut  varice  facies,  pariter  sunt  et  sua  cuique 
Nomina,  diversum  munus,  non  ajqua  potestas.     ibid. 

X  The  chief  art  in  the  tactics  of  chess  consists  in  the 
nice  conduct  of  the  royal  pawns;  in  supporting  them 
against  every  attack;  and,  if  they  are  taken,  in  supplying 
their  places  with  others  equally  supported  ;  a  principle 


\ 


^ 


TMTB    (BrAME    OF    CHESS 


•  c 
c     • 

«  •  • 


CAIS^>A. 


55 


To  right  and  left  the  martial  wings  display 
Their  shining  arras,  and  stand  in  close  array. 
Behold  I  four  archers,  eager  to  advance, 
Send  the  light  reed,  and  rush  with  sidelong  glance  ; 
Through  angles,  ever,  they  assault  the  foes, 
True  to  the  colour,  which  at  first  they  chose. 
Thenfourbold  knights,for  courage  famed  and  speed, 
Each  kr  ight  exalted  on  a  prancing  steed  : 
Their  aiching  course  no  vulgar  limit  knows,* 
Trans\  rrse  they  leap,  and  aim  insidious  blows, 
Nor  fn(  nds,  nor  foes,  their  rapid  force  restrain, 
By  one  quick  bound  two  changing  squares  they 

gain ; 
From  varymg  hues  renew  the  fierce  attack, 
And  rush  from  black  to  white,  from  white  to  black. 
■  Four  solemn  elephants  the  sides  defend  ; 
Beneath  the  load  of  ponderous  towers  they  bend : 
In  one  unalter'd  lino  they  tempt  the  fight  ; 
Now  crush  the  left,  and  now  o'ervvhelm  the  right 
Bright  in  the  front  the  dauntless  soldiers  raise 
Their  polish'd  spears  ;  their  steely  helmets  blaze  : 
Prepared  they  stand  the  daring  foe  to  strike. 
Direct  their  progress,  but  their  wounds  oblique. 
Now  swell  th'  embattled  troops  with  hostile  rage, 
A  nd  clang  their  shields,  impatient  to  engage  ; 
When  Daphnis  thus :  "  A  varied  plain  behold. 
Where  fairy  kings  their  mimic  tents  unfold. 
As  Oberon,  and  Mab,  his  wayward  queen. 
Lead  forth  their  armies  on  the  daisied  green. 
No  mortal  had  the  wondrous  sport  contrived. 
By  gods  invented,  and  from  gods  derived  ; 
From  them  the  British  nymphs  received  the  game,(t) 
And  play  each  morn  beneath  the  crystal  Thame  ; 
Hear  then  the  tale,  which  they  to  Colin  sung. 
As  idling  o'er  the  lucid  wave  he  hung : — 

"  '  A  lovely  Dryad  ranged  the  Thracian  wild. 
Her  air  enchanting  and  her  aspect  mild  ; 
To  chase  the  bounding  hart  was  all  her  joy 
Averse  from  Hymen,  and  the  Cyprian  boy  ; 
O'er  hills  and  valleys  was  her  beauty  famed, 
And  fair  CnVssa  was  the  damsel  named. 
Mars  saw  the  maid  ;  with  deep  surprise  he  gazed. 
Admired  her  shape,  and  every  gesture  praised  .• 
His  golden  bowr  the  child  of  Venus  bent. 
And  through  his  breast  a  piercing  arrow  sent : 
The  reed  was  Hope  ;  the  feathers,  keen  Desire  ; 
The  point,  her  eyes  ;  the  barbs,  ethereal  fire. 
Soon  to  the  nymph  he  pour'd  his  tender  strain  ; 
The  haughty  Dryad  scom'd  his  amorous  pain  : 
He  told  his  woes,  where'er  the  maid  he  found. 
And  still  he  press'd,  yet  still  CaVst  i  frown'd  ; 


on  which  the  success  of  the  game  in  great  measure 
depends,  though  it  seems  to  be  omitted  by  the  very  accu- 
rate Vida. 

IMITATIONS. 
•  n  cavallo  leggier  per  dritta  lista, 
Come  gli  alfri,  paiTingo  unqua  non  fende, 
Mala  lizza  attraversa,  e  fiero  in  vista 
Curvo  in  giro,  e  lunato  11  salto  stende, 
E  sempre  nel  saltar  due  case  acquista, 
Quel  colore  abbandona,  e  questo  prende. 

Marino,  Adone.  15. 

ttiuse  quondam  sub  aquis  gaudent  spectacia  tueri 
Nereides,  vastique  omnis  gens  accola  ponti; 
Siquando  pla^dum  mare,  et  humida  regna  quierunt. 

Vida\ 


But  e'en  her  frowns  (ah,  what  might  smiles  have 

done !) 
Fired  all  his  soul,  and  all  his  senses  won. 
He  left  his  car,  by  raging  tigers  drawn. 
And  lonely  wander'd  o'er  the  dusky  lawn ; 
Then  lay  desponding  near  a  murmuring  stream. 
And  fair  Cai'ssa  was  his  plaintive  theme. 
A  Naiad  heard  him  from  her  mossy  bed. 
And  through  the  crj'stal  raised  her  placid  head 
Then  mildly  spake  :  "  O  thou  whom  love  inspire*, 
Thy  tears  will  nourish,  not  allay  thy  fires. 
The  smiling  blossoms  drink  the  pearly  dew  ; 
And  ripening  fruit  the  feather'd  race  pursue  ; 
The  scaly  she*  b  devour  the  silken  weeds ! 
Love  on  our  sighs,  and  on  our  sorrow  feeds. 
Then  weep  no  more  ;  but,  ere  thou  canst  obtain 
Balm  for  thy  wounds  and  solace  to  thy  pain, 
With  gentle  art  thy  martial  look  beguile  ,• 
Be  mild,  and  teach  thy  rugged  brow  to  smile. 
Canst  thou  no  play,  no  soothing  game  devise, 
To  make  thee  lovely  in  the  damsel's  eyes? 
So  may  thy  prayers  assuage  the  scornful  dame. 
And  ev'n  Caissa  own  a  mutual  flame." 
"  Kind  nymph,  (said  Mars,)  thy  counsel  I  approve; 
Art,  only  art,  her  ruthless  breast  can  move. 
But  when  ?  or  how  ?  Thy  dark  discourse  explain: 
So  may  thy  stream  ne'er  swell  with  gushing  rain , 
So  may  thy  waves  in  one  pure  current  flow, 
And  flowers  eternal  on  thy  border  blow  I" 

"  '  To  whom  the  maid  replied  with  smiling  mien: 
"  Above  the  palace  of  the  Faphian  queen 
Love's  brother  dwells,  a  boy  of  graceful  port, 
By  gods  named  Euphron.  and  by  mortals  Sport ; 
Seek  him  ;  to  faithful  ears  unfold  thy  grief, 
And  hope,  ere  morn  return,  a  sweet  relief. 
His  temple  hangs  below  the  azure  skies ; 
Seest  thou  yon  argent  cloud  ?  'Tis  there  it  lies." 
This  said,  she  sunk  beneath  the  liquid  plain, 
And  sought  the  mansion  of  her  blue-hair'd  train. 
'"  Meant'me  t^*:.  -^-Td   '»late  with  heart-felt  joy. 
Had  reach'o  Jie  temple  v,f  m,  ^po"*^u!  ^^v  . 
He  tolo  Oaissa's  ciiarri?  his  kindr*^«i  fire. 
The  Naiad  e  counsel,  and  his  warn-  desiia. 
••  Be  tivvift,  (he  added)  give  my  passion  aid  ; 
A  god  requests." — He  spake,  and  Sport  obey'd. 
He  framed  a  tablet  of  celestial  mould. 
Inlaid  with  squares  of  silver  and  of  gold  ; 
Then  of  two  metals  form'd  the  warlike  band. 
That  here,  compact,  in  show  of  battle  stand  ; 
He  taught  the  rules  that  guide  the  pensive  game. 
And  call'd  rt  Cassa  from  the  Dryad's  name  : 
(Whence  Albion's  sons,  who  most  its  praise  con- 
fess, 
Approved  the  play,  and  named  it  thoughtful  Chess.) 
The  god,  delighted,  thank'd  indulgent  Sport ; 
Then  grasp'd  the  board,  and  left  his  airy  court 
With  rcdiant  feet  he  pierced  the  clouds ;  nor  stay'd 
Till  in  the  woods  he  saw  the  beauteo.us  maid. 
Tired  with  the  chase  the  damsel  sat  reclined, 
Her  girdle  loose,  her  bosom  unconfined. 
He  took  the  figure  of  a  wanton  faun, 
And  stood  before  her  on  the  flowery  lawn  j 


•  Ecco  d'astuto  ingegno,  e  pronta  mano 
Garzon,  she  sempre  scherza,  e  vola  ratio, 
Gioco  s'apella,  ed  e  d'amor.germano. 

Marino,  Adone,  1& 


56 


SIR  WILLIAM  JONES. 


Then  show'd  his  tablet ;  pleased,  the  nymph  sur- 

vey'd 
The  lifeless  troops,  in  glittering  ranks  display'd  ; 
She  ask'd  the  wily  sylvan  to  explain 
The  various  motions  of  the  splendid  train  ; 
With  eager  heart  she  caught  the  \vinning  lore. 
And  thought  e'en  Mars  less  hateful  than  before : 
"  What  spell  (said  she)  deceived  my  careless  mind  ? 
The  god  was  fair,  and  I  was  most  unkind." 
She  spoke,  and  saw  the  changing  faun  assume 
A  milder  aspect,  and  a  fairer  bloom ; 
His  wreathing  horns,  that  from  his  temples  grew, 
Flovv'd  down  in  curls  of  bright  celestial  hue ; 
The  dappled  hairs,  that  veil'd  his  loveless  face. 
Blazed  into  beams,  and  show'd  a  heavenly  grace ; 
The  shaggy  hide,  that  mantled  o'er  his  breast. 
Was  soften'd  to  a  smooth  transparent  vest, 
That  through  its  folds  his  vigorous  bosom  show'd, 
And  nervous  limbs,  where  youthful  ardour  glow'd: 
(Had  Venus  view'd  him  in  those  blooming  charms 
Not  Vulcan's  net  had  forced  her  from  his  arms.) 
With  goatlike  feet  no  more  he  mark'd  the  ground, 
But  braided  flowers  his  silken  sandals  bound. 
The  Dryad  blush'd  ;  and,  as  he  press'd  her,  smiled, 
Whilst  all  his  cares  one  tender  glance  beguiled." 

He  ends  :  To  arms,  the  maids  and  striplings  cry  ; 
To  arms,  the  groves  and  sounding  vales  reply. 
Sirena  led  to  war  the  swarthy  crew, 
And  Delia  those  that  bore  the  lily's  hue. 
Who  first,  O  muse,  began  the  bold  attack  ; 
The  white  refulgent,  or  the  mournful  black  ? 
Fair  Delia  first,  as  favouring  lots  ordain. 
Moves  her  pale  legions  toward  the  sable  train : 
From  thought  to  thought  her  lively  fancy  flies. 
Whilst  o'er  the  board  she  darts  her  sparkling  eyes. 

At  length  the  warrior  moves  with  haughty 
strides ; 
Who  from  the  plain  the  snowy  king  divides  ; 
With  equal  haste  his  swarthy  rival  bounds ; 
His  quiver  rattles,  and  his  buckler  sounds  : 
Ah!  hapless  youths,  with  fatal  warmth  you  burn ; 
Laws,  ever  fix'd,  forbid  you  to  return. 
Then  from  the  wing  a  short-lived  spearman  flies, 
Unsafely  bold,  and  see  I  he  dies,  he  dies: 
The  dark-brow'd  hero,  with  one  vengeful  blow, 
Of  life  and  place  deprives  his  ivory  foe. 
Now  rush  both  armies  o'er  the  burnish'd  field. 
Hurl  the  swift  dart,  and  rend  the  bursting  shield. 
Here  furious  knights  on  fiery  coursers  prance. 
Here  archers  spring,  and  lofty  towers  advance. 
But  see  !  the  white-robed  Am&ijn  beht)lds 
Where  the  dark  host  its  opening  van  unfolds  : 
Soon  as  her  eye  discerns  the  hostile  maid, 
By  ebon  shield,  and  ebon  helm  betray'd  : 
Seven  squares  she  passes  with  majestic  mien. 
And  stands  triumphant  o'er  the  falling  queen, 
Perplex'd,  and  sorrowing  at  his  consort's  fate, 
The  monarch  burn'd  with  rage,  despair,  and  hate ; 
Swift  from  lus  zone  th'  avenging  blade  he  drew, 
And,  mad  with  ire,  the  proud  virago  slew. 
Meanwhile, !§weet  smiling  Delia's  wary  king 
Retired  from  fight  behind  his  circling  wing. 

Long  time  the  v;ar  in  equal  balance  hung ; 
Till,  unforeseen,  an  ivory  courser  sprung. 
And,  wildly  prancing,  in  an  evil  hour, 
Attack'd  at  once  the  monarch  and  the  tower  : 
Sirena  blu.sh'd,  for,  as  the  rules  required, 
Her  injured  sovereign  tc  his  tent  retired ; 


Whilst  her  lost  castle  leaves  his  threatening  heighti 
And  adds  new  glory  to  th'  exulting  knight. 

At  this,  pale  fear  oppress'd  the  drooping  maui 
And  on  her  cheek  the  rose  began  to  fade  : 
A  crystal  tear,  that  stood  prepared  to  fall, 
She  wiped  in  silence,  and  conceal'd  from  all ; 
From  all  but  Daphnis :  he  remark'd  her  pain, 
And  saw  the  weakness  of  her  ebon  train ; 
Then  gently  spoke  :  "  Let  me  your  loss  supply. 
And  either  nobly  win,  or  nobly  die ; 
Me  oft  has  fortune  crown'd  with  fair  success, 
And  led  to  triumph  in  the  fields  of  chess." 
He  said :  the  willing  nymph  her  place  resign'd 
And  sat  at  distance  on  the  bank  reclined. 
Thus,  when  Minerva  call'd  her  chief  to  arms, 
And  Troy's  high  turret  shook  with  dire  alarms, 
The  Cyprian  goddess,  wounded,  left  the  plain. 
And  Mars  engaged  a  mightier  force  in  vain. 

Straight  Daphnis  leads  his  squadron  to  the  fioJil , 
(To  Delia's  arms  'tis  e'en  a  joy  to  yield  ) 
Each  guileful  snare  and  subtle  art  he  tries, 
But  finds  his  art  less  powerful  than  her  eyes ; 
Wisdom  and  strength  superior  charms  obey  : 
And  beauty,  beauty,  wins  the  long-fought  day. 
By  this — a  hoary  chief,  on  slaughter  bent, 
Approach'd  the  gloomy  king's  unguarded  tent: 
Where,  late,  his  consort  spread  dismay  around. 
Now  her  dark  corse  lies  bleeding  on  the  ground. 
Hail,  happy  youth !  thy  glories  not  unsung 
Shall  live  eternal  on  the  poet's  tongue ; 
For  thou  shalt  soon  receive  a  splendid  change, 
And  o'er  the  plain  with  nobler  fury  range. 
The  swarthy  leaders  saw  the  storm  impend. 
And  strove  in  vain  their  sovereign  to  defend: 
Th'  invader  waved  his  silver  lance  in  air, 
And  flew  like  lightning  to  the  fatal  square ; 
His  limbs,  dilated,  in  a  moment  grew 
To  stately  height,  and  widen'd  to  the  view  ; 
More  fierce  his  look,  more  lion-like  his  mien. 
Sublime  he  moved,  and  seem'd  a  warrior  queen. 
As  when  the  sage  on  some  unfolding  plant 
Has  caught  a  wondering  fly,  or  frugal  ant, 
His  hand  the  microscopic  frame  applies. 
And  lo !  a  bright-hair'd  monster  meets  his  eyes ; 
He  sees  new  plumes  in  slender  cases  roll'd 
Here  stain'd  with  azure,  there  bedropp'd  with  gold , 
Thus,  on  the  alter'd  chief  both  armies  gaze, 
And  both  the  kings  are  fix'd  with  deep  amaze. 
The   sword,  which  arm'd   the  snow-white  maid 

before. 
He  now  assumes,  and  hurls  the  spear  no  more ; 
Then  springs  indignant  on  the  dark-robed  band. 
And  knights  and  archers  feel  his  deadly  hand. 
Now  flies  the  monarch  of  the  sable  shield. 
His  legions  vanquish'd,  o'er  the  lonely  field. 
So  when  the  morn,  by  rosy  coursers  drawn,* 
With  pearls  and  rubies  sows  the  verdant  lawn. 
Whilst  each  pale  star  from  heaven's  blue  vault 

retires. 
Still  Venus  gleams,  and  last  of  all  expires. 


IMITATIONS. 

» Medio  rex  fequore  inerrnis 

Constitit  amissis  sociis :  velut  jethere  in  alto 
Expulit  ardentes  flamraas  ubi  liitea  bigis 
Luciferis  Aurora,  tuus  pulcherrimus  ignis 
Lucet  adhuc,  Venus,  et  coelo  mox  ultimus  exit. 

Vida,  ver.  6(W. 


SOLIMA. 


57 


He  hears,  where'er  he  moves,  the  dreadful  sound  ; 
Check    the    deep    vales,   and    Chech    the    woods 

rebound : — 
No  place  remains :  he  sees  the  certain  fate, 
And  yields  his  throne  to  ruin,  and  check-mate. 

A  brighter  blush  o'erspreads  the  damsel's  cheeks. 
And  mildly  thus  the  conquer'd  stripling  speaks: 
•A  double  triumph,  Delia,  hast  thou  won. 
By  Mars  protected,  and  by  Venus'  son  ; 
The  first  wath  conquest  crowns  thy  matchless  art. 
The  second  points  those  eyes  at  Daphnis'  heart." 
She  smiled  ;  the  nymphs  and  amorous  youtlis  arise. 
And  own,  that  Beauty  gain'd  the  nobler  prize. 
Low  in  their  chest  the  mimic  troops  were  laid, 
And  peaceful  slept  the  sable  hero's  shade.* 


SOLIMA. 

AN    AR.1BIAN    ECLOGUE. 

"  Ye  maids  of  Aden !  hear  a  loftier  tale 
Than  e'er  was  sung  in  meadow,  bower,  or  dale. 
— The  smiles  of  Abelah,  and  Maia's  eyes, 
Where  beauty  plays,  and  love  in  slumber  lies  ; 
The  fragrant  hyacinths  of  Azza's  hair. 
That  wanton  with  the  laughing  summer-air ; 
Love-tinctured   cheeks,  whence  roses   seek   their 

bloom. 
And  lips,  from  which  the  zephyr  steals  perfume  ; 
Invite  no  more  the  wild  unpolish'd  lay. 
But  fly  like  dreams  before  the  morning  ray. 
Then  farewell,  love!  and  farewell,  youthful  fires! 
A  nobler  warmth  my  kindled  breast  inspires. 
Far  bolder  notes  the  listening  woods  shall  fill  ; 
Flow  smooth,  ye  rivulets  ;  and,  ye  gales,  be  still. 

"  See  yon  fair  groves  that  o'er  Amana  rise, 
And  with  their  spicy  breath  embalm  the  skies  ; 
Where  every  breeze  sheds  incense  o'er  the  vales, 
And  every  shrub  the  scent  of  musk  exhales ! 
See  through  yon  opening  glade  a  glittering  scene, 
Lawns  ever  gay,  and  meadows  ever  green  ; 
Then  ask  the  groves,  and  ask  the  vocal  bowers. 
Who  deek'd  their  spiry  tops  with  blooming  flowers. 
Taught  the  blue  stream  o'er  sandy  vales  to  flow*, 
And  the  brown  wild  with  liveliest  hues  to  glow  ? 
Fair  Solima  !  the  hills  and  dales  will  sing ; 
Fair  Solima  !  the  distant  echoes  ring.t 
But  not  with  idle  shows  of  vain  delight, 
To  charm  the  soul  or  to  beguile  the  sight  • 
At  noon  on  banks  of  pleasure  to  repose. 
Where  bloom  entwined  the  lily,  pink,  and  rose  ; 
Not  in  proud  piles  to  heap  the  nightly  feast. 
Till  mom  with  pearls  has  deek'd  the  glowing  east; 
Ah  J  not  for  this  she  taught  those  bowers  to  rise, 
And  bade  all  Eden  spring  before  our  eyes  : 
Far  other  thoughts  her  heavenly  mind  employ 
(Hence,  empty  pride  !  and  hence,  delusive  joy  I) 
To  cheer  with  sweet  repast  the  fainting  guest ; 
To  lull  the  weary  on  the  couch  of  rest  ; 


•  A  parody  of  the  last  line  in  Pope's  translation  of  the 
Iliad : 

"And  peaceful  slept  the  mighty  Hector's  shade." 

t  It  was  not  easy  in  this  part  of  tlie  translation  to 
avoid  a  turn  similar  to  that  of  Pope  in  the  known  de- 
scription of  the  Man  of  Ross. 


To  warm  the  traveller  nurab'd  with  winter's  cold 
The  young  to  cherish,  to  support  the  old  ; 
The  sad  to  comfort,  and  the  weak  protect ; 
The  poor  to  shelter,  and  the  lost  direct : — 
These  are  her  cares,  and  this  her  glorious  task ; 
Can  Heaven  a  nobler  give,  or  mortals  ask? 
Come  to    these  groves,   and    these   life-breathinj 

glades. 
Ye  friendless  orphans,  and  ye  dowerless  maids ; 
With  eager  haste  your  mournful  mansions  leave, 
Ye  weak,  that  tremble  ;  and,  ye  sick,  that  grieve  : 
Here  shall  soft  tents,  o'er  flowery  lawns  display'd. 
At  night  defend  you,  and  at  noon  o'ershade; 
Here  rosy  health  the  sweets  of  life  will  shower. 
And  new  delights  beguile  each  varied  hour. 
Mourns  there  a  widow,  bathed  in  streaming  tears 
Stoops  there  a  sire  beneath  the  weight  of  years  ? 
Weeps  there  a  maid,  in  pining  sadness  left, 
Of  tender  parents  and  of  hope  bereft  ? 
To  Solima  their  sorrows  they  bewaril  ; 
To  Solima  they  pour  their  plaintive  tale. 
She  hears  ;  and,  radiant  as  the  star  of  day, 
Through  the  thick  forest  gains  her  easy  way  ; 
She  asks  what  cares  the  joyless  train  oppress. 
What  sickness  wastes  them,  or  what  wants  distress, 
And,  as  they  mourn,  she  steals  a  tenxer  sigh, 
Whilst  all  her  soul  sits  melting  in  her  eye  : 
Then  with  a  smilo  the  healing  balm  bestows. 
And  sheds  a  tear  of  pity  o'er  their  woes. 
Which,  as  it  drops,  some  soft-eyed  angel  bears 
Transform'd  to  pearl,  and  in  his  bosom  w-ears. 
"  When  chill'd  with  fear,  the  trembling  pilgrim 

roves  [groves 

Through  pathless    deserts    and   through   tangled 
Where  mantling  darkness  spreads  her  dragon  wing, 
And  birds  of  death  their  fatal  dirges  sing. 
While  vapours  pale  a  dreadful  glimmering  cast, 
And  thrilling  horror  howls  in  every  blast ; 
She  cheers  his  gloom  with  streams  of  bursting 

light. 
By  day  a  sun,  a  beaming  moon  by  night ;         [ray 
Darts  through  the  quivering  shades  her  heavenly 
And  spreads  with  rising  flowers  his  solitary  way. 
"  Ye  heavens,  for  this  in  showers  of  sw^eetness 

shed 
Your  mildest  influence  o'er  her  favour'd  head  ! 
Long  may  her  name,  which  distant  climes  shtll 

praise, 
Live  in  our  notes,  and  blossom  in  our  lays ! 
And,  like  an  odorous  plant,  whose  blushing  flower 
Paints  every  dale,  and  sweetens  every  bower. 
Borne  to  the  skies  in  clouds  of  soft  perfume 
For  ever  flourish,  and  for  ever  bloom  ! 
These  grateful  songs,  ye  maids  and  youths,  renew. 
While  fresh  blown  violets  drink  the  pearly  dew  ; 
O'er  Azib's  banks  while  love-lorn  damsels  rove. 
And   gales   of  fragrance   breathe    from    Hagars 

grove." 
So  sung  the  youth,  whose  sweetly-warbled  strains 
Fair  Mona  heard,  and  Saba's  spicy  plains. 
Sooth'd  with  his  lay  the  ravish'd  air  was  calm, 
The  winds  scarce  whisper'd  o'er  the  waving  palnij 
The  camels  bounded  o'er  the  flowery  lawn. 
Like  the  swift  ostrich,  or  the  sportful  fawn  ; 
Their  silken  bands  the  listening  rose-buds  rent, 
And  twined  their  blossoms  round  his  vocal  tent  • 
He  sung,  till  on  the  bank  the  moonlight  slept. 
And  closing  flowers  beneath  the  night-dew  wept , 


58 


SIR  WILLIAM  JONES. 


Then  ceased,  and  sluraber'd  in  the  lap  of  rest 
Till  the  shrill  lark  had  left  his  low-built  nest. 
Now  hastes  the  swain  to  tune  his  rapturous  tales 
^n  other  meadows,  and  in  other  vales. 


AN  ODE  IN  IMITATION  OF  ALCEUS. 

Ov  >.idoi,  vSs  IvXa,  vSe 
Texvri  tektovwv  ai  ttoXeis  eicriv 
AXX'  OTTU  TTOT  av  oioiv  ANAPE2 
KvTUi  (rco^eiv  eiSores, 
BvravSa  rsixn  Kai  voXsig. 

Ale.  quoted  by  Aristides. 

What  constitutes  a  state  ? 
Not  high-raised  battlement  or  labour'd  mound. 

Thick  wall  or  moated  gate  ; 
Not  cities  proud  with  spires  and  turrets  crown'd  ; 

Not  bays  and  broad-arm'd  ports, 
Where,  laughing  at  the  storm,  rich  navies  ride  ; 

Not  starr'd  and  spangled  courts, 
Where  low-brow'd  baseness  wafts  perfume  to  pride. 

NO  : — Men,  high-minded  men, 
With  powers  as  far  above  dull  brutes  endued 

In  forest,  brake,  or  den. 
As  beasts  excel  cold  rocks  and  brambles  rude  ; 

Men,  who  their  duties  know, 
But  know  their  rights,  and  knowing,  dare  maintain, 

Prevent  the  long-aim'd  blow, 
And  crush  the  tyrant  while  they  rend  the  chain : 

These  constitute  a  state  ; 
And  sovereign  law,  that  state's  collected  wn.!. 

O'er  thrones  and  globes  elate 
Sits  empress,  crowning  good,  repressing  ill  • 

Smit  by  her  sacred  frown 
The  fiend,  discretion,  like  a  vapour  sinks, 

And  e'en  th'  all  dazzling  crown 
Hides  his  faint  rays,  and  at  her  bidding  shrinks. 

Such  was  this  heaven-loved  isle, 
Than  Lesbos  fairer  and  the  Cretan  shore  ! 

No  more  shall  freedom  smile  ? 
Shall  Britons  languish,  and  be  men  no  more  ? 

Since  all  must  life  resign. 
Those  sweet  rewards,  which  decorate  the  brave, 

'Tis  folly  to  decline, 
And  steal  inglorious  to  the  silent  grave. 

Abergavenny,  March  31,  1781. 


AN  ODE  IN  IMITATION  OF  CALLIS- 
TRATUS. 

Ev  ixvpry  kXuSi  to  li^og  <f)opri(T(x), 
SLffnep  ApuoSios  k'  Kpi^oyeiroiv, 
Ots  tov  Tvpavvov  Kravercov 
Icrovoixi's  T  A6r}vas  enoirjaaTTiv. 

K.  T.  X. 

Jiuod  si  post  Idus  illias  Martias  e  Tyrannoctonis  quis- 
piam  tale  aliquod  carmen  plebi  tradidisset  inque 
Suburram  et  fori  circulos  et  in  ora  vulgi  Intulisset, 
actum  profecto  fuisset  de  partlbus  deque  dominatione 
Caesarum;  plus  mehercule  valuisset  unum  ApfioSiH 
HeXos  quam  Ciceronis  Philippicse  omnes.—  Lowth  De 
Sacra  Poeai,  Prcsl.  1 . 

Verdant  myrtle's  branchy  pride 
Shall  my  biting  falchion  wreathe  ; 

Soon  shall  grace  each  manly  side 
Tubes  that  speak,  and  points  that  breatne. 


Thus,  Harmodius!  shone  thy  blade  , 
Thus,  Aristogiton  !  thine : 

Whose,  when  Britain  sighs  for  aid 
Whose  shall  now  delay  to  shine? 

Dearest  youths,  in  islands  bless'd, 
Not,  like  recreant  idlers  dead. 

You  with  fleet  Pelides  rest, 
And  with  godlike  Diomed. 

Verdant  myrtle's  branchy  pride 
Shall  my  thirsty  blade  entwine  : 

Such,  Harmodius  !  deck'd  thy  side ; 
Such,  Aristogiton !  thine. 

They  the  base  Hipparchus  slew 
At  the  feast  of  Pallas  crown'd  : 

Gods  ! — how  swift  their  poniards  (Lev, 
How  the  monster  tinged  the  ground ! 

Then  in  Athens  all  was  peace, 
Equal  laws  and  liberty  : 

Nurse  of  arts,  and  age  of  Greece ! 
People  valiant,  firm,  and  free  ! 

Not  less  glorious  was  thy  deed, 
Wentworth !  fix'd  in  virtue's  cause  ; 

Not  less  brilliant  be  thy  meed, 
Lenox !  friend  to  equal  laws. 

High  in  freedom's  temple  raised. 
See  Fitz-Maurice  bea.ming  stand, 

For  collected  virtues  praised. 
Wisdom's  voice,  and  Valour's  hand 

Ne'er  shall  Fate  their  eyelids  clc/se  • 
They,  in  blooming  regions  bless'd, 

With  Harmodius  shall  repose  : 
With  Aristogiton  rest. 

No,  bless'd  chiefs !  a  hero's  crown 
Let  th'  Athenian  patriots  claim  : 

You  less  fiercely  won  renown  ; 
You  assumed  a  milder  name. 

They  through  blood  for  glory  strove 
You  more  blissful  tidings  brings  : 

They  to  death  a  tyrant  drove, 
You  to  fame  restored  a  king. 

Rise,  Britannia  !  dauntless  rise  ! 
Cheer'd  with  triple  harmony, 

Monarch  good,  and  nobles  wise 
People  valiant,  firm,  and  free  • 


THE  FIRST  NEMEAN  ODE  OF  PINDAR.* 

Calm  breathing-place  of  Alpheus  dead, 

Ortygia,  graceful  branch  of  Syracuse  renown'd, 

Young  Dina's  rosy  bed. 

Sister  of  Delos,  thee,  with  sweet,  yet  lofty,  sound 

Bursting  numbers  call,  to  raise 

Of  tempest-footed  steeds  the  trophies  glorious 

(Thus  Etnean  Jove  we  praise  ;) 

While  Chromius'  car  invites,  and  Nemea's  plain, 

For  noble  acts  victorious 

To  weave  the  encomiastic  strain. 

From  prospering  gods  the  song  begins  ; 

Next  hails  that  godlike  man  and  virtue's  holy  meedft 


»  This  ode  is  translated  word  for  word  with  the  original ; 
those  epithets  and  phrases  only  being  necessarily  added 
which  are  printed  in  italic  letters. 

See  Argument  of  the  Hymns  to  Paciiti 


ODES. 


59 


He  the  flower  of  greatness  wins, 

Whom  smiling  fortune  crowns;   and  vast  heroic 

deeds 
Every  muse  delights  to  sing. 
Now  wake  to  that  fair  isle  the  splendid  story, 
Which  the  great  Olympian  king, 
Jove,  gave  to  Proserpine,  and  waved  .lis  locks 
Vowing,  that,  supreme  in  glory. 
Famed  for  sweet  fruits,  and  nymph-loved  rocks, 

Sicilia's  full  nutritious  breast 

With  tower'd  and  wealthy  cities  he  would  crown. 

Her  the  son  of  Saturn  bless'd 

With  suitors  brazen-arm'd  for  war's  renown 

By  lance  and  fiery  steed  ;  yet  oft  thy  leaves, 

Olympic  olive  !  bind  their  hair 

In  wreathy  gold.    Great  subjects  I  prepare ; 

But  none  th'  immortal  verse  deceives. 

Oft  in  the  portals  was  I  placed 

Of  that  guest-loving  man,  and  pour'd  the  dulcet 

strain. 
Where  becoming  dainties  graced 
His  hospitable  board  ;  for  ne'er  with  efforts  vain 
Strangers  to  his  mansion  came  : 
And  thus  the  virtuous,  when  detraction  rages, 
Quench  with  liberal  streams  her  flame. 
Let  each  in  virtue's  path  right  onward  press. 
As  each  his  art  engages, 
And,  urged  by  genius,  win  success. 

Laborious  action  strength  applies, 

And  wary  conduct,  sense :  the  future  to  foresee 

Natu-e  gives  to  few,  the  wise. 

Agesidamus'  son,  she  frankly  gave  to  thes 

Powerful  might  and  wisdom  deep. 

1  see  not  in  dark  c'ells  the  hoarded  treasure 

Grovelling  with  low  care  to  keep. 

But,  as  wealth  flows,  to  spread  it,  and  to  hear 

Loud  fame,  with  ample  measure 

Cheering  my  friends,  since  hope  and  fear 

Assail  disastrous  men.     The  praise 

Of  Hercules  with  rapture  I  embrace 

On  the  heights,  which  virtues  raise, 

The  rapid  legend  old  his  name  shall  place  ; 

For,  when  he  brook'd  no  more  the  cheerless  gloom, 

And  burst  into  the  blaze  of  day. 

The  child  of  Jove  with  his  twin  brother  lay. 

Refulgent  from  the  sacred  womb. 

Not  unobserved  the  godlike  boy 
By  Juno  golden-throned  the  safll-on'd  cradle  press'd; 
Straight  heaven's  queen  with  furious  joy 
Bade  hdeous  dragons  fleet  th'  unguarded  floor  infest- 
They,  tlie  portals  opening  wide, 
Roll'd  through  the  chamber's  broad  recess  tremen- 
dous, 
And  in  jaws  fire-darting  tried 
The  slumbering  babe  to  close.    He,  starting  light, 
Rear'd  his  bold  head  stupendous, 
And  first  in  battle  proved  his  might. 

With  both  resistless  hands  he  clasp'd 

Both   struggling  horrid   pests,  and   clothed   their 

necks  with  death  ; 
They  expiring,  as  he  grasp'd, 
Pour'd   from    their   throats    compress'd,   the   foul 

envenom'd  breath. 


Horror  seized  the  female  train. 

Who  near  Alcmena's  genial  couch  attended 

She,  from  agonizing  pain 

Yet  weak,  unsandalVd  and  unmantled  rush'd, 

And  her  loved  charge  defended. 

Whilst  he  the  fi^ry  monsters  crush'd. 

Swift  the  Cadmean  leaders  ran 

In  brazen  mail  precipitately  bold : 

First  Amphitryon,  dauntless  man, 

Bared  his  raised  falchion  from  its  sheathing  gold, 

While  grinding  anguish  pierced  hisfluttering  breastj 

For  private  woes  most  keenly  bite 

Self-loving  man ;  but  soon  the  heart  is  light. 

With  sorrow  /lot  its  own  oppress'd. 

Standing  in  deep  amazement  wild 

With  rapturous  pleasure  mix'd,  he  saw  th'  enor 

mous  force, 
Saw  the  valour  of  his  child  : 
And  fated  heralds  prompt,  as  heaven  had  shaped 

their  course. 
Wafted  round  the  varied  tale : 
Then  called  he  from  high  Jove's  contiguous  regi<m. 
Him,  whose  warnings  never  fail, 
Tiresias  blind,  who  told,  in  diction  sage. 
The  chief  and  thronging  legion 
What  fortunes  must  his  boy  engage  : 

What  lawless  tyrants  of  the  wood. 

What  serpents  he  would  slay,  what  monsters  of  the 

main. 
What  proud  foe  to  human  good. 
The  worst  of  monstrous  forms,  that  holy  manhood 

stain, 
His  huge  arm  to  death  would  dash  : 
How  when  heaven's  host,  o'er  Phlegra's  champaign 

hasting, 
With  embattled  giants  rash 

Vindictive  warr'd,  his  pondrous  mace  would  stom 
With  dreadful  strokes  wide-wasting. 
And  dust  their  glittering  locks  deform. 

He  told ;  and  how  in  blissful  peace 
Through  cycles  infinite  of  gliding  time, 
"When  his  mortal  task  should  cease. 
Sweet  prize  of  perils  hard  and  toil  sublime, 
In  gorgequs  mansions  he  should  hold  entranced 
Soft  Hebe,  fresh  with  blooming  grace, 
And  crown,  exalting  his  majestic  race. 
The  bridal  feast  near  Jove  advanced. 


A  CHINESE  ODE,  PARAPHRASED. 

Behold,  where  yon  blue  rivulet  glides 

Along  the  laughing  dale  ; 
Light  reeds  bedeck  its  verdant  sides. 

And  frolic  in  the  gale 

So  shines  our  prince  !  in  bright  array 
The  virtues  round  him  wait  ; 

And  sweetly  smiled  th'  auspicious  day, 
That  raised  him  o'er  our  state. 

As  pliant  hands,  m  siiapes  rehned, 
Rich  ivory  carve  and  smooth. 

His  laws  thus  mould  each  ductile  mind, 
And  every  passion  soothe. 


60 


SIR    WILLIAM    JONES. 


As  gems'  are  taught  by  patient  art 

In  sparkling  ranks  lo  beam, 
With  manners  thus  he  forms  the  heart, 

And  spreads  a  general  gleam. 

What  soft,  yet  awful  dignity  ! 

What  meek,  yet  manly  grace  ! 
What  sweetness  dances  in  his  eye, 

And  blossoms  in  his  face  ! 

So  shines  our  prince  !  A  sky-born  crowd 
Of  virtues  round  him  blaze  : 

Ne'er  shall  oblivion's  murky  cloud 
Obscure  his  deathless  praise. 


THE   VERBAL   TRANSLATION. 

i'.SHOLD  yon  reach  of  the  river  Ki ; 
Its  green  reeds  how  luxuriant !  how  luxuriant ! 
Thus  is  our  prince  adorn'd  with  virtues  ; 
As  a  carver,  as  a  filer  of  ivory. 
As  a  cutter,  as  a  polisher  of  gems 
O  how  elate  and  sagacious !  O  how  dauntless  and 

composed ! 
How  worthy  of  fame  !  How  worthy  of  reverence ! 
We  have  a  prince  adorn'd  with  virtues. 
Whom  to  the  end  of  time  we  cannot  forget." 


A  TURKISH  ODE  OF  MESIHI. 

Hear  !  how  the  nightingales  on  every  spray. 
Hail,  in  wild  notes,  the  sweet  return  of  May  ; 
— The  gale  that  o'er  yon  waving  almond  blows. 
The  verdant  bank  with  silver  blossoms  strows : 
The  smiling  season  decks  each  flowery  glade. 
Be  gay  :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  spring  will  fade. 

t  What  gales  of  fragrance  scent  the  vernal  air ! 
Hills,  dales,  and  woods,  their  loveliest  mantles 

wear, 
Who  knows  what  cares  await  that  fatal  day, 
When  ruder  gusts  shall  banish  gentle  May  ? 
E'en  death,  perhaps,  our  valleys  will  invade. 
Be  gay :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  spring  will  fade. 

llTie  tulip  now  its  varied  hue  displays. 

And  sheds,  like  Ahmed's  eye,  celestial  rays. 

Ah,  nation  ever  faithful,  ever  true, 

The  joys  of  youth,  while  May  invites,  pursue  ! 

Will  not  these  notes  your  timorous  minds  persuade? 

Be  gay :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  spring  will  fade. 


IMITATIONS. 

*  "  Thou  hearest  the  tale  of  the  nightingale,  '  that  the 
vernal  season  approaches.'  The  spring  has  spread  a 
bower  of  joy  in  every  grove,  where  the  almond  tree 
sheds  its  silver  blossoms.  Be  cheerful;  be  full  of 
mirth ;  for  the  spring  passes  soon  away  :  it  will  not  last." 

t"The  groves  and  hills  are  again  adorned  with  all 
■orts  of  flowers ;  a  pavilion  of  roses,  as  the  seat  of  plea- 
sure, is  raised  in  the  garden.  Who  knows  which  of  us 
will  he  alive  when  the  fair  season  ends?  Be  cheer- 
ful," &c. 

J  "The  edge  of  the  bower  is  filled  with  the  light  of 
Ahmed;  among  tlie  plants  the  fortunate  tulips  represent 
his  companions.  Come,  O  people  of  Mohammed !  this 
Ui  the  season  of  merriment.    Be  cheerful,"  &c. 


*  The  sparkling  dew-drops  o'er  the  lilies  play. 
Like  orient  pearls,  or  like  the  beams  of  day. 
If  love  and  mirth  your  wanton  thoughts  engage, 
Attend,  ye  nymphs !  a  poet's  words  are  sage  ; 
While  thus  you  sit  beneath  the  trembling  shade, 
Be  gay :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  spring  will  fade. 

tThe  fresh-blown   rose  like  Zeineb's  cheek  affc 

pears, 
When  pearls,  like  dew-dropa,  glitter  in  her  ears. 
The  charms  of  youth  at  once  are  seen  and  past : 
And  nature  says,  "They  are  too  sweet  to  last." 
So  blooms  the  rose ;  and  so  the  blushing  maid. 
Be  gay  :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  spring  will  fade. 

X  See  I  yon  anemonies  their  leaves  unfold. 
With  rubies  flaming  and  with  living  gold. 
— While  crystal  showers  from  weepnig  clouds  ue-' 

scend, 
Enjoy  the  presence  of  thy  tuneful  friend  : 
Now,  while  the  wines  are  brought,  the  sofa's  laid, 
Be  gay  :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  spring  will  fade. 

$  The  plants  no  more  are  dried,  the  meadows  dead, 

No  more  the  rose-bud  hangs  her  pensive  head  : 

The  shrubs  revive  in  valleys,  meads,  and  bowers, 

And  every  stalk  is  diadem'd  with  flowers  ; 

In  silken  robes  each  hillock  stands  array'd. 

Be  gay :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  spring  will  fade 

II  Clear  drops,  each  morn,  impearl  the  rose's  bloora, 
And  from  its  leaf  the  zephyr  drinks  perfume  > 
The  dewy  buds  expand  their  lucid  store : 
Be  this  our  wealth  :  ye  damsels,  ask  no  more. 
Though  wise  men  envy,  and  though  fools  upbraid 
Be  gay  :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  spring  will  fade 

TThe  dew-drops  sprinkled,  by  the  musky  gale. 
Are  changed  to  essence  ere  they  reach  the  dale 
The  mild  blue  sky  a  rich  pavilion  spreads, 
Without  our  labour,  o'er  our  favour'd  heads. 
Let  others  toil  in  war,  in  arts,  or  trade ; — 
Be  gay  :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  spring  will  lade 


IMITATIONS. 

*  "Again  the  dew  glitters  on  the  loaves  of  the  lily, 
like  the  water  of  a  bright  ciraeter.  The  dew-drops  fall 
through  the  air  on  the  garden  of  roses.  Listen  to  me, 
listen  to  me,  if  thou  desirest  to  be  delighted.  Be  cheer- 
ful," &c. 

t  "The  roses  and  tulips  are  like  the  bright  cheeks  of 
beautiful  maids,  in  whose  ears  the  pearls  hang  like  drops 
of  dew.  Deceive  not  thyself,  by  thinking  that  these 
charms  will  have  a  long  duration.    Be  cheerful,"  &c. 

X  "Tulips,  rose-s,  and  anemonies,  appear  in  the  gar- 
dens ;  the  showers  and  the  sunbeams,  hke  sharp  lancets, 
tinge  the  banks  with  the  colour  of  blood.  Spend  this 
day  agreeably  with  thy  friends,  like  a  prudent  man.  Be 
cheerful,"  &c. 

§  "The  time  is  passed  in  which  the  plants  were  sick, 
and  the  rose-bud  hung  its  thoughtful  head  on  its  bosom. 
The  season  comes  in  which  mountains  and  rocks  are 
coloured  with  tulips.     Be  cheerful,"  «Src. 

n  "  Each  morning  the  clouds  shed  gems  over  the  rose- 
garden  ;  the  breath  of  the  gale  is  fiill  of  Tartarian  musk. 
Be  not  neglectful  of  thy  duty  through  too  great  a  love 
of  the  world.     Be  cheerful,"  &c. 

H  "  The  sweetness  of  the  bower  has  made  the  air  so 
fragrant,  that  the  dew,  before  it  falls,  is  changed  into  rose, 
water.  The  sky  spreads  a  pavilion  of  bright  clouds  over 
the  garden.    Be  cheerful,"  «fcc 


HYMNS. 


61 


*  Late,  gloomy  winter  chill'd  the  sullen  air, 

Till  Soliman  arose,  and  all  was  fair. 

Soft  in  his  reign,  the  notes  of  love  resound, 

And  pleasure's  rosy  cup  goes  freely  round. 

Here  on  the  bank,  which  mantling  vines  o'ershade, 

Be  gay  :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  spring  will  fade. 

t  May  this  rude  lay  from  age  to  age  remain, 
A  true  memorial  of  this  lovely  train. 
Come,  charming  maid  !  and  hear  thy  poet  sing 
Thyself  the  rose,  and  he  the  bird  of  spring  ; 
Love  bids  him  sing,  and  Love  will  be  obey'd. 
Ee  gay  :  too  soon  the  flowers  of  spring  will  fade. 


HYMN  TO  CAMDEO. 
THE  ARGUMENT. 

\  HE  Hindoo  god,  to  whom  the  following  poem  is  ad- 
dressed, appears  evidently  the  same  with  the  Grecian 
Eros  and  the  Roman  Cupido ;  but  the  Indian  description 
of  his  person  and  arms,  his  family,  attendants,  and  attri- 
butes, has  new  and  peculiar  beauties. 

According  to  the  mythology  of  Hindoostan,  he  was 
.he  son  of  Maya,  or  the  general  attracting  power,  and 
married  to  Retty,  or  Affection  ;  and  liis  bosom  friend  is 
Bessent  or  Spring:  he  is  represented  as  a  beautiful 
youth,  sometimes  conversing  with  his  mother  and  con- 
sort, in  the  midst  of  his  gardens  and  temples  ;  sometimes 
riding  by  moonlight  on  a  parrot  or  lory,  and  attended  by 
dancing  girls  or  nymphs,  the  foremost  of  whom  bears 
his  colours,  which  are  a  fish  on  a  red  ground.  His  fa- 
vourite place  of  resort  is  a  large  tract  of  country  round 
Agra,  and  principally  the  plains  of  Matra,  where  Krishen 
also,  and  the  nine  Gopia,  who  are  clearly  the  Apollo 
and  muses  of  the  Greeks,  usually  spend  the  night  widi 
music  and  dance.  His  bow  of  sugar-cane,  or  flowers 
with  a  string  of  bees,  and  his  five  arrows,  each  pointed 
with  an  Indian  blossom  of  a  heating  quality,  are  allego- 
ries equally  new  and  beautiful.  He  has  at  least  twenty- 
three  names,  most  of  which  are  introduced  in  the  hymn  : 
that  of  Cam,  or  Cama,  signifies  desire,  a  sense  which  it 
also  bears  in  ancient  and  modern  Persian  ;  and  it  is  pos- 
sible that  the  words  Dipuc  and  Cupid,  which  have  the 
same  signification,  may  have  the  same  origin,  since 
we  know  that  the  old  Hetruscans,  from  whom  great  part 
of  the  Roman  language  and  religion  was  derived,  and 
whose  system  had  a  near  affinity  with  that  of  the  Per- 
sians and  Indians,  used  to  write  their  lines  alternately 
fonvards  and  backwards,  as  furrows  are  made  by  the 
plough  ;  and,  though  the  two  last  letters  of  Cupido  may 
only  be  the  grammatical  termination  as  in  libido  and 
capedo,  yet  the  primary  root  of  cupio  is  contained  in  the 
first  three  letters.  The  seventh  stanza  alludes  to  the 
bold  attempt  of  this  deity  to  wound  the  great  god  Maha- 
deo,  for  which  he  was  punished  by  a  flame  consuming 


IMITATIONS. 

*  "  Whoever  thou  art,  know  that  the  black  gusts  of 
autumn  had  seized  the  garden  ;  but  the  king  of  the 
"vorld  again  appeared,  dispensing  justice  to  all:  in  his 
reign  the  happy  cupbearer  desired  and  obtained  the 
flowing  wine.    Be  cheerful,"  &c. 

t  "  By  these  strains  I  hoped  to  celebrate  this  delight- 
ful valley :  may  they  be  a  memorial  to  its  inhabitants, 
and  remind  them  of  this  assembly,  and  these  fair  maids  ! 
Thou  art  a  nightingale  with  a  sweet  voice.  O  Mesihi, 
when  thou  walkest  with  the  damsels,  whose  cheeks  are 
I'ke  roses.  Be  cheerful;  be  full  of  mirth;  for  the 
|i|)nng  pas8;s  soon  away ;  it  will  not  last !" 


his  corporeal  nature,  and  reducing  him  to  a  mental 
essence ;  and  hence  his  chief  dominion  is  over  the 
mi7icls  of  mortals,  or  such  deities  as  he  is  permitted  to 
subdue. 

THE  HYMN. 

Wh.\t  potent  god  from  Agra's  orient  bowers 
Floats  through  the  lucid  air,  whilst  living  flowers 
With  sunny  twine  the  vocararbonrs  wreath, 
And  gales  enamour'd  heavenly  fragrance  breathe  f 
Hail,  povier  unknown !  for  at  thy  beck 
Vales  and  groves  their  bosoms  deck, 
And  every  laughing  blossom  dresses 
With  gems  of  dew  his  musky  tresses. 
I  feel,  I  feel  thy  genial  flame  divine. 
And  hallow  thee,  and  kiss  thy  shrine. 

"  Know'st  thou  not  me  ?"  Celestial  sounds  I  hear! 
"  Know'st  thou  not  me?"  Ah,  spare  a  mortal  ear! 
"  Behold" — My  swimming  eyes  entranced  I  raise 
But  O I  they  sink  before  th'  excessive  blaze. 

Yes,  son  of  Maya,  yes  I  know 

Thy  bloomy  shafts  and  cany  bow. 

Cheeks  with  youthful  glory  beaming 

Locks  in  braids  ethereal  streaming. 
Thy  scaly  standard,  thy  mysterious  arms. 
And  all  thy  pains  and  all  thy  charms. 

God  of  each  lovely  sight,  each  lovely  sound, 
Soul-kindling,  world-inflaming,  stary-crown'd. 
Eternal  Cama  !  Or  doth  Smara  bright. 
Or  proud  Ananga  give  thee  more  delight? 
Whate'er  thy  seat,  whate'er  thy  name. 
Seas,  earth,  and  air,  thy  reign  proclaim : 
Wreathy  smiles  and  roseate  pleasures 
Are  thy  richest,  sweetest  treasures. 
All  animals  to  thee  their  tribute  bring. 
And  hail  thee  universal  king 

Thy  consort  mild.  Affection  ever  true, 
Graces  thy  side,  her  vest  of  glowing  hue  ; 
And  in  her  train  twelve  blooming  girls  advance. 
Touch  golden  strings,  and  knit  the  mirthful  dance 

Thy  dreaded  implements  they  bear. 

And  wave  them  in  the  scented  air, 

Each  with  pearls  her  neck  adorning. 

Brighter  than  the  tears  of  morning. 
Thy  crimson  ensign,  which  before  them  flie^ 
Decks  with  new  stars  the  sapphire  skies. 

God  of  the  flowery  shafts  and  flowery  bow, 
Delight  of  all  above  and  all  below  ! 
Thy  loved  companion,  constant  from  his  birth. 
In  heaven  clep'd  Bessent,  and  gay  Spring  on  earth, 
Weaves  thy  green  robe  and  flaunting  bowers, 
And  from  thy  clouds  draws  balmy  showers. 
He  with  fresh  arrows  fills  thy  quiver, 
(Sweet  the  gift,  and  sweet  the  giver  !) 
And  bids  the  many-plumed  warbling  throng 
Burst  the  pent  blossoms  with  their  song. 

He  bends  the  luscious  cane,  and  twists  the  stnng 
With  bees,  how  sweet!  but  ah,  how  keen  their 

sting ! 
He  with  five  flowerets  tips  thy  ruthless  darts, 
Which    through   five    senses    pierce    enraptured 
hearts : 
Strong  Chumpa,  rich  in  odorous  gold. 
Warm  Amer,  nursed  in  heavenly  mould, 


SIR    WILLIAM    JONES. 


Dry  Nagkeser,  in  silver  smiling, 

Hot  Kiticum  our  sense  beguiling, 
And  last,  to  kindle  jfierce  the  scorching  flame, 
Loveshaft,  which  gods  bright  Bela  name. 

Can  men  resist  thy  power,  when  Krishen  yields, 
Krishen,  who  still  in  Matra's  holy  fields 
Tunes  harps  immortal,  and  to  strains  divine 
Dances  by  moonlight  with  the  Gopia  nine  ? 

But,  when  thy  daring  arm  untame4 

At  Mahadeo  a  loveshaft  aim'd, 

Heaven  shook,  and,  smit  with  stony  wonder, 

Told  his  deep  dread  in  bursts  of  thunder, 
Whilst  on  thy  beauteous  limbs  an  azure  fire 
Blazed  forth,  which  never  must  expire. 

O  thou  for  ages  born,  yet  ever  young 
For  ages  may  thy  Brahmin's  lay  be  sung ! 
And,  when  thy  lory  spreads  his  emerald  wings 
To  waft  thee  high  above  the  towers  of  kings. 
Whilst  o'er  thy  throne  the  moon's  pale  light 
Pours  her  soft  radiance  through  the  night. 
And  to  each  floating  cloud  discovers 
The  haunts  of  bless'd  or  joyless  lovers. 
Thy  mildest  influence  to  thy  bard  impart. 
To  warm,  but  not  consume,  his  heart. 


TWO  HYMNS  TO  PRACRITI. 
THE  ARGUMENT. 

In  all  our  conversations  with  learned  Hindoos,  we  find 
them  enthusiastic  admirers  of  poetry,  which  they  con- 
sider as  a  divine  art,  that  had  been  practised  for  number- 
less ages  in  heaven,  before  it  was  revealed  on  earth  by 
Valmic,  whose  great  heroic  poem  is  fortunately  pre- 
served: the  Brahmins  of  course  prefer  that  poetry, 
which  they  believe  to  have  been  actually  inspired; 
while  the  Vaidyas,  (who  are  in  general  perfect  gramma- 
rians and  good  poets,  but  are  not  suffered  to  read  any  of 
the  sacred  writings  except  the  Ayurveda,  or  Body  of 
Medical  Tracts,)  speak  with  rapture  of  their  innumera- 
ble popular  poems,  epic,  lyric,  and  dramatic,  which 
were  composei  by  men  not  literally  inspired,  but  called, 
metaphorically,  .he  sons  of  Sereswati,  or  Minerva; 
among  whom  the  Pandits  of  all  sects,  nations,  and  de- 
grees, are  unanimous  in  giving  the  prize  of  glory  to  Ca- 
lidasa,  who  flourished  in  the  court  of  Vicramaditya, 
fifty-seven  years  before  Christ.  He  wrote  several  dra- 
mas, one  of  which,  entitled  Sacontala,  is  in  my  posses- 
sion^ and  the  subject  of  it  appears  to  be  as  interesting 
as  the  composition  is  beautiful ;  besides  these  he  pub- 
lished the  Meghaduta,  or  cloud-messenger,  and  the 
Nalodaya,  or  rise  of  Nala,  both  elegant  love  tales :  the 
Raghuvansa,  an  heroic  poern;  and  the  Cumara  Sam- 
bhava,  or  birth  of  Cumara,  which  supplied  rae  with  ma- 
terials for  the  first  of  the  following  odes.  I  have  not 
indeed  yet  read  it ;  since  it  could  not  be  correctly  copied 
for  me  during  the  short  interval  in  which  it  is  in  my  pow- 
er to  amuse  myself  with  literature  :  but  I  have  heard 
the  story  told,  both  in  Sanscrit  and  Persian,  by  many 
Pandits,  who  had  no  communication  with  each  other; 
and  their  outline  of  it  coincided  so  perfectly,  that  I  am 
convinced  of  its  correctness  :  that  outline  is  here  filled 
up,  and  exhibited  in  a  lyric  form,  partly  in  the  Indian, 
partly  in  the  Grecian  taste ;  and  great  will  be  my  pleasure, 
when  I  can  again  find  time  for  such  amusements,  in  read- 
ing the  whole  poem  of  Calidassa,  and  in  comparing  my 
descriptions  with  the  original  composition.  To  anticipate 
the  story  in  a  preface,  would  be  to  destroy  the  interest 
that  may  be  taken  in  the  poem  :  a  disadvantage  attending 
«U  p'-efatory  arguments,  of  which  those  prefixed  to  the 


several  books  of  Tasso,  and  to  the  dramas  of  Metastasio, 
are  obvious  instances ;  but,  that  any  interest  may  be 
taken  in  the  two  hymns  addressed  to  Pracrili,  under 
different  names,  itisnecessary  to  render  them  intelligible 
by  a  previous  explanation  of  the  mythological  allusions, 
which  could  not  but  occur  in  them. 

Isvvara,  or  Isa,  and  Isani,  or  Isi,  are  unquestionably 
the  Osiris  and  Isis  of  Egypt;  for,  though  neither  a 
resemblance  of  names,  nor  a  similarity  of  character, 
would  separately  prove  the  identity  of  Indian  and  Egyp- 
tian deities,  yet,  when  they  both  concur,  with  the  addition 
of  numberless  corroborating  cii'cumstances,  they  form 
a  proof  little  short  of  demonstration.  The  female  divi- 
nity, in  the  mythological  systems  in  the  East,  represents 
the  active  power  of  the  male ;  and  that  Isi  means  active 
nature  appears  evidently  from  the  word  s'acta,  which 
is  derived  from  s'acti,  or  power,  and  applied  to  those 
Hindoos  who  direct  their  adoration  principally  to  that 
goddess :  this  feminine  character  of  Pracriti,  or  created 
nature,  is  so  familiar  in  most  languages,  and  even  in 
our  own,  that  the  gravest  English  writers,  on  the  most 
serious  subjects  of  religion  and  philosophy,  speak  of  her 
operations  as  if  she  were  actually  an  animated  being; 
but  such  personifications  are  easily  misconceived  by  the 
multitude,  and  have  a  strong  tendency  to  polytheism. 
The  principal  operations  of  nature  are,  not  the  absolute 
annihilation  and  new  creation  of  what  we  call  material 
substances,  but  the  temporary  extinction  and  reproduc- 
tion, or  rather,  in  one  word,  the  transmutation  of  forms: 
whence  the  epithet  Polymorphos  is  aptly  given  to  nature 
by  European  philosophers:  hence  Iswara,  Siva,  Hara, 
(for  those  are  his  names  and  near  a  thousand  more) 
united  with  Isi,  represent  the  secondary  causes,  whatever 
they  may  be,  of  natural  phenomena,  and  principally  those 
of  temporary  destruction  and  regeneration  ;  but  the 
Indian  Isis  appears  in  a  variety  of  characters,  especially 
in  those  of  Parvati,  Cali,  Durga,  and  Bhavani,  which  bear 
a  strong  resemblance  to  the  Juno  of  Homer,  to  Hecate, 
to  the  armed  Pallas,  and  to  the  Lucretian  Venus. 

The  name  Parvati  took  its  rise  from  a  wild  poetical  fie 
tion.  Himalaya,  or  the  Mansion  of  Snow,  is  the  title  given 
by  the  Hindoos  to  that  vast  chain  of  mountains,  which 
limits  India  to  the  north,  and  embraces  it  with  its  eastern 
and  western  arms,  both  extending  to  the  Ocean  ;  the  for- 
mer  of  those  arms  is  called  Chandrasec'hara,  or  the 
Moon's  Rock ;  and  the  second,  which  reaches  as  far 
west  as  the  mouths  of  the  Indus,  was  named  by-  the  an- 
cients  Montes  Parveti.  These  hills  are  held  sacred  by 
the  Indians,  who  suppose  them  to  be  the  terrestrial 
haunt  of  the  god  Iswara.  The  mountain  Himalaya,  being 
per  sonified,  is  represented  as  a  powerful  monarch,  whose 
wife  was  Mena :  their  daughter  is  named  Parvati,  or 
Mountain-born,  and  Durga,  or  of  difiicult  access ;  but  the 
Hindoos  believe  her  to  have  been  married  to  Siva  in  a 
pre-existent  state,  when  she  bore  the  name  of  Sati.  The 
daughter  of  Himalaya  had  two  sons ;  Ganesa,  or  the  Lord 
of  Spirits,  adored  as  the  wisest  of  deities,  and  alwaysj 
invoked  at  the  beginning  of  every  literary  work,  and 
Cumara,  Scanda,  or  Carticeya,  commander  of  the  celes- 
tial armies. 

The  pleasing  fiction  of  Cama,  the  Indian  Cupid,  andhiii 
friend  Vasanta,  or  the  Spring,  has  been  the  subject  of 
another  poem  :  and  here  it  must  be  remembered,  that  the 
god  of  Love  is  named  also  Smara,  Candarpa,  and  Ananga. 
One  of  his  arrows  is  called  Mellica,  the  Nyctanthes  of 
our  botanists,  who  very  unadvisedly  reject  the  vernacular 
names  of  most  Asiatic  plants  :  it  is  beautifully  introd  aced 
by  CAlidasa  into  this  lively  couplet ; 

Mellicamucule  bhati  giinjanmattaniadhuvratah, 
Prayane  panchaoanasya  sanc'hAmapurayanniwu. 

"  The  intoxicated  bee  shines  and  murmurs  in  the  frgab 
blown  Mellica,  like  him  who  gives  breath  to  a  white  com-h 
in  the  procession  of  the  god  with  five  arrows." 

A  critic  to  whom  CalidAsa  repeated  this  verse,  observed, 
that  the  comparison  was  not  exact:  since  the  bee  sits 
on  the  blossom  itself,  and  does  not  murmur  at  the  end  of 
the  tube,  like  him  who  blows  a  conch.   "I  was  aware  o 


HYMN  S. 


63 


that,"  said  the  poet, "  and,  therefore,  described  the  bee  as 
Intoxicated :  a  drunken  musician  would  blow  the  shell  at 
the  wrong  end."  There  was  more  than  wit  in  this  answer ; 
it  was  a  just  rebuke  to  a  dull  critic  ;  for  poetry  delights 
in  general  images,  and  is  so  far  from  being  a  perfect  imi- 
tation, that  a  scrupulous  exactness  of  descriptions  and 
similes,  by  leaving  nothing  for  the  imagination  to  supply, 
never  fails  to  diminish  or  destroy  the  pleasure  of  every 
reader  who  has  an  imagination  to  be  gratified. 

It  may  here  be  observed,  that  Nymphaea,  not  Lotos,  is 
the  generic  name  in  Europe  of  the  flower  consecrated  to 
Isis:  the  Persians  know  by  the  name  of  Nilufer  that 
•peciesof  it  which  the  botanists  ridiculously  call  Nelum- 
bo,  and  which  is  remarkable  for  its  curious  pericarpium, 
where  each  of  the  seeds  contains  in  miniature  the  leaves 
of  a  perfect  vegetable.  The  lotos  of  Homer  was  probably 
the  sugar-cane,  and  that  of  Linnaeus  is  a  papilionaceous 
plant ;  but  he  gives  the  same  name  to  another  species  of 
the  Nymphffia ;  and  the  word  is  so  constantly  applied 
among  us  in  India  to  the  Nilufer,  that  any  other  would 
be  hardly  intelligible  :  the  blue  lotos  grows  in  Cashmir 
and  in  Persia,  but  not  in  Bengal,  where  we  see  only  the 
red  and  white  ;  and  hence  occasion  is  taken  to  feign,  that 
the  lotus  of  Hindoostan  w£is  dyed  crimson  by  the  blood 
of  Siva. 

Cuvera,  mentioned  in  the  fourteenth  stanza,  is  the  god 
ofwea^h,  supposed  to  reside  in  a  magnificent  city,  called 
Alaca  ;  and  Vrihaspati,  or  the  genius  of  the  planet  Jupi- 
ter, is  the  preceptor  of  the  gods  in  Swerga  or  the  firma- 
ment: he  is  usually  represented  as  their  orator,  when 
any  message  is  carried  from  them  to  one  of  their  superior 
deities. 

The  lamentations  of  Reti,  the  wife  of  Cama,  fill  a  whole 
book  in  the  Sanscrit  poem,  as  I  am  informed  by  my  teach- 
er, a  learned  Vaidya  ;  who  is  restrained  only  from  read- 
ing the  book,  which  contains  a  description  of  the  nuptials  ; 
for  the  ceremonies  of  a  marriage  where  Brahma  himself 
ofiiciated  as  the  father  of  the  bridegroom,  are  too  holy  to 
be  known  by  any  but  Brahmins. 

The  achievements  of  Durga  in  her  martial  character 
as  the  patroness  of  Virtue,  and  her  battle  with  a  demon 
in  the  shape  of  a  buffalo,  are  the  subject  of  many  episodes 
in  the  Puranas  and  Cavyas,  or  sacred  and  populau-  poems  ; 
but  a  full  account  of  them  would  have  destroyed  the 
unity  of  the  ode,  and  they  are  barely  alluded  to  in  the 
last  stanza 

It  seemed  proper  to  change  the  measure,  when  the 
goddess  was  to  be  addressed  as  Bhavani,  or  the  power 
of  fecundity ;  but  such  a  change,  though  very  common  in 
Sanscrit,  has  its  inconveniences  in  European  poetry  :  a 
distinct  hymn  is  therefore  appropriated  to  her  in  that 
capacity ;  for  the  explanation  of  which  we  need  only 
premise,  that  Lacshmi  is  the  goddess  of  abundance  ;  that 
the  Cetata  is  a  fragrant  and  beautiful  plant  of  the  Dioecian 
kind,  known  to  botanists  by  the  name  Pandanus ;  and 
that  the  Durg6tsava,  or  great  festival  of  Bhavani  at  the 
close  of  the  rains,  ends  in  throwing  the  image  of  the  god- 
dess into  the  Ganges,  or  other  sacred  waters. 

I  am  not  conscious  of  having  left  unexplained  any 
dilucult  allusion  in  the  two  poems  ;  and  have  only  to  add 
(lest  European  critics  should  consider  a  few  of  the  images 
as  inapplicable  to  Indian  manners)  that  the  ideas  of  snow 
and  ice  are  familiar  to  the  Hindoos ;  that  the  mountains 
of  Himalaya  may  be  clearly  discerned  from  a  part  of 
Bengal;  that  the  Grecian  Esemus  is  the  Sanscrit  word 
haimas,  meaning  snovry  ;  and  that  funeral  urns  may  be 
seen  perpetually  on  the  banks  of  the  river. 

The  two  hymns  are  neither  translations  from  any 
other  poems,  nor  imitations  of  any  ;  and  have  nothing  of 
Pindar  in  them  except  the  measures,  which  are  nearly 
the  same,  syllable  for  syllable,  with  those  of  the  first  and 
second  Nemean  Odes :  more  musical  stanzas  might  per- 
haps have  been  formed ;  but  in  every  art,  variety  and 
novelty  are  considerable  sources  of  pleasure.  The 
Btyle  and  manner  of  Pindar  have  been  greatly  mistaken  ; 
and  that  a  di^^tinct  idea  of  them  may  be  conceived  by 
BiiCh,  as  have  not  access  to  that  inimitable  poet  in  his 


own  language,  I  cannot  refrain  from  subjoining  the  first 
Nemean  Ode,*  not  only  in  the  same  measure  as  nearly  as 
possible,  but  almost  word  for  word  with  the  original; 
those  epithets  and  phrases  only  being  necessarily  added, 
which  are  printed  in  Italic  letters. 


TO  DURGA. 

I.  1. 

From  thee  begins  the  solemn  air, 

Adored  Ganesa  ;  next,  thy  sire  we  praise, 

(Him,  from  whose  red  clustering  hair 

A  new-born  crescent  sheds  propitious  rays, 

Fair  as  Ganga's  curling  foam,) 

Dread  Iswara ;  who  loved  o'er  awful  mountain», 

Rapt  in  prescience  deep,  to  roam, 

But  chiefly  those,  whence  holy  rivers  gush, 

Bright  from  their  secret  fountains, 

And  o'er  the  realms  of  Brahma  rush. 

1.2. 
Rock  above  rock  they  ride  sublime, 
And  lose  their  summits  in  blue  fields  of  day, 
Fashion'd  first,  when  rolling  lime 
Vast  infant,  in  his  golden  cradle  lay. 
Bidding  endless  ages  run, 

And  wreathe  their  giant  heads  in  snows  eternal 
Gilt  by  each  revolving  sun ; 

Though  neither  morning  beam,  nor  noontide  glare. 
In  wintry  sign  or  vernal. 
Their  adamantine  strength  impair ; 

1.3. 
Nor  e'en  the  fiercest  summer  heat 
Could  thrill  the  palace,  where  their  monarch  reign'd 
On  his  frost  impearled  seat, 
(Such  height  had  unremitted  virtue  gain'd !) 
Himalaya,  to  whom  a  lovely  child  ; 
Sweet  Parvati,  sage  Mena  bore, 
Who  now  in  earliest  bloom,  saw  heaven  adore 
Her  charms;  earth  languish,  till  she  smiled. 

H.  1. 

But  she  to  love  no  tribute  paid ; 

Great  Iswara  her  pious  cares  engaged  : 

Him,  who  gods  and  fiends  dismay'd. 

She  sooth'd  with  offerings  meek,  when  most  he 

raged. 
On  a  morn,  when,  edged  with  light. 
The  lake-born  flowers  their  sapphire  cups  expanded 
Laughing  at  the  scatter'd  night, 
A  vale  remote  and  silent  pool  she  sought, 
Smooth-footed,  lotos-handed, 
And  braids  of  sacred  blossoms  wrought ; 

II.  2. 

Not  for  her  neck,  which,  unadorn'd, 

Bade  envying  antelopes  their  beauties  hide: 

Art  she  knew  not,  or  she  scorn'd  ; 

Nor  had  her  language  e'en  a  name  for  pride, 

To  the  god,  who,  fix'd  in  thought, 

Sat  in  a  crystal  cave  new  worlds  designing. 

Softly  sweet  her  gift  she  brought, 

And  spread  the  garland  o'er  his  shoulders  broad* 

Where  serpents  huge  lay  twining. 

Whose  hiss  the  round  creation  awed 


•Seep.  58. 


64 


SIR*  WILLIAM    JONES. 


II.  3. 

IIo  view'd,  half-smiling,  half-severe, 

The  prostrate  maid — that  moment  through  the  rocks 

He  who  decks  the  purple  year, 

Vasanta,  vain  of  odoriferous  locks. 

With  Cama,  horsed  on  infant  breezes  flew . 

(Who  knows  not  Cama,  nature's  king  ?) 

Vasanta  barb'd  the  shaft  and  fix'd  the  string ; 

The  living  bow  Candarpa  drew. 

in.  1 

Dire  sacrilege !  the  chosen  reed, 

That  Smara  pointed  with  transcendant  art. 

Glanced  with  unimagined  speed. 

And  tinged  its  blooming  barb  in  Siva's  heart : 

Glorious  flower,  in  heaven  proclaim'd 

Rich  Mellic^,  with  balmy  breath  delicious, 

And  on  earth  Nyctanthes  named  ! 

Some  drops  divine,  that  o'er  the  lotos  blue 

Trickled  in  rills  auspicious. 

Still  mark'd  it  with  a  crimson  hue. 

III.  2. 

Soon  closed  the  wound  its  hallow'd  lips ; 

But  nature  felt  the  pain :  heaven's  blazing  eye 

Sank  absorb'd  in  sad  eclipse, 

And  meteors  rare  betray'd  the  trembling  sky ; 

When  a  flame,  to  which  compared 

The  keenest  lightnings  were  but  idle  flashes. 

From  that  orb  all-piercing  glared, 

Which  in  the  front  of  wrathful  Hara  rolls, 

And  soon  to  silver  ashes 

Reduced  th'  inflamer  of  our  souls. 

III.  3.  '• 

Vasant,  for  thee  a  milder  doom, 

Accomplice  rash,  a  thundering  voice  decreed  ; 

"  Withering  live  in  joyless  gloom. 

While  ten  gay  signs  the  dancing  seasons  lead. 

Thy  flowers,  perennial  once,  now  annual  made, 

The  fish  and  ram  shall  still  adorn : 

But  when  the  bull  has  rear'd  his  golden  horn, 

Shall,  like  yon  idling  rainbow,  fade." 

IV.  1. 

The  thunder  ceased  ;  the  day  return'd  ; 

But  Siva  from  terrestrial  haunts  had  fled  : 

Smit  with  rapturous  love  he  burn'd, 

And  sigh'd  on  gemm'd  Cailasa's  viewless  head. 

Lonely  down  the  moxintain  steep, 

With  fluttering  heart,  soft  Parvati  descended  ; 

Nor  in  drops  of  nectar'd  sleep 

Drank  solace  through  the  night,  but  lay  alarm'd, 

Lest  her  mean  gifts  oflfended 

The  god  her  powerful  beauty  charm'd. 

IV.  2. 

All  arts  her  sorrowing  damsels  tried,  [smooth. 

Her   brow,   where   v;rinkled    anguish   lour'd,    to 

And,  her  troubled  soul  to  sooth. 

Sagacious  Mena  mild  reproof  applied ; 

But  nor  art  nor  counsel  sage. 

Nor  e'en  her  sacred  parent's  tender  chiding, 

Could  her  only  pain  assuage  : 

The  mountain  drear  she  sought  in  mantling  shade 

Her  tears  and  transports  hiding. 

And  oft  to  her  adorer  pray'd. 


IV.  3. 

There  on  a  crag  whose  icy  rift 

Hurl'd  night  and  horror  o'er  the  pool  profound, 

That  with  madding  eddy  swift 

Revengeful  bark'd  his  rugged  base  around, 

The  beauteous  hermit  sat ;  but  soon  perceived 

A  Brahmin  old  before  her  stand. 

His  rude  staflf  quivering  in  his  wither'd  hand, 

Who,  faltering,  ask'd  for  whom  she  grieved. 

V.  1. 

"  What  graceful  youth,  with  accents  mild, 

Eyes  like  twin  stars,  and  lips  like  early  morn, 

Has  thy  pensive  heart  beguiled  ?" 

"No  mortal  youth  (she  said,  with  modest  scorn) 

E'er  beguiled  my  guiltless  heart : 

Him  have  I  lost,  who  to  these  mountains  hoary 

Bloom  celestial  could  impart. 

Thee  I  salute,  thee  venerate,  thee  deplore, 

Dread  Siva,  source  of  glory. 

Which  on  these  rocks  must  gleam  no  more !" 

V.  2 

"  Rare  object  of  a  damsel's  love, 

(The  wizard  bold  replied,)  who,  rude  and  wild, 

Leaves  eternal  bliss  above. 

And  roves  o'er  wastes  where  nature  never  smiled. 

Mounted  on  his  milk-white  bull ! 

Seek  Indra  with  aerial  bow  victorious  ; 

Who  from  vases  ever  full 

Quaffs  love  and  nectar ;  seek  the  festive  hall, 

Rich  caves,  and  mansion  glorious 

Of  young  Cuvera,  loved  by  all  ; 

V.  3. 

"  But  spurn  that  sullen  wayward  god, 

That  three-eyed  monster,  hideous,  fierce,  untamed 

Unattired,  ill-girt,  unshod " 

"Such  fell  impiety,  (the  nymph  exclaim'd,) 
Who  speaks,  must  agonize  ;  who  hears,  must  die ; 
Nor  can  this  vital  frame  sustain 
The  poisonous  taint,  that  runs  from  vein  to  vein; 
Death  may  atone  the  blasphemy." 

VI.  1. 

She  spoke,  and  o'er  the  rifted  rocks 

Her  lovely  form  with  pious  frenzy  threw  ; 

But  beneath  her  floating  locks 

And  waving  robes  a  thousand  breezes  flew. 

Knitting  close  their  silky  plumes, 

And  in  mid-air  a  downy  pillow  spreading; 

Till  in  clouds  of  rich  perfumes 

Embalm'd  they  bore  her  to  a  mystic  wood  ; 

Where  streams  of  glory  shedding. 

The  well-feign'd  Brahmin,  Siva,  stood. 

VI.  2. 

The  rest  my  song  conceal :  * 

Unhallow'd  ears  the  sacrilege  might  rue. 

Gods  alone  to  gods  reveal 

In  what  stupendous  notes  th'  immortals  woo. 

Straight  the  sons  of  light  prepared 

The  nuptial  feast,  heaven's  opal  gates  unfoldbg. 

Which  th'  empyreal  army  shared  ; 

And  sage  Himdlaya  shed  blissful  tears, 

With  aged  eyes  beholding 

His  daughter,  empress  of  the  spheres. 


HYMNS. 


65 


VI.  3. 

Whilst  every  lip  with  nectar  glow'd, 

The  bridegroom  blithe  his  transformation  told  ; 

Round  the  mirthful  goblet  flow'd, 

And  laughter  free  o'er  plains  of  ether  roll'd  : 

"  Thee  loo,  like  Vishnu,  (said  the  blushing  queen,) 

Soft  Maya,  guileful  maid,  attends  ; 

But  in  delight  supreme  the  phantasm  ends ; 

Love  crowns  the-  visionary  scene." 

VII.  1. 

Then  rose  Vrihaspati,  who  reigns 

Beyond  red  Mangala's  terrific  sphere, 

Wandering  o'er  cerulean  plains  : 

His  periods  eloquent  heaven  loves  5o  hear 

Soft  as  dew  on  waking  flowers. 

He  told  how  Taraca  with  snaky  legions, 

Envious  of  supernal  powers, 

Had  menaced  long  old  Meru's  golden  head. 

And  Indra's  beaming  regions 

With  desolation  wild  had  spread  : 

VII.  2. 

How,  when  the  gods  to  Brahma  flew 

In  routed  squadrons,  and  his  help  deplored  ; 

'Sons!  (he  said)  from  vengeance  due 

The  fiend  must  wield  secure  his  fiery  svi'ord, 

(Thus  th'  unerring  Will  ordains) 

Till  from  the  great  Destroyer's  pure  embraces, 

Knit  in  love's  mysterious  chains 

With  her,  who,  daughter  to  the  mountain-king, 

Yon  snowy  mansion  graces, 

Cumara,  warrior  child,  shall  spring; 

VII.  3. 

"  Who  bright  in  arms  of  heavenly  proof, 

His  crest  a  blazing  star,  his  diamond  mail 

Colour'd  in  the  rainbow's  woof. 

The  rash  invaders  fiercely  shall  assail, 

And,  on  a  stately  peacock  borne,  shall  rush 

Against  the  dragon  of  the  deep  ; 

Nor  shall  his  thundering  maco  insatiate  sleep, 

Till  their  infernal  chief  it  crush." 

VIII.  1. 

"The  splendid  host  with  solemn  slate 

(Still  spoke  th'  ethereal  orator  unblamed) 

Reason'd  high  in  long  debate  ; 

Till,  through  my  counsel  provident,  they  claim'd 

Hapless  Cama's  potent  aid  : 

At  Indra's  wish  appear'd  the  soul's  inflamer 

And,  in  vernal  arms  array'd. 

Engaged  (ah,  thoughtless .')  in  the  bold  emprise 

To  tame  wide  nature's  tamer. 

And  soften  Him  who  shakes  the  skies. 

VIII.  2. 
•  See  now  the  God,  whom  all  adored, 
An  ashy  heap,  the  jest  of  every  gale! 
Loss  by  heaven  and  earth  deplored! 
For,  love  extinguisli'd,  earth  and  heaven  must  fail. 
Mark  how  Reti  bears  his  urn. 
And  toward  her  widow'd  pile  with  piercing  ditty 
Points  the  flames — ah,  see  it  burn ! 
How  ill  the  funeral  with  the  feast  agrees! 
Come,  Love's  pale  sister  Pity  : 
Come,  and  the  lover's  wrath  appease." 

Vol.  III.— 5 


VIII  3 

Tumultuous  passions  whilst  he  spoke 
In  heavenly  bosoms  mix'd  their  bursting  fire. 
Scorning  frigid  Wisdom's  yoke. 
Disdain,  revenge,  devotion,  hope,  desire  ; 
Then  grief  prevail'd  ;  but  pity  whju  the  prize 
Not  Siva  could  the  charm  resist ; 
"  Rise,  holy  love,"  he  said,  and  kiss'd 
The  pearls  that  gush'd  from  Durga's  eyes. 

IX.  1. 

That  instant  through  the  bless'd  abode. 

His  youthful  charms  renew'd,  Ananga  came  ; 

High  on  emerald  plumes  he  rode 

With  Reti  brighten'd  by  th'  eluded  flame ; 

Nor  could  young  Vasanta  mourn 

(Oflicious  friend  !)  his  darling  lord  attending. 

Though  of  annual  beauty  shorn  : 

"  Love-shafts  enow  one  season  shall  supply. 

He  menaced  unoflTending, 

To  rule  the  rulers  of  the  sky." 

IX.  2 

With  shouts  the  boundless  mansion  rang ; 

And,  in  sublime  accord,  the  radiant  choir 

Strains  of  bridal  rapture  sang. 

With  glowing  conquest  join'd  and  martial  ire: 

"  Spring  to  life,  triumphant  son. 

Hell's  future  dread,  and  heaven's  eternal  wondei 

Helm  and  flaming  habergeon 

For  thee,  behold,  immortal  artists  weave, 

And  edge  with  keen  blue  thunder 

The  blade,  that  shall  th'  oppressor  cleave." 

IX.  3. 

O  Durga,  thou  hast  deign'd  to  shield 
Man's  feeble  virtue  with  celestial  might, 
Gliding  from  yon  jasper  field. 
And,  on  a  lion  borne,  hast  braved  the  fight 
For,  when  the  demon  Nice  thy  realms  defied, 
And  arm'd  with  death  each  arched  horn. 
Thy  golden  lance,  O  goddess,  mountain-born, 
Touch'd  but  the  pest — He  roar'd  and  died. 


TO  BHAVANL 

When  time  was  drown'd  in  sacred  sleep. 

And  raven  darkness  brooded  o'er  the  deep, — 

Reposing  on  primeval  pillows 

Of  tossing  billows. 

The  forms  of  animated  nature  lay  ; 

Till  o'er  the  wide  abyss,  where  love 

Sat  like  a  nestling  dove. 

From  heaven's  dun  concave  shot  a  golden  ray. 

Still  brighter  and  more  bright  it  stream'd. 

Then,  like  a  thousand  suns,  resistless  gleam'd 

Whilst  on  the  placid  waters  blooming, 

The  sky  perfuming. 

An  opening  lotos  rose,  and  smiling  spread 

His  azure  skirts  and  vase  of  gold, 

While  o'er  his  foliage  roU'd 

Drops,  that  impart  Bhavani's  orient  ^ad. 

Mother  of  gods,  rich  nature's  queen. 

Thy  genial  fire  emblazed  the  bursting  seen*  ; 


66 


SIR    WILLIAM    JONES. 


For,  on  th'  expanded  blossom  sitting, 
With  sunbeams  knitting 
That  mystic  veil  for  ever  unremoved, 
Thou  badest  the  softly-kindling  flame 
Pervade  this  peopled  frame, 

And  smiles,   vi^ith  blushes  tinged,  the  work  ap- 
proved. 

Goddess,  around  thy  radiant  throne 

The  scaly  shoals  in  spangled  vesture  shone, 

Some  slowly,  through  green  waves  advancing. 

Some  swiftly  glancing. 

As  each  thy  mild  mysterious  power  impell'd  : 

E'en  ores  and  river  dragons  felt 

Their  iron  bosoms  melt 

With  scorching  heat ;  for  love  the  mightiest  quell'd. 

But  straight  ascending  vapours  rare 

O'ercanopied  thv  seat  with  lucid  air, 

While,  through  y^'mg  Indra's  new  dominions 

Unnumber'd  pinions 

Mix'd  with  thy  beams  a  thousand  varying  dyes, 

Of  birds  or  insects,  who  pursued 

Their  flying  loves,  or  wooed 

Them  yielding,  and  with  music  fill'd  the  skies. 

And  now  bedeck'd  with  sparkling  isles 

Like  rising  stars,  the  watery  desert  smiles ; 

Smooth  plains  by  waving  forests  bounded, 

With  hillocks  rounded, 

Send  forth  a  shaggy  brood,  who,  frisking  light 

In  mingled  flocks  of  faithful  pairs, 

Impart  their  tender  cares  ; 

All  animals  to  love  their  kind  invite. 

Nor  they  alone  :  those  vivid  gems, 

That  dance  and  glitter  on  their  leafy  stems. 

Thy  voice  inspires,  thy  bounty  dresses. 

Thy  rapture  blesses, 

From  yon  tall  palm,  who  like  a  sunborn  king, 

His  proud  tiara  spreads  elate, 

To  those  who  throng  his  gate. 

Where  purple  chieftains  vernal  tribute  bring. 

A  gale  so  sweet  o'er  Ganga  breathes. 

That  in  soft  smiles  her  graceful  cheek  she  wreaths. 

Mark  where  her  argent  brow  she  raises, 

And  blushing  gazes 

On  yon  fresh  Cetaca,  whose  amorous  flower 

Throws  fragrance  from  his  flaunting  hair, 

While  with  his  blooming  fair 

He  blends  perfume,  and  multiplies  the  bower. 

Thus,  in  one  vast  eternal  gyre, 

Compact  or  fluid  shapes,  instinct  with  fire, 

Lead,  as  they  dance,  this  gay  creation. 

Whose  mild  gradation 

Of  melting  tints  illudes  the  visual  ray : 

Dense  earth  in  springing  herbage  lives, 

Thence  life  and  nurture  gives 

To  sentient  forms,  that  sink  again  to  clay. 

Ye  maids  and  youths  on  fi'uitful  plains, 

Where  Lacshmi  revels  and  Bhavani  reigns, 

Oh,  haste  I  oh,  bring  your  flowery  treasures, 

To  rapid  measures 

Tripping  at  eve  these  hallow'd  banks  along ; 

The  power,  in  yon  dim  shrines  adored, 

To  primal  waves  restored. 

With  many  a  smiling  race  shall  bless  your  song. 


HYMN    TO   INDRA. 
THE  ARGUMENT. 

So  many  allusions  to  Hindoo  mythology  occur  in  tha 
following  Ode,  that  it  would  be  scarce  intelligible  with- 
out  an  explanatory  introduction,  which,  on  every  ac- 
count, and  on  all  occasions,  appears  preferable  to  notea 
in  the  margin. 

A  distinct  idea  of  the  god,  whom  the  poem  celebrates, 
may  be  collected  from  a  passage  in  the  ninth  section  o. 
the  Gita,  where  the  sudden  change  of  measure  has  an 
effect  similar  to  that  of  the  finest  modulation  • 

te  punyamasadya  surendra  locam 
asnanti  divyan  dividevabhogan, 
te  tarn  bhuctvva  swergalocam  visalam 
cshine  punye  mertyalocam  visanti. 

"These  having  through  virtue  reached  the  mansion  of 
the  king  of  Sura's,  feast  on  the  exquisite  heavenly  food 
of  the  gods  :  they,  who  have  enjoyed  this  lolly  region  of 
Swerga,  but  whose  virtue  is  exhausted,  revisit  the  habi- 
tation of  mortals." 

Imlra,  therefore,  or  the  king  of  Immortalp,  corres- 
ponds with  one  of  the  ancient  Jupiters  (for  several  of 
that  name  were  worshipped  in  Europe,)  and  particularly 
with  Jupiter  the  conductor,  whose  attributes  are  so  no- 
bly described  by  the  Platonic  philosophers ;  one  of  his 
numerous  titles  is  Dyupeti,  or,  in  the  nominative  case  be- 
fore certain  letters,  Dyupetir  ;  which  means  the  Lord  of 
Heaven,  and  seems  a  more  probable  origin  of  the  He- 
truscan  word  than  .luvans  Pater ;  as  Diespiter  was  pro- 
bably, not  the  father,  but  the  Lord  of  day.  He  may  be 
considered  as  the  Jove  of  Ennius  in  this  memorable 
line: 

"  Aspice  hoc  sublime  candens,  quern  invocant  omoes  Jovem'— 

where  the  poet  clearly  means  the  firmament,  of  which 
Indra  is  the  personification.  He  is  the  god  of  thunder 
and  the  five  elements,  with  inferior  genii  under  his  com- 
mand ;  and  is  conceived  to  govern  the  eastern  quarter 
of  the  world,  but  to  pr(!side,  like  the  genius  or  Agatho- 
daeman  of  the  ancientfj  over  the  celestial  bands,  whicli 
are  stationed  on  the  summit  of  Meru  or  the  north-pole, 
where  he  solaces  the  gods  with  nectar  and  heavenly 
music  ;  hence,  perhaps,  the  Hindoos,  who  give  evident  ej 
and.  the  magistrates,  who  hear  it,  are  directed  to  stand 
fronting  the  east  or  the  north. 

This  imaginary  mount  is  here  feigned  to  have  been 
seen  in  a  vision  at  Varanasi,  very  improperly  called  Ba- 
naris,  which  takes  its  name  from  two  rivulets  that  era- 
brace  the  city  ;  and  the  bard,  who  was  favoured  with 
the  sight,  is  supposed  to  have  been  Vyasa,  surnamed 
Dwaipayana,  or  Dwelling  in  an  Island  ;  who,  if  he  really 
composed  the  Gita,  makes  very  flattering  mention  of 
himself  in  the  tenth  chapter.  The  plant  lata,  which  he 
describes  weaving  a  net  round  the  mountain  Mandara, 
is  transported  by  a  poetical  liberty  to  Sumeru,  which 
the  great  author  of  the  Mahabharat  has  richly  painted  in 
four  beautiful  couplets:  it  is  the  generic  name  for  a 
creeper,  thougii  represented  here  as  a  species,  of  which 
many  elegant  varieties  are  found  in  Asia. 

The  Genii  named  Cinnarus  are  the  male  dancers  in 
Swerga,  or  t!ie  heaven  of  Indra:  and  the  Apsaras  are 
his  dancing-girls,  answering  to  the  fairies  of  the  Per- 
sians, and  to  the  damsels  called  in  the  Koran  hhiiru'lijy  On, 
or  with  antelopes'  eyes.  For  the  story  of  Chitrarat'ha, 
the  chief  musician  of  the  Indian  paradise,  whose  painted 
car  was  burned  by  Arjun  ;  and  for  that  of  the  Chatur- 
desaretna,  or  fourteen  gems,  as  they  are  called,  which 
were  produced  by  churning  the  ocean:  the  reader  mvist 
be  referred  to  Mr.  Wilkins's  learned  annotations  on  hia 
accurate  version  of  th  3  Bhagavadgita.  The  fable  of  the 
pomegranate-flower  is  borrowed  from  the  popular  my- 
thology of  Nepal  and  Tibet. 

In  this  poem  the  same  form  of  stanza  is  repeated  with 
variations,  on  a  principle  entirely  new  in  modern  lyric 
poetry,  which  on  some  future  occasion  may  he  ex 
plained. 


HYMNS. 


G7 


THE  HYMN. 

But  ah !  what  glories  yon  blue  vault  emblaze  ? 
What  living  meteors  from  the  zenith  stream? 
Or  hath  a  rapturous  dream 
Perplex'd  tiie  isle-born  bard  in  fiction's  maze  ? 
He  wakes  :  he  hears  ;  he  views  no  fancied  rays  ; 
'Tis  Indra  mounted  on  the  sun's  bright  beam  ; 
And  round  him  revels  his  empyreal  train: 
How  rich  their  tints!  how  sweet  their  strain ! 

Like  shooting  stars  around  his  regal  seat 

A  veil  of  many-colour'd  light  they  weave, 

That  eyes  unholy  would  of  sense  bereave  : 

Their  sparkling  hands  and  lightly-tripping  feet 

Tired  gales  and  panting  clouds  behind  them  leave. 

With  love  of  song  and  sacred  beauty  smit, 

The  mystic  dance  they  knit : 

Pursuing,  circling,  whirling,  twining,  leading, 

Now  chasing,  now  receding  : 

Till  the  gay  pageant  from  the  sky  descends 

On  charm'd  Sumeru,  who  with  homage  bends. 

Hail,  mountain  of  delight, 

Palace  of  glory,  bless'd  by  glory's  king ! 

With  prospering  shade  imbower  me,  whilst  I  sing 

Thy  wonders  yet  unreach'd  by  mortal  flight. 

Sky-piercing  mountain  !  in  thy  bowers  of  love 

No  tears  are  seen,  save  where  medicinal  stalks 

Weep  drops  balsamic  o'er  the  silver'd  walks  ; 

No  plaints  are  heard,  save   where    the    restless 

dove 
Of  coy  repulse  and  mild  reluctance  talks ; 
Mantled  in  woven  gold,  with  gems  enchased, 
With  emerald  hillocks  graced. 
From  whose  fresh  laps  in  young  fantastic  mazes 
Soft  crystal  bounds  and  blazes 
Bathing  the  lithe  convolvulus,  that  winds 
Obsequious,  and  each  flaunting  arbour  binds. 

When  sapient  Brahma  this  new  world  approved, 
On  woody  wings  eight  primal  mountains  moved  ; 
But  Indra  mark'd  Sumeru  for  his  own, 
And  motionless  was  every  stone 

Dazzling  the  moon  he  rears  his  golden  head  : 

Nor  bards  inspired,  nor  heaven's  all-perfect  speech, 

Less  may  unhallow'd  rhyme  his  beauties  teach, 

Or  paint  the  pavement  which  th'  immortals  tread ; 

Nor  thought  of  man  his  awful  height  can  reach : 

Who  sees  it,  maddens ;  who  approaches,  dies; 

For,  with  flame-darting  eyes. 

Around  it  roll  a  thousand  sleepless  dragons ; 

While  from  their  diamond  flagons 

The  feasting  gods  exhaustless  nectar  sip, 

Which  glows  and  sparkles  on  each  fragrant  lip. 

This  feast  in  memory  of  the  churned  wave 
Great  Indra  gave,  when  Amrit  first  was  won 
From  impious  demons,  who  to  Mayi's  eyes 
Resign'd  tjie  prize,  and  rued  the  fight  begun. 

Now,  while  each  ardent  Cmnara  persuades 

The  soft  eyed  Apsara  to  break  the  dance. 

And  leads  her  loth,  yet  with  love-beaming  glance, 

To  banks  of  marjoram  and  Champac  shades, 

Celestial  Genii  toward  their  king  advance 

(So  call'd  by  men,  in  heaven  Gandharvas  named) 

Fo«  watch  less  music  famed. 


Soon,  where  the  bands  in  lucid  rows  assemble, 
Flutes  breathe,  and  citherns  tremble  ; 
Till  Chitraratha  sings — His  painted  car, 
Yet  unconsumed,  gleams  like  an  orient  star. 

Hush'd  was  every  breezy  pinion, 

Every  breeze  his  fall  suspended  : 

Silence  reign'd  ;  whose  sole  dominion 

Soon  was  raised,  but  soon  was  ended. 

He  sings,  how  "  whilom  from  the  troubled  main 

The  sovereign  elephant  Airavan  sprang: 

The  breathing  shell,  that  peals  of  conquest  rang ; 

The  parent  cow,  whom  none  implores  in  vain  ; 

The  milk-white  steed, the  bow  with  deafening  clang 

The  goddesses  of  beauty,  wealth,  and  wine  : 

Flowers,  that  unfading  shine, 

Narayan's  gem,  the  moonligiii's  tender  languish; 

Blue  venom,  source  of  anguish; 

The  solemn  leech,  slow-moving  o'er  the  strand, 

A  vase  of  long-sought  Amrit  in  his  hand. 

"To  soften  human  ills  dread  Siva  drank 

The  poisonous  flood,  that  stain'd  his  azure  neck; 

The  rest  thy  mansions  deck. 

High  Swerga !  stored  in  many  a  blazing  rank. 

"  Thou,  god  of  thunder  I  satt'st  on  Meru  throned, 
Cloud-riding,  mountain-piercing,  thousand-eyed, 
With  young  Pulomaja,  thy  blooming  bride. 
Whilst  air  and  skies  thy  boundless  empire  own'd  ; 
Hall,  Dyupetir,  dismay  to  Bala's  pride  I 
Or  speaks  Purander  best  thy  martial  fame. 
Or  Sacra  mystic  name  ? 

With  various  praise  in  odes  and  hallow'd  story 
Sweet  bards  shall  hymn  thy  glory. 
Thou,  Vasava,  from  this  unmeasured  height 
Shedd'st  pearl,  shedd'st  odours  o'er  the  sons  of 
light!" 

The  genius  rested  ;  for  his  powerful  art 
Had  swell'd  the  monarch's  heart  with  ardour  vain, 
That  threaten'd  rash  disdain,  and  seem'd  to  lower 
On  gods  of  loftier  power  and  ampler  reign. 

He  smiled  ;  and,  warbling  in  a  softer  mode, 

Sang  "  the  red  lightning  hail,  and  whelming  rain. 

O'er  Gocul  green  and  Vraja's  nymph-loved  plain 

By  Indras  hurl'd  whose  altars  ne'er  had  glow'd, 

Since  infant  Crishna  ruled  the  rustic  train 

Now  thrill'd  with  terror — them  the  heavenly  child 

Call'd,  and  with  looks  ambrosial  smiled, 

Then  with  one  finger  rear'd  the  vast  Goverdhen, 

Beneath  whose  rocky  burden 

On  pastures  dry  the  maids  and  herdsmen  trod : 

The  lord  of  thunder  felt  a  mightier  god !" 

What  furies  potent  modulation  sooths  ! 

E'en  the  dilated  heart  of  Indra  shrinks : 

His  rufl!led  brow  he  smooths. 

His  lance,  half-raised,  with  listless  languor  sinks. 

A  sweeter  strain  the  sage  musician  chose  : 
He  told,  how  "  Sachi,  soft  as  morning  light. 
Blithe  Sachi,  from  her  lord,  Indrani  hight. 
When  through  clear  skies  their  car  ethereal  rose. 
Fix'd  on  a  garden  trim  her  wandering  sight. 
Where  gay  pomegranates,  fresh  with  early  dew, 
Vaunted  their  blossoms  new :  [dresses 

♦  O !    pluck  (sne    said)   yon   gems,  which  nature 
To  grace  my  darker 


68 


SIR  WILLIAM  JONES. 


In  form  a  shepherd's  boy,  a  god  in  soul, 
He  hasten'd,  and  the  bloomy  treasure  stole. 

"  The  reckless  peasant,  who  those  glowing  flowers, 
Hopeful  of  rubied  fruit,  had  foster'd  long. 
Seized,  and  with  cordage  strong 
Shackled  the  god  who  gave  him  showers. 

"  Straight  from  seven  winds  immortal  Genii  flew, 

Green  Varuna,  whom  foamy  waves  obey. 

Bright  Vahni,  flaming  like  the  lamp  of  day, 

Cuvera,  sought  by  all,  enjoy'd  by  few, 

Marut,  who  bids  the  winged  breezes  play. 

Stern  Yama,  ruthless  judge,  and  Isa  cold. 

With  Nairrit  mildly  bold  : 

They  with  the  ruddy  flash,  that  points  his  thunder, 

Rend  his  vain  bands  asunder. 

Th'  exulting  god  resumes  his  thousand  eyes. 

Four  arms  divine,  and  robes  of  changing  dyes." 

Soft  memory  retraced  the  youthful  scene  ; 
The  thunderer  yielded  to  resistless  charms, 
Then  smiled  enamour'd  on  his  blushing  queen, 
A.nd  melted  in  her  amiB, 


Such  was  the  vision,  which — on  Varan's  breast. 

Or  Asi  pure,  with  oflfer'd  blossoms  fill'd — 

Dwaipayan  slumbering  saw  ;  (thus  Nared  will'd  ;] 

For  waking  eye  such  glory  never  bless'd, 

Nor  waking  ear  such  music  ever  thrill'd. 

It  vanish'd  with  light  sleep  :  he,  rising,  praised 

The  guarded  mount  high-raised, 

And   pray'd   the   thundering   power,  that  sheafy 

treasures. 
Mild  showers,  and  vernal  pleasures. 
The    labournig  youth  in    mead  and    vale  might 

cheer, 
And  cherish'd  herdsmen  bless  th'  abundant  year. 

Thee,  darter  of  the  swift  blue  bolt!  he  sang; 
Sprinkler  of  genial  dews  and  fruitful  rains 
O'er  hills  and  thirsty  plains  ! 
"  When   through  the  waves  of  war  thy  dhargei 

sprang. 
Each  rock  rebellow'd  and  each  forest  rang. 
Till  vanquish'd  Asurs  felt  avenging  pains. 
Send  o'er  their  seats  the  snako  that  never  dies, 
But  waft  the  virtuous  to  thv  skies !" 


GEORGE   CRABBE. 


George  Crabbk  was  bora  at  Aldborough,  in 
J5uffolk,  on  the  24th  of  December,  1754,  where  his 
father  and  grandfather  were  officers  of  the  cus- 
toms. He  receivod  his  education  at  a  neighbour- 
ing school,  whore  he  gained  a  prize  for  one  of  his 
poems,  and  left  it  with  sufficient  knowledge  to 
qualify  him  for  an  apprentice  to  a  surgeon  and 
apothecary  in  his  native  town.  His  poetical  taste 
is  said  to  have  been  assisted  in  developing  itself 
by  a  perusal  of  all  the  scraps  of  verses  which  his 
father  used  to  tear  offfrom  different  newspapers,  and 
which  young  Crabbe  collected  together,  and  got 
most  of  them  by  heart.  The  attractions  of  the  muse 
had  probably  overcome  those  of  ^sculapius,  for,  on 
the  completion  of  his  apprenticeship,  giving  up  all 
hope  of  succeeding  in  his  profession,  he  deter- 
mined at  once  to  quit  it,  and  to  depend  for  support 
upon  his  literary  abilities.  Accordingly,  in  1778,  ho 
came  to  London  with  little  more  in  his  pocket  than 
a  bundle  of  his  best  poems,  and  took  a  lodging  in 
tbs  city,  where  he  read  and  composed,  but  could 
yfl-evail  upon  no  bookseller  to  publish.  At  length, 
m  1780,  he  ventured  to  print,  at  his  own  expense, 
a  poem,  entitled  The  Candidate,  which  was  favour- 
ably noticed  in  the  Monthly  Review,  to  the  editor 
of  whiclj  it  was  addressed.  Finding,  however,  that 
he  stood  no  chance  of  success  or  popularity  whilst 
he  remained  personally  imknown,  he  is  said  to 
have  introduced  himself  to  Edmund  Burke,  who 
received  him  with  great  kindness,  and  read  his  pro- 
ductions with  approbation.  Our  author  fortunately 
found  in  Ihis  gentleman  both  a  friend  and  a  patron  ; 
he  took  Crabbe  into  his  house,  and  introduced  him 
to  Fox  ;  and,  under  their  united  auspices,  appeared 
his  poem  of  the  Library,  in  1781.  In  the  same  year, 
he  was  ordained  deacon,  and  in  the  following  one, 
priest,  and,  for  a  short  time,  acted  as  curate  at 
Aldborough.  About  the  same  period,  he  entered 
his  name  at  Trinity  Hall,  Cambridge,  but  withdrew 
it  without  graduating,  although  he  was  subse- 
quently presented  with  the  degree  of  B.  C.  L. 
After  residing  for  some  time  at  Belvoir  Castle,  as 
chaplain  to  the  Duke  of  Rutland,  by  the  recom- 
mendation of  Mr.  Burke,  our  author  was  introduced 
io  liord-cbancellor  Thurlov,  who  bestowed  upon 


him  successivelv,  the  living  of  Frome  St.  Quintia. 
in  Dorsetshire,  and  the  rectories  of  Muston  and 
West  Allington,  in  the  diocese  of  Lincoln.  In  the 
meantime,  in  1785,  he  published  The  Newspaper, 
a  poem ;  followed  by  a  complete  edition  of  his 
works,  in  1807,  which  were  received  with  marked 
and  universal  approbation. 

In  1810,  appeared  his  admirable  poem  of  The 
Borough  ;  in  1812,  he  published  his  Tales  in  Verse  : 
and  in  1819,  his  celebrated  Tales  of  the  Ila.l.  He 
had,  in  the  interim,  been  presented  to  the  rectory 
of  Trowbridge,  with  the  smaller  benefice  of  Crox- 
ton  Kerryel,  in  Leicestershire.  His  only  prose 
publications  are  a  funeral  sermon  on  on«»  of  hii- 
early  noble  patrons,  Charles,  Cdike  ol  .iutland, 
preached  in  the  chapel  of  Belvoir  Cas'^e,  in  1789; 
and  An  Essay  on  the  Natural  History  of  the  Vale 
of  Belvoir,  written  for  Mr.  Nichols'  llistt.y  of 
Leicestershire. 

Mr.  Crabbe  died  February  3d,  Ib'<2,  at  Trow- 
bridge, the  scene  of  his  latest  nimistrations  as  a 
Christian  pastor.  His  parishioners,  in  grateful  re 
membrance  of  his  virtues  and  labours  for  their  im 
provement,  caused  an  elegant  monument  to  be 
erected  over  his  grave  in  the  chancel.  His  cha- 
racter as  a  man  is  not  less  worthy  of  admiration, 
than  his  genius  as  a  poet.  His  biography,  accom- 
panied by  a  volume  of  posthumous  poetry,  have 
since  been  published  by  his  son. 

The  works  of  Crabbe  have  gone  through  several 
editions,  and  deservedly  become  popular  ;  Mr.  Wil- 
son Croker  has  justly  observed  of  Crabbe,  that  his 
having  taken  a  view  of  life  too  minute,  too  humi- 
liating, and  too  painfully  just,  may  have  rendered 
his  popularity  less  brilliant  than  that  of  some  of 
his  contemporaries ;  though  for  accurate  descrip 
tion,  and  deep  knowledge  of  human  nature,  no 
poet  of  the  present  age  is  equal  to  him.  The  great 
charm  of  his  poetry  lies  in  his  masterly  treat 
ment  of  the  most  ordinary  subjects,  and  m  his 
heart-rending  but  true  descriptions  of  the  scenes 
which  his  muse  delights  to  visit, — those  of  poverty 
and  distress.  He  depicts  nature  living  and  circum 
stantially  ;  and  in  this  respect,  his  poetry  may  justly 
be  compared  to  the  painting  of  Teniers  and  Ostade 


69 


70 


CRABBE. 


SIR    EUSTACE    GREY. 

Scene — A  Mad-house. 
Persons— Yisi-VEiR.,  Physician,  and  Patient. 


Veris  miscens  falsa. — 

Seneca  in  Here,  furenle. 


VISITER. 

I  LL  know  no  more  ; — the  heart  is  torn 
By  views  of  wo  we  cannot  heal  ; 

Long  shall  I  see  these  things  forlorn, 
And  oft  again  their  griefs  .shall  feel. 
As  each  upon  the  mind  shall  steal ; 

That  wan  projector's  mystic  style 
That  lumpish  idiot  leering  by, 

That  peevish  idler's  ceaseless  wile, 

And  that  poor  maiden's  half  form'd  smile, 
While  struggling  for  the  full  drawn  sigh ! — 

I'll  know  no  more. 

PHYSICIAN. 

— Yes,  turn  again  ; 
Then  speed  to  happier  scenes  thy  way, 

When  though  hast  view'd  what  yet  remain, 
The  ruins  of  Sir  Eustace  Grey. 

The  sport  of  madness,  misery's  prey . 
But  he  will  no  historian  need. 

His  cares,  his  crimes,  will  he  display, 
And  sliow  (as  one  from  frenzy  freed) 

The  proud-lost  mind,  the  rash-done  deed. 

That  cell  to  him  is  Greyling  Hall  :— 

Approach ;  he'll  bid  thee  welcome  there ; 
Will  sometimes  for  his  servant  call, 

And  sometimes  point  the  vacant  chair 
He  can,  with  free  and  easy  air. 

And  appear  attentive  and  polite; 
Can  veil  his  woes  in  manners  fair, 

And  pity  with  respect  excite. 

PATIENT. 

5Vho  comes  ? — Approach  ! — 'tis  kindly  done : 

My  learn'd  physician  and  a  friend, 
Their  pleasures  quit,  to  visit  one 

Who  cannot  to  their  ease  attend, 
Nor  joys  bestow,  nor  comforts  lend. 

As  when  I  lived  so  bless'd,  so  well, 
And  dreamt  not  I  must  soon  contend 

With  those  malignant  powers  of  hell. 

PHYSICIAN. 

Less  warmth,  Sir  Eustace,  or  we  go — 

PATIENT. 

See !  I  am  calm  as  infant  love, 
A  very  child,  but  one  of  wo. 

Whom  you  should  pity,  not  reprove: — 
But  men  at  ease,  who  never  strove 

With  passions  wild,  will  calmly  show 
How  soon  we  may  their  ills  remove. 

And  masters  of  their  madness  grow. 

Some  twenty  years,  I  think,  are  gone, — 
<^Time  flies,  I  know  not  how,  away.) 

The  sun  upon  no  happier  shone. 

Nor  prouder  m'-n,  than  Eustace  Grey. 


Ask  where  you  would,  and  all  would  say. 

The  man  admired  and  praised  of  alL 
By  rich  and  poor,  by  grave  and  gay. 

Was  the  young  lord  of  Greyling  Hall. 

Yes !  I  had  youth  and  rosy  health  ; 

Was  nobly  form'd^  as  man  might  be ; 
For  sickness  then,  of  all  my  wealth., 

I  never  gave  a  single  fee  : 
The  ladies  fair,  the  maidens  free. 

Were  all  accustom'd  then  to  say, 
Who  would  a  handsome  figure  see 

Should  look  upon  Sir  Eustace  Grey. 

He  had  a  frank  and  pleasant  Jcck, 

A  cheerful  eye,  and  accent  bland; 
His  very  speech  and  manner  spoke 

The  generous  heart,  the  open  hand  ; 
About  him  all  was  gay  or  grand, 

He  had  the  praise  of  great  and  small  ,* 
He  bought,  improved  projected,  plann'd. 

And  reign'd  a  prince  at  Greyling  Hall. 

My  lady  ! — she  was  all  we  love  ; 

All  praise  (to  speak  her  worth)  is  faint ; 
Her  manners  show'd  the  yielding  dove 

Her  morals,  the  seraphic  saint ; 
She  never  breathed  nor  look'd  complalrit " 

No  equal  upon  earth  had  she  : — 
Now,  what  is  this  fair  thing  I  paint  ? 

Alas!  as  all  that  live  shall  be. 

There  was,  beside,  a  gallant  youth. 
And  him  my  bosom's  friend,  I  had  : — 

0  I  I  was  rich  in  very  truth. 

It  made  me  proud — it  made  me  mad! — 
Yes,  I  was  lost — but  there  was  cause  : — 

Where  stood  my  tale  ?— I  cannot  find — 
But  I  had  all  mankind's  applause. 

And  all  the  smiles  of  woman  kind. 

There  were  two  cherub  things  beside, 

A  gracious  girl,  a  glorious  boy  ; 
Yet  more  to  swell  my  full-blown  prid'', 

To  varnish  higher  my  fading  joy. 
Pleasures  were  ours  without  alloy. 

Nay,  Paradise, — till  my  frail  Eve 
Our  bliss  was  tempted  to  destroy  ; 

Deceived,  and  fated  to  deceive. 

But  I  deserved  ;  for  all  that  time. 
When  I  was  loved,  admired,  caress'd. 

There  was  within,  each  secret  crime, 
Unfelt,  uncancell'd,  unconfess'd  : 

1  never  then  my  God  address'd 

In  grateful  praise  or  humble  prayer; 
And  if  his  word  was  not  my  jest  I 

(Dread  thought !)  it  never  was  my  care. 

I  doubted — fool  I  was  to  doubt ! 

If  that  all-piercing  eye  could  see, — 
If  He  who  looks  all  worlds  throughout. 

Would  so  minute  and  careful  be, 
As  to  perceive  and  punish  me  : — 

With  man  I  would  be  great  and  high, 
But  with  my  God  so  lost,  that  He, 

In  his  large  view,  should  pass  me  by. 


SIR    E  USTACE    GRE\. 


Thus  bless'd  with  children-,  friend,  and  wife 

Bless'd  far  beyond  the  vulgar  lot : 
Of  all  that  gladdens  human  life, 

Where  was  the  good  that  I  had  not  ? 
But  my  vile  heart  had  sinful  spot, 

And  heaven  beheld  its  deepening  stain  ; 
Eternal  justice  I  forgot. 

And  mercy  sought  not  to  obtain. 

Come  near, — I'll  softly  speak  the  rest ! — 

Alas !  'tis  known  to  all  the  crowd, 
Her  guilty  love  was  all  confess'd  ; 

And  his  who  so  much  truth  avow'd. 
My  faithless  friend's. — In  pleasure  proud 

I  sat,  when  these  cursed  tidings  came ; 
Their  guilt,  their  flight  was  told  aloud. 

And  envy  smiled  to  hear  my  shame  ! 

I  call'd  on  vengeance ;  at  the  word 

She  came  ; — Can  I  the  deed  forget  ? 
I  held  the  sword,  th'  accursed  sword. 

The  blood  of  his  false  heart  made  wet; 
And  that  fair  victim  paid  her  debt. 

She  pined,  she  died,  she  loathed  to  live  ,• — 
1  saw  her  dying — see  her  yet : 

Fair  fallen  thing !  my  rage  forgive ! 

Those  cherubs  still,  my  life  to  bless. 

Were  left ;  could  I  my  fears  remove, 
Sad  fears  that  check'd  each  fond  caress, 

And  poison'd  all  parental  love  ? 
Yet  that  with  jealous  feelings  strove. 

And  would  at  last  have  won  my  will. 
Had  I  not,  wretch  !  been  doom'd  to  prove 

Th'  extremes  of  mortal  good  and  ill. 

In  youth  !  health  !  joy  !  in  beauty's  pride  ! 

They  droop'd  :  as  flowers  when  blighted  bow, 
The  dire  infection  came  : — They  died. 

And  I  was  cursed — as  I  am  now — 
Nay,  frown  not,  angry  friend, — allow 

That  I  was  deeply,  sorely  tried  ; 
Hear  then,  and  you  must  wonder  how 

I  could  such  storms  and  strifes  abide. 

Storms ! — not  that  clouds  embattled,  make. 

When  they  afflict  this  earthly  globe  ; 
But  such  as  with  their  terrors  shake 

Man's  breast,  and  to  the  bottom  probe ; 
They  make  the  hypocrite  disrobe. 

They  try  us  all,  if  false  or  true  ; 
For  this,  one  devil  had  power  on  Job  ; 

And  I  was  long  the  slave  of  two. 


feace,  peace,  my  friend  ;  these  subjects  % 
Collect  thy  thoughts— go  calmly  on. — 


And  shall  I  then  the  fact  deny  ? 

I  was, — thou  know'st, — I  was  begone. 
Like  him  who  fiU'd  the  eastern  throne. 

To  whom  the  watcher  cried  aloud  I* 
That  royal  wretch  of  Babylon 

Who  vvas  so  guilty  and  so  proud. 


•  Prophecy  of  Daniel,  chap.  Iv.  22. 


Like  him,  with  haughty,  stubborn  mind 
I,  in  my  slate,  my  comforts  sought ; 

Delight  and  praise  I  hoped  to  find. 
In  what  I  builded,  planted,  bought  • 

0  arrogance !  by  misery  taught — 
Soon  came  a  voice  !  I  felt  it  come ; 

"  Full  be  his  cup,  with  evil  fraught 

Demons  his  guides,  and  death  his  doom  !' 

Then  was  I  cast  from  out  my  state ; 

Two  fiends  of  darkness  led  my  way  ; 
They  waked  pie  early,  watch'd  me  late. 

My  dread  by  night,  my  plague  by  day .' 
O!  I  was  made  their  sport,  their  play. 

Through  many  a  stormy  troubled  year; 
And  how  they  used  their  passive  prey 

Is  sad  to  tell : — but  you  shall  hear. 

And  first,  before  they  sent  me  forth, 

Through  this  unpitying  world  to  run. 
They  robb'd  Sir  Eustace  of  his  worth, 

Lands,  manors,  lordships,  every  one  ; 
So  was  that  gracious  man  undone. 

Was  spurn'd  as  vile,  was  scorn'd  as  poor, 
Whom  every  former  friend  would  shun. 

And  menials  drove  from  every  door. 

Then  those  ill-favour'd  Ones,*  whom  none 

But  my  unhappy  eyes  could  view. 
Led  me,  with  wild  emotion,  on, 

And,  vvilh  resistless  terror,  drew 
Through  lands  we  fled,  o'er  seas  we  flew. 

And  halted  on  a  boundless  plain  : 
Where  nothing  fed,  nor  breathed,  nor  grew 

But  silence  ruled  the  still  domain. 

Upon  that  boundless  plain,  below. 

The  setting  sun's  last  rays  were  shed, 
And  gave  a  mild  and  sober  glow. 

Where  all  were  still,  asleep,  or  dead ; 
Vast  ruins  in  the  midst  were  spread, 

Pillars  and  pediments  sublime. 
Where  the  gray  moss  had  form'd  a  bed, 

And  clothed  the  crumbling  spoils  of  time. 

There  was  I  fix'd,  I  know  not  how, 

Condemn'd  for  untold  years  to  stay  : 
Yet  years  were  not; — one  dreadful  now 

Endured  no  change  of  night  or  day  ; 
The  same  mild  evening's  sleeping  ray 

Shone  softly  solemn  and  serene. 
And  all  that  time  I  gazed  away. 

The  setting  sun's  sad  rays  were  seen. 

At  length  a  moment's  sleep  stole  on,- 
Again  came  my  commission'd  foes ; 

Again  through  sea  and  land  we're  gone, 
No  peace,  no  respite,  no  repose  : 

Above  the  dark  broad  sea  we  rose, 

We  ran  through  bleak  and  frozen  land , 

1  had  no  strength  their  strength  t'  oppose, 

An  infant  in  a  giant's  hand. 

They  placed  me  where  tliese  streamers  play, 
Those  nimble  beams  of  brilliant  light; 

It  would  the  stoutest  heart  dismay. 
To  see,  to  feel,  that  dreadful  sight: 


♦  Vide  Banyan's  Pilgrim's  Progress, 


^2 


CRABBE. 


So  swift,  so  pure,  so  cold,  so  bright, 
They  pierced  my  frame  with  icy  wounds, 

And  all  that  half  year's  polar  night/ 
Those  dancing  streamers  wrapp'd  me  round. 

Slowly  that  darkness  pass'd  away, 

When  down  upon  the  earth  I  fell, — 
Some  hurried  sleep  was  mine  by  day  ; 

But,  soon  as  toll'd  the  evening  bell, 
They  forced  me  on,  where  ever  dwell 

Far  distant  men  in  cities  fair, 
Cities  of  whom  no  travelers  tell. 

Nor  feet  but  mine  were  wanderers  there. 

Their  watchmen  stare  and  stand  aghast, 

As  on  we  hurry  through  the  dark  ; 
The  watch-light  blinks  as  we  go  past. 

The  watch-dog  shrinks  and  fears  to  bark  ; 
The  watch-tower's  bell  sounds  shrill ;  and,  hark ! 

The  free  wind  blows — we've  left  the  town — 
A  wide  sepulchral  ground  I  mark, 

And  on  a  tombstone  place  me  down. 

What  monuments  of  mighty  dead  ! 

What  tombs  of  various  kinds  are  found  ! 
And  stones  erect  their  shadows  shed 

On  humble  graves,  with  wickers  bound ; 
SJome  risen  fresh  above  the  ground, 

Some  level  with  the  native  clay. 
What  sleeping  millions  wait  the  sound, 

"Arise,  ye  dead,  and  come  away!" 

Alas !  they  stay  not  for  that  call ; 

Spare  me  this  wo !  ye  demons,  spare ! — 
They  come  !  the  shrouded  shadows  all, — 

'Tis  more  than  mortal  brain  can  bear  ; 
Rustling  they  rise,  they  sternly  glare 

At  man  upheld  by  vital  breath ; 
Who,  led  by  wicked  fiends,  should  dare 

To  join  the  shadowy  troops  of  death! 

Yes,  T  have  felt  all  man  can  feel, 

Till  he  shall  pay  his  nature's  debt ; 
Ills  that  no  hope  has  strength  to  heal, 

No  mind  the  comfort  to  forget : 
Whatever  cares  the  heart  can  fret. 

The  spirits  wear,  the  temper  gall. 
Wo,  want,  dread,  anguish,  all  beset 

My  sinful  soul ! — together  all ! 

Those  fiends  upon  a  shaking  fen  ^ 

Fix'd  me,  in  dark  tempestuous  night  ; 
There  never  trod  the  foot  of  men. 

There  flock'd  the  fowl  in  wintery  flight ; 
There  danced  the  moor's  deceitful  light 

Above  the  pool  where  sedges  grow  ; 
And  when  the  morning  sun  shone  bright, 

It  shone  upon  a  field  of  snow. 

1  tiey  hung  me  on  a  bough  so  small. 

The  rook  could  build  her  nest  no  higher  ; 
They  fix'd  me  on  the  trembling  ball 

That  crowns  the  steeple's  quivering  spire  ; 
They  set  me  where  the  seas  retire, 

But  drown  with  their  returning  tide ; 
And  made  me  flee  the  mountain's  fire, 

When  rolling  from  its  burning  side. 


I've  hung  upon  the  ridgy  steep 

Of  cliffs,  and  hr?ld  the  rambling  brier; 
I've  plunged  below  the  billowy  deep, 

Where  air  was  sent  me  to  respire  ; 
I've  been  where  hungry  wolves  retire ; 

And  (to  complete  my  woes)  I've  ran 
Where  bedlam's  crazy  crew  conspire 

Against  the  life  of  reasoning  man. 

I've  furl'd  m  storms  the  flapping  sail, 

By  hanging  from  the  topmast-head  ; 
I've  served  the  vilest  slaves  in  jail, 

And  pick'd  the  dunghill's  spoil  for  bread, 
I've  made  the  badger's  hole  my  bed 

I've  wander'd  with  a  gipsy  crew ; 
I've  dreaded  all  the  guilty  dread. 

And  done  what  they  would  fear  to  do 

On  sand,  where  ebbs  and  flows  the  flood, 

Midway  tliey  placed  and  bade  me  die ; 
Propp'd  on  my  staff,  I  stoutly  stood 

When  the  swift  waves  came  rolling  by ; 
And  high  they  rose,  and  still  more  high. 

Till  my  lips  drank  the  bitter  brine  j 
I  sobb'd  convulsed,  then  cast  mine  eye, 

And  saw  the  tide's  reflowing  sign. 

And  then,  my  dreams  were  such  as  nauglit 

Could  yield  but  my  unhappy  case  ; 
I've  been  of  thousand  devils  caught. 

And  thrust  into  that  horrid  place. 
Where  reign  dismay,  despair,  disgrace  ; 

Furies  with  iron  fangs  were  there, 
To  torture  that  accursed  race, 

Doom'd  to  dismay,  disgrace,  despair. 

Harmless  I  was  ;  yet  hunted  down 

For  treasons,  to  my  soul  unfit  ; 
I've  been  pursued  through  many  a  town, 

For  crimes  that  petty  knaves  commit ; 
I've  been  adjudged  t'  have  lost  my  wit. 

Because  I  preach'd  so  loud  and  well ; 
And  thrown  into  the  dungeon's  pit, 

For  trampling  on  the  pit  of  hell. 

Such  were  .the  evils,  man  of  sni. 

That  I  was  fated  to  sustain  ; 
And  add  to  all,  without — within, 

A  soul  defiled  with  every  stain 
That  man's  reflecting  mind  can  pain  ; 

That  pride,  wrong,  rage,  despair,  can  make, 
In  fact,  they'd  nearly  touch'd  my  brain. 

And  reason  on  her  throne  would  shake. 

But  pity  will  the  vilest  seek. 

If  punish'd  guilt  will  not  repine, — 
I  heard  a  heavenly  Teacher  speak. 

And  felt  the  Sun  of  mercy  shine  ; 
I  hail'd  the  light!  the  birth  divine  ! 

And  then  was  seal'd  among  the  few  ; 
Those  angry  fiends  beheld  the  sign, 

And  from  me  in  an  instant  flew. 

Come,  hear  how  thus  the  charmers  cry 
To  wandering  sheep,  the  strays  of  uia, 

While  some  the  wicket-gate  pass  by^ 
And  some  will  knock  and  enter  in  : 


THE    HALL   OF  JUSTICE. 


73 


Full  joyfiil  'tis  a  soul  to  win, 

For  he  that  winneth  souls  is  wise  ; 

Nv»w  hark  I  the  holy  strains  begin, 
And  thus  the  sainted  preacher  cries  :*- 

"  Pilgrim,  burden'd  with  thy  sin, 

Come  the  way  to  Zion's  gate, 

There,  till  Mercy  let  thee  in, 

Knock  and  weep,  and  watch  and  wait 
Knock  I — He  knows  the  sinner's  cry : 
Weep  I — He  loves  the  mourner's  tears  : 
Watch  ! — for  saving  grace  is  nigh : 
Wait ! — till  heavenly  light  appears 

'  Hark !  it  is  the  Bridegroom's  voice  ; 

Welcome  pilgrim  to  thy  rest  ; 

Now  within  the  gate  rejoice, 

Safe  and  seal'd,  and  bought  and  bless'd  ! 
Safe — from  all  the  lures  of  vice, 
Seal'd — by  signs  the  chosen  know, 
Bought — by  love  and  life  the  price, 
Bless'd — the  mighty  debt  to  owe. 

'  Holy  Pilgrim  !  what  for  thee 

In  a  world  like  this  remain  ? 

From  thy  guarded  breast  shall  flee, 

Fear  and  shame,  and  doubt  and  pain. 
Fear — the  hope  of  Heaven  shall  fly, 
Shame — from  glory's  view  retire. 
Doubt — in  certain  rapture  die, 
Pain — in  endless  bliss  expire." 

But  though  my  day  of  grace  was  come, 

Yet  still  my  days  of  grief  I  find  ; 
The  former  clouds'  collected  gloom 

Still  sadden  the  reflecting  mind  ; 
The  soul,  to  evil  things  consign'd, 

Will  of  their  evil  some  retain ; 
The  man  will  seem  to  earth  inclined, 

And  will  not  look  erect  again. 

Thus,  though  elect,  I  feel  it  hard 

To  lose  what  I  possess'd  before. 
To  be  from  all  my  wealth  debarr'd, — 

The  brave  Sir  Eustace  is  no  more : 
But  old  I  wax  and  passing  poor, 

Stern,  rugged  men  my  conduct  view; 
They  chide  my  wish,  they  bar  my  door, 

Tis  hard — I  weep — you  see  I  do. — 

Must  you,  my  friends,  no  longer  stay  ? 

Thus  quickly  all  my  pleasures  end  ; 
But  I'll  remember,  when  I  pray, 

My  kind  physician  and  his  friend  : 
And  those  sad  hours,  you  deign  to  spend 

With  me,  I  shall  requite  them  all  ; 
Sir  Eustace  for  his  friends  shall  send. 

And  thank  their  love  at  Greyling  Hall 


•  It  has  been  sucsested  to  me,  that  this  change  from 
restlessness  to  repose,  in  the  mind  of  Sir  Eustace,  is 
wrought  by  a  metbodistic  call ;  and  it  is  admitted  to  be 
such :  a  sober  and  r.itional  conversion  could  not  have 
Happened  while  tlic  rlisorJor  of  the  brain  continued :  yet 
the  verses  which  follow,  in  a  ditferent  measure,  are  not 
Intended  to  make  any  religious  persuasion  appear  ridi- 
culous ;  they  are  to  be  supposed  as  the  effect  of  memory 
in  the  disordered  mind  of  the  speaker,  and,  though  evi- 
dently entliasiastic  in  respect  to  language,  are  not  meant 
in  eonvey  any  impropriety  of  sentiment. 


VISITER. 

The  poor  Sir  Eustace  I — Yet  his  hope 

Leads  him  to  think  of  joys  again  ; 
And  when  his  earthly  visions  droop, 

His  views  of  heavenly  kind  remain : — 
But  whence  that  meek  and  humbled  strain. 

That  spirit  wounded,  lost,  resign'd  ? 
Would  not  so  proud  a  soul  disdain 

The  madness  of  the  poorest  mind  ? 

niYSICIAX. 

No .'  for  the  more  he  swell'd  with  pride. 

The  more  he  felt  misfortune's  blow  ; 
Disgrace  and  grief  he  could  not  hide, 

And  poverty  had  laid  him  low  : 
Thus  shame  and  sorrow  working  slow.  » 

At  length  this  humble  spirit  gave.  ^ 

Madness  on  these  began  to  grow. 

And  bound  him  to  his  fiends  a  slave. 

Though  the  wild  thoughts  had  touch'd  kis  bmic 

Then  was  he  free  :  — so,  forth  he  ran , 
To  soothe  or  threat,  alike  were  vain  : 

He  spake  of  fiends,  look'd  wild  and  wan ; 
Year  after  year,  the  hurried  man 

Obey'd  those  fiends  from  place  to  place ; 
Till  his  religious  change  began 

To  form  a  frenzied  child  of  grace. 

For,  as  the  fury  lost  its  strength, 

The  mind  reposed  ;  by  slow  degrees 
Came  lingering  hope,  and  brought  at  length, 

To  the  tormented  spirit,  ease  : 
This  slave  of  sin,  whom  fiends  could  seize. 

Felt  or  believed  their  power  had  end ; — 
"  Tis  faith,"  he  cried,  "  my  bosom  frees. 

And  now  my  Saviour  is  my  friend." 

But  ah  !  though  time  can  yield  relief. 

And  soften  woes  it  cannot  cure  ; 
Would  we  not  sufltr  pain  and  grief, 

To  have  our  reason  sound  and  sure  ? 
Then  let  us  keep  our  bosoms  pure. 

Our  fancy's  favourite  flights  suppress , 
Prepare  the  body  to  endure. 

And  bend  the  mind  to  meet  distress ; 
And  then  His  guardian  care  implore, 
W^hom  demons  dread  and  men  adore. 


THE  HALL  OF   JUSTICE 
PART  I 


Confiteor  facere  hoc  annos  ;  sed  et  altera  causa  est, 
Anxietas  animi,  continuusqoe  dolor.  Ovm 


Magistrate,  Vagrant,  Constable,  &c. 

VAGRANT. 

Take,  take  away  thy  barbarouj^  hand. 
And  let  me  to  thy  master  speak  : 

Remit  awhile  the  harsh  coininand, 
And  hear  me,  or  my  heart  will  break. 

MAGISTRATE. 

Fond  wretch !  and  what  canst  thou  relate. 
But  deeds  of  sorrow,  shame,  and  sin  ? 

Thy  crime  is  proved,  thou  know'st  thy  fate  f 
But  come,  thy  tale .' — begin,  begin  ! — 


u 


CRABBE. 


VAGRA^T. 

My  crime  I — This  sickening  child  lo  feed, 
I  seized  the  food,  your  witness  saw ; 

i  knew  your  laws  forbade  the  deed, 
But  yielded  to  a  stronger  law. 

t^now'st  thou,  to  Nature's  great  command 
All  human  laws  are  frail  and  weak  ? 

Nay  !  frown  not — stay  his  eager  hand. 
And  hear  me,  or  my  heart  will  break. 

f  n  this,  th'  adopted  babe  I  hold 
With  anxious  fondness  to  my  breast. 

My  heart's  sole  comfort  I  behold, 
More  dear  than  life,  when  life  was  bless'd ; 

[  saw  her  pining,  fainting,  cold, 
I  begg'd — but  vain  w-as  my  request. 

I  saw  the  tempting  food,  and  seized — 

My  infant  sufferer  found  relief; 
And,  in  the  pilfer'd  treasure  pleased. 

Smiled  on  my  guilt,  and  hush'd  my  griefl 

But  I  have  griefs  of  other  kind. 
Troubles  and  sorrows  more  severe ; 

Give  me  to  ease  my  tortured  mind, 
Lend  to  my  woes  a  patient  ear ; 

And  let  me — if  I  may  not  find 
A  friend  to  help — find  one  to  hear. 

Yet  nameless  let  me  plead — my  name 
Would  only  wake  the  cry  of  scorn  ; 

A  child  of  sin,  conceived  in  shame. 
Brought  forth  in  wo,  to  misery  born. 

My  mother  dead,  my  father  lost, 
I  wander'd  with  a  vagrant  crew  ; 

A  common  care,  a  common  cost, 
Their  sorrows  and  their  sins  I  knew; 

With  them,  by  want  on  error  forced, 
Like  them,  I  base  and  guilty  grew. 

Few  are  my  years,  not  so  my  crimes  ; 

The  age,  which  these  sad  looks  declare, 
Is  Sorrow's  work,  it  is  not  Time's, 

And  I  am  old  in  shame  and  care. 

Taught  to  believe  the  world  a  place 
Where  every  stranger  was  a  foe, 

'1  rain'd  in  the  arts  that  mark  our  race, 
To  what  new  people  could  I  go  ? 

Could  I  a  better  life  embrace. 
Or  live  as  virtue  dictates  ?  No  ! 

So  through  the  land  I  wandering  went, 
And  little  found  of  grief  or  joy ; 

But  lost  ray  bosom's  sweet  content 
When  first  I  loved — the  Gipsy-Boy. 

A  sturdy  youth  he  was  and  tall. 
His  looks  would  all  his  soul  declare ; 

His  piercing  eyes  were  deep  and  small, 
And  strongly  curl'd  his  raven  hair. 

Yes,  Aaron  had  each  manly  charm. 
All  in  the  May  of  youthful  pride. 

He  scarcely  fear'd  his  father's  arm. 
And  every  other  arm  defied. — 

Oft,  wheh  they  grew  in  anger  warm, 
(Whom  will  not  love  and  power  divide  ?) 

I  rose,  their  wrathful  souls  to  calm. 
Not  yet  in  sinful  combat  tried. 


His  father  was  our  party's  chief, 
And  dark  and  dreadful  was  his  look ; 

His  presence  fill'd  my  heart  with  grief. 
Although  to  me  he  kindly  spoke. 

With  Aaron  I  delighted  went. 
His  favour  was  my  bliss  and  pride  ; 

In  growing  hope  our  days  we  spent. 
Love  growing  charms  in  either  spied^ 

It  saw  them,  all  which  Nature  lent. 
It  lent  them,  all  which  she  denied. 

Could  I  the  father's  kindness  prize, 
Or  grateful  looks  on  him  bestow, 

Whom  I  beheld  in  wrath  arise. 
When  Aaron  sunk  beneath  his  blow  ? 

He  drove  him  down  with  wicked  hand, 
It  was  a  dreadful  sight  to  see ; 

Then  vex'd  him,  till  he  left  tlie  land 
And  told  his  cfuel  love  tome; — 

The  clan  were  all  at  his  command, 
Whatever  his  command  might  be. 

The  night  was  dark,  the  lanes  were  deep, 
And  one  by  one  they  took  their  way ; 

He  bade  mo  lay  me  down  and  sleep, 
I  only  wept  and  wish'd  for  day 

Accursed  be  the  love  he  bore. 
Accursed  was  the  force  ho  used, 

So  let  him  of  his  God  implore 
For  mercy,  and  be  so  refused ! 

You  frown  again, — to  show  my  wrong. 
Can  I  in  gentle  language  speak? 

My  woes  arc  deep,  my  words  are  strong,— 
And  hear  me,  or  my  heart  will  break 

MAGISTRATE. 

I  hear  thy  words,  I  feel  thy  pain  : 
Forbear  awhile  to  speak  thy  woes ; 

Receive  our  aid,  and  then  again 
The  story  of  thy  life  disclose. 

For,  though  seduced  and  led  astray, 
Thou'st  travell'd  far  and  wander'd  long ; 

Thy  God  hath  seen  thee  all  the  way, 
And  all  the  turns  that  led  thee  wrong. 


PART  IL 

Quondam  ridentes  ocnli,  nunc  fonte  perenni 
Deplorant  poenus  nocte  dieque  suas. 

Corn.  Galli  Eleg. 


MAGISTRATE. 

Come,  now  again  thy  woes  impart. 
Tell  all  thy  sorrows,  all  thy  sin ; 

We  cannot  heal  the  throbbing  heart 
Till  we  discern  the  wounds  within. 

Compunction  weeps  our  guilt  away. 
The  sinner's  safety  is  his  pain  ; 

Such  pangs  for  our  offences  pay, 
And  these  severer  griefs  are  gain. 

VAGRANT. 

The  son  came  back — he  found  us  wed, 
Then  dreadful  was  the  oath  he  swore  J 

His  way  through  Blackburn  Forest  led,- 
His  father  wo  beheld  no  more. 


THE    HALL    OF    JUSTICE. 


Of  qU  our  daring  clan  not  one 

Would  on  the  doubtful  subject  dwell : 

For  all  esteem'd  the  injured  son, 
And  fear'd  the  tale  which  he  could  tell. 

But  I  had  mightier  cause  for  fear, 
For  slow  and  nioumtul  round  my  bed 
saw  a  dreadful  form  appear, — 
It  came  when  I  and  Aaron  wed. 

(VesI  we  were  wed,  I  know  my  crime, — 
We  slept  beneath  the  elmin  tree  ;  . 

But  I  was  grieving  all  the  time. 
And  Aaron  frown'd  my  tears  to  see. 

For  he  not  yet  had  felt  the  pain 
Thjat  rankles  in  a  wounded  breast ; 

He  waked  to  sin,  then  slept  again, 
Forsook  his  God,  yet  took  his  rest. — 

But  I  was  forced  to  feign  delight. 

And  joy  in  mirth  and  music  sought,— 

And  memory  now  recalls  the  night. 
With  such  surprise  and  horror  fraught, 

That  reason  felt  a  moment's  flight, 
And  left  a  mind  to  madness  wrought.) 

When  waking  on  ray  heaving  breast 

1  felt  a  hand  as  cold  as  death  ; 
A  sudden  fear  my  voice  suppress'd, 

A  chilling  terror  stopp'd  my  breath. — 

I  s'rett.  i— no  words  can  utter  how ! 

For  there  my  father-husband  stood,— 
And  thus  he  said  :— "  Will  God  allow, 

The  great  avenger,  just  and  good, 
A  wife  to  break  her  marriage  vov  ' 

A  son  to  shed  his  father's  blood  .'" 

i  trembled  at  the  dismal  sounds. 

But  vainly  strove  a  word  to  say  ; 
So,  pointing  to  his  bleeding  wounds, 

The  threatening  spectre  stalk'd  away.* 

I  brought  a  lovely  daughter  forth. 
His  father's  child,  in  Aaron's  bed  ; 

He  took  her  from  me  in  his  wrath, 
"  Where  is  my  child  ?"— "  Thy  child  is  dead." 

'Tvv-as  false.— We  wander'd  far  and  wide, 
Through  town  and  country,  field  and  fen, 

Till  Aaron,  fighting,  fell  and  died, 
And  I  became  a  wife  again. 

I  then  was  young : — my  husband  sold 
My  fancied  charms  for  wicked  price  ; 

He  gave  me  oft,  for  sinful  gold. 

The  slave,  but  not  the  friend  of  vice  :— 

Behold  me,  Heaven !  my  pains  behold, 
And  let  them  for  my  sins  suffice ! 

The  wretch  who  lent  me  thus  for  gain. 
Despised  me  when  my  youth  was  fled  , 

Then  came  disease,  and  brought  me  pain: — 
Come,  death,  and  bear  me  to  the  dead  ' 

For  though  I  grieve,  my  grief  is  vain, 
And  fruitless  all  the  tears  I  shed. 


*Tlie  state  of  mind  here  described  will  account  for  a 
vision  of  this  natiir'^  \vit;iout  having  recourse  to  any  s'5- 
pernatural  appearance 


True,  I  was  not  to  virtue  train'd. 

Yet  well  I  knew  my  deeds  were  ill ; 

By  each  offence  my  heart  was  pain'd, 
I  wept,  but  I  offended  still ; 

My  better  thoughts  my  life  disdain'd, 
But  yet  the  viler  led  my  will. 

My  husband  died,  and  now  no  more 
My  smile  was  sought,  or  ask'd  my  hand 

A  vvidow'd  vagrant,  vile  and  poor, 
Beneath  a  vagrant's  vile  command. 

Ceaseless  I  roved  the  country  round, 
To  win  my  bread  by  fraudful  arts, 

And  long  a  poor  subsistence  found. 
By  spreading  nets  for  simple  hearts. 

Though  poor,  and  abject,  and  despised  ; 

Their  fortunes  to  the  crowd  I  told  ; 
I  gave  the  young  the  love  they  prized, 

And  promised  wealth  to  bless  the  old  j 
Schemes  for  the  doubtful  I  devised,     ^ 

And  cha   Hts  for  the  forsaken  sold. 

At  length  fc    arts  like  these  confined 

In  prison  ^nih  a  lawless  crew, 
I  soon  perceived  a  kindred  mind, 

And  there  my  long-lost  daughter  knew. 

His  father's  child,  whom  Aaron  gave 
To  wander  with  a  distant  clan. 

The  miseries  of  the  world  to  brave. 
And  be  the  slave  of  vice  and  man. 

She  knew  my  name — we  met  in  pain. 
Our  parting  pangs  can  I  express  ? 

She  sail'd  a  convict  o'er  the  main, 
And  left  an  heir  to  her  distress. 

This  is  that  heir  to  shame,  and  pain, 

For  whom  I  only  could  descry 
A  world  of  trouble  and  disdain  : 

Yet,  could  I  bear  to  see  her  die. 
Or  stretch  her  feeble  hands  in  vain, 

And,  weeping,  beg  of  me  supply? 

No !  though  the  fate  thy  mother  knev? 

Was  shameful  I  shameful  though  thy  »•;• 
Have  wander'd  all,  a  lawless  crew, 

Outcasts,  despised  in  every  place ; 

Yet  as  the  dark  and  muddy  tide. 
When  far  from  its  polluted  source. 

Becomes  more  pure,  and,  purified. 
Flows  in  a  clear  and  happy  course ; — 

In  thee,  dear  infant  I  so  may  end 
Our  shame,  in  thee  our  sorrows  cease? 

And  thy  pure  course  will  then  extend. 
In  floods  of  joy,  o'er  vales  of  peace. 

O  !  by  the  God  who  loves  to  spare, 

Deny  me  not  the  boon  I  crave  ; 
Let  this  loved  child  your  mercy  sliare. 

And  let  me  find  a  peaceful  grave ; 
Make  her  yet  spotless  soul  your  care. 

And  let      v  sins  their  portion  have 
Her  for  a  oetier  fate  prepare. 

And  punish  whom  twere  sin  to  save. 


76 


CRABBE. 


MAGISTRATE. 

Eecall  the  word,  renounce  the  thought, 
Command  thy  heart,  and  bend  thy  knee ; 

There  is  to  all  a  pardon  brought, 
A  ransom  rich,  assured,  and  free  ; 

Tis  full  when  found,  'tis  found  if  sought, 
O  •  seek  it,  till  'tis  seal'd  to  thee. 

VAGRANT. 

But  how  my  pardon  shall  I  know  ? 

MAGISTRATE. 

By  feeling  dread  that  'tis  not  sent. 
By  tears  for  sin  that  freely  flow, 

By  grief,  that  all  thy  tears  are  spent, 
By  thoughts  on  that  great  debt  we  owe, 

With  all  the  mercy  God  has  lent, 
By  suffering  what  thou  canst  not  show, 

Yet  showing  how  thine  heart  is  rent, 
Till  thou  canst  feel  thy  bosom  glow, 

And  say,  "  My  Saviour,  1  repent!" 


WOMAN: 

To  a  woman  I  never  addressed  myself  in  the  language 
of  decency  and  friendship,  without  receiving  a  de- 
cen.-  and  friendly  answer.  If  I  was  hungry  or 
thirsty,  wet  or  sick,  they  did  not  hesitate,  like  men,  to 
perform  a  generous  action:  in  so  free  and  kind  a 
manner  did  they  contribute  to  my  relief,  that  if  I  was 
dry,  I  drank  the  sweetest  draught;  and  if  hungry,  I 
ate  the  coarsest  morsel  with  a  double  relish."— TWr. 

Ledyard,  as  quoted  by  M.  Parke  in  Mo  Travels  into 

Africa. 

Place  the  white  man  on  Afric's  coast, 

Whose  swarthy  sons  in  blood  delight, 
Who  of  their  scorn  to  Europe  boast, 

And  paint  their  very  demons  white  : 
There,  while  the  sterner  sex  disdains 

To  soothe  the  woes  they  cannot  feel. 
Woman  will  strive  to  heal  his  pains, 

And  weep  for  those  she  cannot  heal ; 
Hers  is  warm  pity's  sacred  glow  ; 

From  all  her  stores,  she  bears  a  part, 
And  bids  the  spring  of  hope  re-flow, 

That  languish'd  in  the  fainting  heart. 

"  What  though  so  pale  his  haggard  face, 

So  sunk  and  sad  his  looks," — she  cries ; 
''And  far  unlike  our  nobler  race, 
With  crisped  locks  and  rolling  eyes  ; 
Yet  misery  marks  him  of  our  kind  ; 

We  see  him  lost,  alone,  afraid  ; 
And  pangs  of  body,  griefs  in  mind. 
Pronounce  him  man,  and  ask  our  aid. 

"Perhaps  in  some  far-distant  shore, 

There  are  who  in  these  forms  delight ; 
Whose  milky  features  please  them  more 
Than  ours  of  jet,  thus  burnish'd  bright  ; 
Of  such  may  be  his  weeping  wife, 

ciuch  children  for  their  sire  may  call, 
And  if  we  spare  his  ebbing  life, 
Our  kindness  may  preserve  them  all." 

I  hus  her  compassion  woman  snows, 
Beneath  the  line  her  acts  are  these  ; 

Nor  the  wide  waste  of  Lapland-snows 
Can  her  warm  flow  of  pity  freeze  : — 


"  From  some  sad  land  the  stranger  comes 
Where  joys  like  ours  are  never*  found , 

Let's  soothe  him  in  our  happy  homes, 
Where  freedom  sits  with  plenty  crown'd 

"  'Tis  good  the  fainting  soul  to  cheer. 

To  see  the  famish'd  stranger  fed ; 
To  milk  for  him  the  mother  deer. 
To  smooth  for  him  the  furry  bed. 
The  powers  above  our  Lapland  bless 

With  good  no  other  people  know ; 
T'  enlarge  the  joys  that  we  possess 
By  feeling  those  that  we  bestow !" 

Thus  in  extremes  of  cold  and  heat, 
Where  w^andering  man  may  trace  his  kind  ; 

Wherever  grief  and  want  retreat, 
In  woman  they  compassion  find  ; 

She  makes  the  female  breast  her  seat, 
And  dictates  mercy  to  the  mind. 

Man  may  the  sterner  virtues  know. 

Determined  justice,  truth  severe  : 
But  female  hearts  with  pity  glow, 

And  woman  holds  aflHiction  dear; 
For  guiltless  woes  her  sorrows  flow, 

And  suffering  vice  compels  her  tear  ; 
'Tis  hers  to  soothe  the  ills  below. 

And  bid  life's  fairer  views  appear; 
To  woman's  gentle  kind  we  owe 
.   What  comforts  and  delights  us  here  ; 
They  its  gay  hopes  on  youth  bestow. 

And  care  they  soothe  and  age  they  cheer. 


TALE  L 


THE  DUMB  ORATORS  ;  OR,  THE  BENEFIT  OF  SOCIETY 

With  fair  round  belly  with  gooil  capon  lined, 

With  eyes  severe 

Full  of  wise  saws  and  modern  instances. 

As  you  like  it,  act  ii.  sc.  7. 
Deep  shame  hath  struck  me  dumb. 

King  John,  act  iv.  sc.  2. 
He  gives  the  bastinado  with  his  tongue, 
Our  ears  are  cudgell'd. 

King  John,  act  iv.  sc.  2. 
Let's  kill  all  the  lawyers ; 
Now  show  yourselves  men  :  'tis  for  liberty : 
We  will  not  leave  one  lord  or  gentleman. 

Henry  VI.  part  2,  act  ii.  sc.  7. 
And  thus  the  whirligig  of  time  brings  in  his  revenges. 
Tioeljlh  Night,  act  v.  scene  last 

That  all  men  would  be  cowards  if  they  daro, 
Some  men  we  know  have  courage  to  declare ; 
And  this  the  life  of  many  a  hero  shows, 
That  like  the  tide,  man's  courage  ebbs  and  flows; 
With  friends  and  gay  companions  round  them,  thei 
Men  boldly  speak  and  have  the  hearts  of  men  ; 
Who,  with  opponents  seated,  miss  the  aid 
Of  kind  applauding  looks,  and  grow  afraid  ; 
Like  timid  travellers  in  the  night,  they  fear 
Th'  assault  of  foes,  when  not  a  friend  is  near. 

In  contest  mighty,  and  of  conquest  proud 
Was  Justice  Bolt,  impetuous,  warm,  and  loud  ; 
His  fame,  his  prowess  all  the  country  knew, 
And  disputants,  with  one  so  fierce,  were  few 


TALES. 


7? 


He  was  a  younger  son,  for  law  design'd, 
With  dauntless  look  and  persevering  mind  ; 
While  yet  a  clerk,  for  disputation  famed, 
No  efforts  tired  him,  and  no  conflicts  tamed. 

Scarcely  he  bade  his  master's  desk  adieu,  . 
When  both  his  brothers  from  the  world  withdrew. 
An  ample  fortune  he  from  them  possess'd. 
And  was  with  saving  care  and  prudence  bless'd. 
Now  would  he  go  and  to  the  country  give 
Example  how  an  English  'squire  should  live  ; 
How  bounteous,  yet  how  frugal  man  may  be, 
By  a  well-order'd  hospitality  ; 
He  would  the  rights  of  all  so  well  maintain. 
That  none  should  idle  be,  and  none  complain. 

All  this  and  more  he  purposed — and  what  man 
Could  do,  he  did  to  realize  his  plan  : 
But  time  convinced  him  that  we  cannot  keep 
A  breed  of  reasoners  like  a  flock  of  sheep  ; 
For  they,  so  far  from  following  as  we  lead, 
Make  that  a  cause  why  they  will  not  proceed. 
Man  will  not  follow  where  a  rule  is  shown. 
But  loves  to  take  a  method  of  his  own  ; 
Explain  the  way  with  all  your  care  and  skill, 
This  will  he  quit,  if  but  to  prove  he  will. — 
Yet  had  our  justice  honour;  and  the  crowd. 
Awed  by  his  presence,  their  respect  avovv'd. 

In  later  years  he  found  his  heart  incline. 
More  than  in  youth,  to  generous  food  and  wine  ; 
But  no  indulgence  check'd  the  powerful  love 
He  felt  to  teach,  to  argue,  and  reprove. 

Meetings,  or  public  calls,  he  never  miss'd — 
To  dictate  often,  always  to  assist. 
Oft  he  the  clergy  join'd,  and  not  a  cause 
Pertain'd  to  them  but  he  could  quote  the  laws  ; 
He  upon  tithes  and  residence  display'd 
A  fund  of  knowledge  for  the  hearer's  aid  ; 
And  could  on  glebe  and  farming,  wool  and  grain, 
A  long  discourse,  without  a  pause,  maintain. 

To  his  experience  and  his  native  sense 
Ho  join'd  a  bo'd  imperious  eloquence  ; 
The  grave,  ste/n  look  of  men  inform'd  and  wise, 
A  full  command  of  feature,  heart,  and  eyes. 
An   av.e   compeliing   frown,   and    fear    inspiring 

size. 
When  at  the  table,  not  a  guest  was  seen 
With  appetite  so  lingering,  or  so  keen  ; 
But  when  the  outer  man  no  more  required. 
The  inner  waked,  and  he  was  man  inspired. 
His  subjects  then  were  those,  a  subject  true 
Presents  in  fairest  form  to  public  view ! 
Of  church  and  state,  of  law,  with  mighty  strength 
Of  words  he  spoke,  in  s{)eech  of  mighty  length  : 
And  now,  into  the  vale  of  years  declined, 
He  hides  too  little  of  the  monarch  mind  : 
He  kindles  anger  by  untimely  jokes, 
And  opposition  by  contempt  provokes; 
Mirth  he  suppresses  by  his  awful  frown. 
And  humble  spirits,  by  disdain,  keeps  down  ; 
Blamed  by  the  mild,  approved  by  the  severe, 
The  prudent  fly  him,  and  the  valiant  fear. 

For  overbearing  is  his  proud  discourse. 
And  overwhelming  of  his  voice,  the  force  ; 
And  overpowering  is  he  when  he  show.s 
What  floats  upon  a  mind  that  always  overflows 

This  ready  man  at  every  meeting  rose. 
Something  to  hint,  determine,  or  propose  ; 
And  grew  so  fond  of  teaching,  that  he  taught 
Those  who  instruction  needed  not  or  sought : 


Happy  our  hero,  when  he  could  excite 

Some  thoughtless  talker  to  the  wordy  fight : 

Let  him  a  subject  at  his  pleasure  choose, 

Physic  or  law,  religion  or  the  muse ; 

On  all  such  themes  he  was  prepared  to  shine, 

Physician,  poet,  lawyer,  and  divine. 

Hemm'd  in  by  some  tough  argument,  borne  down 

By  press  of  language,  and  the  awful  frown. 

In  vain  for  mercy  shall  the  culprit  plead  ; 

His  crime  is  past,  and  sentence  must  proceed: 

Ah  !  suffering  man,  have  patience,  bear  thy  woca 

For  lo!  the  clock — at  ten  the  justice  goes. 

This  powerful  man,  on  business  or  to  please 
A  curious  taste,  or  weary  grown  of  ease, 
On  a  long  journey  travell'd  many  a  mile 
Westward,  and  halted  midway  in  our  isle ; 
Content  to  view  a  city  large  and  lair. 
Though  none  had  notice — what  a  man  was  th€r«! 

Silent  two  days,  he  then  began  to  long 
Again  to  try  a  voice  so  loud  and  strong : 
To  give  his  favourite  topics  some  new  grace, 
And  gain  some  glory  in  such  distant  place  ; 
To  reap  some  present  pleasure,  and  to  sow 
Seeds  of  fair  fame,  in  after-time  to  grow  : 
Here  will  men  say,  "  We  heard,  at  such  an  hour 
The  best  of  speakers — wonderful  his  power." 

Inquiry  made,  he  found  that  day  would  meet 
A  learned  club,  and  in  the  very  street : 
Knowledge  to  gain  and  give,  was  the  design; 
To  speak,  to  hearken,  to  debate,  and  dine  : 
This  pleased  our  traveller,  for  he  felt  his  force 
In  either  way,  to  eat  or  to  discourse. 

Nothing  more  easy  than  to  gain  access 
To  men  like  these,  with  his  polite  address; 
So  he  succeeded,  and  first  look'd  around, 
To  view  his  objects  and  to  take  his  ground ; 
And  therefore  silent  chose  a  while  to  sit, 
Then  enter  boldly  by  some  lucky  hit ; 
Some  observation  keen  or  stroke  severe. 
To  cause  some  wonder  or  excite  some  fear. 

Now,  dinner  past,  no  longer  he  suppress'd 
His  strong  dislike  to  be  a  silent  guest ; 
Subjects  and  words  were  now  at  his  command — 
When  disappointment  frown'd  on  all  he  plann'd  • 
For,  hark  ! — he  heard,  amazed,  on  every  side 
His  church  insulted,  and  her  priests  belied  ; 
The  laws  reviled,  the  ruling  power  abused 
The  land  derided,  and  its  foes  excused  : — 
He  heard,  and  ponder'd — What,  to  men  so  vile. 
Should  be  his  language?  For  his  threatening sty.e 
They  were  too  many  ; — if  his  speech  were  meek. 
They  would  despise  such  poor  attempts  to  speak  : 
At  other  times  with  every  word  at  will. 
He  now  sat  lost,  perplex'd,  astonish'd,  still. 

Here  were  Socinians,  Deists,  and  indeed 
All  who,  as  foes  to  England's  church,  agreed ; 
But  still  with  creeds  unlike,  and  some  without  a 

•  creed  : 
Here,  too,  fierce  friends  of  liberty  he  saw, 
Who  own'd  no  prince  and  who  obey  no  law ; 
There  were  reformers  of  each  different  sort, 
Foes  to  the  laws,  the  priesthood,  and  the  court ; 
Some  on  their  favourite  plans  alone  intent, 
Some  purely  angry  and  malevolent : 
The  rash  were  proud  to  blame  their  country  s  laws 
The  vain,  to  seem  supporter  of  a  cause  ; 
One  call'd  for  change  that  he  would  dread  to  seo 
Another  sigh'd  for  Gallic  liberty  ! 


78 


CRAJBBE. 


And  numbers  joining  with  the  forward  crew, 
For  no  one  reason — but  that  numbers  do. 

"  How,"  said  the  justice,  "  can  this  trouble  rise, 
This  shame  and  pain,  from  creatures  I  despise  ?" 
And  conscience  answer'd — "The  prevailing  cause 
Is  thy  delight  in  listening  to  applause ; 
Here,  thou  art  sealed  with  a  tribe,  who  spurn 
Thy  favourite  themes,  and  into  laughter  turn 
Thy  fears  and  wishes  ;  silent  and  obscure. 
Thyself,  shalt  thou  the  long  harangue  endure ; 
And  learn,  by  feeling,  what  it  is  to  force 
On  thy  unwilling  friends  the  long  discourse : 
What  though  thy  thoughts  be  just,  and  these,  it 

seems, 
Are  traitors'  projects,  idiots'  empty  schemes  ? 
Yet,  minds  like  bodies  cramm'd,  reject  their  food. 
Nor  will  be  forced  and  tortured  for  their  good !" 

At  length,  a  sharp,  shrewd,  sallow  man  arose, 
And  begg'd  he  briefly  might  his  mind  disclose  ; 
"  It  was  his  duty,  in  these  worst  of  times, 
T'  inform  the  govern'd  of  their  rulers'  crimes :" 
This  pleasant  subject  to  attend,  they  each 
Prepared  to  listen,  and  forbore  to  teach. 

Then  voluble  and  fierce  the  wordy  man 
Through  a  long  chain  of  favourite  horrors  ran  : — 
First,  of  the  church,  from  whose  enslaving  power 
He  was  deliver'd,  and  he  bless'd  the  hour,- 
"  Bishops  and  deans,  and  prebendaries  all," 
He  said,  "  were  cattle  fattening  in  the  stall  ; 
Slothful  and  pursy,  insolent  and  mean. 
Were  every  bishop,  prebendary,  dean, 
And  wealthy  rector  :  curates,  poorly  paid, 
Were  only  dull,  he  would  not  them  upbraid." 

From  priests  he  turn'd   to   canons,  creeds,  and 
prayers, 
Rubrics  and  rules,  and  all  our  church  affairs  : 
Churches  themselves,  desk,  pulpit,  altar,  all 
The  justice    reverenced — and   pronounced    their 
fall. 

Then  from  religion  Hammond  turn'd  his  view, 
To  give  our  rulers  the  correction  due ; 
Not  one  wise  action  had  these  triflers  plann'd ; 
There  was,  it  seem'd,  no  wisdom  in  the  land  ; 
Save  in  this  patriot  tribe,  who  meet  at  times 
To  show  the  statesman's  errors  and  his  crimes. 

Now  here  was  Justice  Bolt  compell'd  to  sit, 
To  hear  the  deist's  scorn,  the  rebel's  wit ; 
The  fact  mis-stated,  the  envenomed  lie, 
And  staring,  spell-bound,  made  not  one  reply. 

Then  were  our  laws  abused  ;  and  with  the  laws 
All  who  prepare,  defend,  or  judge  a  cause : 
"  We  have  no  lawyer  whom  a  man  can  trust," 
Proceeded  Hammond,  "  if  the  laws  were  just ; 
But  they  are  evil ;  'tis  the  savage  state 
Is  only  good,  and  ours  sophisticate ! 
See!  the  free  creatures  in  their  woods  and  plains^ 
Where  without  laws  each  happy  monarch  reigns, 
King  of  himself— while  we  a  number  dread, 
By  slaves  commanded  and  by  dunces  led  ; 
O,  let  the  name  with  either  state  agree — 
Savage  our  own   we'll    name,  and   civil    theirs 
shall  be." 

The  silent  justice  still  astonish'd  sate. 
And  wonder'd  much  whom  he  was  gazing  at ; 
Twice  he  essay'd  to  speak,  but  in  a  cough 
The  faint,  indignant,  dying  speech  went  off": 
"  But  who  is  this ?"  thought  he ;  "a  demon  vile. 
With  wicked  meaning  and  a  vulgar  style  : 


Hammond  they  call  him ;  they  can  give  the  tame 
Of  man  to  devils. — Why  am  I  so  tame  '/ 
Why  crush  I  not  the  viper?" — Fear  replied, 
"Watch  him  a  while,  and  let  his  strength  be  tried 
He  will  be  foil'd,  if  man ;  but  if  his  aid 
Be  from  beneath,  'tis  well  to  be  afraid." 

"We  are  call'd  free!"  said  Hammond — "dolefr 
times 
When  rulers  add  their  insults  to  their  crimes . 
For  should  our  scorn  expose  each  powerful  vice, 
It  would  be  libel,  and  we  pay  the  price." 

Thus  with  licentious  words  the  man  went  on, 
Proving  that  liberty  of  speech  was  gone  ; 
That  all  were  slaves  ;  nor  had  we  better  chance 
For  better  times  than  as  allies  to  France. 
L-oud  groan'd  the  stranger — Why,  he  must  relate, 
And  own'd,  "  In  sorrow  for  his  country's  fate." 
*'  Nay,  she  were  safe,"  the  ready  man  replied, 
"  Might  patriots  rule  her,  and  could  reasoners  guide 
When  all  to  vote,  to  speak,  to  teach,  are  free, 
Whate'er  their  creeds  or  their  opinions  be  ; 
When  books  of  statutes  are  consumed  in  flames, 
And  courts  and  copyholds  are  empty  names  ; 
Then  will  be  times  of  joy :  but  ere  they  come, 
Havoc,  and  war,  and  blood  must  be  our  doom." 

The  man  here  paused  ;  then  loudly  for  reform 
He  call'd,  and  hail'd  the  prospect  of  the  storm  ; 
The  wholesome  blast,  the  fertilizing  flood — 
Peace  gain'd  by  tumult,  plenty  bought  with  blood: 
Sharp  means,  he  own'd ;  but  when  the  land'sdisease 
Asks  cure  complete,  no  medicines  are  like  these. 

Our  justice  now,  more  led  by  fear  than  rage. 
Saw  it  in  vain  with  madness  to  engage  ; 
With  imps  of  darkness  no  man  seeks  to  fight 
Knaves  to  instruct,  or  .sot  deceivers  right : 
Then  as  the  daring  speech  denounced  tliese  v^cea 
Sick  at  the  soul,  the  grieving  guest  arose  ; 
Quick  on  the  board  his  ready  cash  he  threw. 
And  from  the  demons  to  his  closet  flew  : 
There  when  secured,  he  pray'd  with  earnest  zeal, 
That  all  they  wish'd  these   patriot  souls  migh 

feel  ; 
"  Let  them  to  France,  their  darling  country  haste, 
And  all  the  comforts  of  a  Frenchman  taste  ; 
Let  them  his  safety,  freedom,  pleasure  know. 
Feel  all  tlieir  rulers  on  the  land  bestow  ; 
And  be  at  length  dismiss'd  by  one  unerring  blow; 
Not  hack'd  and  hew'd  by  one  afraid  to  strike. 
But  shorn  by  that  which  shears  all  men  alike  ; 
Nor,  as  in  Britain,  let  them  curse  delay 
Of  law,  but  borne  without  a  form  away — 
Suspected,  tried,  condemn'd,  and  carted  in  a  day  j 
O!  let  them  taste  what  they  so  much  approve. 
These  strong  fierce  freedoms  of  the  land  they  love  "• 

Home  came  our  hero,  to  forget  no  more 
The  fear  he  felt  and  ever  must  deplore  : 
For  though  he  quickly  join'd  his  friends  agair 
And  could  with  decent  force  his  themes  maintain 
Still  it  occurred,  that,  in  a  luckless  time. 
He  fail'd  to  fight  with  heresy  and  crime 


•  The  reader  will  perceive  in  tiiese  and  the  preceding 
verses,  alhisions  to  the  state  of  France,  as  that  country 
was  circumstanced  some  years  since,  rather  than  as  ll 
appears  to  be  in  the  present  date,— several  years  elapsing 
between  the  alarm  of  the  loyal  magistrate  on  the  occasion 
now  related,  and  a  subsequent  event  that  farther  illus 
irates  the  remark  with  which  the  narrative  commencea 


TALES. 


71 


It  was  observed  his  words  were  not  so  strong, 
His  tones  so  powerful,  his  harangues  so  long. 
As  in  old  times — for  he  would  often  drop 
The  lofty  look,  and  of  a  sudden  stop ; 
When  conscience  whisper'd,  that  he  once  was  still, 
And  let  the  wicked  triumph  at  their  will ; 
And  therefore  now,  when  not  a  foe  was  near, 
He  had  no  right  so  valiant  to  appear. 

Some  years  had  pass'd,  and  he  perceived  his  fears 
Yield  to  the  spirit  of  his  earlier  years — 
When  at  a  meeting,  with  his  friends  beside, 
He  saw  an  object  that  awaked  his  pride  ; 
His  shame,  wrath,  vengeance,  indignation — all 
Man's  harsher  feelings  did  that  sight  recall. 

For  lo  !  beneath  him  fix'd,  our  man  of  law 
That  lawless  man,  the  foe  of  order,  saw  : 
Once  fear'd,  now  scorn'd ;  once  dreaded,  now  ab- 

horr'd : 
A  wordy  man,  and  evil  every  word  : 
Again  he  gazed — "  It  is,"  said  he,  "  the  same  ; 
Caught  and  secure  :  his  master  owes  him  shame  :" 
So  thought  our  hero,  who  each  instant  found 
His  courage  rising,  from  the  numbers  round. 

As  when  a  felon  has  escaped  and  fled, 
So  long,  that  law  conceives  the  culprit  dead  ; 
And  back  recall'd  her  myrmidons,  intent 
On  some  new  game,  and  with  a  stronger  scent ; 
Till  she  beholds  him  in  a  place,  where  none 
Could    have   conceived    the    culprit   would   have 

gone  ,• 
There  he  sits  upright  in  his  seat,  secure. 
As  one  whose  conscience  is  correct  and  pure  ; 
This  rouses  anger  for  the  old  offence. 
And  scorn  for  all  such  seeming  and  pretence  ; 
So  on  tliis  Hammond  look'd  our  hero  bold. 
Remembering  well  that  vile  offence  of  old  , 
/Vnd  now  he  saw  the  rebel  dared  t'  intrude 
Among  the  pure,  the  loyal,  and  the  good  : 
The  crime  provoked  his  wrath,  the  folly  stirr'd  his 

blood : 
Nor  wonder  was  it  if  so  strange  a  sight 
Caused  joy  with  vengeance,  terror  with  delight ; 
Terror  like  this  a  tiger  might  create, 
Ji  joy  like  that  to  see  his  captive  stale, 
At  once  to  know  his  force  and  then  decree  his  fate. 
Hammond,  much  praised  by  numerous  friends, 
was  come 
To  read  his  lectures,  so  admired  at  home  ; 
Historic  lectures,  where  he  loved  to  mix 
His  free  plain  hints  on  modern  politics: 
Here,  he  had  heard,  that  numbers  had  design, 
Their  business  finish'd,  to  sit  down  and  dine  ; 
This  gave  him  pleasure,  for  he  judged  it  right 
To  show  by  day,  that  he  could  speak  at  night. 
Rash  the  design — for  he  perceived,  too  late, 
Not  one  approving  friend  beside  him  sate  ; 
The  greater  number  whom  he  traced  around 
Were  men  in  black,  and  he  conceived  they  frown'd. 
"  I  will  not  speak,"  he  thought ;  "  no  pearls  of  mine 
Shall  be  presented  to  this  herd  of  swine !" 
Not  this  avail'd  him,  when  he  cast  his  eye 
On  Justice  Bolt ;  he  could  not  fight,  nor  fly  : 
He  saw  a  man  to  whom  he  gave  the  pain. 
Which  now  he  felt  must  be  returned  again  ; 
His  conscience  told  him  with  what  keen  delight 
He,  at  that  time,  enjoy'd  a  stranger's  fright  ; 
That  stranger  now  befriended — he  alone. 
For  all  his  insult,  friendless,  to  atone; 


Now  he  could  feel  it  cruel  that  a  heart 
Should  be  distress'd,  and  none  to  take  its  pari 
"  Though  one  by  one,"  said  Pride,  "  I  would  ditty 
Much  greater  men,  yet  meeting  every  eye, 
I  do  confess  a  fear ;  but  he  will  pass  me  by." 

Vain  hope!  the  justice  saw  the  foe's  distress, 
With  exultation  he  could  not  suppress  ; 
He  felt  the  fish  was  hook'd,  and  so  forbore. 
In  playful  spite,  to  draw  it  to  the  shore. 
Hammond  look'd  round  again ;  but  none  were  neu; 
With  friendly  smile,  to  still  his  growing  fear; 
But  all  above  him  seem'd  a  solemn  row 
Of  priests  and  deacons,  so  they  seem'd  below; 
Ho  wonder'd  who  his  right-hand  man  might  be-*- 
Vicar  of  Holt  cum  Uppingham  was  he  ; 
And  who  the  man  of  that  dark  frown  possess'd — 
Rector  of  Bradley  and  of  Barton-west ; 
"  A  pluralist,"  he  grovvl'd — but  check'd  the  word. 
That  wariare  might  not,  by  his  zeal,  be  stirr'd. 

But  now  began  the  man  above  to  show 
Fierce  looks  and  threatenings  to  the  man  below ; 
Who  had  some  thoughts  his  peace  by  flight  to  seek- 
But  how  then  lecture,  if  he  dared  not  speak! — 

Now  as  the  justice  for  the  war  prepared. 
He  seem'd  just  then  to  question  if  he  dared : 
"  He  may  resist,  although  his  power  be  small. 
And  growing  desperate  may  defy  us  all ; 
One  dog  attack,  and  he  prepares  for  flight — 
Resist  another,  and  he  strives  to  bite  ; 
Nor  can  I  say,  if  this  rebellious  cur 
Will  fly  for  safety,  or  will  scorn  to  stir." 
Alarm'd  by  this,  he  lash'd  his  soul  to  rage, 
Burn'd  with  strong  shame,  and  hurried  to  engage. 

As  a  male  turkey  struggling  on  the  green, 
When  by  fierce  harriers,  terriers,  mongrels  seen. 
He  feels  the  insult  of  the  noisy  train, 
And  skulks  aside,  though  moved  by  much  disdain  , 
But  when  that  turkey,  at  his  own  barn-door. 
Sees  one  poor  straying  puppy,  and  no  more, 
(A  foolish  puppy  who  had  left  the  pack. 
Thoughtless  what  foe  was  threatening  at  his  back,j 
He  moves  about,  as  ship  prepared  to  sail. 
He  hoists  his  proud  rotundity  of  tail. 
The  half-seal'd  eyes  and  changeful  neck  he  shows. 
Where  in  its  quickening  colours,  vengeance  glows. 
From  red  to  blue  the  pendent  wattles  turn, 
Blue  mix'd  with  red,  as  matches  when  they  burn  ; 
And  thus  th'  intruding  snarler  to  oppose. 
Urged  by  enkindling  wrath,  he  gobbling  goes. 

So  look'd  our  hero  in  his  wrath,  his  cheeks 
Flush'd    with    fresh  fires  and  glow'd    in  tingling 

streaks ; 
His  breath  by  passion's  force  a  while  restrain'd. 
Like  a  stopp'd  current,  greater  force  regain'd 
So  spoke,  so  look'd  he,  every  eye  and  ear 
Were  fix'd  to  view  him,  or  were  turn'd  to  hear. 

"  My  friends,  you  know  me,  you  can  witness  all 
How,  urged  by  passio  i,  I  restrain  my  gall ; 
And  every  motive  to  revenge  withstand — 
Save  when  I  hear  abused  my  native  land. 

"  Is  it  not  known,  agreed,  confirm'd,  confess'd, 
That  of  all  people  we  are  govern'd  best  ? 
We  have  the  force  of  monarchies  ;  are  free, 
A.S  the  most  proud  republicans  can  be  ; 
And  have  those  prudent  counsels  that  arise 
In  grave  and  cautious  aristocracies  ; 
And  live  there  those,  in  such  all-glorious  state, 
Traitor?  protected  in  the  land  they  hato  ? 


CRABBE. 


Rebels,  still  warring  with  the  laws  that  give 
To  them  subsistence  ?— Yes,  such  wretches  live. 

"  Ours  is  a  church  reform'd,  and  now  no  more 
Is  aught  for  man  to  mend  or  to  restore  ; 
'Tis  pure  in  doctrines,  'tis  correctkin  creeds, 
Has  naught  redundant,  and  it  nothing  needs; 
No  evil  is  therein — no  wrinkle,  spot. 
Stain,  blame,  or  blemish  :— I  affirm  there's  not. 

"  All  this  you  know — now  mark  what  once  be- 
fell. 
With  grief  I  bore  it,  and  with  shame  I  tell  ; 
I  was  entrapp'd — yes,  so  it  came  to  pass, 
'Mid  heathen  rebels,  a  tumultuous  class ; 
Each  to  his  country  bore  a  hellish  mind, 
Each  like  his  neighbour  was  of  cursed  kind  ; 
The  land  that  nursed  them  they  blasphemed ;  the 

laws, 
Their  sovereign's  glory,  and  their  country's  cause ; 
And   who    their  mouth,   their  master-fiend,   and 

who 
Rebellion's  oracle? — You,  caitiff,  you!" 

He  spoke,  and  standing  stretch'd  his  mighty  ami. 
And  fix'd  the  man  of  words,  as  by  a  charm. 

"  How   raved   that   railer !    Sure  some  hellish 
power 
Kestrain'd  my  tongue  in  that  delirious  hour. 
Or  I  had  hurl'd  the  shame  and  vengeance  due 
On  him,  the  guide  of  that  infuriate  crew  ; 
But  to  mine  eyes  such  dreadful  looks  appear'd. 
Such  mingled  yell  of  lying  words  I  heard. 
That  I  conceived  around  were  demons  all. 
And  till  I  fled  the  house,  I  fear'd  its  fall. 

"  O  !  could  our  country  from  her  coasts  expel 
Such  foes  !  to  nourish  those  who  wish  her  well: 
This  her  mild  laws  forbid,  but  we  may  still 
From  us  eject  them  by  our  sovereign  will  ; 
This  let  us  do." — He  said,  and  then  began 
A  gentler  feeling  for  the  silent  man  ; 
E'en  in  our  hero's  mighty  soul  arose 
A  touch  of  pity  for  experienced  woes , 
But  this  was  transient,  and  with  angry  eye 
He  sternly  look'd,  and  paused  for  a  reply. 

'Twas   then   the   man   of  many   words   would 
speak — 
But,  in  his  trial,  had  them  all  to  seek : 
To  find  a  friend  he  look'd  the  circle  round, 
But  joy  or  scorn  in  every  feature  found  ; 
He  sipp'd  his  wine,  but  in  those  times  of  dread 
Wine  only  adds  confusion  to  the  head  ; 
In  doubt  he  reason'd  with  himself—"  And  how 
Harangue  at  night,  if  I  be  silent  now  ? 
From  pride  and  praise  received,  he  sought  to  draw- 
Courage  to  speak,  but  still  remain'd  the  awe  ; 
One  moment  rose  he  with  a  forced  disdain. 
And  then  abash'd  sunk  sadly  down  again; 
While  in  our  hero's  glance  he  seem'd  to  read, 
"  Slave  and  insurgent !  what  hast  thou  to  plead  ?" 

By  desperation  urged,  he  now  began  : 
''  I  seek  no  favour — I — the  Rights  of  Man ! 
Claim;  and  I — nay! — but  give  me  leave — and  1 
Insist — a  man — that  is — and  in  reply, 
I  speak." — Alas,  each  new  attempt  was  vain  : 
Confused  he  stood,  he  sate,  he  rose  again ; 
At  length  he  growl'd  defiance,  sought  the  door, 
Cursed  the  whole  synod,  and  was  seen  no  more. 
"  Laud   we,"  said  Justice   Bolt,   "  the   Powers 
above ; 
Thus  could  our  speech  the  sturdiest  foe  remove." 


Exulting  now  he  gained  new  strength  of  fame, 
And  lost  all  feelings  of  defeat  and  shame. 

"  He  dared  not  strive,  you  witness'd — dared  n©^ 
lift 
His  voice,  nor  drive  at  his  accursed  drift : 
So  all  shall  tremble,  wretches  who  oppose 
Our  church  or  state — thus  be  it  to  our  Ibes." 

He  spoke,  and,  seated  with  his  former  air, 
Look'd  his  full  self,  and  fill'd  his  ample  chair , 
Took  one  full  bumper  to  each  favourite  cause, 
And  dwelt  all  night  on  politics  and  laws, 
With  high  applauding  voice,  that  gain'd  him  higl 
applause. 


TALE  H. 

THE   PARTING   HOUR. 

I  dill  not  take  my  leave  of  him,  but  had 
Most  pretty  things  to  say  :  ere  I  could  tell  hira 
How  I  would  think  of  him,  at  certain  hours, 
Such  thoughts  and  such  ; — or  ere  1  could 
Give  him  that  parting  kiss,  which  I  had  set 
Betwixt  two  charming  words — comes  in  my  father—* 
Cymbeline,  act  i.  sc.  4 
Grief  hath  changed  me  since  you  saw  me  last. 
And  careful  hours  with  Time's  deformed  hand 
Have  written  strange  defeatures  o'er  my  face. 

Comedy  of  Errors,  act  v.  sc.  I. 

0  !  if  thou  be  the  same  Egean,  speak, 
And  speak  unto  the  same  Emilia. 

Ibid,  act  V.  9i.5 

1  ran  it  through,  e'en  from  my  boyish  days 
To  the  very  moment  that  she  bade  me  tell  it : 
Wherein  I  spake  of  most  disastrous  chances, 
Of  moving  accidents,  by  flood  and  field  ; 

Of  being  taken  by  th'  insolent  foe 
And  sold  to  slavery. 

Othello,  act  i.  sc.  3 
An  old  man,  broken  with  the  storms  of  fate, 
Is  come  to  lay  his  weary  bones  among  you  ; 
Give  him  a  litUe  earth  for  charity. 

Henry  VIII.  act  iv.  sc.  2 

Minutely  trace  man's  life  ;  year  after  year 
Through  all  his  days  let  all  his  deeds  appear, 
And  then,  though  some  may  in  that  life  be  Strang* 
Yet  there  appears  no  vast  nor  sudden  change  : 
The  links  that  bind  those  various  deeds  are  seen. 
And  no  mysterious  void  is  left  between. 

But  let  these  binding  links  be  all  destroy 'd 
All  that  through  years  he  suffer'd  or  enjoy'd  ; 
Let  that  vast  gap  be  made,  and  then  behold — 
This  was  the  youth,  and  he  is  thus  when  old ; 
Then  we  at  once  the  work  of  time  survey. 
And  in  an  instant  see  a  life's  decay  ; 
Pain  mix'd  with  pity  in  our  bosoms  rise, 
And  sorrow  takes  new  sac'ness  from  surprise. 

Beneath  yon  tree,  observe  an  ancient  pair — 
A  sleeping  man ;  a  woman  in  her  chair. 
Watching  his  looks  with  kind  and  pensive  air 
No  wife,  nor  sister  she,  nor  is  the  name 
Nor  kindred  of  this  friendly  pair  the  same  ; 
Yet  so  allied  are  they,  that  few  can  feel 
Her  constant,  warm,  unwearied,  anxious  zeal ; 
Their  years   and  woes,  although  they  long  haVB 

loved. 
Keep  their  good  name  and  sonduct  unreoroved 


TALES. 


PI 


Thus  life's  small  comforts  they  together  share, 
And  while  life  lingers  for  the  grave  prepare 

No  other  subjects  on  their  spirits  press, 
Nor  gain  such  interest  as  the  past  distress  ; 
Grievous  events  that  from  the  memory  drive 
Life's  common  cares,  and  those  alone  survive, 
Mix  with  each  thought,  in  every  action  share, 
Darken  each  dream,  and  blend  with  every  prayer. 

To  David  Booth,  his  fourth  and  last  born  boy, 
Allen  his  name,  was  more  than  common  joy  ; 
And  as  the  child  grew  up,  there  seem'd  in  him 
A  more  than  common  life  in  every  limb , 
A  strong  and  handsome  stripling  he  became 
And  the  gay  spirit  answer'd  to  the  frame , 
A  lighter,  happier  lad  wa-s  never  seen. 
For  ever  easy,  cheerful,  or  serene ; 
His  early  love  he  fix'd  upon  a  fair 
And  gentle  maid — they  were  a  handsome  pair. 

They  at  an  infant-school  together  play'd. 
Where  the  foundation  of  their  love  wa*  laid  ; 
The  boyish  champion  would  his  choice  attend 
In  every  sport,  in  every  fray  defend. 
As  prospects  open'd  and  as  life  advanced. 
They  walk'd  together,  they  together  danced  ; 
On  all  occasions,  from  their  early  years. 
They   mix'd   their  joys  aind  sorrows,  hopes  anil 

fears  ; 
Each  heart  was  anxious,  till  it  could  impart 
Its  daily  feelings  to  its  kindred  heart ; 
As  years  increased,  unnumber'd  potty  wars 
Broke  out  between  them,  jealousies  and  jars  ; 
Causeless  indeed,  and  foliow'd  by  a  peace. 
That  gave  to  love — growth,  vigour,  and  increase. 
Whilst  yet  a  boy,  when  other  minds  are  void^ 
Domestic     thoughts    young    Allen's     hoiifs     em- 

ploy'd ; 
Judith  in  gaining  hearts  had  no  concern, 
Rather  intent  the  matron's  part  to  learn  ; 
'!'hus  early  prudent  and  sedate  they  grew, 
V^hile   lovers   thoughtful — and   though   children, 

true. 
To  either  parents  not  a  day  appear'd, 
Vv'hcn  with  this  love  they  might  have  interfered  : 
Childish  at  first,  they  cared  not  to  restrain  ; 
And  strong  at  last,  they  saw  restriction  vain ; 
Nor  knew  they  when  that  passion  to  reprove — 
Now  idle  fondness,  now  resistless  love. 

So  while  the  waters  rise,  the  children  tread 
On  the  broad  estuary's  sandy  bed  ; 
But  soon  the  channel  fills,  from  side  to  side 
Comes  danger  rolling  with  the  deepening  tide  ; 
Yet  none  who  saw  the  rapid  current  flow 
Could  the  first  instant  of  that  danger  know. 

The  lovers  waited  till  the  time  should  come 
When  they  together  could  possess  a  home  : 
In  either  house  were  men  and  maids  unwed, 
Hopes  to  be  soothed,  and  tempers  to  be  led. 
Then  Allen's  mothe-  ol"  his  favourite  maid 
Spoke  from  the  feelings     '  a  mind  afraid  : 

Dress  and  amusements  were  her  sole  employ," 
kShe  said,  "  entangling  her  deluded  boy;" 
And  yet.  in  truth,  a  mother's  jealous  love 
Had  much  imagined  and  c«tr^ '  little  prove ; 
ludith  had  beauty  ;  anu  »f  vain,  was  kind. 
Discreet,  and  mild,  and  had  a  serious  mind. 

Dull  was  their  prospect— when  the  lovers  met, 
They  said,  we  must  not— dare  not  venture  yet : 
Vol.  III._6 


"  O!  could  I  labour  for  thee,"  Allen  cried, 

"  Why  should  our  friends  be  thus  dissatisfied  ? 

On  my  own  arm  I  could  depend,  but  they 

Still  urge  obedience — must  I  yet  obey  ?" 

Poor  Judith  felt  the   grief,  but   grieving   beggd 

delay. 
At  length  a  prospect  came  that  seem'd  to  smile, 
And  faintly  woo  them,  from  a  western  isle ; 
A  kinsman  there  a  widow's  hand  had  gain'd, 
"  Was  old,  was  rich,  and  childless  yet  remain'd ; 
Would  some  young  Booth  to  his  aflfairs  attend, 
And  wait  a  while,  he  might  expect  a  friend." 
The  elder  brothers,  who  were  not  in  love, 
Fear'd  the  false  seas,  unw^illing  to  remove  ,- 
But  the  young  Allen,  an  enamour'd  boy. 
Eager  an  independence  to  enjoy. 
Would  through  all  perils  seek  it, — by  the  sea, — 
Through  labour,  danger,  pain,  or  slavery. 
The  faithful  Judith  his  design  approved. 
For  both   were  sanguine,   they  were  young   and 

loved. 
The  mother's  slow  consent  was  then  obtain'd  ; 
The  time  arrived,  to  part  alone  remain'd  : 
All  things  prepared,  on  the  expected  day 
Was  seen  the  vessel  anchor'd  in  the  bay. 
From  her  would  seamen  in  the  evening  come, 
To  take  th'  adventurous  Allen  from  his  home  ; 
With  his  own  friends  the  final  day  he  pass'd. 
And  every  painful  hour,  except  the  last. 
The  grieving  father  urged  the  cheerful  glass. 
To  make  the  moments  with  less  sorrow  pass  ; 
Intent  the  mother  look'd  upon  her  son. 
And  wish'd  th'  assent  withdrawn,  the  deed  un- 
done ; 
The  younger  sister,  as  he  took  his  way. 
Hung  on  his  coat,  and  begg'd  for  more  delay  : 
But  his  own  Judith  call'd  him  to  the  shore. 
Whom   he   must   meet,  for  they  might   meet  no 

more : 
And  there  he  found  her — faithful,  mournful,  true. 
Weeping  and  waiting  for  a  last  adieu  I 
The  ebbing  tide  had  left  the  sand,  and  there 
Moved  with  slow  steps  the  melancholy  pair; 
Sweet  were  the  painful  moments — but  how  sweet 
And  without  pain,  when  they  again  shonl^l  meet! 
Now  either  spoke,  as  hope  and  fear  impress'd 
Each  their  alternate  triumph  in  the  breast. 

Distance  alarm'd  the  maid — she  cried,  "  'Tis  far!' 
And  danger  too — "  it  is  a  time  of  war : 
Then  in  those  countries  are  diseases  strange. 
And  women  gay,  and  men  are  proi.e  to  change ; 
What  then  may  happen  in  a  year,  when  things 
Of  vast  importance  every  moment  bri:>gs ! 
But  hark!  an  oar!"  she  cried,  yet  none  appear'd— 
'Tvvas  love's  mistake,  who  fancied  what  it  fear'd 
And  she  continued — "  Do,  my  Allen,  keep 
Thy  heart  from  evil,  let  thy  passions  sleep ; 
Believe  it  good,  nay  glorious,  to  prevail 
And  stand  in  safety  where  so  many  fiiil ; 
And  do  not,  Allen,  or  for  shame,  or  pride. 
Thy  faith  abjure,  er  thy  profession  hide  ; 
Can  I  believe  his  love  will  lasting  prove. 
Who  has  no  reverence  for  the  God  I  bve  ? 
I  know  thee  well !  how  good  thou  art  and  kiiia  ; 
But  strong  the  passions  that  invade  thy  mind  — 
Now,  what  to  me  hath  Allen  to  commend  ?" 
"  Upon  my  mother,"  said  the  youth,  "attend  ; 


82 


CRABBE. 


Forget  her  spleen,  and  in  my  place  appear ; 
Her  love  to  me  will  make  my  Judith  dear  : 
Oft  I  shall  think,  (such  comfort  lovers  seek,) 
Who  speaks  of  me,  and  fancy  what  they  sj-eak  ; 
Then  write  on  all  occasions,  always  dwell 
On  hope's  fair  prospects,  and  be  kind  and  well, 
Ai:d  ever  choose  the  fondest,  tenderest  style." 
She  answer'd  "  No,"  but  answer'd  with  a  smile. 
"  And  now,  my  Judith,  at  so  sad  a  time, 
Forgive  my  fear,  and  call  it  not  my  crime  , 
When  with  our  youthful  neighbours 'tis  thy  chance 
To  meet  in  walks,  the  visit,  or  the  dance. 
When  every  lad  would  on  my  lass  attend, 
Choose  not  a  smooth  designer  for  a  friend  : 
That  fawning  Philip! — nay,  be  not  severe, 
A  rival's  hope  must  cause  a  lover's  fear." 

Displeased  she  felt,  and  raiglit  in  her  reply 
Have  mix'd  some  anger,  but  the  boat  v*'as  nigh, 
Now  truly  heard! — it  soon  was  full  in  sight: — 
Now  the  sad  farewell,  and  the  long  good-night ; — 
For,  see — his  friends  come  hastening  to  the  beach, 
And  now  the  gunwale  is  within  the  reach  : 
"  Adieu — farewell  I — remember !" — and  what  more 
Affection  taught  was  utter'd  from  the  shore  I 
But  Judith  left  them  with  a  heavy  heart, 
Took  a  last  view,  and  went  to  weep  apart ! 
And  now  his  friends  went  slowly  from  the  place, 
Where  she  stood  still  the  dashing  oar  to  trace. 
Till  all  were  silent ! — for  the  youth  she  pray'd. 
And  softly  then  return'd  the  weeping  maid. 

They  parted,  thus  by  hope  and  fortune  led. 
And  Judith's  hours  in  pensive  pleasure  fled  ; 
But  when    return'd   the    youth  ? — the   youth    no 

more 
Return'd  exulting  to  his  native  shore; 
But  forty  years  were  past,  and  then  there  came 
A  worn-out  man,  with  wither'd  limbs  and  lame, 
His  mind  oppress'd  with  woes,  and  bent  with  age 

his  frame  : 
Yes !  old  and  grieved,  and  trembling  with  decay. 
Was  Allen  landing  in  his  native  bay, 
Willing  his  breathless  form  should  blend  with  kin- 
dred clay. 
In  an  autumnal  eve  he  left  the  beach. 
In  such  an  eve  he  chanced  the  port  to  reach  ; 
He  was  alone ;  he  press'd  the  very  place 
Of  tiie  sad  parting,  of  the  last  embrace  : 
There  stood  his  parents,  there  retired  the  maid. 
So  fond,  so  tender,  and  so  much  afraid  ; 
And  on  that  spot,  through  many  a  year,  his  mind 
Turn'd  mournful  back,  half-sinking,  half-resign'd. 

No  one  was  present ;  of  its  crew  bereft. 
A  single  boat  was  in  the  billows  left ; 
Sent  from  some  anchor'd  vessel  in  the  bay, 
At  the  returning  tide  to  sail  away : 
O'er  the  black  stern  the  moonlight  softly  play'd, 
The  loosen'd  foresail  flapping  in  the  shade  ; 
All  silent  else  on  shore  ;  but  from  the  town 
A  drowsy  peal  of  distant  bells  came  down : 
From  the  tall  houses  here  and  there,  a  light 
Served  some  confused  remembrance  to  excite  . 
"  There,"  he  observed,  and  new  emotions  felt. 
"Was  my  first  home  ;  and  yonder  Judith  dwelt' 
Dead  !  dead  are  all !  I  long — I  fear  to  know," 
He  said,  and  walk'd  impatient,  and  yet  slew. 
Sudden  t;'.ere  broke  upon  his  grief  a  noise 
Of  merry  tumult  and  of  vulgar  joys  : 


Seamen  returning  to  their  ship,  were  come, 
With  idle  numbers  straying  from  their  home  ,• 
Allen  among  them  mix'd,  and  in  the  old 
Strove  some  familiar  features  to  behold  ; 
While  fancy  aided  memory  : — "  Man !  what  cheer?' 
A  sailor  cried  ;  "  art  thou  at  anchor  here  ?" 
Faintly  he  answer'd,  and  then  tried  to  trace 
Some  youthful  features  in  some  aged  face  : 
A  swarthy  matron  he  beheld,  and  thought 
She  might  unfold  the  very  truths  he  sought 
Confused  and  trembling,  he  the  dame  address'd  : 
"The  Booths!  yet  live    they?"  pausing   and  oi>- 

press'd ; 
Then  spake  again  ; — "  Is  there  no  ancient  man, 
David  his  name  ? — assist  me  if  you  can. — 
Flemraings    there    were — and    Judith,    doth    sh« 

live?" 
The  woman  gazed,  nor  could  an  answer  give  ; 
Yet  wondering  stood,  and  all  were  silent  by, 
Feeling  a  strange  and  solemn  sym^xythy. 
The  woman  musing  said, — "  She  knew  full  well 
Where  the  old  people  came  at  last  to  dwell ; 
They  had  a  married  daughter  and  a  son. 
But  they  were  dead,  and  now  remain'd  not  one." 

"  Yes,"  said  an  elder,  who  had  paused  intent 
On  days  long  pass'd,  "  there  was  a  sad  event ; — 
One  of  these  Booths — it  was  my  mother's  tale- 
Here  left  his  lass,.  I  know  not  where  to  sail : 
She  saw  their  parting,  and  observed  the  pain 
But  never  came  th'  unhappy  man  again." 
"  The  ship  was  captured,"  Allen  meekly  said, 
"  And  what  became  of  the  forsaken  maid  ?" 
The  woman  answer'd  :  "  I  remember  now, 
She  used  to  tell  the  lasses  of  her  vow. 
And  of  her  lover's  loss,  and  I  have  seen 
The  gayest  hearts  grow  sad  where  she  has  been , 
Yet  in  her  grief  she  married,  and  was  made 
Slave  to  a  wretch,  whom  meekly  she  obey'd. 
And  early  buried  :  but  I  know  no  more. 
And  hark!  our  friends  are  hastening  to  the  shore' 

Allen  soon  found  a  lodging  in  the  town. 
And  walk'd,  a  man  unnoticed,  up  and  down. 
This  house,  and  this,  he  knew,  and  thought  a  face 
He  sometimes  could  among  a  number  trace  : 
Of  names  remember'd  there  remain'd  a  few, 
But  of  no  favourites,  and  the  rest  were  new  ; 
A  merchant's  wealth,  when  Allen  went  to  sea. 
Was  reckon'd  boundless. — Could  he  living  be  ? 
Or,  lived  his  son  ?  for  one  he  had,  the  heir 
To  a  vast  business  and  a  fortune  fair. 
No  !  but  that  heir's  poor  widow,  from  her  shed, 
With  crutches  went  to  take  her  dole  of  bread. 
There  was  a  friend  whom  he  had  left  a  boy 
With  hope  to  sail  the  master  of  a  hoy , 
Him,  after  many  a  stormy  day,  he  found 
With  his  great  wish,   his    life's   whoie   purpose 

crown'd. 
This  hoy's  proud  captain  look'd  in  Allen's  face  — 
"  Yours  is,  my  friend,"  said  he,  "  a  woful  case  ; 
We  cannot  all  succeed  ;  I  now  command 
The  Betsy  sloop,  and  am  not  much  at  land  ; 
But  when  we  meet  you  shall  your  story  tell 
Of  foreign  parts — I  bid  you  now  farewell !" 

Allen  so  long  had  left  his  native  shore. 
He  saw  but  few  whom  he  had  seen  before  ; 
Tiie  older  people,  as  they  met  him,  cast 
A  pitying  look,  oft  speaking  as  they  pass'd-- 


TALES 


bS 


•*  The  man  is  Allen  Booth,  and  it  appears 
He  dwelt  among  us  in  his  early  years  ; 
We  see  the  name  engraved  upon  the  stones, 
Where  this  poor  wanderer  means  to  lay  his  bones." 
Thus  where  he  lived  and  loved — unhappy  change  ! 
He  seems  a  stranger,  and  finds  all  are  strange. 

But  now  a  widow,  in  a  village  near, 
Chanced  of  the  melancholy  man  to  hear  ; 
Old  as  she  was,  to  Judith's  bosom  came 
Some  strong  emotions  at  the  well-known  name  ; 
He  was  her  much-loved  Allen,  she  had  stay'd 
Ten  troubled  years,  a  sad  afflicted  maid  ; 
Then  was  she  wedded,  of  his  death  assured. 
And  much  of  misery  in  her  lot  endured  ; 
Her  husband  died  ;  her  children  sought  their  bread 
In  various  places,  and  to  her  were  dead. 
The  once  fond  lovers  met ;  not  gl-ief  nor  age, 
Sickness  or  pain,  their  hearts  could  disengage  : 
Each  had  immediate  confidence ;  a  friend 
Both  now  beheld,  on  whom  they  might  depend  : 
"  Now  is  there  one  to  whom  I  can  express 
My  nature's  weakness  and  my  soul's  distress." 
Allen  look'd  up,  and  with  impatient  heart — 
"  Let  me  not  lose  thee — never  let  us  part: 
So  Heaven  this  comfort  to  my  sufferings  give, 
It  is  not  aU  distress  to  think  and  live." 
Thus  Allen  spoke — for  time  had  not  removed 
The  charms  attach'd  to  one  so  fondly  loved  ; 
Who  with  more  health,  the  mistress  of  their  cot, 
Labours  to  soothe  the  evils  of  his  lot. 
To  her,  to  her  alone,  his  various  fate, 
At  various  times,  'tis  comfort  to  relate  : 
And  yet  his  sorrow — she  too  loves  to  hear 
What  wrings  her  bosom,  and  compels  the  tear. 

First  he  related  how  he  left  the  shore, 
Alarm'd  with  fears  that  they  should  meet  no  more  : 
Then,  ere  the  ship  had  reach'd  her  purposed  course, 
They  met  and  yielded  to  the  Spanish  force ; 
Then  'cross  th'  Atlantic  seas  they  bore  their  prey, 
Who  grieving  landed  from  their  sultrj'  bay  ; 
And  marching  many  a  burning  league,  he  found 
Himself  a  slave  upon  a  miner's  ground  : 
There  a  good  priest  his  native  language  spoke, 
And  gave  some  ease  to  his  tormenting  yoke  ; 
Kindly  advanced  him  in  his  master's  grace, 
And  he  was  station'd  in  an  easier  place  : 
There,  hopeless  ever  to  escape  the  land, 
He  to  a  Spanish  maiden  gave  his  hand  ; 
In  cottage  shelter'd  from  the  blaze  of  day 
He  saw  his  happy  infants  round  him  play  ; 
Where  summer  shadows,  made  by  lofty  trees, 
Waved  o'er  his  seat,  and  soothed  his  reveries  ; 
E'en  then  he  thought  of  England,  nor  could  sigh, 
But  his  fond  Isabel  demanded,  "  Why  ?" 
Grieved  by  the  story,  she  the  sigh  repaid, 
And  wept  in  pity  for  the  English  maid  : 
Thus  twenty  years  were  pass'd,  and  pass'd  his  views 
Of  further  bliss,  for  he  had  wealth  to  lose  : 
His  friend  now  dead,  some  foe  had  dared  to  paint 
"His  faith  as  tainted  :  he  his  spouse  would  taint; 
Make  all  his  children  infidels,  and  found 
An  English  heresy  on  Christian  ground." 

"  Whilst  I  was  poor,"  said  Allen,  "  none  would 
care 
What  my  poor  notions  of  religion  were  , 
None  ask'd  me  whom  I  worshipp'd,  how  I  pray'd,   | 
Ff  due  obedience  to  the  laws  were  paid 


My  good  adviser  taught  me  to  be  still, 

Nor  to  make  converts  had  I  power  or  will. 

I  preach'd  no  foreign  doctrine  to  my  wife. 

And  never  mention'd  Luther  in  my  life  ; 

I,  all  they  said,  say  what  they  W'ould,  allow'd 

And  when  the  fathers  bade  me  bow,  I  bow'd 

Their  forms  I  follow'd,  whether  well  or  sick, 

And  was  a  most  obedient  Catholic. 

But  I  had  money,  and  these  pastors  found 

My  notions  vague,  heretical,  unsound  : 

A  wicked  book  they  seized ;  the  very  Turk 

Could  not  have  read  a  more  pernicious  work . 

To  me  pernicious,  who  if  it  were  goud 

Or  evil  question'd  not,  nor  understood  : 

O !  had  I  little  but  the  book  possess'd, 

I  might  have  read  it,  and  enjoy'd  my  rest." 

Alas  !  poor  Allen,  through  his  wealth  was  see** 
Crimes  that  by  poverty  conceal 'd  had  been  : 
Faults  that  in  dusty  pictures  rest  unknown 
Are  in  an  instant  through  the  varnish  shown. 

He  told  their  cruel  mercy  ;  how  at  last. 
In  Christian  kindness  for  the  merits  past. 
They  spared  his  forfeit  life,  but  bade  him  fly 
Or  for  his  crime  and  contumacy  die; 
Fly  from  all  scenes,  all  objects  of  delight : 
His  wife,  his  children,  weeping  in  his  sight, 
All  urging  him  to  flee,   he  fled,  and  cursed  his 
flight. 
He  next  related  how  he  found  a  way, 
Guideless  and  grieving,  to  Campeachy  Bay  : 
There  in  the  woods  he  wrought,  and  there,  among 
Some  labouring  seamen,  heard  his  native  tongue: 
The  sound,  one  moment,  broke  upon  his  pain 
With  joyful  force  ;  he  long'd  to  hear  again  :        ^ 
Again  he  heard  ;  he  seized  an  offer  'd  hand, 
"  And  when  beheld  you  last  our  native  land  ?" 
He  cried,  "and  in  what  country  ?  quickly  say" — 
The  seamen  answer'd — strangers  all  were  they ; 
One  only  at  his  native  port  had  been ; 
He,  landing  once,  the  quay  and  church  had  seea. 
For  that  esteem'd  ;  but  nothing  more  he  knew. 
Still  more  to  know,  would  Allen  join  the  crew. 
Sail  w'here  they  sail'd,  and  many  a  peril  past, 
They  at  his  kinsman's  isle  their  anchor  cast ; 
But  him  they  found  not,  nor  could  one  relate 
Aught  of  his  will,  his  wish,  or  his  estate 
This  grieved  not  Allen;  then  again  he  sail'd 
For  England's  coast,  again  his  fate  prevail'd  : 
War  raged,  and  he,  an  active  man  and  strong, 
W^as  soon  impress'd,  and  served  his  country  long. 
By  various  shores  he  pass  d,  on  various  seas. 
Never  so  happy  as  when  void  of  ease. — 
And  then  he  told  how  in  a  calm  distress'd, 
Day  after  day,  his  soul  was  sick  of  rest ; 
When,  as  a  log  upon  the  deep  they  stood, 
Then  roved  his  spirit  to  the  inland  wood ; 
Till,  while  awake,  he  dream'd,  that  on  the  seas 
Were   his  loved  home,  the  hill,  the  «>treara,  th 

trees : 
He  gazed,  he  pointed  to  the  scenes  : — "  There  stand 
My  wife,  my  children,  'tis  my  lovely  land  ; 
See  !  there  my  dwelling — O  I  delicious  scene 
Of  my  best  life — unhand  me — are  ye  men  ?" 

And  thus  the  frenzy  ruled  him,  till  the  wind 
Brush'd  the  fond  pictures  from  the  stagnant  mind. 

He  told  of  bloody  fights,  and  how  at  length 
The  rage  of  battle  gave  his  spirit  strength  ; 


84 


CRABBE. 


'Twas  in  the  Indian  seas  his  limh  he  lost, 
And  he  was  left  half  dead  upon  the  coast ; 
But  living  gain'd,  'mid  rich  aspiring  men, 
A  fair  subsistence  by  his  ready  pen. 

Thus,"  he  continued,  "  pass'd  unvaried  years, 
Without  events  producing  hopes  or  fears. 
Augmented  pay  procured  him  decent  wealth, 
But  years  advancing  undermined  his  health  ; 
Then  oft-times  in  delightful  dreams  he  flew 
To  England's  shore,  and  scenes  his  childhood  knew 
He  saw  his  parents,  savk^  his  favourite  maid. 
No  feature  wrinkled,  not  a  charm  decay'd  ; 
And  thus  excited  in  his  bosom  rose 
A  wish  so  strong,  it  baffled  his  repose  ; 
Anxious  he  felt  on  English  earth  to  lie , 
To  view  his  native  soil,  and  there  to  die. 

He  then    described  the  gloom,   the   dread   he 
found, 
When  first  he  landed  on  the  chosen  ground. 
Where  undefined  was  all  he  hoped  and  fear'd, 
And  how  confused  and  troubled  all  appear'd ; 
His  thoughts  in  past  and  present  scenes  employ'd, 
All  views  in  future  blighted  and  destroy'd  ; 
His  were  a  medley  of  bewildering  themes, 
Sad  as  realities,  and  wild  as  dreams. 

Here  his  relation  closes,  but  his  mind 
Flies  back  again  some  resting  place  to  find  ; 
Thus  silent,  musing  through  the  day,  he  sees 
His  children  sporting  by  those  lofty  trees. 
Their  mother  singing  in  the  shady  scene, 
Where   the   fresh  springs   burst  o'er  the    lively 

green ;— 
So  strong  his  eager  fancy,  he  aflfrights 
The  faithful  widow  by  its  powerful  flights ; 
For  what  disturbs  him  he  aloud  will  tell,    * 
And  cry — "  'Tis  she,  my  wife .'  my  Isabel ! 
Where  are  ray  children  ?" — Judith  grieves  to  hear 
How  the  soul  works  in  sorrows  so  severe  ; 
Assiduous  all  his  wishes  to  attend. 
Deprived  of  much,  he  yet  may  boast  a  friend  ; 
Watch'd  by  her  care,  in  sleep,  his  spirit  takes 
Its  flight,  and  watchful  finds  her  when  he  wakes. 

'Tis  now  her  oflice  ;  her  attention  see ! 
While  her  friend  sleeps  beneath  that  shading  tree, 
Careful  she  guards  him  from  the  glowing  heat, 
And  pensive  muses  at  her  Allen's  feet. 
And    where    is   he  ?    Ah !    doubtless   in    those 
scenes 
Of  his  best  days,  amid  the  vivid  greens. 
Fresh  with  unnumber'd  rills,  where  every  gale 
Breathes  the  rich  fragrance  of  the  neigh b'ring  vale  ; 
Smiles  not  his  wife,  and  listen's  as  there  comes 
The  night-bird's  music  from  the  thickening  glooms  ? 
And  as  he  sits  with  all  these  treasures  nigh. 
Blaze  not  with  fairy  light  the  phosphor-fly. 
When  like  a  sparkling  gem  it  wheels  illumined  by  ? 
This  is  the  joy  that  now  so  plainly  speaks 
In  the  warm  transient  flushing  of  his  cheeks  ; 
For  he  is  listening  to  the  fancied  noise 
Of  his  own  children,  eager  in  their  joys  : 
All  this  he  feels,  a  dream's  delusive  bliss 
Gives  the  expression,  and  the  glow  like  this. 
And  now  his  Judith  lays  her  knitting  by. 
These  strong  emotions  in  her  friend  to  spy  ;. 

For  she  can  fully  of  their  nature  deem 

But  seel  he  breaks  the  long-protracted  theme, 
And   wakes   and  cries — "  My  God  !    twas   but  a 
dream." 


TALE    III. 

THE   GENTLEMAN   FARMER 

....  Pause  then, 
And  weigh  thy  value  with  an  even  hand; 
If  thou  beest  rated  by  thy  estimation, 
Thou  dost  deserve  enough. 

Merchant  of  Venice,  act  ii.  sc.  7 

Because  I  will  not  do  them  wrong  to  mistrust  any,  1 
will  do  myself  the  right  to  trust  none;  and  the  fine  is. 
(for  which  1  may  go  the  finer,)  I  will  live  a  bachelor. 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing;  act  i.  sc.  A 

Throw  physic  to  the  dogs,  I'll  none  of  it. 

Macbeth,  act  v.  sc.  3 

His  promises  are,  as  he  then  was,  mighty. 
And  his  performance,  as  he  now  is,  nothing. 

Henry  VIII.  act  iv,  sc.  2. 

GwYN  was  a  farmer,  whom  the  farmers  all, 
Who  dwelt  around,  the  Gentleman  would  call; 
Whether  in  pure  humility  or  pride, 
They  only  knew,  and  they  would  not  decide. 

Far  diflferent  he  from  that  dull  plodding  tribe,' 
Whom  it  was  his  amusement  to  describe  ; 
Creatures  no  more  enliven'd  than  a  clod. 
But  treading  still  as  their  dull  fathers  trod  ; 
Who  lived  in  times  when  not  a  man  had  seen 
Corn  sown  by  drill,  or  thresh'd  by  a  machine : 
He  was  of  those  whose  skill  assigns  the  prize 
For  creatures  fed  in  pens,  and  stalls,  and  sties ; 
And  who,  in  places  where  improvers  meet, 
To  fill  the  land  with  fatness,  had  a  seat ; 
Who  in  large  mansions  live  like  petty  kings, 
And  speak  of  farms  but  as  amusing  things  ; 
Who  plans  encourage,  and  who  journals  keep, 
And  talk  with  lords  about  a  breed  of  sheep. 

Two  are  the  species  in  this  genus  known ; 
One,  who  is  rich  in  his  profession  grown, 
Who  yearly  finds  his  ample  stores  increase, 
From  fortune's  favours  and  a  favouring  lease; 
Who  rides  his  hunter,  who  his  house  adorns; 
Who  drinks  his  wine,  and  his  disbursements  scorns; 
Who  freely  lives,  and  loves  to  show  he  can — 
This  is  the  farmer  made  the  gentleman. 

The  second  species  from  the  world  is  sent, 
Tired  with  its  strife,  or  with  his  wealth  content; 
In  books  and  men  beyond  the  former  read, 
To  farming  solely  by  a  passion  led , 
Or  by  a  fashion  :  curious  in  his  land  ; 
Now  planning  much,  now  changing  what  ho 

plann'd  ; 
Pleased  by  each  trial,  not  by  failures  vex'd. 
And  ever  certain  to  succeed  the  next; 
Quick  to  resolve,  and  easy  to  persuade— 
This  is  the  gentleman,  a  farmer  made. 

Gwyn  was  of  these  ;  he  from  the  world  withdrew 
Early  in  life,  his  reasons  known  to  few ; 
Some  disappointment  said,  some  pure  good  sense, 
The  love  of  lapd,  the  press  of  indolence  ; 
His  fortune  known,  and  coming  to  retire. 
If  not  a  farmer,  men  had  call'd  him  'squire  *!' 

Forty  and  five  his  years,  no  child  or  wile 
Cross'd  the  still  tenor  of  his  chosen  life  ; 
Much  land  he  purchased,  planted  far  around, 
And  let  some  portions  of  superfluous  ground 
To  farmers  near  him,  not  displeased  to  say, 
"  My  tenants,"  nor  "  our  worthy  landlord,"  they. 


TALES. 


Fix'd  in  his  farm,  he  soon  display'd  his  skill 
In  small-boned  lambs,  the  horse-shoe,  and  the  drill ; 
From  these  he  rose  to  themes  of  nobler  kind, 
And  show'd  the  riches  of  a  fertile  mind  ; 
To  all  around  their  visits  he  repaid. 
Arid  thus  his  mansion  and  himself  display'd. 
His  rooms  were  stately,  rather  fine  than  neat, 
And  guests  politely  call'd  his  house  a  seat; 
At  much  expense  was  each  apartment  graced, 
His  taste  was  gorgeous,  but  it  still  was  taste : 
In  full  festoons  the  crimson  curtains  fell. 
The  sofas  rose  in  bold  elastic  swell  ; 
Mirrors  in  gilded  frames  display'd  the  tints 
Of  glowing  carpets  and  of  colour'd  prints  ; 
The  weary  eye  saw  every  object  shine. 
And  all  was  costly,  fanciful,  and  fine. 

As  with  his  friends  he  pass'd  the  social  hours, 
His  generous  spirit  scorn'd  to  hide  its  powers ; 
Powers  unexpected,  for  his  eye  and  air 
Gave  no  sure  signs  that  eloquence  vi'as  there  ; 
Oft  he  began  with  sudden  fire  and  force. 
As  loath  to  lose  occasion  for  discourse  ; 
Some,  'tis  observed,  who  feel  a  wish  to  speak, 
Will  a  due  place  for  introduction  seek  ; 
On  to  their  purpose  step  by  step  they  steal. 
And  all  their  way,  by  certain  signals,  feel  ; 
Others  plunge  in  at  once,  and  never  heed 
Whose  turn  they  take,   whose  purpose  they  im- 
pede ; 
Resolved  to  shine,  they  hasten  to  begin. 
Of  ending  thoughtless — and  of  these  was  Gwyn. 
And  thus  ho  spake — 

"  It  grieves  me  to  the  soul 
To  see  how  man  submits  to  man's  control  ; 
How  overpower'd  and  shackled  minds  are  led 
n  vulgar  tracks,  and  to  submission  bred  ; 
The  coward  never  on  himself  relies, 
But  to  an  equal  for  assistance  flies ; 
Man  yields  to  custom  as  he  bows  to  fate. 
In  all  things  ruled — mind,  body,  and  estate  ; 
In  pain,  in  sickness,  we  for  cure  apply 
To  them  we  know  not,  am    ab  know  not  why ; 
But  that  the  creature  has  s'iine  jargon  read. 
And  got  some  Scotchman's  system  in  his  head  ; 
Some  grave  impostor,  who  will  health  ensure. 
Long  as  your  patience  or  your  wealth  endure  ; 
But  mark  them  well,  the  pale  and  sickly  crew, 
They  have  not  health,  and  can  they  give  it  you  ? 
These  solemn  cheats  their  various  methods  choose  ; 
A  system  fires  them,  as  a  bard  his  muse : 
Hence  wordy  wars  arise  ;  the  learn'd  divide, 
And  groaning  patients  curse  each  erring  guide. 

"  Next,  our  affairs  are  govern'd,  buy  or  sell. 
Upon  the  deed  the  law  must  fix  its  spell  ; 
Whether  we  hire  or  let,  we  must  have  still 
The  dubious  aid  of  an  attorney's  skill  ; 
They  take  a  part  in  every  man's  affairs. 
And  in  all  business  some  concern  is  theirs  ; 
Because  mankind  in  ways  prescribed  are  found 
Like  flocks  that  follow  on  a  beaten  ground. 
Each  abject  nature  in  the  way  proceeds, 
That  now  to  sheering,  now  to  slaughter  leads. 

"Should  you  offend,  though  meaning  no  offence. 
You  have  no  safety  in  your  innocence ; 
The  statute  broken  then  is  placed  in  view, 
A.nd  men  must  pay  for  crimes  they  never  knew : 
Who  would  by  law  regain  his  plunder'd  store, 
\Vo»jld  pick  up  fallen  mercury  from  the  floor  ; 


If  he  pursues  it,  here  and  there  it  slides ; 
He  would  collect  it,  but  it  more  divides  ; 
This  part  and  this  he  stops,  but  still  in  vain, 
It  slips  aside,  and  breaks  in  parts  again  , 
Till,  after  time  and  pains,  and  care  and  cost. 
He  finds  his  labour  and  his  object  lost. 

"  But  most  it  grieves  me,(friends  alone  are  round, 
To  see  a  man  in  priestly  fetters  bound : 
Guides  to  the  soul,  these  friends  of  Heaven  contrive 
Long  as  man  lives,  to  keep  his  fears  alive  ; 
Soon  as  an  infant  breathes,  their  rites  begin  ; 
Who  knows  not  sinning,  must  be  freed  from  sin  . 
Who  needs  no  bond,  must  yet  engage  in  vows  ; 
Who  has  no  judgment,  must  a  creed  espouse: 
Advanced  in  life,  our  boys  are  bound  by  rules 
Are  catechised  in  churches,  cloisters,  schools. 
And  train'd  in  thraldom  to  be  fit  for  tools  : 
The  youth  grown  up,  he  now  a  pari;  cr  needs. 
And  lo !  a  priest,  as  soon  as  he  succeeds. 
What  man  of  sense  can  marriage  rites  approve  f 
What  man  of  spirit  can  be  bound  to  love  ? 
Forced  to  be  kind  !  compell'd  to  be  sincere  I 
Do  chains  and  fetters  make  companions  dear? 
Prisoners  indeed  we  bind  ;  but  though  the  bond 
May  keep  them  safe,  it  does  not  make  them  fond 
The  ring,  the  vow,  the  witness,  license,  prayers, 
All  parties  know  !  made  public  all  affairs  ! 
Such  forms  men  suffer,  and  from  these  they  date 
A  deed  of  love  begun  with  all  they  hate  : 
Absurd  !  that  none  the  beaten  road  should  shun. 
But  love  to  do  what  other  dupes  have  done. 

"Well,  now  your  priest  has   made  you  one  cf 
twain. 
Look  you  for  rest  ?  Alas  !  you  look  in  vain. 
If  sick,  he  comes  ;  you  cannot  die  in  peace. 
Till  he  attends  to  witness  your  release  ; 
To  vex  your  soul,  and  urge  you  to  confess 
The  sins  you  feel,  remember,  or  can  guess  : 
Nay,  when  departed,  to  your  grave  he  goes 
But  there  indeed  he  hurts  not  your  repose. 

"  Such  are  our  burdens  ;  part  we  must  sustain. 
But  need  not  link  new  grievance  to  the  chain 
Yet  men  like  idiots  will  their  frames  surround 
With  these  vile  shackles,  nor  confess  they're  bound: 
In  all  that  most  confines  them  they  confide. 
Their  slavery  boast,  and  make  their  bonds  their 

pride ; 
E'en  as  the  pressure  galls  them,  they  declare, 
(Good  souls !)  how  happy  and  how  free  they  are ! 
As  madmen,  poniting  round  their  wretched  cells, 
Cry,  '  lo  !  the  palace  where  our  honour  dwells.' 

"  Such  is  our  state  :  but  I  resolve  to  live 
By  rules  my  reason  and  my  feelings  give  ; 
No  legal  guards  shall  keep  enthrall'd  my  mind. 
No  slaves  command  me,  and  no  teachers  blind. 

"Tempted  by  sins,  let  me  their  strength  defy 
But  have  no  second  in  a  surplice  by ; 
No  bottle-holder,. with  officious  aid. 
To  comfort  conscience,  weaken'd  and  afraid  ;  " 
Then  if  I  yield,  my  frailty  is  not  known  ; 
And,  if  I  stand,  the  glory  is  my  own. 

"  When  Truth  and  Reason  are  our  friends,  WB 
seem 
Alive  I  awake  ! — the  superstitious  dream. 

"  O  !  then,  fair  Truth,  for  thee  alone  I  seek. 
Friend  to  the  wise,  supporter  of  the  weak  : 
From  thee  we  learn  whate'er  is  right  and  just; 
Forms  to  despise,  professions  to  distrust ; 


86 


CRABBE. 


Creeds  to  reject,  pretensions  to  deride, 
And,  following  thee,  to  follow  none  beside." 

Such  w'as  the  speech  ;  it  struck  upon  the  ear    • 
Like  sudden  thunder,  none  expect  to  hear. 
He  saw  men's  wonder  w-ith  a  manly  pride, 
And  gravely  smiled  at  guest  electrified  : 
"  A  farmer  this  !"  they  said  ;  "  O  !  let  him  seek 
That  place  where  he  may  fof  his  country  speak  ; 
On  some  great  question  to  harangue  for  hours, 
While  speakers  hearing,  envy  nobler  powers  !" 

Wisdom  like  this,  as  all  things  rich  and  rare, 
Must  be  acquired  with  pains,  and  kept  with  care  ; 
In  books  he  sought  it,  which  his  friends  might  view, 
When  their  kind  host  the  guarding  curtain  drew. 
There  were  historic  works  for  graver  hours, 
And  lighter  verse,  to  spur  the  languid  powers; 
There  metaphysics,  logic  there  had  place ; 
But  of  devotion  not  a  single  trace — 
Save  what  is  taught  in  Gibbon's  florid  page. 
And  other  guides  of  this  inquiring  age ; 
There  Hume  appear'd,  and  near,  a  splendid  book 
Composed  by  Gay's  good  lord  of  Bolingbroke  : 
With  these  were  mix'd  the  light,  the  free,  the  vain. 
And  from  a  corner  peep'd  the  sage  Tom  Paine  : 
Elere  four  neat  volumes  Chesterfield  were  named. 
For  xiianners  much  and  easy  morals  famed  ; 
With  chaste  Memoirs  of  Females,  to  be  read 
When  deeper  studies  had  confused  the  head. 

Such  his  resources,  treasures  where  he  sought 
For  daily  knowledge  till  his  mind  was  fraught: 
Then  when  his  friends  were  present,  for  their  use 
He  would  the  riches  he  had  stored  produce ; 
He  found  his  lamp  burn  clearer,  when  each  day 
He  drew  for  all  he  purposed  to  display : 
For  these  occasions,  lorlh  his  knowledge  sprung, 
As  mustard  quickens  on  a  bed  of  dung  ; 
All  was  prepared,  and  guests  allow'd  the  praise, 
For  what  they  saw  he  could  so  quickly  raise. 

Such  this  new  friend  ;  and  when  the  year  came 
round. 
The  same  impressive,  reasoning  sage  was  found  ; 
Then,  too,  was  .seen  the  pleasant  mansion  graced 
With  a  fair  damsel — his  no  vulgar  taste  ; 
The  neat  Rebecca — sly,  observant,  still. 
Watching  his  eye,  and  waiting  on  his  will  ; 
Simple  yet  smart  her  dress,  her  manners  meek, 
Her  smiles  spoke  for  her,  she  would  seldom  speak; 
But  watch'd  each  look,  each  meaning  to  detect, 
And  (pleased  with  notice)  felt  for  all  neglect. 

With  her  lived  Gwyn  a  sweet  harmonious  life, 
Who,  forms  excepted,  was  a  charming  wife  : 
The  wives  indeed,  so  made  by  vulgar  law, 
Affected  scorn,  and  censured  what  they  saw ; 
And  what  they  saw  not,  fancied  ;  said  'twas  sin, 
And  took  no  notice  of  the  wife  of  Gwyn  : 
But  he  despised  their  rudeness,  and  would  prove 
Theirs  was  compulsion  and  distrust,  not  love  ; 
"Fools  as  they  were!   could  they  conceive  that 

rings 
And  parsons'  blessings  were  substantial  things  ?" 
They  answered  "Yes;"  while   he  contemptuous 

spoke 
OP  the  low  notions  held  by  simple  folk  ; 
V'et,  strange  that  anger  in  a  man  so  wise 
Should  from  the  notions  of  these  fools  arise  , 
Can  they  so  vex  us,  whom  we  so  despise  ? 

Brave  as  he  was,  our  hero  felt  a  dread 
Lee'  those  who  saw  him  kind  should  think  him  led  ; 


If  to  his  bosom  fear  a  visit  paid. 
It  was,  lest  he  should  be  supposed  afraid  ; 
Hence  sprang  his  orders  ;  not  that  he  desired 
The  things  when  done  ;  obedience  he  required  ; 
And  thus,  to  prove  his  absolute  command. 
Ruled  every  heart,  and  moved  each  subject  hand 
Assent  he  ask'd  for  every  word  and  whim. 
To  prove  that  he  alone  was  king  of  him. 

The  still  Rebecca,  who  her  station  knew, 
With  ease  resign'd  the  honours  not  her  due  ; 
Well  pleased,  she  saw  that  men  her  board  would 

grace. 
And  w^ish'd  not  there  to  see  a  female  face ; 
When  by  her  lover  she  his  spouse  was  styled, 
Polite  she  thought  it,  and  demurely  smiled ; 
But  when  he  wanted  wives  and  maidens  round 
So  to  regard  her,  she  grew  grave  and  frown'd  : 
And  sometimes  whisper'd, "  Why  should  you  respec 
These  people's  notions,  yet  their  forms  reject  ?" 

Gwyn,  though  from  marriage  bond  and  fet<»  r  free 
Still  felt  abridgement  in  his  liberty  ; 
Something  of  hesitation  he  betray'd. 
And  in  her  presence  thought  of  what  he  said. 
Thus  fair  Rebecca,  though  she  walk'd  astray. 
His  creed  rejecting,  judged  it  right  to  pray  , 
To  be  at  church,  to  sit  with  serious  looks. 
To  read  her  Bible  and  her  Sunday  books  . 
She  hated  all  those  new  and  daring  themes. 
And  call'd  his  free  conjectures,  "devil's  dreams:'* 
She  honour'd  still  the  priesthood  in  her  fall, 
And  claim'd  respect  and  reverence  for  them  all ; 
Call'd  them  "of  sin's  destructive  power  the  foes, 
And  not  such  blockheads  as  he  might  suppose." 
Gwyn  to  his  friends  would  smile,  and  sometimes  sajf 
"  'Tis  a  kind  fool,  why  vex  her  in  her  way  ?" 
Her  way  she  took,  and  sti'l  had  more  in  view, 
For  she  contrived  that  he  should  take  it  too. 
The  daring  freedom  of  his  soul,  'twas  plain, 
In  part  was  lost  in  a  divided  reign  ; 
A  king  and  queen,  who  yet  in  prudence  swayed 
Their  peaceful  state,  and  were  in  turn  obey'd. 

Yet  such  our  fate,  that  when  we  plan  the  best, 
Something  arises  to  disturb  our  rest : 
For  though  in  spirits  high,  in  body  strong, 
Gwyn   something  felt — he  knew  not   what — 

wrong ; 
He  wish'd  to  know,  for  he  believed  the  thing. 
If  unremoved,  would  other  evil  bring  : 
"  She  must  perceive,  of  late  he  could  not  eat. 
And  when  he  walked,  he  trembled  on  his  feet 
He  had  forebodings,  and  he  seem'd  as  one 
Stopp'd  on  the  road,  or  threaten'd  by  a  dun  ; 
He  could  not  live,  and  yet, should  he  apply 
To  those  physicians — he  must  sooner  die." 

The  mild  Rebecca  heard  with  some  disdain, 
And  some  distress,  her  friend  and  lord  complain 
His  death  she  fear'd  not,  but  had  painful  doubt 
What  his  distemper'd  nerves  might  bring  about," 
With  power  like  hers  she  dreaded  an  ally. 
And  yet  there  was  a  person  in  her  eye  ; — 
She  thought,  debated,  fix'd  ;  "  Alas  !"  she  said, 
"A  case  like  yours  must  be  no  more  delay'd  : 
You  hate  these  doctors,  well !  but  were  a  friend 
And  doctor  one,  your  fears  would  have  an  end  • 
My  cousin  Mollet — Scotland  holds  him  now-- 
Is  above  all  men  skilful,  all  allow  ; 
Of  late  a  doctor,  and  within  a  while 
He  means  to  settle  in  this  favour'd  islo  ; 


TALES. 


87 


Should  he  attend  you,  with  his  skill  profound. 
Yon  must  be  safe,  and  shortly  would  be  sound.' 

When  men  in  health  against  physicians  rail. 
They  should  consider  that  their  nerves  may  fail : 
Who  calls  a  lawyer  rogue,  may  find,  too  late, 
On  one  of  these  depends  his  whole  estate  : 
Nay,  when  the  world  can  nothing  more  produce, 
The  priest,  th'  insulted  priest,  may  have  his  use  ; 
Ease,  health,  and  comfort  lift  a  man  so  high. 
These  powers  are  dwarfs  that  he  can  scarcely  spy  ; 
Pain,  sickness,  languor  keep  a  man  so  low,  • 
That  these  neglected  dwarfs  to  giants  grow. 
Happy  is  he  who  through  the  medium  sees 
Of  clear  good  sense — but  Gwyn  was  n\A  of  these. 

He  heard,  and  he  rejoiced  :  "Ah  !  let  him  come. 
And  till  he  fixes,  make  my  house  his  home." 
Home  came  the  doctor — he  was  much  admired  ; 
He  told  the  patient  what  his  case  required  ; 
His  Vours  for  sleep,  his  time  to  eat  and  drink  ; 
When  he  should  ride,  read,  rest,  compose,  or  think. 
Thus  joi;/d  peculiar  skill  and  art  profound. 
To  make  the  fancy-sick  no  more  than  fancy-sound. 

With  such  attention  who  could  long  be  ill? 
Returning  health  proclaim'd  the  doctor's  skill. 
Presents  tind  praises  from  a  grateful  heart 
Were  freely  oiTered  on  the  patient's  part ; 
In  high  repute  the  doctor  seem'd  to  stand, 
But  still  had  got  no  footing  in  the  land ; 
And,  ss  he  saw  the  seat  was  rich  and  fair. 
He  folt  d'sposed  to  fix  his  station  there  : 
To  gain  his  purpose  he  perform'd  the  part 
Of  a  good  actor,  and  prepared  to  start : 
Not  like  a  traveller  in  a  day  serene. 
When  the  sun  shone  and  when  the  roads  were  clean; 
Not  like  the  pilgrim,  when  the  morning  gray, 
The  ruddy  eve  succeeding,  sends  his  way; 
But  in  a  season  when  the  sharp  east  wind 
Had  ali  i'-s  imluence  on  a  nervous  mind  ; 
When  past  the  parlour's  front  it  fiercely  blew, 
And  Gwyn  sat  pitying  every  bird  that  flew. 
This  Etrange  physician  said — "  Adieu!  adieu! 
Farewell ! — Heaven  bless  you  ! — if  you  should — 

but  no. 
You  need  not  fear — farewell !  'tis  time  to  go." 

The  doctor  spoke,  and,  as  the  patient  heard, 
His  old  disorders  (dreadful  train  !)  appear'd  ; 
"  He  felt  the  tingling  tremor,  and  the  stress 
Upon  his  nerves  that  he  could  not  express  ; 
Should  his  good  friend  forsake  him,  he  perhaps 
Might  meet  his  death,  and  surely  a  relapse." 

So,  as  the  doctor  seem'd  intent  to  part. 
He  cried  in  terror,  "  O I  be  where  thou  art : 
Come,  thou  art  young,  and  unengaged  ;  O !  come, 
Make  me  thy  friend,  give  comfort  to  mine  home  • 
[  have  now  symptoms  that  require  thine  aid, 
Do,  doctor,  stay;"—  th'  obliging  doctor  stay'd. 

Thus  Gwyn  was  happy  ;  he  had  now  a  friend, 
Arid  a  meek  spouse  on  whom  he  could  depend : 
\iixc  now  possess'd  of  male  and  female  guide, 
Divide^^  power  he  thus  must  subdivide  : 
In  earlier  days  he  rode,  or  sat  at  ease 
Reclined,  and  having  but  himself  to  please  , 
Now  if  he  would  a  favourite  nag  bestride, 
He  sought  permission  :  "  Doctor,  may  I  ride  V 
^Rebecca's  eye  her  sovereign  pleasure  told,) 
"I  think  you  may,  but  guarded  from  the" cold, 
Ride  forty  minutes."— Free  and  happy  soul ! 
He  scorn'd  submission,  and  a  man's  control  ; 


But  where  such  friends  in  every  care  unite 
All  for  his  good,  obedience  is  delight. 

Now  Gwyn  a  sultan  bade  affairs  adieu, 
Led  and  assisted  by  the  faithful  two ; 
The  favourite  fair,  Rebecca,  near  him  sat. 
And  whisper'd  whom  to  love,  assist,  or  hate , 
While  the  chief  vizier  eased  his  lord  of  cares, 
And  bore  himself  the  burden  of  affairs: 
No  dangers  could  from  such  alliance  flow, 
But  from  that  law  that  changes  all  below. 

When  wintry  winds  with  leaves  bestrew'd  thfl 
ground. 
And  men  were  coughing  all  the  village  round ; 
When  public  papers  of  invasion  told. 
Diseases,  famines,  perils  new  and  old  ; 
When  philosophic  writers  fail'd  to  clear 
The  mind  of  gloom,  and  lighter  works  to  cheer: 
Then  came  fresh  terrors  on  our  hero's  mind, 
Fears  unforeseen,  and  feelings  undefined. 

"In  outward  ills,"  he  cried,  "I  rest  assured 
Of  my  friend's  aid  ;  they  will  in  time  be  cured : 
But  can  his  art  subdue,  resist,  control 
These  inward  griefs  and  troubles  of  the  soul  ? 
O  !  my  Rebecca  !  my  disordered  mind. 
No  help  in  study,  none  in  thought  can  find  ; 
What  must  I  do,  Rebecca  ?"     She  proposed 
The  parish-guide  ;  but  what  could  be  disclosed 
To  a  proud  priest  ? — "  No  !  him  have  1  defied. 
Insulted,  slighted,— shall  he  be  my  guide  ? 
But  one  there  is,  and  if  report  be  just, 
A  wise  good  man,  whom  I  may  safely  trust  : 
Who  goes  from  house  to  house,  from  ear  to  ear, 
To  make  his  truths,  his  gospel  truths,  appear ; 
True  if  indeed  they  be,  'tis  time  that  I  should  hear 
Send  for  that  man,  and  if  report  be  just, 
I,  like  Cornelius,  will  the  teacher  trust ; 
But  if  deceiver,  I  the  vile  deceit 
Shall  soon  discover,  and  discharge  the  cheat." 

To  doctor  Mollet  was  the  grief  confess'd. 
While  Gwyn  the  freedom  of  his  mind  express'd; 
Yet  own'd  it  was  to  ills  and  errors  prone. 
And  he  for  guilt  and  frailty  must  atone. 
"  My  books,  perhaps,"  the  wavering  mortal  cried, 
"  Like  men  deceive  ;  I  would  be  satisfied  ; 
And  to  my  soul  the  pious  man  may  bring 
Comfort  and  light — do  let  me  try  the  thing." 

The  cousins  met,  what  pass'd  with  Gwyn  was  told 
"  Alas  !"  the  doctor  said,  "  how  hard  to  hold 
These  easy  minds,  where  all  imjjressions  made 
At  first  sink  deeply,  and  then  quicklv  fade  ; 
For  while  so  strong  these  new-lz/T    /ancies  reign. 
We  must  divert  them,  to  Of4)Oso  ;    vain  : 
You  see  him  valiant  now,  he  sc(/rns  to  h'^eG 
The  bigot's  threatenings,  or  the  zealot's  creed  ; 
Shook  by  a  dream,  he  next  for  truth  receives 
What  frenzy  teaches,  and  what  fear  believes ; 
And  this  will  place  him  in  the  power  of  o  »e 
Whom  we  must  seek,  because  we  cannot  shun.** 

Wisp  had  been  ostler  at  a  busy  inn, 
Where  he  beheld  and  grew  in  dread  of  sin; 
Then  to  a  Baptists'  meeting  found  his  way. 
Became  a  convert,  and  was  taught  to  pray  ; 
Then  preach'd  ;  and  being  earnest  and  sincere, 
Brought  other  sinners  to  religious  fear; 
Together  grew  his  influence  and  his  fame. 
Till  our  dejected  hero  heard  his  name  : 
His  little  failings  were,  a  grun  of  pride, 
Ru'jed  by  the  numbers  >.    c  ^tjumed  to  guide 


88 


CRABBE. 


A  love  of  presents,  and  of  lofty  praise 

For  his  meek  spirit  and  his  humble  ways  ; 

But  though  this  spirit  would  on  flattery  feed, 

No  praise  could  blind  him  and  no  arts  mislead : — 

To  him  the  doctor  made  the  wishes  known 

Of  his  good  patron,  but  conceal'd  his  own  ; 

He  of  all  teachers  had  distrust  and  doubt, 

And  was  reserved  in  what  he  came  about ; 

Though  on  a  plain  and  simple  message  sent. 

He  had  a  secret  and  a  bold  intent : 

Their  minds,  at  first  were  deeply  veil'd  ;  disguise 

Form'd  the  slow  speech,  and  oped  the  eager  eyes ; 

Till  by  degrees  sufficient  light  was  thrown 

On  every  view,  and  all  the  business  shown. 

Wisp,  as  a  skilful  guide  who  led  the  blind. 

Had  powers  to  rule  and  awe  the  vapourish  mind  ; 

But  not  the  changeful  will,  the  wavering  fear  to 

bind: 
And  should  his  conscience  give  him  leave  to  dwell 
With  Gwyn,  and  every  rival  power  expel, 
(A  dubious  point,)  yet  he,  with  every  care, 
Might  soon  the  lot  of  the  rejected  share  ; 
And  other  Wisps  he  found  like  him  to  reign, 
And  then  be  thrown  upon  the  world  again . 
He  thought  it  prudent  then,  and  felt  it  just, 
The  present  guides  of  his  new  friend  to  trust ; 
True,  he  conceived,  to  touch  the  harder  heart 
Of  the  cool  doctor,  was  beyond  his  art  ; 
But  mild  Rebecca  he  could  surely  sway, 
While  Gwyn   would  follow  where  she   led  the 

way  : 
So  to  do  good,  (and  why  a  duty  shun. 
Because  rewarded  for  the  good  when  done  ?) 
He  with  his  friends  would  join  in  all  they  plann'd. 
Save  when  his  faith  or  feelings  should  withstand  ; 
There  he  must  rest,  sole  judge  of  his  affairs, 
While  they  might  rule  exclusively  in  theirs. 

When  Gwyn  his  message  to  the  teacher  sent, 
He  fear'd  his  friends  would  show  their  discontent; 
And  prudent  seem'd  it  to  th'  attendant  pair, 
Not  all  at  once  to  show  an  aspect  fair  : 
On  Wisp  they  seem'd  to  look  with  jealous  eye. 
And  fair  Rebecca  was  demure  and  shy  ; 
But  by  degrees  the  teacher's  worth  they  knew. 
And  were  so  kind,  they  seem'd  converted  too. 

Wisp  took  occasion  to  the  nymph  to  say, 
"  You  must  be  married  :  will  you  name  the  day  ?" 
She  smiled, — "  'Tis  well ;  but  should  he  not  com- 
ply. 
fs  it  quite  safe  Ih'  experiment  to  try  ?" — 

My  child,"  the  teacher  said,  "  who  feels  remorse, 
(And  feels  not  he  ?)  must  wish  relief  of  course  ; 
And  can  he  find  it,  while  he  fears  the  crime  ? — 
You  must  be  married  ;  will  you  name  the  time?" 

Glad  was  the  patron  as  a  man  could  be. 
Yet  marvcll'd  too,  to  find  his  guides  agree ; 
"  But  what  the  cause  ?"  he  cried  ;  "  'tis  genuine 
love  for  me." 

Each  found  his  part,  and  let  one  act  describe 
The  powers  and  honours  of  th'  accordant  tribe: — 
A  man  for  favour  to  the  mansion  speeds. 
And  cons  his  threefold  task  as  he  proceeds ; 
To  teacher  Wisp  he  bows  with  humble  air, 
And  begs  his  interest  for  a  barn's  repair: 
Then  for  the  doctor  he  inquires,  who  loves 
To  hear  applause  for  what  his  skill  improves, 
And  gives  for  praise,  assent, — and  to  the  fair 
He  brings  of  pullets  a  delicious  pair ; 


Thus  sees  a  peasant  with  discernment  nice, 
A  love  of  power,  conceit,  and  avarice. 
Lo!   now   the   change  complete:    the   convert 
Gwyn 
Has  sold  his  books,  and  has  renounced  his  sin ; 
Mollet  his  body  orders.  Wisp  his  soul. 
And  o'er  his  purse  the  lady  takes  control ; 
No  friends  beside  he  needs,  and  none  attend- 
Soul,  body,  and  estate,  has  each  a  friend  ; 
And  fair  Rebecca  leads  a  virtuous  life — 
She  rules  a  mistress,  and  she  reigns  a  wife. 


TALE  IV. 

PROCRASTINATION. 

Heaven  witness 
I  have  been  to  you  ever  true  and  humble. 

Henry  VIII.  act  iv.  sc.  i. 
Gentle  lady, 
When  first  I  did  imparl  my  love  to  you, 
I  freely  told  you  all  the  wealth  I  had. 

Merchant  of  Venice,  act  iii.  sc.  2, 
The  fatal  time 
Cuts  off  all  ceremonies  and  vows  of  love, 
And  ample  interchange  of  sweet  discourse, 
Which  so  long  sunder'd  friends  should  dwell  upon, 
Richard  III.  act  v.  sc.  3. 
I  know  thee  not,  old  man  ;  fall  to  thy  prayers. 

Henry  IV.  Part  2,  act  v.  sc.  5. 
Farewell 
Thou  pure  impiety,  thou  impious  purity, 
For  thee  I'll  lock  up  all  the  gates  of  love. 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  act  iv.  sc.  2, 

Love  will  expire,  the  gay,  the  happy  dream 
Will  turn  to  scorn,  indifference,  or  esteem  : 
Some  favour'd  pairs,  in  this  exchange  are  bless'd 
Nor  sigh  for  raptures  in  a  state  of  rest  ; 
Others,  ill  match'd,  with  minds  unpair'd  repent 
At  once  the  deed  and  know  no  more  content ; 
From  joy  to  anguish  they,  in  haste,  decline, 
And  with  their  fondness,  their  esteem  resign  : 
More  luckless  still  their  fate,  who  are  the  prey 
Of  long  protracted  hope  and  dull  delay  ; 
'Mid  plans  of  bliss  the  heavy  hours  pass  on, 
Till  love  is  wither'd,  and  till  joy  is  gone. 

This  gentle  flame  two  youthful  hearts  possess'd, 
T.he  sweet  disturber  of  unenvied  rest : 
The  prudent  Dinah  was  the  maid  beloved. 
And  the  kind  Rupert  was  the  swain  approved : 
A  wealthy  aunt  her  gentle  niece  sustain'd. 
He,  with  a  fiither,  at  his  desk  remain'd ; 
The  youthful  couple,  to  their  vows  sincere, 
Thus  loved  expectant ;  year  succeding  year. 
With  pleasant  views  and  hopes,  but  not  a  prospect 

near.     ■ 
Rupert  some  comfort  in  his  station  saw. 
But  the  poor  virgin  lived  in  dread  and  awe ; 
Upon  her  anxious  looks  the  widow  smiled. 
And  bade  her  wait,  ''  for  she  was  yet  a  child." 
She  for  her  neighbour  had  a  due  respect, 
Nor  would  his  son  encourage  or  reject  ; 
And  thus  the  pair,  with  expectations  vain. 
Beheld  thtf  seasons  change,  and  change  again : 
Meantime  the  nymph  her  tender  tales  perused, 
Where  cruel  aunts  impatient  girls  refused  ; 


TALES. 


69 


While  hers,  though  teasing,  boasted  to  be  kind, 
And  she,  resenting,  to  be  all  resign'd. 

The  dame  was  sick,  and  when  the  youth  applied 
For  her  consent,   she  groan'd,  and   cough'd   and 

cried  : 
Talk'd  of  departing,  and  again  her  breath 
Drew  hard,  and  cough'd,  and  talk'd  again  of  death  : 
'  Here  you  may  live,  my  Dinah  !  here  the  boy 
And  you  together  my  estate  enjoy  ;" 
Thus  to  the  lovers  was  her  mind  express'd. 
Till  they  forebore  to  urge  the  fond  request. 

Servant,  and  nurse,  and  comforter,  and  friend, 
Dinah  had  still  some  duty  to  attend  ; 
But  yet  their  walk,  when  Rupert's  evening  call 
Obtain'd  an  hour,  made  sweet  amends  for  all ; 
So  long  they  now  each  other's  thoughts  had  known. 
That  nothing  seem'd  exclusively  their  own  ; 
But  with  the  common  wish,  the  mutual  fear. 
They  now  had  travell'd  to  their  thirtieth  year. 

At  length  a  prospect  open'd  ;  but,  alas  ! 
liOng  time  must  yet,  before  the  union,  pass  ; 
Rupert  was  call'd  in  other  clime,  t'  increase 
Another's  wealth,  and  toil  for  future  peace  ; 
Loath  were  the  lovers ;  but  the  aunt  declared 
'Tvvas  fortune's  call,  and  they  must  be  prepared  ; 
"  You  now  are  young,  and  for  this  brief  delay. 
And  Dinah's  care,  what  I  bequeath  will  pay  ; 
All  will  be  yours  ;  nay,  love,  suppress  that  sigh  ; 
The  kind  must  suffer,  and  the  best  must  die  :" 
Then  came  the  cough,  and  strong  the  signs  it  gave 
Of  holding  long  contention  with  the  grave. 

The  lovers  parted  with  a  gloomy  view. 
And  little  comfort  but  that  both  w'ere  true  ; 
He  for  uncertain  duties  doom'd  to  steer. 
While  hers  remain'd  too  certain  and  severe. 

Letters  arrived,  and  Rupert  fairly  told 
"  His  cares  were  many,  and  his  hopes  were  cold ; 
The  view  more  clouded,  that  was  never  fair, 
And  love  alone  preserved  him  from  despair:" 
In  other  letters,  brighter  hopes  he  drew, 
"  His  friends  were  kind,  and  he  believed  them 
true." 
When  the  sage  widow  Dinah's  grief  descried, 
She  wonder'd  much,  why  one  so  happy  sigh'd  : 
Then  bade  her  see  how  her  poor  aunt  sustain'd 
The  ills  of  life  nor  murmur'd  nor  complain'd. 
To  vary  pleasures,  from  the  lady's  chest 
Were  drawn  the  pearly  string  and  tabby  vest; 
Beads,  jewels,  laces,  all  their  value  shown. 
With  the  kind  notice, — "  They  will  be  your  own." 
This  hope,  these  comforts,  cherish'd  day  by  day. 
To  Dinah's  bosom  made  a  gradual  way  ; 
Till  love  of  treasure  had  as  large  a  part. 
As  love  of  Rupert,  in  the  virgin's  h^art. 
Whether  it  be  that  tender  passions  fail. 
From  their  own  nature,  while  the  strong  prevail ; 
Or  whether  avarice,  like  the  poison  tree,* 
Kills  all  beside  it,  and  alone  will  be ; 
Whatever  cause  prevail'd,  tho  pleasure  grew 
In  Dinah's  soul,  she  loved  the  hoards  to  view  ; 
With  lively  joy  those  comforts  she  survey'd, 
And  love  grew  languid  in  the  careful  maid. 


•Allusion  is  here  made,  not  to  the  well  known  species 
of  sumach,  called  the  poison-oak,  or  toxicodendron,  but 
to  the  upaa,  or  poison  tree  of  Java ;  whether  it  be  real 
•r  imaeinary,  this  is  no  proper  place  for  inquiry 


Now  the  grave  niece  partook  the  widow's  carea, 
Look'd  to  the  great  and  ruled  the  small  affairs ; 
Saw  clean'd  the  plate,  arranged  the  china  show 
And  felt  her  passion  for  a  shilling  grow: 
Th'  indulgent  aunt  increased  the  maid's  delight, 
By  placing  tokens  of  her  wealth  in  sight  3 
She  loved  the  value  of  her  bonds  to  tell, 
And  spake  of  stocks,  and  how  they  rose  and  fell. 
This  passion  grew,   and  gain'd  at  length  such 
sway. 
That  other  passions  shrank  to  make  its  way , 
Romantic  notions  now  the  heart  forsook. 
She  read  but  seldom,  and  she  changed  her  book  ; 
And  for  the  verses  she  w-as  wont  to  send, 
Short  was  her  prose,  and  she  was  Rupert's  friend. 
Seldom  she  wrote,  and  then  the  widow's  cough, 
And  constant  call,  excused  her  breaking  v^ff; 
Who,  now  oppress'd,  no  longer  took  the  air. 
But  sate  and  dozed  upon  an  easy  chair. 
The  cautious  doctor  saw  the  case  was  clear. 
But  judged  it  best  to  have  companions  near; 
They  came,  they  reason'd,  they  prescribed — at  last, 
Like  honest  men,  they  said  their  hopes  were  past; 
Then  came  a  priest — 'tis  comfort  to  reflect. 
When  all  is  over,  there  was  no  neglect ; 
And  all  was  over — by  her  husband's  bones. 
The  widow  rests  beneath  the  sculptured  stones, 
That  yet  record  their  fondness  and  their  fame. 
While  all  they  left  the  virgin's  care  became  ; 
Stocks,  bonds,  and  buildings; — itdisturb'd  her  rest. 
To  think  what  load  of  troubles  she  possess'd  : 
Yet,  if  a  trouble,  she  resolved  to  take 
Th'  important  duty,  for  the  donor's  sake  ; 
She  too  was  heiress  to  the  widow's  taste. 
Her  love  of  hoarding  and  her  dread  of  waste. 

Sometimes  the  past  would  on  her  mind  intrude. 
And  then  a  conflict  full  of  care  ensued ; 
The  thoughts  of  Rupert  on  her  mind  would  press 
His  worth  she  knew,  but  doubted  his  success  ; 
Of  old  she  saw  him  heedless  ;  what  the  boy 
Forebore  to  save,  the  man  would  not  enjoy ; 
Oft  had  he  lost  the  chance  that  care  would  seize. 
Willing  to  live,  but  more  to  live  at  ease  : 
Yet  could  she  not  a  broken  vow  defend, 
And  Heaven,  perhaps,  might  yet  enrich  her  friend 
Month  after  month  was  pass'd,   and  all   were 
spent 
In  quiet  comfort  and  in  rich  content : 
Miseries  there  were,  and  woes  the  world  around, 
But  these  had  not  her  pleasant  dwelling  found  : 
She  knew  that  mothers  grieved,  and  widows  wept. 
And  she  was  sorry,  said  her  prayers,  and  slept : 
Thus  pass'd  the  seasons,  and  to  Dinah's  board 
Gave  what  the  seasons  to  the  rich  afford ; 
For  she  indulged,  nor  was  her  heart  so  small, 
That  one  strong  passion  should  engross  it  all. 

A  love  of  splendour  now  with  avarice  strove, 
And  oft  appeared  to  be  the  stronger  love  : 
A  secret  pleasure  fill'd  the  widow's  breast. 
When  she  reflected  on  the  hoards  possess'd  ; 
But  livelier  joy  inspired  th'  ambitious  maid. 
When  she  the  purchase  of  those  hoards  display'd 
In  small  but  splendid  room  she  loved  to  see 
That  all  was  placed  in  view  and  harmony; 
There,  as  with  eager  glance  she  look'd  around. 
She  much  delight  in  every  object  found ; 
While  books  devout  were  near  her — to  destroy 
Should  it  arise,  an  overflow  of  joy. 


fd 


ORABBE. 


Within  that  fair  apartment,  guests  might  see 
The  comforts  cull'd  for  wealth  by  vanity : 
Around  the  room  an  Indian  paper  blazed, 
With  lively  tint  and  figures  boldly  raised  ; 
Silky  and  soft  upon  the  floor  below, 
Th'  elastic  carpet  rose  with  crimson  glow , 
All  things  around  implied  both  cost  and  care, 
What  met  the  eye  was  elegant  or  rare  : 
Some  curious  trifles  round  the  room  were  laid 
By  hope  presented  to  the  wealthy  maid  ; 
Within  a  costly  case  of  varnish'd  wood, 
In  level  rows  her  polish'd  volumes  stood  ; 
Shown  as  a  favour  to  a  chosen  few, 
To  prove  what  beauty  for  a  book  could  do : 
A  silver  urn  with  curious  work  was  fraught , 
A  silver  lamp  from  Grecian  pattern  wrought : 
Above  her  head,  all  gorgeous  to  behold, 
A  time-piece  stdod  on  feet  of  burnish'd  gold  ; 
A  stag's  head  crest  adorn^  the  pictured  case. 
Through  the  pure  crystal  shone  th'  enamell'd  face  : 
And  while  on  brilliants  moved  the  hands  of  steel, 
It  click'd  from  prayer  to  prayer,  from  meal  to  meal. 

Here  as  the  lady  sate,  a  friendly  pair 
Stept  in  t'  admire  the  view,  and  took  their  chair: 
They  then  related  how  the  young  and  gay 
Were  thoughtless  wandering  in  the  broad  highway; 
How  tender  damsels  sail'd  in  tilted  boats. 
And  laugh'd  with  wicked  men  in  scarlet  coats  ; 
And  how  we  live  in  such  degenerate  times, 
That   men   conceal  their  wants  and  show  their 

crimes  ; 
While  vicious  deeds  are  screen'd  by  fashion's  name, 
And  what  was  once  our  pride  is  now  our  shame. 

Dinah  was  musing,  as  her  friends  discoursed. 
When  these  last  words  a  sudden  entrance  forced 
Upon  her  mind,  and  what  was  once  her  pride 
And  now  her  shame,  some  painful  views  supplied  ; 
Thoughts  of  the  past  within  her  bosom  press'd, 
And  there  a  change  was  felt,  and  was  confess'd  : 
While  thus  the  virgin  strove  with  secret  pain. 
Her  mind  was  wandering  o'er  the  troubled  main  ; 
Still  she  was  silent,  nothing  seem'd  to  see. 
But  sate  and  sigh'd  in  pensive  revery. 

The  friends  prepared  new  subjects  to  begin. 
When  tall  Susannah,  maiden  starch,  stalk'd  in  ; 
Not  in  her  ancient  mode,  sedate  and  slow. 
As  when  she  came,  the  mind  she  knew,  to  know  ; 
Nor  as,  when  listening  half  an  hour  before. 
She  twice  or  thrice  tapp'd  gently  at  the  door ; 
But,  all  decorum  cast  in  wrath  aside, 
"  I  think  the  devil's  in  the  man !"  she  cried  ; 
"  A  huge  tall  sailor,  with  his  tawny  cheek. 
And  pitted  face,  will  with  my  lady  speak  ; 
He  grinn'd  an  ugly  smile,  and  said  he  knew, 
Please  you,  my  lady,  'twould  be  joy  to  you  ; 
What  must  I  answer?" — Trembling  and  distress'd 
Sank  the  p...e  Dinah,  by  her  fears  oppress'd  ; 
When  thus  alarm'd,  and  brooking  no  delay. 
Swift  to  her  room  the  stranger  made  his  way. 

"Revive,  my  love!"  said  he,  "I've  done  thee 
harm, 
Give  me  thy  pardon,"  and  he  look'd  alarm  : 
Meantime  the  prudent  Dinah  had  contrived 
Her  soul  to  question,  and  she  then  revived. 

"  See!  my  good  friend,"  and  then  she  raised  her 
head, 
**  The  bloom  of  life,  the  strength  of  youth  is  fled  ; 
Living  we  die  ;  to  us  the  world  is  dead  ; 


We  parted  bless'd  with  health,  and  I  am  now 
Age-struck  and  feeble,  so  I  find  art  thou  ; 
Thine  eye  is  sunken,  furrow'd  is  thy  face, 
And  downward  look'stthou — so  we  run  our  race  . 
And  happier  they,  whose  race  is  nearly  run. 
Their  troubles  over,  and  their  duties  done." 

"  True,  lady,  true,  we  are  not  girl  and  boy , 
But  time  has  left  us  something  to  enjoy." 

"  What !  thou  hast  learn'd  my  fortune  ?— yes,  I 
live 
To  feel  how  poor  the  comforts  wealth  can  give ; 
Thou  too,  perhap.?,  art  wealthy ;  but  our  fate 
Still  mocks  our  wishes,  wealth  is  come  too  late." 

"  To  me  nor  late  nor  early ;  I  am  come 
Poor  as  I  left  thee  to  my  native  home  : 
Nor  yet,"  said  Rupert,  "  will  I  grieve  ;  'tis  mine 
To  share  thy  comforts,  and  the  glory  thine ; 
For  thou  wilt  gladly  take  that  generous  part 
That  both  exalts  and  gratifies  the  heart ; 
While  mine  rejoices." — "  Heavens !"  return'd  the 

maid, 
"  This  talk  to  one  so  wither'd  and  decay'd  ? 
No !  all  my  care  is  now  to  fit  my  mind 
For  other  spousal,  and  to  die  resign'd  : 
As  friend  and  neighbour,  I  shall  hope  to  see 
These  noble  views,  this  pious  love  in  thee  ; 
That  we  together  may  the  change  await. 
Guides  and  spectators  in  each  other's  fate  ; 
When  fellow  pilgrims,  we  shall  daily  crave 
The  mutual  prayer  that  arms  us  for  the  grave.'* 

Half  angry,  half  in  doubt,  the  lover  gazed 
On  the  meek  maiden,  by  her  speech  amazed  : 
"  Dinah,"  said  he,  "  dost  thou  respect  thy  vows  ? 
What  spousal  mean'st  thou? — thou  art   Rupert 

spouse ; 
The  chance  is  mine  to  take,  and  thine  to  give , 
But,  trifling  this,  if  we  together  live : 
Can  I  believe,  that,  after  all  the  past. 
Our  vows,  our  loves,  thou  wilt  be  false  at  last? 
Something  thou  hast — I  know  not  what — in  view 
I  find  thee  pious — let  me  find  thee  true." 
"  Ah  !  cruel  this  ;  but  do,  my  friend,  depart ; 
And  to  its  feelings  leave  my  wcimded  heart." 

"  Nay,  speak  at  once  ;  and,  Dinah,  let  me  know 
Mean'st  thou  to  take  me,  now  I'm  wreck'd,  in 

tow? 
Be  fair ;  nor  longer  keep  me  in  the  dark  ; 
Am  I  forsaken  for  a  trimmer  spark  ? 
Heaven's  spouse  thou  art  not ;  nor  can  I  believe 
That  God  accepts  her  who  will  man  deceive: 
True  I  am  shatter'd,  I  have  service  seen. 
And  service  done,  and  have  in  trouble  been  ; 
My  cheek  (it  shames  me  not)  has  lost  its  red. 
And  the  brown  buff  is  o'er  my  features  spread  ; 
Perchance  my  speech  is  rude ;  for  I  among 
Th'  untamed  have  been,  in  temper  and  in  tongue 
Have  been  trepann'd,  have  lived  in  toil  and  care. 
And  wrought  for  wealth  I  was  not  doom'd  to  share 
It  touch 'd  me  deeply,  for  I  felt  a  pride 
In  gaining  riches  for  my  destined  bride  • 
Speak  then  my  fate  ;  for  these  my  sorrows  past, 
Time  lost,  youth  fled,  hope  wearied,  and  at  last 
This  doubt  of  thee — a  childish  thing  to  tell, 
But  certain  truth — my  very  throat  they  swell ; 
They  stop  the  breath,  and  but  for  shame  could  I 
Give  way  to  weakness,  and  with  passion  cry  ; 
Thesje  are  uvimanly  struggles,  but  I  feel 
This  hour  must  end  them,  and  perhaps  will  heal. 


TALES. 


91 


Here  Dinah  sigh'd  as  if  afraid  to  speak — 
And  then  repeated — "  They  were  frail  and  weak ; 
His  soul  she  loved,  and  hoped  he  had  the  grace 
To  fix  his  thoughts  upon  a  better  place." 

She  ceased  ,* — with  steady  glance,  as  if  to  see 
The  very  root  of  this  hypocrisy, — 
He  her  small  fingers  moulded  in  his  hard 
And  bronzed  broad  htmd  ;  then  told  her  his  regard, 
His  best  respect  were  gone,  but  love  had  still 
Hold  in  his  heart,  and  govern'd  yet  the  will — 
Or  he  would  curse  her : — saying  this,  he  threw 
The  hand  in  scorn  away,  and  bade  adieu 
To  every  lingering  hope,  with  every  care  in  view. 

Proud  and  indignant,  suffering,  sick,  and  poor, 
He  grieved  unseen  ;  and  spoke  of  love  no  more — 
Till  all  he  felt  in  indignation  died, 
As  hers  had  sunk  in  avarice  and  pride. 

In  health  declining,  as  in  mind  distress'd, 
sTo  some  in  power  his  troubles  he  confess'd. 
And  shares  a  parish-gift ; — at  prayers  he  sees 
The  pious  Dinah  dropp'd  upon  her  knees ; 
Thence  as  she  walks  the  street  with  stately  air, 
As  chance  directs,  oft  meet  the  parted  pair: 
When  he,  with  thickset  coat  of  badge-man's  blue, 
Moves  near  her  shaded  silk  of  changeful  hue  ; 
When  his  thin  locks  of  gray  approach  her  braid, 
A  costly  purchase  made  in  beauty's  aid  ; 
When  his  frank  air,  and  his  unstudied  pace. 
Are  seen  with  her  soft  manner,  air,  and  grace. 
And  his  plain  artless  look  with  her  sharp  meaning 

face; 
It  might  some  wonder  in  a  stranger  move. 
How  these  together  could  have  talk'd  of  love. 
Behold  them  now ! — see  there  a  tradesman  stands, 
And  humbly  hearkens  to  some  fresh  commands  ; 
He  moves  to  speak,  she  interrupts  him — "  Stay," 
Her  air  expresses — "  Hark  !  to  what  I  say  :" 
Ten  paces  off;  poor  Rupert  on  a  seat 
Has  taken  refuge  from  the  noonday  heat. 
His  eyes  on  her  intent,  as  if  to  find 
What  were  the  movements  of  that  subtle  mind : 
How  still !  how  earnest  is  he  ! — it  appears 
His   thoughts  are  wandering  through  his   earlier 

years  ; 
Through  years  of  fruitless  labour,  to  the  day 
When  all  his  earthly  prospects  died  away  : 
'  Had  I,"  he  thinks,  "  been  wealthier  of  the  two, 
Would  she  have  found  me  so  unkind,  untrue  ? 
Or  knows  not  man  when  poor,  what  man  when 

rich  will  do? 
Yes,  yes !  I  feel  that  I  had  faithful  proved. 
And  should  have  soothed  and  raised  her,  bless'd 

and  loved." 
But  Dinah  moves — she  had  observed  before 
The  pensive  Rupert  at  an  humble  door  : 
Some  thoughts  of  pity  raised  by  his  distress, 
Some  feeling  touch  of  ancient  tenderness  ; 
Religion,  duty  urged  the  maid  to  speak 
In  terms  of  kindness  to  a  man  so  weak  : 
But  pride  forbad,  and  to  return  would  prove* 
She  felt  the  shame  of  his  neglected  love  ; 
Nor  rapt  in  silence  could  she  pass,  afraid 
Each  eye  should  see  her,  and   each  heart  up 

braid; 
One  way  remain'd — the  way  the  Levite  took. 
Who  without  mercy  could  on  misery  look: 
(A  way  perceived  by  craft,  approved  by  pride,) 
She  cross'd,  and  pass'd  him  on  the  other  side. 


TALE  V. 


THE  PATRON. 


It  were  all  one, 
That  I  ahould  love  a  bright  peculiar  star, 
And  think  to  wed  it ;  she  is  so  much  above  me : 
In  her  bright  radiance  and  collateral  heat 
Must  I  be  comforted,  not  in  her  sphere. 

All's  Well  that  Ends  Well,  act  i.  sc.  L 
Poor  wretches,  that  depend 
On  greatness'  favours,  dream  as  I  have  done,— 
Wake  and  find  nothing. 

Cymbeline,  act  v.  sc.  4. 

And  since 

Th'  affliction  of  my  mind  amends,  with  which 
I  fear  a  madness  held  me. 

Tempest,  act  T. 

A  BOROUGH  BAILIFF,  who  to  law  *vas  train'd 
A  wife  and  sons  in  decent  state  maintain'd  ; 
He  had  his  way  in  life's  rough  ocean  steer'd, 
And  many  a  rock  and  coast  of  danger  clear'd ; 
He  saw  where  others  fail'd,  and  care  had  he 
Others  in  him  should  not  such  failings  see  ; 
liis  sons  in  various  busy  states  were  placed, 
And  all  began  the  sweets  of  gain  to  taste, 
Save  John,  the  younger ;  who,  of  sprightly  parts. 
Felt  not  a  love  for  money-making  arts  : 
In  childhood  feeble,  he,  for  country  air, 
Had  long  resided  with  a  rustic  pair ; 
All  round  whose  room  were  doleful  ballads,  songs 
Of  lovers'  sufferings  and  of  ladies'  wrongs. 
Of  peevish  ghosts  who  came  at  dark  midnight, 
For  breach  of  promise,  guilty  men  to  fright ; 
Love,  marriage,  murder,  were  the  themes,  witb 

these, 
All  that  on  idle,  ardent  spirits  seize  ; 
Robbers  at  land  and  pirates  on  the  main. 
Enchanters  foil'd,  spells  broken,  giants  slain  ; 
Legends  of  love,  with  tales  of  halls  and  bowers, 
Choice  of  rare  songs,  and  garlands  of  choice  flowers 
And  all  the  hungry  mind  without  a  choice  devours 

From  village  children  kept  apart  by  pride. 
With  such  enjoyments,  and  without  a  guide. 
Inspired  by  feelings  all  such  works  infused, 
John  snatch'd  a  pen,  and  wrote  as  he  perused : 
With  the  like  fancy  he  could  make  his  knight 
Slay  half  a  host  and  put  the  rest  to  flight; 
With  the  like  knowledge,  he  could  make  himi  le 
From  isle  to  isle  at  Parthenissa's  side  ; 
And  with  a  heart  yet  free,  no  busy  brain 
Form'd  wilder  notions  of  delight  and  pain, 
The  raptures  smiles  create,  the  anguish  of  disdain. 

Such  were  the  fruits  of  John's  poetic  toil. 
Weeds,  but  still  proofs  of  vigour  in  the  soil : 
He  nothing  purposed  but  with  vast  delight. 
Let  Fancy  loose,  and  wonder'd  at  her  flight  ; 
His  notions  of  poetic  worth  were  high. 
And  of  his  own  still  hoarded  poetry  ; — 
These  to  his  father's  house  he  bore  with  pride, 
A  miser's  treasure,  in  his  room  to  hide  ; 
Till  spurr'd  by  glory,  to  a  reading  friend 
He  kindly  show'd  the  sonnets  he  had  penn'd  : 
With  erring  judgment,  though  with  heart  sincere, 
That  friend  exclaim'd,  "  Tiiese  beauties  must  ap 

pear." 
In  magazines  they  claim'd  their  share  of  fame, 
Though  undistinguish'd  by  their  author's  name; 


M 


CRABBE. 


And  with  delight  the  young  enthusiast  found 
The  muse  of  Marcus  with  applauses  crown'd. 
This  heard  the  father,  and  with  some  alarm  : 
"  Tlie  boy,"  said  he,  "  will  neither  trade  nor  farm  ; 
He  for  both  law  and  physic  is  unfit ; 
Wit  he  may  have,  but  cannot  live  on  wit  • 
Let  him  his  talents  then  to  learning  give. 
Where  verse  is  honour'd,  and  where  poets  live. 

John  kept  his  terms  at  college  unreproved. 
Took  his  degree,  and  left  the  life  he  loved  ; 
Nor  yet  ordain'd,  his  leisure  he  employ'd 
In  the  light  labours  he  so  much  enjoy  d ; 
His  favourite  notions  and  his  daring  views 
Were  cherish'd  still,  and  he  adored  the  muse. 

"  A  little  time,  and  he  should  burst  to  light, 
And  admiration  of  the  world  excite  ; 
And  every  friend,  now  cool  and  apt  to  blame 
His  fond  pursuit,  would  wonder  at  his  fame." 
When  led  by  fancy,  and  from  view  retired. 
He  call'd  before  him  all  his  heart  desired  ; 
"  Fame  shall  be  mine,  then  wealth  shall  I  possess. 
And  beauty  next  an  ardent  lover  bless  ; 
For  me  the  maid  shall  leave  her  nobler  state, 
Happy  to  raise  and  share  her  poet's  fate." 
He  saw  each  day  his  father's  frugal  board 
With  simple  fare  by  cautious  prudence  stored  • 
Where   each   indulgence    was   foreweigh'd   w^ith 

care. 
And  the  grand  maxims  were  to  save  and  spare 
Yet  in  his  walks,  his  closet,  and  his  bed, 
All  frugal  cares  and  prudent  coimsels  fled; 
And  bounteous  Fancy,  for  his  glowing  mind. 
Wrought  various  scenes,  and  all  of  glorious  kind  ; 
Slaves  of  the  ring  and  lamp!  what  need  of  you. 
When  Fancy's  self  such  magic  deeds  can  do? 

Though  rapt  in  visions  of  no  vulgar  kind, 
To  common  subjects  stoop'd  our  poet's  mind  ; 
And  oft,  when  wearied  with  more  ardent  flight, 
He  felt  a  spur  satiric  song  to  write  ; 
A  rival  burgess  his  bold  muse  attack'd. 
And  whipp'd  severely  for  a  well-known  fact ; 
For  while  he  seem'd  to  all  demure  and  shy, 
Our  poet  gazed  at  what  was  passing  by ; 
And  e'en  his  father  smiled  when  playful  wit 
From  his  young  bard,  som^e  haughty  object  hit. 

From  ancient  times  the   borough   where    they 
dwelt 
Had  mighty  contest  at  elections  felt : 
Sir  Godfrey  Ball,  'tis  true,  had  held  in  pay 
Electors  many  for  the  trying  day  ; 
But  in  such  golden  chains  to  bind  them  all 
Required  too  much  for  e'en  Sir  Godfrey  Ball. 
A  member  died,  and  to  supply  his  place, 
Two  heroes  enter'd  for  th'  important  race  ; 
Sir  Godfrey's  friend  and  Earl  Fitzdonnel's  son, 
Lord  Frederick  Damer,  both  prepared  to  run  : 
And  partial  numbers  saw  with  vast  delight 
Their  good  young  lord  oppose  the  proud  old  knight. 

Our  poet's  father,  at  a  first  request, 
Gave  the  young  lord  his  vote  and  interest; 
And  what  he  could  our  poet,  for  he  stung 
The  foe  by  verse  satiric,  said  and  sung. 
JiOrd  Frederick  heard  of  all  this  youthful  zeal. 
And  fell  as  lords  upon  a  canvass  feel ; 
He  read  the  satire,  and  he  saw  the  use 
That  such  cool  insult,  and  such  keen  abuse 
Might  on  the  wavering  minds  of  voting  men  pro- 
duce; 


Then  too  his  praises  were  in  contrast  seen, 
"  A  lord  as  noble  as  the  knight  was  mean." 

" I  much  rejoice,"  he  cried, "  such  worth  to  find' 
To  this  the  world  must  be  no  longer  blind 
His  glory  will  descend  from  sire  to  son, 
The  Burns  of  English  race,  the  happier  Chatterton.* 
Our  poet's  mind,  now  hurried  and  elate, 
Alarm'd  the  anxious  parent  for  his  fate  ; 
Who  saw  with  sorrow,  should  their  friend  siMS 

ceed. 
That  much  discretion  would  the  poet  need. 

Their  friend  succeeded,  and  repaid  the  zeal 
The  poet  felt,  and  made  opposers  feel, 
By  praise  (irom  lords  how  soothing  and  how  sweetj 
And  invitation  to  his  noble  seat. 
The  father  ponder'd,  doubtful  if  the  brain 
Of  his  proud  boy  such  honour  could  sustain  ; 
Pleased  with  the  favours  oflfer'd  to  a  son, 
But  seeing  dangers  few  so  ardent  shun. 

Thus,  when  they  parted,  to  the  youthful  breast 
The  father's  fears  were  by  his  love  impress'd : 
"  There  will  you  find,  my  son,  the  courteous  ease 
That  must  subdue  the  soul  it  means  to  please  ; 
That  soft  attention  which  e'en  beauty  pays 
To  wake  our  passions,  or  provoke  our  praise ; 
There  all  the  eye  beholds  will  give  delight. 
Where  every  sense  is  flatter'd  like  the  sight 
This  is  your  peril ;  can  you  from  such  scene 
Of  splendour  part,  and  feel  your  mind  serene, 
And  in  the  father's  humble  state  resume 
The  frugal  diet  and  the  narrow  room  ?" 
To  this  the  youth  with  cheerful  heart  replied, 
Pleased  with  the  trial,  but  as  yet  untried  ; 
And  while  professing  patience,  should  he  fail, 
He  suflfer'd  hope  o'er  reason  to  prevail. 

Impatient,  by  the  morning  mail  convey'd, 
The  happy  guest  his  promised  visit  paid ; 
And  now  arriving  at  the  hall,  he  tried 
For  air  composed,  serene,  and  satisfied  ; 
As  he  had  practised  in  his  room  alone, 
A.nd  there  acquired  a  free  and  easy  tone  : 
There  he  had  said,  "  Whatever  the  degree 
A  man  obtains,  what  more  than  man  is  he  ?" 
And  when  arrived — "  This  room  is  but  a  room ; 
Can  aught  we  see  the  steady  soul  o'ercome  ? 
Let  me  in  all  a  manly  firmness  show. 
Upheld  by  talents,  and  their  value  know." 

This  reason  urged  ;  but  it  surpass'd  his  skill 
To  be  in  act  as  manly  as  in  will : 
When  he  his  lordship  and  the  lady  saw. 
Brave  as  he  was,  he  felt  oppress'd  with  awe  ; 
And  spite  of  verse,  that  so  much  praise  had  won. 
The  poet  found  he  was  the  bailiflf's  son. 

But  dinner  came,  and  the  succeeding  hours 
Fix'd   his    weak  nerves,   and   raised   his   fai.in| 

powers  ; 
Praised  and  assured,  he  ventured  once  or  twice 
On  some  remark,  and  bravely  broke  the  ice ; 
So  that  at  night,  reflecting  on  his  words, 
H    found,  in  time,  he  might  converse  with  lords 

Now  was  the  sister  of  his  patron  seen — 
A  lovely  creature,  with  majestic  mien  ; 
Who,  softly  smiling  while  she  look'd  so  fair. 
Praised  the  young  poet  with  such  friendly  air; 
Such  winning  frankness  in  her  looks  express'd. 
And  such  attention  to  her  brother's  guest, 
That  so  much  beauty,  join'd  with  speech  so  kind 
Raised  strong  emotions  in  the  poet's  ramd  ; 


TALES. 


93 


Till  reason  f'ail'd  his  bosom  to  defend 
From  the  sweet  power  of  this  enchanting  friend. — 
Rash  boy  !  what  hope  thy  frantic  mind  invades  ? 
What  love  confuses,  and  what  pride  persuades  ? 
Awake  to  truth  !  shouldst  thou  deluded  feed 
On  hopes  so  groundless,  thou  art  mad  indeed. 

What  say'st  thou,  wise  one  ?  "  that  all  powerful 
love 
Can  fortune's  strong  impediments  remove  ; 
Nor  is  it  strange  that  worth  should  wed  to  worth, 
The  pride  of  genius  with  the  pride  of  birth." 
While  thou  art  dreaming  thus,  the  beauty  spies 
Love  in  thy  tremor,  passion  in  thine  eyes  ; 
And  with  th'  amusement  pleased,  of  conquest  vain. 
She  seeks  her  pleasure,  careless  of  thy  pain  ; 
She  gives  thee  praise  to  humble  and  confound, 
Smiles  to  insnare,  and  flatters  thee  to  wound. 

Why  has  she  said  that  in  the  lowest  state 
The  noble  mind  ensures  a  noble  fate  ? 
And  why  thy  daring  mind  to  glory  call  ? 
That  thou  mayst  dare  and  suffer,  soar  and  fall. 
Beauties  are  tyrants,  and  if  they  can  reign. 
They  have  no  feeling  for  their  subject's  pain  ; 
Their  victim's  anguish    gives    their    charms    ap- 
plause, 
And  their  chief  glory  is  the  wo  they  cause : 
Something  of  this  was  felt,  in  spite  of  love. 
Which  hope,  in  spite  of  reason,  would  remove. 

Thus  lived  our  youth,  with  conversation,  books, 
And  lady  Emma's  soul-subduing  looks  ; 
Lost  in  delight,  astonish'd  at  his  lot. 
All  prudence  banish'd,  all  advice  forgot — 
Hopes,  fears,  and  every  thought,  were  fix'd  upon 
the  spot. 

'Twas  autumn  yet,  and  many  a  day  must  frown 
On  Brandon-Hall,  ere  went  my  lord  to  town  ; 
Meantime  the  fa-ther,  who  had  heard  his  boy 
Lived  in  a  round  of  luxury  and  joy. 
And  justly  thinking  that  the  youth  was  one 
Who,  meeting  danger,  was  unskill'd  to  shun  ; 
Knowing  his  temper,  virtue,  spirit,  zeal. 
How  prone  to  hope  and  trust,  believe  and  feel ; 
These  on  the  parent's  soul  their  weight  impress'd, 
And  thus  he  wrote  the  counsels  of  his  breast. 

"John,  thou'rt  a  genius;  thou  hast  some   pre- 
tence, 
I  think,  to  wit,  but  hast  thou  sterling  sense  ? 
That  which,  like  gold,  may  through  the  world  go 

forth, 
And  always  pass  for  what  'tis  truly  worth  ? 
Whereas  this  genius  like  a  bill,  must  take 
Only  the  value  our  opinions  make. 

"  Men  famed  for  wit,  of  dangerous  talents  vain. 
Treat  those  of  common  parts  with  proud  disdain  ; 
The  powers  that  wisdom  would,  improving,  hide, 
They  blaze  abroad  with  inconsiderate  pride  ; 
While  yet  but  mere  probationers  for  fame. 
They  seize  the  honour  they  should  then  disclaim  : 
Honour  so  hurried  to  the  light  must  fade, 
Tho  lasting  laurels  flourish  in  the  shade. 

"  Geniiis  is  jealous  ;  I  have  heard  of  some 
Who,  if  unnoticed,  grew  perversely  dumb; 
Nay,  diflferent  talents  would  their  envy  raise; 
Poets  have  sicken'd  at  a  dancer's  praise; 
And  one,  the  happiest  writer  of  his  time. 
Grew  pale  at  hearing  Reynolds  was  sublime  ; 
Tiiat  Rutland's  dutchess  wore  a  heavenly  smile — 
And  I  said  he,  neglected  all  the  while  ! 


"  A  waspish  tribe  are  these,  on  gilded  wings. 
Humming  their  lays,  and  brandishing  their  stings  ; 
And  thus  they  move  their  friends  and  foes  among, 
Prepared  for  soothing  or  satiric  song. 

"  Hear  me,  my  boy  ;  thou  hast  a  virtuous  mind- 
But  be  thy  virtues  of  the  sober  kind  ; 
Be  not  a  Quixote,  ever  up  in  arms 
To  give  the  guilty  and  the  great  alarms: 
If  never  heeded,  thy  attack  is  vain ; 
And  if  they  heed  thee,  they'll  attack  again  ; 
Then  too  in  striking  at  that  heedless  rate, 
Thou  in  an  instant  mayst  decide  thy  fate. 

"  Leave  admonition — let  the  vicar  give 
Rules  how  the  nobles  of  his  flock  should  live  ; 
Nor  take  that  simple  fancy  to  thy  brain, 
That  thou  canst  cure  the  wicked  and  the  vain. 

"Our  Pope,  they  say, once  entertain'd  the  whirai 
Who  fear'd  not  God  should  be  afraid  of  him; 
But  grant  they  fear'd  him,  w^as  it  further  said. 
That  he  reform'd  the  hearts  he  made  afraid  ? 
Did  Chartres  mend  ?  Ward,  Waters,  and  a  score 
Of  flagrant  felons,  with  his  floggings  sore  ? 
Was  Gibber  silenced  ?  No  ;  with  vigour  bless'd, 
And  brazen  front,  half  earnest,  half  in  jest. 
He  dared  the  bard  to  battle,  and  was  seen 
In  all  his  glory  match'd  with  Pope  and  spleen ; 
Himself  he  stripp'd,  the  harder  blow  to  hit, 
Then  boldly  match'd  his  ribaldry  with  wit; 
The  poet's  conquest  Truth  and  Time  proclaim. 
But  yet  the  battle  hurt  his  peace  and  fame. 

"  Strive  not  too  iilUch  for  favour  ;  seem  at  ease. 
And  rather  pleased  thyself,  than  bent  to  please: 
Upon  thy  lord  w-ith  decent  care  attend. 
But  not  too  near ;  thou  canst  not  be  a  friend 
And  favourite  be  not,  'tis  a  dangerous  post — 
Is  gain'd  by  labour,  and  by  fortune  lost : 
Talents  like  thine  may  make  a  man  approved. 
But  other  talents  trusted  and  beloved. 
Look  round,  my  son,  and  thou  wilt  early  see 
The  kind  of  man  thou  art  not  form'd  to  be. 

"  The  real  favourites  of  the  great  are  they 
Who  to  their  views  and  wants  attention  pay, 
And  pay  it  ever  ;  who,  with  all  their  skill, 
Dive  to  the  heart,  and  learn  the  secret  will ; 
If  that  be  vicious,  soon  can  they  provide 
The  favourite  ill,  and  o'er  the  soul  preside  ; 
For  vice  is  weakness,  and  the  artful  know 
Their  power  increases  as  the  passions  grow ; 
If  indolent  the  pupil,  hard  their  task  ; 
Such  minds  will  ever  for  amusement  ask  ; 
And  great  the  labour !  lor  a  man  to  choose 
Objects  for  one  whom  nothing  can  amuse ; 
For  ere  those  objects  can  the  soul  delight. 
They  must  to  joy  the  soul  herself  excite  ; 
Therefore  it  is,  this  patient,  watchful  kind 
With  gentle  friction  stir  the  drowsy  mind  ; 
Fix'd  on  their  end,  with  caution  they  proceed. 
And  sometimes  give,  and  sometimes  take  the  lead 
Wll  now  a  hint  convey,  and  then  retire, 
Ar'd  let  the  spark  awake  the  lingering  fire ; 
Or  seek  new  joys  and  livelier  pleasures  bring, 
To  give  the  jaded  sense  a  quickening  spring. 

"These  arts,  indeed,  my  son  must  not  pursue; 
Nor  must  he  quarrel  with  the  tribe  that  do : 
It  is  not  safe  another's  crimes  to  know. 
Nor  is  it  wise  our  proper  worth  to  show : — 
*  My  lord,'  you  say, '  engaged  me  for  that  worth  •' 
True,  and  preserve  it  ready  to  come  forth  ' 


94 


CRABBE. 


If  question'd,  fairly  answer — and  that  done, 
Shrink  back,  be  silent,  and  thy  father's  son ; 
For  they  who  doubt  thy  talents  scorn  thy  boast, 
But  they  who  grant  them  will  dislike  thee  most  t 
Observe  the  prudent;  they  in  silence  sit, 
Display  no  learning,  and  affect  no  wit ; 
They  hazard  nothing,  nothing  they  assume. 
But  know  the  useful  art  of  acting  dumb. 
Yet  to  their  eyes  each  varying  look  appears. 
And  every  word  finds  entrance  at  their  ears. 

"  Thou  art  religion's  advocate — take  heed, 
Hurt  not  the  cause,  thy  pleasure  'tis  to  plead  ; 
With  wine  before  thee,  and  with  wits  beside, 
Do  not  in  strength  of  reasoning  powers  confide  ; 
What  seems  to  thee  convincing,  certain,  plain, 
They  will  deny,  and  dare  thee  to  maintain  ; 
And  thus  will  triumph  der  thy  eager  youth, 
While  thou  wilt  grieve  for  so  disgracing  truth. 

"With  pain  I've   seen,  these   wrangling   wits 
among. 
Faith's  weak  defenders,  passionate  and  young ; 
Weak  thou  art  not,  yet  not  enough  on  guard, 
Where  wit  and  humour  keep  their  watch  and 

ward  : 
Men  gay  and  noisy  will  o'erwhelm  thy  sense, 
Then  loudly  laugh  at  Truth's  and  thy  expense  ; 
While  the  kind  ladies  will  do  all  they  can 
To  check  their  mirth,  and  cry,  '  The  good  youTig 
man  /' 

"  Prudence,  my  boy,  forbids  thee  to  commend 
The  cause  or  party  of  thy  nobl*  friend  ; 
What  are  his  praises  worth,  who  must  be  known 
'I'o  take  a  patron's  maxims  for  his  own  ? 
When  ladies  sing,  or  in  thy  presence  play. 
Do  not,  dear  John,  in  rapture  melt  away ; 
'Tis  not  thy  part,  there  will  be  listeners  round, 
To  cry  divine  !  and  doat  upon  the  sound  ; 
Remember  too,  that  though  the  poor  have  ears, 
They  take  not  in  the  music  of  the  spheres ; 
They  must  not  feel  the  warble  and  the  thrill, 
Or  be  dissolved  in  ecstasy  at  will; 
Besides,  'tis  freedom  in  a  youth  like  thee 
To  drop  his  awe,  and  deal  in  ecstasy ! 

"  In  silent  ease,  at  least  in  silence  dine. 
Nor  one  opinion  start  of  food  or  wine  : 
Thou  know'st  that  all  the  science  thou  canst  boast 
Is  of  thy  father's  simple  boil'd  and  roast ; 
Nor  always  these  ;  he  sometimes  saved  his  cash. 
By  interlinear  days  of  frugal  hash  : 
Wine  hadst  thou  seldom  ;  wilt  thou  be  so  vain 
As  to  decide  on  claret  or  champagne  ? 
Dost  thou  from,  me  derive  this  taste  sublime, 
Who  order  port  the  dozen  at  a  time  ? 
When  (every  glass  held  precious  in  our  eyes) 
We  judged  the  value  by  the  bottle's  size : 
Then  never  merit  for  thy  praise  assume. 
Its  worth  well  knows  each  servant  in  the  room. 

"  Hard,  boy,  thy  task  to  steer  thy  way  among 
That  servile,  supple,  shrewd,  insidious  throng; 
Who  look  upon  thee  as  of  doubtful  race, 
An  interloper,  one  who  wants  a  place  : 
Freedom  with  these  let  thy  free  soul  condemn. 
Nor  with  thy  heart's  concerns  associate  them. 

"  Of  all  be  cautious — but  be  most  afraid 
Of  the  pale  charms  that  grace  my  lady's  maid ; 
Of  th:j33  sweet  dimples,  of  that  frandful  eye. 
The  frequent  glance  design'd  for  thee  to  spy  ; 
The  soft  bewitching  look,  the  fond  bewailing  sigh ; 


Let  others  frown  and  envy ;  she  the  while 
(Insidious  syren  I)  will  demurely  smile  ; 
And  for  her  gentle  purpose,  every  day 
Inquire  thy  wants,  and  meet  thee  in  thy  way ; 
She  has  her  blandishments,  and  though  so  weak. 
Her  person  pleases,  and  her  actions  speak : 
At  first  her  folly  may  her  aim  defeat ; 
But  kindness  shown  at  length  will  kindness  meet 
Have  some  offended  ?  them  will  she  disdain, 
And,  for  thy  sake,  contempt  and  pity  feign  ; 
She  hates  the  vulgar,  she  admires  to  look 
On  woods  and  groves,  and  dotes  upon  a  book ; 
Let  her  once  see  thee  on  her  features  dwell. 
And  hear  one  sigh,  ttien  liberty  farewell. 

"  But,  John,  remember  we  cannot  maintain 
A  poor,  proud  girl,  extravagant  and  vain. 

"  Doubt  much  of  friendship  :  shouldst  thou  find 
a  friend 
Pleased  to  advise  thee,  anxious  to  commend  ; 
Should  he  the  praises  he  has  heard  report, 
And  confidence  (in  thee  confiding)  court ; 
Much  of  neglectful  patrons  should  he  say. 
And  then  exclaim — '  How  long  must  merit  stay  f 
Then  show  how  high  thy  modest  hopes  may 

stretch. 
And  point  to  stations  far  beyond  thy  reach  ; 
Let  such  designer,  by  thy  conduct,  see 
(Civil  and  cool)  he  makes  no  dupe  of  thee  ; 
And  he  will  quit  thee,  as  a  man  too  wise 
For  him  to  ruin  first,  and  then  despise. 

"  Such  are  thy  dangers  ; — yet  if  thou  canst  steer 
Past  all  the  perils,  all  the  quicksands  clear. 
Then  may'st  thou  profit ;  but  if  storms  prevail, 
If  foes  beset  thee,  if  thy  spirits  fail, — 
No  more  of  winds  or  waters  be  the  sport. 
But  in  thy  father's  mansion  find  a  port." 
Our  poet  read. — "  It  is  in  truth,"  said  he, 
"  Correct  in  part,  but  what  is  this  to  me  ? 
I  love  a  foolish  Abigail !  in  base 
And  sordid  oflice  !  fear  not  such  disgrace : 
Am  I  so  blind  ?"    "  Or  thou  wouldst  surely  see 
That  lady's  fall,  if  she  should  stoop  to  thee !" 
"  The  cases  differ."    "  True !  for  what  surprise 
Could  from  thy  marriage  with  the  maid  arise  ? 
But  through  the  island  would  the  shame  be  spread 
Should  the  fair  mistress  deign  with  thee  to  wed." 

John  saw  not  this  ;  and  many  a  week  had  pass'd 
While  the  vain  beauty  held  her  victim  fast ; 
The  noble  friend  still  condescension  show'd, 
And,  as  before,  with  praises  overflow'd  ; 
But  his  grave  lady  took  a  silent  view 
Of  all  that  pass'd,  and  smiling,  pitied  too. 

Cold  grew  the  foggy  morn,  the  day  was  brief, 
Loose  on  the  cherry  hung  the  crimson  leaf; 
The  dew  dwelt  ever  on  the  herb  ;  the  woods 
Roar'd  with  strong  blasts,  with  mighty  showers  the 

floods : 
All  green  was  vanish'd,  save  of  pine  and  yew 
That  still  display'd  their  melancholy  hue, 
Save  the  green  holly  with  its  berries  red. 
And  the  green  moss  th^  o'er  the  gravel  spread. 

To  public  views  my  lord  must  soon  attend  ; 
And  soon  the  ladies — would  they  leave  their  friend ! 
The  time  was  fix'd — approach'd — was  near — waa 

come : 
The  trying  time  that  fiU'd  his  soul  with  gloom- 
Thoughtful  our  poet  in  the  morning  rose. 
And  cried,  "  One  hour  my  fortune  Avill  disclose 


TALES. 


95 


Terrific  hour!  from  thee  have  I  to  date 
Life's  loftier  views,  or  my  degraded  state , 
For  now  to  be  what  I  have  been  before 
Is  so  to  fall,  that  I  can  rise  no  more." 

The  morning  meal  was  past,  and  all  around 
The  mansion  rang  with  each  discordant  sound  ; 
Haste  was  in  every  foot,  and  every  look 
The  traveller's  joy  for  London  journey  spoke  : 
Not  so  ^ur  youth  ;  whose  feelings,  at  the  noise 
Of  preparation,  had  no  touch  of  joys; 
Hs  pensive  stood,  and  saw  each  carriage  drawn, 
With  lackeys  mounted,  ready  on  the  lawn : 
The  ladies  came  ;  and  John  in  terror  threw 
One  painful  glance,  and  then  his  eyes  withdrew; 
Not  with  such  speed,  but  he  in  other  eyes 
With  anguish  read — "  l  pity,  but  despise — 
Unhappy  boy  !  presumptuous  scribbler  I — you 
To  dream  such  dreams! — be  sober,  and  adieu  !" 

Then  came  the  noble  friend — "And  will  my  lord 
Vouchsafe  no  comfort?  drop  no  soothing  word? 
Yes,  he  must  speak."  He  speaks,  "  My  good  young 

friend, 
You  know  my  views  ;  upon  my  care  depend ; 
My  hearty  thanks  to  your  good  father  pay, 
And  be  a  student. — Harry,  drive  away." 

Stillness  reign'd  all  around ;  of  late  so  full 
The  busy  scene,  deserted  now  and  dull : 
Stern  is  his  nature  who  forbears  to  feel 
Gloom  o'er  his  spirits  on  such  trials  steal ; 
Most  keenly  felt  our  poet  as  he  went 
From  room  to  room  without  a  fix'd  intent. 
'  And  here,"  he  thought,  "  I  was  caress'd  ;  admired 
Were  here  my  songs  ;  she  smiled,  and  I  aspired  : 
The   change   how   grievous'"     As   he   mused,  a 

dame 
tiusy  and  peevish  to  her  duties  ^ame  ; 
Aside  the  tables  and  the  chairs  she  drew, 
And  sang  and  mutter'd  in  the  poet's  viev/ : — 
"  This  was  her  fortune  ;  here  they  leave  the  poor  ; 
Enjoy  themselves,  and  think  of  us  no  more  : 
I  had  a  promise—"  here  his  pride  and  shame 
Urged  him  to  fly  from  this  familiar  dame  ; 
He  gave  one  farewell  look,  and  by  a  coach 
Reach'd  his  own  mansion  at  the  night's  approach. 

His  father  met  him  with  an  anxious  air, 
Heard  his  sad  tale,  and  check'd  what  seem'd  de- 
spair. 
Hope  was  m  him  corrected,  but  alive ; 
My  lord  would  something  for  a  friend  contrive  ; 
His  word  was  pledged  ;  our  hero's  feverish  mind 
Admitted  this,  and  half  his  grief  resign'd ; 
But  when  three  months  had  fled,  and  every  day 
Drew  from  the  sickening  hopes  their  strength  away, 
The  youth  became  abstracted,  pensive,  dull ; 
He  utter'd  nothing,  though  his  heart  was  full : 
Teased  by  inquiring  words  and  anxious  looks. 
And  all  forgetful  of  his  muse  and  books  ; 
Awake  he  mourn'd,  but  in  his  sleep  perceived 
A  lovely  vision  that  his  pain  relieved  : 
His  soul  transported,  hail'd  the  happy  seat. 
Where  once  his  pleasure  was  so  sure  and  sweet; 
Wh:>rc  joys  departed  came  in  blissful  view. 
Til  reason  waked,  and  not  a  joy  he  knew. 

Questions  now  vex'd  his  spirit,  most  from  those 
(Vho  are  call'd  friends  because  they  are  not  foes : 
'John!"   they  would  say;    he  starting,  tuin'd 
around  ;  [sound ; 

John!"  there  was  something  shocking  ia  the 


111  brook'd  he  then  the  pert  familiar  phrase, 
The  untaught  freedom,  and  th'  inquiring  gaze  , 
Much  was  his  temper  touch'd,  his  spleen  provoked, 
When  ask'd  how  ladies  talk'd,or  walk'd,  or  look'd  ? 
"  What  said  my  lord  of  politics  ?  how  spent 
He  there  his  time  ?  and  was  he  glad  he  went  ?" 

At  length  a  letter  came,  both  cool  and  brief. 
But  still  it  gave  the  burden'd  heart  relief: 
Though  not  inspired  by  lofty  hopes,  the  youth 
Placed  much  reliance  on  Lord  Frederick's  truth; 
Summon'd  to  town,  he  thought  the  visit  one 
Where  something  fair  and  friendly  would  bv  done 
Although  he  judged  not,  as  before  his  fall, 
When  all  was  love  and  promise  at  the  hall. 

Arrived  in  town,  he  early  sought  to  know 
The  fate  which  dubious  friendship  would  bestow. 
At  a  tall  building  trembling  he  appenr'd, 
And  his  low  rap  was  indistinctly  heard  ; 
A  well  known  servant  came — "  A  while,"  said  ho, 
"  Be  pleased  to  wait,  my  lord  has  comps.ny." 

Alone  our  hero  sat ;  the  news  in  hand, 
Which  though  he  read,  he  could  not  undersiand  : 
Cold  was  the  day  :  in  days  so  cold  as  these 
There  needs  a  fire,  where  minds  and  bodies  freeze. 
The  vast  and  echoing  room,  the  polish'd  grate. 
The  crimson  chairs,  the  sideboard  with  its  plate; 
The  splendid  sofa,  which,  though  made  for  rest, 
He  then  had  thought  it  freedom  to  have  press'd ; 
The  shining  tables,  curiously  inlaid,  \ 

Were  all  in  comfortless  proud  style  display'd, 
And  to  the  troubled  feelings  terror  gave. 
That  made  the  once  dear  friend,  the  sickening 
slave. 

"  Was  he  forgotten  i"     Thrice  upon  his  ear 
Struck  the  loud  clock,  yet  no  relief  was  near. 
Each  rattling  carriage,  and  each  thundering  stroke 
On  the  loud  door,  the  dream  of  fancy  broke  : 
Oft  as  a  servant  chanced  the  way  to  come, 
"  Brings  he  a  message  ?"  no  !  he  pass'd  the  room  : 
At  length  'tis  certain  :  "  Sir,  you  will  attend 
At  twelve  on  Thursday  !"     Thus  the  day  had  end 

Vex'd  by  these  tedious  hours  of  needless  pain, 
John  left  the  noble  mansion  with  disdain ; 
For  there  was  something  in  that  still,  cold  place. 
That  seem'd  to  threaten  and  portend  disgrace. 

Punctual  again  the  modest  rap  declared 
The  youth  attended  ,  then  was  all  prepared  ; 
For  the  same  servant,  by  his  lord's  command, 
A  paper  offer'd  to  hi^  trembling  hand  : 
"  No  more!"  he  cried  ;  "  disdains  he  to  afford 
One  kind  expression,  one  consoling  word  ?" 

With  troubled  spirit  he  began  to  read 
That  "  In  the  church  my  lord  could  not  succeed  ;'* 
Who  had  "  to  peers  of  either  kind  applied. 
And  was  with  dignity  and  grace  denied  : 
While  his  own  livings  were  by  men  possess'd. 
Not  likely  in  their  chancels  yet  to  rest. 
And  therefore,  all  things  weigh'd,  (as  he,  my  lord. 
Had  done  maturely,  and  he  pledged  his  word,) 
Wisdom  it  seem'd  for  John  to  turn  his  view 
To  busier  scenes,  and  bid  the  church  adieu !" 

Here  grieved  the  youth ;  he  felt  his  father's 
pride 
Must  with  his  own  be  shock'd  and  mortified  : 
But  when  he  found  his  future  comforts  placed 
Where  he,  alas  !  conceived  himself  disgraced — 
In  some  appointment  on  the  London  quays. 
He  bade  farewell  to  honour  and  to  ease; 


9b 


CRABBE. 


His  spirit  fell,  and  from  that  hour  assured 

How  vain  his  dreams,  he  sufTer'd  and  was  cured. 

Our  poet  hurried  on,  with  wish  to  fly 
From  all  mankind,  to  be  conceal'd,  and  die. 
Alas !  what  hopes,  what  high  romantic  views 
Did  that  one  visit  to  the  soul  infuse, 
Which,  cherish'd  with  such  love,  'twas  worse  than 

death  to  lose ! 
Still  he  would  strive,  though  painful  was  the  strife. 
To  walk  in  this  appointed  road  of  life  ; 
On  these  low  duties  duteous  he  would  wait, 
And  patient  bear  the  anguish  of  his  fate. 
Thanks  to  the  patron,  but  of  coldest  kind, 
Express'd  the  sadness  of  the  poet's  mind  ; 
Whose  heavy  hours  were  pass'd  with  busy  men 
Tn  the  dull  practice  of  th'  official  pen  ; 
Who  to  superiors  must  in  time  impart 
(The  custom  this)  his  progress  in  their  art : 
But  so  had  grief  on  his  perception  wrought. 
That  all  unheeded  were  the  duties  taught; 
No  answers  gave  he  when  his  trial  came, 
Silent  he  stood,  but  suffering  without  shame  ; 
And  they  observed  that  words  severe  or  kind 
Made  no  impression  on  his  wounded  mind  ; 
For  all  perceived  from  whence  his  failure  rose. 
Some  grief  whose  cause  he   deign'd   not  to  dis- 
close. 
A.  soul  averse  from  scenes  and  works  so  new, 
Fear  ever  shrinking  from  the  vulgar  crew  ; 
Distaste  for  each  mechanic  law  and  rule. 
Thoughts  of  past  honour  and  a  patron  cool ; 
A  grieving  parent,  and  a  feeling  mind. 
Timid  and  ardent,  tender  and  refined  : 
These  all  with  mighty  force  the  youth  assail'd. 
Till  his  soul  fainted,  and  his  reason  fail'd  : 
When  this  was  known,  and  some  debate  arose 
How  they  v;ho  saw  it  should  the  fact  disclose. 
He  found  their  purpose,  and  in  terror  fled 
From  unseen  kindness,  with  mistaken  dread. 

Meantime  the  parent  was  distress'd  to  find 
His  son  no  longer  for  a  priest  design'd  ; 
But  still  he  gain'd  some  comfort  by  the  news 
Of  John's  promotion,  though  with  humbler  views: 
For  he  conceived  that  in  no  distant  time 
The  boy  would  learn  to  scramble,  and  to  climb  : 
He  little  thought  a  son,  his  hope  and  pride, 
His  favour'd  boy  was  now  a  home  denied  : 
Yes  !  while  the  parent  was  intent  to  trace 
How  men  in  office  climb  from  place  to  place. 
By  day,  by  night,  o'er  moor,  and  heath,  and  hill, 
Roved  the  sad  youth,  with  ever-changing  will, 
Of  every  aid  bereft,  exposed  to  every  ill. 

Thus  as  he  sat,  absorb'd  in  all  the  care 
And  all  the  hope  that  anxious  fathers  share, 
A  friend  abruptly  to  his  presence  brought, 
With  trembling  hand,  the  subject  of  his  thought ; 
Whom  he  had  found  aflflicted  and  subdued 
By  hunger,  sorrow,  cold,  and  solitude. 

Silent  he  entered  the  forgotten  room, 
As  ghostly  forms  may  be  conceived  to  come  ; 
With  sorrow-shrunken  face  and  hair  upright, 
lie  look'd  dismay,  neglect,  despair,  affright ; 
But  dead  to  comfort,  and  on  misery  thrown, 
His  parent's  loss  he  felt  not,  nor  his  own. 

The  good  man,  struck  with  horror,  cried  aloud, 
And  drew  around  hiiji  an  astonish'd  crowd  ; 
The  sons  and  servants  to  the  father  ran. 
To  ihare  the  feelings  of  the  grieved  old  man. 


"  Our  brother,  speak !"  they  all  exclaim'd ;  '*  es 
plain 
Thy  grief,  thy  suffering  :" — but  they  ask'd  in  vain 
The  friend  told  all  he  knew ;  and  all  was  known, 
Save  the  sad  causes  whence  the  ills  had  grown: 
But,  if  obscure  the  cause,  they  all  agreed 
From  rest  and  kindness  must  the  cure  proceed : 
And  he  was  cured  ;  for  quiet,  love,  and  care 
Strove  with  the  gloom,  and  broke  on  the  despair , 
Yet  slow  their  progress,  and,  as  vapours  move 
Dense  and  reluctant  from  the  wintry  grove. 
All  is  confusion  till  the  morning  light 
Gives  the  dim  scene  obscurely  to  the  sight ; 
More  and  yet  more  refined  the  trunks  appear. 
Till  the  wild  prospect  stands  distinct  and  clear  ; 
So  the  dark  mind  of  our  young  poet  grew 
Clear  and  sedate  ;  the  dreadful  mist  withdrew : 
And  he  resembled  that  bleak  wintry  scene. 
Sad,  though  unclouded;  dismal,  though  serene. 

At  times  he  utter'd,  "  What  a  dream  was  mine ! 
And  what  a  prospect!  glorious  and  divine  ! 
O!  in  that  room,  and  on  that  night,  to  see 
These  looks,  that  sweetness  beaming  all  on  me ;     , 
That  syren  flattery— and  to  send  me  then, 
Hope-raised  and  soften'd,  to  those  heartless  men ; 
That  dark  brow'd  stern  director  pleased  to  show 
Knowledge  of  subjects,  I  disdain'd  to  know ; 
Cold  and  controlling — but  'tis  gone,  'tis  past ; 
I  had  my  trial,  and  have  peace  at  last." 

Now  grew  the  youth  resign'd  ;  he  bade  adieu 
To  all  that  hope,  to  all  that  fancy  drew; 
His  frame  was  languid,  and  the  hectic  heat 
Flush'd  on  his  pallid  face,  and  countless  beat 
The  quickening  pulse,  and  faint  the  limbs  that  bore 
The  slender   form  that  soon  would   breathe  no 
more. 

Then  hope  of  holy  kmd  the  soul  sustain'd, 
And  not  a  lingering  thought  of  earth  rertiain'd  ; 
Now  Heaven  had  all,  and  he  could  smile  at  lovo, 
And  the  wild  sallies  of  his  youth  reprove  ; 
Then  could  he  dwell  upon  the  tempting  days, 
The  proud  aspiring  thought,  the  partial  praise  ; 
Victorious  now,  his  worldly  views  were  closed, 
And  on  the  bed  of  death  the  youth  reposed. 

The  father  grieved — but  as  the  poet's  heart 
Was  all  unfitted  for  his  earthly  part ; 
As,  he  conceived,  some  other  haughty  fair 
Would,  had  he  lived,  have  led  him  to  despair; 
As,  with  this  fear,  the  silent  grave  shut  out 
All  feverish  hope,  and  all  tormenting  doubt ; 
While  the  strong  faith  the  pious  youth  possess'd, 
His  hope  enlivening,  gave  his  sorrows  rest ; 
Soothed  by  these  thoughts,  he  felt  a  mournful  joy 
For  his  aspiring  and  devoted  boy. 

Meantime   the  news  through  various  channels 
spread,  [dead  • 

The  youth,  once  favour'd  with  such  praise,  was 
"  Emma;"  the  lady  cried,  "  my  words  attend, 
Your  syren  smiles  have  kill'd  your  humble  friend  ,. 
The  hope  you  raised  can  now  delude  no  more. 
Nor  charms,  that  once  inspired,  can  now  restore."' 

Faint  was  the  flush  of  anger  and  of  shame 
That  o'er  the  cheek  of  conscious  beauty  came  : 
"  You   censure  not,"  said  she,   "  the  sun's  brigUl 

rays. 
When  fools  imprudent  dare  the  dangerous  gaz©; 
And  should  a  stripling  look  till  he  were  blind, 
You  would  not  justly  call  the  light  unkind 


TALES. 


97 


But  is  he  dead  ?  and  am  I  to  suppose 
The  power  of  poison  in  such  looks  as  those  ?' 
She  spoke,  and,  pointing  to  the  mirror,  cast      ^ 
A  pleased  gay  glance,  and  court'sied  as  she  pass'd 

My  lord,  to  whom  the  poet's  fate  was  told, 
Was  much  affected,  for  a  man  so  cold : 
•  Dead  !"  said  his  lordship,  "  run  distracted,  mad  ! 
Upon  my  soul  I'm  sorry  for  the  lad  ; 
And  now,  no  doubt,  th'  obliging  world  will  say 
That  my  harsh  usage  help'd  him  on  his  way  ; 
What!  I  suppose,  I  should  have  nursed  his  muse. 
And  with  champagne  have   brighten'd  up  his 

views ; 
Then  had  he  made  me  famed  my  w-hole  life  long, 
And  stunn'd  my  ears  with  gratitude  and  song. 
Still  should  the  father  hear  that  I  regret 
Our  joint  misfortune — yes  !  I'll  not  forget." — 

Thus  they: — The  father  to  his  grave  convey'd 
The  son  he  loved,  and  his  last  duties  paid. 

"  There  lies  my  boy,"  he  cried,  "  of  care  bereft 
And  Heaven  be  praised,  I've  not  a  genius  left : 
No  one  among  ye,  sons  !  is  doom'd  to  live 
On  high-raised  hopes  of  what  the  great  may  give  ; 
None,  with  exalted  views  and  fortunes  mean. 
To  die  in  anguish,  or  to  live  in  spleen  : 
Your  pious  brother  soon  escaped  the  strife 
Of  such  contention,  but  it  cost  his  life ; 
You  then,  my  sons,  upon  yourselves  depend, 
And  in  your  own  exertions  find  the  friend." 


TALE    VI. 

THE   FRANK    COURTSHIP. 

YeS;  faith,  it  is  my  cousin's  duty  to  make  a  courtesy,  and 
«ay,  "  Father,  as  it  please  you ;"  but  for  all  that,  cousin, 
let  him  be  a  handsome  fellow,  or  else  make  another 
courtesy,  and  say,  "Father,  as  it  pleases  me." 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing;  act  ii.  sc.  1. 
He  cannot  flatter,  he  ! 
An  honest  mind  and  plain— he  must  speak  truth. 

King  Lear,  act  ii.  sc.  2. 
God  hath  given  you  one  face,  and  you  make  yourselves 
another;  you  jig,  you  amble,  you  nick-name  God's  crea- 
tures, and  make  your  wantonness  your  ignorance. 

Hamlet,  act  iii.  sc.  1. 
What  fire  is  in  mine  ears  1  Can  this  be  true? 
Am  I  contemn'd  for  pride  and  scorn  so  much  1 

j\hich  Ado  about  Nothing,  act  ii.  sc.  1. 

Grave  Jonas  Kindred,  Sybil  Kindred's  sire. 
Was  six  feet  high,  and  look'd  six  inches  higher; 
Erect,  morose,  determined,  solemn,  slow. 
Who  knew  the  man,  could  never  cease  to  know  ; 
His  faithful  spouse,  when  Jonas  was  not  by, 
Had  a  firm  presence  anil  a  steady  eye  ; 
But  with  her  husband  dropp'd  her  look  and  tone, 
And  Jonas  ruled  unquestion'd  and  alone. 

He  read,  and  oft  would  quote  the  sacred  words. 
How  pious  husbands  of  their  wives  were  lords; 
Sarah  called  Abraham  lord !  and  who  could  be, 
So  Jonas  thought,  a  greater  man  than  he  ? 
Himself  he  view'd  with  undisguised  respect. 
And  never  pardon'd  freedotn  or  neglect. 

They  had  one  daughter,  and  this  favourite  child 
Had  oft  the  father  of  his  spleen  beguiled  ; 
Soothed  by  attention  from  her  early  years. 
She  gain'd  all  wishes  by  her  smiles  or  tears  : 
Vol.  III.— r 


But  Sybil  then  was  in  that  playful  time, 
When  contradiction  is  not  held  a  crime ; 
When  parents  yield  their  children  idle  praise 
For  faults  corrected  in  their  after  days. 

Peace  in  the  sober  hoiise  of  Jonas  dwelt, 
Where  each  his  duty  and  his  station  felt: 
Yet  not  that  peace  some  favour'd  mortals  find, 
In  equal  views  and  harmony  of  mind ; 
Not  the  soft  peace  that  blesses  those  who  love, 
Where  all  with  one  consent  in  union  move ; 
But  it  was  that  which  one  superior  will 
Commands,  by  making  all  inferiors  still ; 
Who  bids  all  murmurs,  all  objections  cease. 
And  with  imperious  voice  announces — Peace  ! 

They  were,  to  wit,  a  remnant  of  that  crew. 
Who,  as  their  foes  maintain,  their  sovereign  slew 
An  independent  race,  precise,  correct. 
Who  ever  married  in  the  kindred  sect : 
No  son  or  daughter  of  their  order  wed 
A  friend  to  England's  king  who  lost  his  head ; 
Cromwell  was  still  their  saint,  and  when  they  met, 
They  mourn'd  that  saints*  were  not  our  rulers  yet 

Fix'd  were  their  habits  :  they  arose  betimes, 
Then   pray'd  their  hour,  and  sang  their  party 

rhymes  : 
Their  meals  were  plenteous,  regular,  and  plain ; 
The  trade  of  Jonas  brought  him  constant  gain; 
Vender  of  hops  and  malt,  of  coals  and  corn — 
And,  like  his  father,  he  was  merchant  born  : 
Neat  was  their  house  ;  each  table,  chair  and  stool 
Stood  in  its  place,  or  moving  moved  by  rule  ; 
No  lively  print  or  picture  graced  the  room  ; 
A  plain  brown  paper  lent  its  decent  gloom ; 
But  here  the  eye,  in  glancing  round,  survey'd 
A  small  recess  that  seem'd  for  china  made  ; 
Such  pleasing  pictures  seem'd  this  pencill'd  ware, 
That  few  would  search  for  nobler  objects  there — 
Yet  turn'd  by  chosen  friends,  and  there  appear'd 
His  stern,  strong  features,  whom  they  all  revered 
For  there  in  lofty  air  was  seen  to  stand 
The  bold  protector  of  the  conquer'd  land ; 
Drawn  in  that  look  with  which  he  wept  and  swore, 
Turq'd  out  the  members,  and  made  fast  the  door, 
Ridding  the  house  of  every  knave  and  drone, 
Forced,  though  it  grieved  his  soul,  to  rule  alone. 
The  stern  still  smile  each  friend  approving  gave, 
Then  turn'd  the  view,  and  all  again  were  grave. 

There  stood  a  clock,  though  small  the  owner's 
need. 
For  habit  told  when  all  things  should  proceed  ; 
Few  their  amusements,  but  when  friends  appear'd, 
They  with  the  world's  distress  their  spirits  cheer'd 
The  nation's  guilt,  that  would  not  long  endure 
The  reign  of  men  so  modest  and  so  pure  : 
Their  town  was  large,  and  seldom  pass'd  a  day 
But  some  had  fail'd,  and  others  gone  astray; 
Clerks  had  absconded,  wives  eloped,  girls  flown 
To  Gretna  Green,  or  sons  rebellious  grown; 
Quarrels  and  fires  arose  ; — and  it  was  plain 
The  times  were  bad ;  the  saints  had  ceased  to 

reign ! 
A  few  yet  lived  to  languish  and  to  mourn 
For  good  old  manners  never  to  return. 


*'  This  appellation  is  here  used  not  ironically,  nor  with 
malignity  ;  but  it  is  taken  merely  to  designate  a  morosely 
devout  people,  with  peculiar  austerity  of  manners. 


98 


CRABBE. 


Jonas  had  sisters,  and  of  these  was  one 
Who  lost  a  husband  and  an  only  son  ; 
Twelve  months  her  sables  she  in  sorrow  Avore, 
And  mourn'd  so  long,  that  she  could  mourn  no 

more. 
Distant  from  Jonas,  and  from  all  her  race. 
She  now  resided  in  a  lively  place  ; 
There,  by  the  sect  unseen,  at  whist  she  play'd. 
Nor  was  of  churchmen  or  their  church  afraid  ■ 
If  much  of  this  the  graver  brother  heard, 
He  something  censured,  but  he  little  fear'd  y 
He  knew  her  rich  and  frugal ;  for  the  rest 
He  felt  no  care,  or,  if  he  felt,  suppress'd  ; 
Nor  for  companion  when  she  ask'd  her  niece, 
Had  he  suspicions  that  disturb'd  his  peace; 
Frugal  and  rich,  these  virtues  as  a  charm 
Preserved  the  thoughtful  man  from  all  alarm  ; 
An  infant  yet,  she  soon  would  home  return. 
Nor  stay  the  manners  of  the  world  to  learn  ; 
Meantime  his  boys  would  all  his  care  engross. 
And  be  his  comforts  if  he  felt  the  loss. 

The  sprightly  Sybil,  pleased  and  unconfined, 
Felt  the  pure  pleasure  of  the  opening  mind  • 
All  here  was  gay  and  cheerful ;  all  at  home 
Unvaried  quiet,  and  unruffled  gloom  : 
There  were  no  changes,  and  amusements  few ; 
Here  all  was  varied,  wonderful,  and  new: 
There  were  plain  meals,  plain  dresses,  and  grave 

looks ; 
Here,  gay  companions  and  amusing  books: 
And  the  young  beauty  soon  began  to  taste 
The  light  vocations  of  the  scene  she  graced. 

A  man  of  business  feels  it  as  a  crime 
On  V  alls  domestic  to  consume  his  time  ; 
Yei  this  grave  man  had  not  so  cold  a  heart. 
Bat  with  his  daughter  he  was  grieved  to  part: 
And  he  demanded  that  inievery  year 
The  aunt  and  niece  should  at  his  house  appear. 

"  Yes  I  we  must  go,  my  child,  and  by  our  dress 
A  grave  conformity  of  mind  express  ; 
Must  sing  at  meeting,  and  from  cards  refrain. 
The  more  t'  enjoy  when  we  return  again." 

Thus  spake  the  aunt,  and  the  discerning  child 
Was  pleased  to  learn  how  fathers  are  beguiled. 
Her  artful  part  the  young  dissembler  took. 
And  from  the  matron  caught  th'  approving  look : 
When  thrice  the  friends  had  met,  excuse  was  sent 
For  more  delay,  and  Jonas  was  content; 
Till  a  tall  maiden  by  her  sire  was  seen, 
In  all  the  bloom  and  beauty  of  sixteen  ; 
He  gazed  admiring  ; — she,  with  visage  prim, 
Glanced  an  arch  look  of  gravity  on  him ; 
For  she  was  gay  at  heart,  but  wore  disguise, 
And  stood  a  vestal  in  her  father's  eyes  : 
Pure,  pensive,  simple,  sad  ;  the  damsel's  heart, 
When  Jonas  praised,  reproved  her  for  the  part; 
For  Sybil,  tond  of  pleasure,  gay  and  light, 
Had  still  a  secret  bias  to  the  right ; 
Vain  as  she  was — and  flattery  made  her  vain — 
Her  simulation  gave  her  bosom  pain. 

Again  return'd,  the  matron  and  the  niece 
Found  the  late  quiet  gave  their  joy  increase  ; 
The  aunt,  infirm,  no  more  her  visits  paid, 
But  still  with  her  sojourn'd  the  favourite  maid. 
Letters  were  sent  when  franks  could  be  procured. 
And  when  they  could  not,  silence  was  endured ; 
All  were  m  health,  and  if  they  older  grew, 
It  seem'd  a  fact  that  none  among  them  knew  : 


The  aunt  and  niece  still  led  a  pleasant  life, 
And  quiet  days  had  Jijnas  and  his  wife. 

Near  him  a  widow  dwelt  of  worthy  fame. 
Like  his  her  manners,  and  her  creed  the  same  • 
The  wealth  her  husband  left,  her  care  retain'd 
For  one  tall  youth,  and  widow  she  remain'd  ; 
His  love  respectful  all  her  care  repaid, 
Her  wishes  watch'd,  and  her  commands  obey'd 

Sober  he  was  and  grave  from  early  youth, 
Mindful  of  forms,  but  more  intent  on  truth; 
In  a  light  drab  he  uniformly  dress'd. 
And  look  serene  th'  unruffled  mind  express'd ; 
A  hat  with  ample  verge  his  brows  o'erspread. 
And  his  brown  locks  curl'd  graceful  on  his  head  ; 
Yet  might  observers  in  his  speaking  eye 
Some  observation,  some  acuteness  spy; 
The   friendly  thought    it    keen,    the    treacheroM 

deem'd  it  sly; 
Yet  not  a  crime  could  foe  or  friend  detect. 
His  actions  all  were,  like  his  speech,  correct; 
And  they  who  jested  on  a  mind  so  sound. 
Upon  his  virtues  must  their  laughter  found  ; 
Chaste,  sober,  solemn,  and  devout  they  named 
Him  who  was  thus,  and  not  of  this  ashamed. 

Such  were  the  virtues  Jonas  found  in  one 
In  whom  he  warmly  wish'd  to  find  a  son : 
Three  years  had  pass'd  since  he  had  Sybil  seen  ; 
But  she  was  doubtless  what  she  once  had  been, 
Lovely  and  mild,  obedient  and  discreet ; 
The  pair  must  love  whenever  they  should  meet 
Then  ere  the  widow  or  her  son  should  choose 
Some  happier  maid,  he  would  explain  his  views. 
Now  she,  like  him,  was  politic  and  shrewd, 
With  strong  desire  of  lawful  gain  imbued 
To  all  he  said  she  bow'd  with  much  respect, 
Pleased  to  comply,  yet  seeming  to  reject ; 
Cool  and  yet  eager,  each  admired  the  strength 
Of  the  opponent,  and  agreed  at  length  : 
As  a  drawn  battle  shows  to  each  a  force. 
Powerful  as  his,  he  honours  it  of  course  ; 
So  in  these  neighbours,  each  the  power  discern'd 
And  gave  the  praise  that  was  to  each  return'd. 

Jonas  now  ask'd  his  daughter ;  and  the  aunt. 
Though  loath  to  lose  her,  was  obliged  to  grant : — 
But  would  not  Sybil  to  the  matron  cling, 
And  fear  to  leave  the  shelter  of  her  wing  ? 
No !  in  the  young  there  lives  a  love  of  change. 
And  to  the  easy  they  prefer  the  strange  .' 
Then  too  the  joys  she  once  pursued  with  zeal. 
From  whist  and  visits  sprung,  she  ceased  to  feel , 
When  with  the  matrons  Sybil  first  sat  down. 
To  cut  for  partners  and  to  stake  her  crown. 
This  to  the  youthful  maid  preferment  seem'd. 
Who  thought  what  woman  she  was  then  esteem'd 
But  in  few  years,  when  she  perceived,  indeed, 
The  real  woman  to  the  girl  succeed, 
No  longer  tricks  and  honours  fiU'd  her  mind. 
But  other  feelings,  not  so  well  defined  ; 
She  then  reluctant  grew,  and  thought  it  hard 
To  sit  and  ponder  o'er  an  ugly  card  ; 
Rather  the  nut  tree  shade  the  nymph  preferr'd, 
Pleased  with  the  pensive  gloom  and  evening  bird 
Thither,  from  company  retired,  she  took 
The  silent  walk,  or  read  the  favourite  book 

The  father's  letter,  sudden,  short,  and  kind, 
Awaked  her  wonder,  and  disturb'd  her  mind ; 
She  found  new  dreams  upon  her  fancy  seize 
Wild  roving  thoughts  and  endless  reveries 


TALES. 


99 


The  parting  came  ;  and  when  the  aunt  perceived 
The  tears  of  Sybil,  and  how  much  she  grieved, 
To  love  for  her  that  tender  grief  she  laid. 
That  various,  soft,  contending  passions  made. 

When  Sybil  rested  in  her  father's  arms 
His  pride  exulted  in  a  daughter's  charms  ; 
A  maid  accomplish'd  he  was  pleased  to  find. 
Nor  seem'd  the  form  more  lovely  than  the  mind  ; 
But  when  the  fit  of  pride  and  fondness  fled, 
He  saw  his  judgment  by  his  hopes  misled  ; 
High  were  the  lady's  spirits,  far  more  free 
Her  mode  of  speaking  than  a  maid's  should  be  ; 
Too  much,  as  Jonas  thought,  she  seem'd  to  know, 
And  all  her  knowledge  was  disposed  to  show; 
"  Too  gay  her  dress,  like  theirs  who  idly  dote 
On  a  young  coxcomb,  or  a  coxcomb's  coat ; 
In  foolish  spirits  when  our  friends  appear. 
And  vainly  grave  when  not  a  man  is  near." 

Thus  Jonas,  adding  to  his  sorrow  blame, 
And  terms  disdainful  to  his  sister's  name  : — 
"The  sinful  wretch  has  by  her  arts  defiled 
The  ductile  spirit  of  my  darling  child." 

"  The  maid  is  virtuous,"  said  the  dame. — Quoth 
he, 
"  Let  her  give  proof,  by  acting  virtuously : 
Is  it  in  gaping  when  the  elders  pray  ? 
In  reading  nonsense  half  a  summer's  day  ? 
In  those  mock  forms  that  she  delights  to  trace, 
Or  her  loud  laughs  in  Hezekiah's  face  ? 
She — O  Susannah  ! — to  the  world  belongs  ; 
She  loves  the  follies  of  its  idle  throngs, 
And  reads  soft  tales  of  love,  and  sings  love's  soft- 

enivj  songs. 
But,  as  our  friend  is  yet  delay'd  in  town, 
VVe  must  prepare  her  till  the  youth  comes  dowi. 
You  shall  advise  the  maiden;  I  will  threat; 
Her  fears  and  hopes  may  yield  us  comfort  yet." 

Now  the  grave  father  took  the  lass  aside, 
Demanding  sternly,  "  Wilt  thou  be  a  bride  ?" 
She  answer'd,  calling  up  an  air  sedate, 
"  I  have  not  vow'd  against  the  holy  state." 

"  No  folly,  Sybil,"  said  the  parent ;  "  know 
What  to  their  parents  virtuous  maidens  owe 
A  worthy,  wealthy  youth,  whom  I  approve, 
Must  thou  prepare  to  honour  and  to  love. 
Formal  to  thee  his  air  and  dress  may  seem, 
But  the  good  youth  is  worthy  of  esteem ; 
Shouldst  thou  with  rudeness  treat  him  ;  of  disdain 
Should  he  with  justice  or  of  slight  complain, 
Or  of  one  taunting  speech  give  certain  proof 
Girl !  I  reject  thee  from  my  sober  roof." 

"  My  aunt,"  said  Sybil,  "  will  with  pride  protect 
One  whom  a  father  can  for  this  reject ; 
Nor  shall  a  formal,  rigid,  soulless  boy 
My  manners  alter,  or  my  views  destroy!" 

Jonas  then  lifted  up  his  hands  on  high, 
\nd  uttering  something  'twixt  a  groan  and  sigh, 
Left  the  determined  maid,  her  doubtful  mother  by. 

"  Hear  me,"  she  said  ; "  i;.cline  thy  heart,  my  child, 
And  iix  thy  fancy  on  a  man  so  mild  : 
Thy  father,  Sybil,  never  could  be  moved 
By  one  who  loved  him,  or  by  one  he  loved 
Union  like  ours  is  but  a  bargain  made 
By  slave  and  tyrant — he  will  be  obey'd  ; 
Then  calls  the  quiet,  comfort; — but  thy  youth 
Is  mild  by  nature,  and  as  frank  as  truth." 

"  But  will  he  love  ?"  said  Sybil ;  "  I  am  told 
That  these  mild  creatures  are  by  nature  cold." 


"Alas  1"  the  matron  answer'd,  "  much  I  dread 
That  dangerous  love  by  which  the  young  are  led ! 
That  love  is  earttiy  ;  you  the  creature  prize, 
And  trust  your  feelings  and  believe  your  eyes' 
Can  eyes  and  feelings  inward  worth  descry  ? 
No  I  my  fair  daughter,  on  our  choice  rely  ! 
Your  love,  like  that  display'd  upon  the  stage, 
Indulged  is  folly,  and  opposed  is  rage ; — 
More  prudent  love  our  sober  couples  show, 
All  that  to  mortal  beings,  mortals  owe  ;— 
All  flesh  is  grass — before  you  give  a  heart, 
Remember,  Sybil,  that  in  death  you  part ; 
And  should  your  husband  die  before  your  love, 
What  needless  anguish  must  a  widow  prove  ! 
No  !  my  fair  child,  let  all  such  visions  cease; 
Yield  but  esteem,  and  only  try  for  peace." 

"  I  must  be  loved,"  said  Sybil ;  "  I  must  see 
The  man  in  terrors  who  aspires  to  me ; 
At  my  forb'dding  frown,  his  heart  must  ache. 
His  tongue  ir^ust  falter,  and  his  frame  must  shake  . 
And  if  I  grant  him  at  my  feet  to  kneel. 
What  trembling,  fearful  pleasure  must  he  feel ! 
Nay  I  such  the  raptures  that  my  smiles  inspire. 
That  reason's  self  must  for  a  time  retire." 

"  Alas  !  for  good  Josiah,"  said  the  dame, 
"  These  wicked  thoughts  would  fill  his  soul  with 

shame ; 
He  kneel  and  tremble  at  a  thing  of  dust! 
He  cannot,  child." — The  child  replied,  "  Ho  must." 

They  ceased  :  the  matron  left  her  with  a  frown , 
So  Jonas  met  her  when  the  youth  came  down  : 
"  Behold,"  said  he,  "  thy  future  spouse  attends ; 
Receive  him,  daughter,  as  the  best  of  1  iends ; 
Observe,  respect  him  ;  humble  be  each  word 
That  welcomes  home  thy  husband  and  thy  lord." 

Forewarn'd,  thought  Sybil,  with  a  bitter  smile, 
I  shall  prepare  my  manner  and  my  style. 

Ere  yet  Josiah  enter'd  on  his  task. 
The  father  met  him  ;  "  Deign  to  wear  a  mask 
A  few  dull  days,  Josiah — but  a  few — 
It  is  our  duty,  and  the  sex's  due  ; 
I  wore  it  once,  and  every  grateful  wife 
Repays  it  with  obedience  through  her  life  : 
Have  no  regard  to  Sybil's  dress,  have  none 
To  her  pert  language,  to  her  flippant  tone  : 
Henceforward  thou  shalt  rule  unquestion'a  and 

alone  ; 
And  she  thy  pleasure  in  thy  looks  shall  seek— 
How  she  shall  dress,  and  whether  she  may  speak. " 

A  sober  smile  return'd  the  youth,  and  said, 
"  Can  I  cause  fear,  who  am  myself  afraid  ?" 

Sybil,  meantime,  sat  thoughtful  in  her  room. 
And  often  wonder'd— "  Will  the  creature  come  ? 
Nothing  shall  tempt,  shall  force  me  to  bestow 
My  hand  upon  him,  yet  I  wish  to  know." 

The  door  unclosed,  and  she  beheld  her  sire 
Lead  in  the  youth,  then  hasten  to  retire  ; 
"  Daughter,  my  friend  :  my  daughter,  friend,"— he 

cried, 
And  gave  a  meaning  look,  and  stepp'd  aside  , 
That  look  contain'd  a  mingled  threat  and  prayer, 
"  Do  take  him,  child,— oflend  him,  if  you  dare." 

The  couple  gazed — were  silent,  and  the  maid 
Look'd  in  his  face,  to  make  the  man  afraid ; 
The  man,  unmoved,  upon  the  maiden  cast 
A  steady  view — so  salutation  pass'd :  • 
But  in  this  instant  Sybil's  eye  had  seen 
The  tall  fair  person,  and  the  still  staid  mien; 


100 


CRABBE, 


The  glow  that  temperance  o'er  the  cheek  had  spread, 
Where  the  soft  down  half  veil'd  the  purest  red  ; 
And  the  serene  deportment  that  proclaim'd 
A  heart  unspotted,  and  a  life  unhlamed  : 
But  then  with  these  she  saw  attire  too  plain, 
The    pale    brown  coat,   though   worn  without  a 

stain  ; 
The  formal  air,  and  something  of  the  pride 
That  indicates  the  wealth  it  seems  to  hide  ; 
And  look^  that  were  not,  she  conceived,  exempt 
From  a  proud  pity,  or  a  sly  contempt. 

Josiah's  eyes  had  their  employment  too, 
Engaged  and  soften'd  by  so  bright  a  view ; 
A  fair  and  meaning  face,  an  eye  of  fire. 
That  check'd  the  bold,  and  made  the  free  retire : 
But  then  with  these  he  mark'd  the  studied  dress 
And  lofty  air,  that  scorn  or  pride  express  ; 
With  that  insidious  look,  that  seem'd  to  hide 
In  an  affected  smile  the  scorn  and  pride  ; 
And  if  his  mind  the  virgin's  meaning  caught, 
He  saw  a  foe  with  treacherous  purpose  fraught — 
Captive  the  heart  to  take,  and  to  reject  it  caught. 

Silent  they  sat : — thought  Sybil,  that  he  seeks 
Something,  no  doubt;  I  wonder  if  he  speaks  : 
Scarcely  she  wonder'd,  when  these  accents  fell 
Slow  in  her  ear — "  Fair  maiden,  art  thou  well  ?" 
"  Art  thou  physician  ?"  she  replied  ;  "  my  hand. 
My  pulse,  at  least,  shall  be  at  thy  command." 

She  said — and  saw,  surprised,  Josiah  kneel, 
And  gave  his  lips  the  ofTer'd  pulse  to  feel ; 
The  rosy  colour  rising  in  her  cheek, 
Seem'd  that  surprise  unmix'd  with  wrath  to  speak  ; 
Then  sternness  she  assumed,  and — "  Doctor,  tell, 
Thy  words  cannot  alarm  me — am  I  well  ?" 
"  Thou  art,"  said  he  ;  "  and  yet  thy  dress  so  light, 
I  do  conceive,  some  danger  must  excite :" 
"  In  whom  ?"  said  Sybil,  with  a  look  demure : 
"  In  more,"  said  he,  "  than  I  expect  to  cure. 
J,  in  thy  light  luxuriant  robe,  behold 
Want  and  excess ,  abounding  and  yet  cold  ; 
Here  needed,  there  display'd,  in  many  a  wanton 

fold: 
Both  health  and  beauty,  learned  authors  show. 
From  a  just  medium  in  our  clothing  flow." 

"  Proceed,  good  doctor  ;  if  so  great  my  need. 
What  is  thy  fee  ?    Good  doctor  !  pray  proceed." 

"  Large  is  my  fee,  fair  lady,  but  I  take 
None  till  some  progress  in  my  cure  I  make  : 
Thou  hast  disease,  fair  maiden  ;  thou  art  vain  ; 
Within  that  face  sit  insult  and  disdain  ; 
Thou  art  enamour'd  of  thyself;  my  art 
Can  see  the  naughty  malice  of  thy  heart: 
With  a  strong  pleasure  would  thy  bosom  move. 
Were  I  to  own  thy  power,  and  ask  thy  love ; 
And  such  thy  beauty,  damsel,  that  T  might, 
But  for  thy  pride,  feel  danger  in  thy  sight. 
And  lose  my  present  peace  in  dreams  of  vain  de- 
light." 

"  And  can  thy  patients,'  said  the  nymph, "  endure 
Physic  like  this?  and  wil.  it  work  a  cure  ?" 

'  Such  is  my  hope,  fair  damsel ;  thou,  I  find, 
Hast  the  true  tokens  of  a  noble  mind  ; 
But  the  world  wins  thee,  Sybil,  and  thy  joys 
Are  placed  in  trifles,  fashions,  lollies,  toys ; 
Thou  hast  sought  pleasure  in  the  world  around, 
That  in  thine  own  pure  bosom  should  be  found  : 
Did  all  that  world  admire  thee,  praise,  and  love. 
Could  it  the  least  of  nature's  pains  remove  ? 


Could  it  for  errors,  follies,  sins  atone, 
Or  give  thee  comfort,  thoughtful  and  alone  ? 
It  has,  believe  me,  maid,  no  power  to  charm 
Thy  soul  from  sorrow,  or  thy  flesh  from  harm : 
Turn  then,  fair  creature,  from  a  world  of  sin. 
And  seek  the  jewel  happiness  within." 

"  Speak'st  thou  at  meeting  ?"  said  the  nymph 
"  thy  speech 
Is  that  of  mortal  very  prone  to  teach  ; 
But  wouldst  thou,  doctor,  from  the  patient  learn 
Thine  own  disease  ?— The  cure  is  thy  concern" 

"  Yea,  with  good  will."—"  Then  know,  'tis  th| 
complaint. 
That,  for  a  sinner,  thou'rt  too  much  a  saint ; 
Hast  too  much  show  of  the  sedate  and  pure, 
And  without  cause  art  formal  and  demure  : 
This  makes  a  man  unsocial,  unpolite  ; 
Odious  when  wrong,  and  insolent  if  right. 
Thou  mayst  be  good,  but  why  should  goodness  be 
Wrapt  in  a  garb  of  such  formality  ? 
Thy  person  well  might  please  a  damsel's  eye. 
In  decent  habit  with  a  scarlet  dye ; 
But,  jest  apart — what  virtue  canst  thou  trace 
In  that  broad  brim  that  hides  thy  sober  face  ? 
Does  that  long-skirted  drab,  that  over-nice 
And  formal  clothing,  prove  a  scorn  of  vice  ? 
Then  for  thine  accent — what  in  sound  can  be 
So  void  of  grace  as  dull  monotony  ? 
Love  has  a  thousand  varied  notes  to  move 
The  human  heart ; — thou  mayst  not  speak  of  lore 
Till  thou  hast  cast  thy  formal  ways  aside, 
And  those  becoming  youth  and  nature  tried  : 
Not  till  exterior  freedom,  spirit,  ease. 
Prove  it  thy  study  and  delight  to  please ; 
Not  till  these  follies  meet  thy  just  disdain. 
While  yet  thy  virtues  and  thy  worth  remain." 

"  This  is  severe ! — O !  maiden,  wilt  not  thou 
Something  for  habits,  manners,  modes,  allow  ?"— 
"  Yes !  but  allowing  much,  I  much  require, 
In  my  behalf,  for  manners,  modes,  attire  I" 

"  True,  lovely  Sybil ;  and,  this  point  agreed, 
Let  me  to  those  of  greater  weight  proceed  : 
Thy  father!" — "Nay,"  she  quickly  interposed, 
"  Good  doctor,  here  our  conference  is  closed !" 

Then  left  the  youth,  who,  lost  in  his  retreat, 
Pass'd  the  good  matron  on  her  garden-seat; 
His  looks  were  troubled,  and  his  air,  once  mild 
And  calm,  was  hurried  : — "  My  audacious  child  ."' 
Exclaim'd  the  dame,  "  I  read  what  she  has  done 
In  thy  displeasure — Ah!  the  thoughtless  one! 
But  yet,  Josiah,  to  my  stern  good  man 
Speak  of  the  maid  as  mildly  as  you  can  : 
Can  you  not  seem  to  woo  a  little  while 
The  daughter's  will,  the  father  to  beguile  ! 
So  that  his  wrath  in  time  may  wear  away ; 
Will  you  preserve  our  peace,  Josiah  ?  say." 

"  Yes !    my  good   neighbour,"  said   the  gentlo 
youth, 
"  Rely  securely  on  my  care  and  truth  ; 
And  should  thj'  comfort  with  my  efl^orls  cease, 
And  only  then — perpetual  is  thy  peace." 

The   dame  had   doubts :   she  well   his   virtue* 
knew. 
His  deeds  were  friendly,  and  his  words  were  tme 
"  But  to  address  this  vixen  is  a  task 
He  is  ashamed  to  take,  and  I  toask." 
Soon  as  the  father  from  Josiah  learn'd 
What  pass'd  with  Sybil,  he  the  truth  discem'd. 


TALES. 


'He  loves,"  the  man   exclaim'd,  "he   loves,  'tis 

plain, 
The  thoughtless  girl,  and  shall  he  love  in  vain  ? 
She  may  be  stubborn,  but  she  shall  be  tried. 
Bom  as  she  is  of  wilfulness  and  pride." 

With  anger  fraught,  but  willing  to  persuade, 
The  wrathful  father  met  the  smiling  maid 
"  Sybil,"  said  he,  "I  long,  and  yet  I  dread 
Tc  know  thy  conduct ;  hath  Josiah  fled  ? 
And,  grieved  and  fretted  by  thy  scornful  air 
For  his  lost  peace  betaken  him  to  prayer  ? 
Couldst  thou  his  pure  and  modest  mind  distress. 
By  vile  remarks  upon  his  speech,  address. 
Attire,  and  voice  V — "  All  this  I  must  confess." — 
"  Unhappy  child  !  what  labour  will  it  cost 
To  win  him  back  I" — "  I  do  not  think  him  lost." — 
"  Courts  he  then,  trifler  !  insult  and  disdain  V — 
"  No  :  but  from  these  he  courts  me  to  refrain." 
"Then  hear  me,  Sybil ;  should  Josiah  leave 
Thy  father's  house  ?" — "  My  father's  child  would 

grieve." — 
"That  is  of  grace,  and  if  he  come  again 
To  speak  of  love  ?" — "  I  might  from  grief  refrain." — 
"  Then  wilt  thou,  daughter,  our  design  embrace  ?" — 
"Can  I  resist  it,  if  it  be  of  grace  ?" 
"  Dear  child  I  in  three  plain  words  thy  mind  ex- 
press ; 
Wilt  thou  have  this  good  youth?" — "  Dear  father  ! 
yes." 


TALE  VII. 

THE   widow's   tale. 

Ah  me  !  for  aught  that  I  could  ever  read, 

Or  ever  hear  by  tale  or  history, 

The  course  of  true  love  never  did  run  smooth : 

But  either  it  was  different  in  blood, 

Or  else  misgrafted  in  respect  of  years, 

Or  else  it  stood  upon  the  choice  of  friends; 

Or  if  there  were  a  sympathy  in  choice,  ^ 

War,  death,  or  sickness  did  lay  siege  to  it. 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  act  i.  so.  I. 

O !  thou  didst  then  ne'er  love  so  heartily, 
If  thou  rememberest  not  the  slightest  folly 
That  ever  love  did  make  thee  run  into. 

As  You  Like  It,  act  ii.  sc.  4. 

Cry  the  man  mercy  ;  love  him,  take  his  offer. 

Ibid,  act  iii.  sc.  5. 

To  farmer  Moss,  in  Langar  Vale,  came  down 
His  only  daughter,  from  her  school  in  town  ; 
A  tender,  timid  ma. ::     who  knew  not  how 
To  pass  a  pig-sty,  or  to  face  a  cow  : 
Smiling  she  came,  with  petty  talents  graced, 
A  fair  complexion,  and  a  slender  waist. 

Used  to  spare  meals,  disposed  in  manner  pure, 
Her  father's  kitchen  she  could  ill  endure  ; 
Where  by  the  steaming  beef  he  hungry  sat, 
And  laid  at  once  a  pound  upon  his  plate  : 
Hot  from  the  field,  her  eager  brother  seized 
An  equal  part,  and  hunger's  rage  appeased  ; 
The  air,  surcharged  with  moisture,  flagg'd  around 
And  the  offended  damsel  sigh'd  and  frown'd  ; 
The  swelling. fat  in  lumps  conglomerate  laid, 
Vnd  fancy%  sickness  seized  the  loathing  maid  : 


But  when  the  men  beside  their  station  took, 
The  maidens  with  them,  and  with  these  the  cook 
When  one  huge  wooden  bowl  before  them  stood, 
Fill'd  with  huge  balls,  of  farinaceous  food  ; 
With  bacon,  mass  saline,  where  never  lean 
Beneath  the  brown  and  bristly  rind  was  seen 
When  from  a  single  horn  the  party  drew 
Their  copious  draughts  of  heavy  ale  and  new; 
When  the  course  cloth  she  saw,  with  many  a  stain 
Soil'd  by  rude  hinds  who  cut  and  came  again. 
She  could  not  breathe  ;  but,  with  a  heavy  sigh, 
Rein'd  the  fair  neck,  and  shut  th'  offended  eye  ; 
She  minced  the  sanguine  flesh  in  frustums  fine. 
And  wonder'd  much  to  see  the  creatures  dine  ; 
When  she  resolved  her  father's  heart  to  move, 
If  hearts  of  farmers  were  alive  to  love. 

She  now  entreated  by  herself  to  sit 
In  the  small  parlour,  if  papa  thought  fit, 
And  there  to  dine,  to  read,  to  work  alone . 
"  No  I"  said  the  farmer,  in  an  angry  tone ; 
"  These  are  your  school-taught  airs  ;  your  mother't 

pride 
Would  send  you  there ,  iv  1 1  am  now  your  guide. 
Arise  betimes,  our  early  meal  prepare. 
And  this  despatch'd,  let  business  be  your  care  ; 
Look  to  the  lasses,  let  there  not  be  one 
Who  lacks  attention,  till  her  tasks  be  done; 
In  every  household  work  your  portion  take. 
And  what  you  make  not,  see  that  others  make : 
At  leisure  times  attend  the  wheel,  and  see 
The  whitening  web  he  sprinkled  on  the  Lea ; 
When  thus  employ'd,  should  our  young  neighbour 

view 
A  useful  lass,  you  may  have  more  to  do." 
Dreadful  were  these  commands  ;  but  worse  than 
these 
The  parting  hint,  a  farmer  could  not  please : 
'Tis  true  she  had  without  abhorrence  seen 
Young  Harry  Carr,  when  he  was  smart  and  clean ; 
But  to  be  married,  be  a  farmer's  wife, 
A  slave  !  a  drudge  !  she  could  not,  for  her  life. 
With  swimming  eyes  the    fretful  nymph  withr 
drew. 
And,  deeply  sighing,  to  her  chamber  flew  ; 
There  on  her  knees,  to  Heaven  she  grieving  pray'd 
For  change  of  prospect  to  a  tortured  maid 
Harry,  a  youth  whose  late  departed  sire 
Had  left  him  all  industrious  men  require. 
Saw  the  pale  beauty  ;  and  her  shape  and  air 
Engaged  him  much,  and  yet  he  must  forbear : 
"  For  my  small  farm  what  can  the  damsel  do  ?" 
He  said  ;  then  stopp'd  to  take  another  view : 
"  Pity  so  sweet  a  lass  will  nothing  learn 
Of  househol  1  cares  ;  for  what  can  beauty  earn 
By  those  small  arts  which  they  at  school  attain. 
That  keep  them  useless,  and  yet  make  them  vain  ?* 

This  luckless  damsel  look'd  the  village  round. 
To  find  a  friend,  and  one  was  quickly  found  ; 
A  pensive  widow,  whose  mild  air  and  dress 
Pleased  the  sad  nymph,  who  wish'd  her  soul's  di» 

tress 
To  one  so  seeming  kind,  confiding,  to  confess. 

"  W^hat  lady  that  ?"  the  anxious  lass  inquired. 
Who  then  beheld  the  one  she  most  admired  : 
"  Here,"  said  the  brother,  "  are  no  ladies  seen-* 
That  is  a  widow  dwelling  on  the  green  ; 
A  dainty  dame,  who  can  but  barely  live 
On  her  poor  pittance,  yet  contrives  to  give  ; 


'^im 


CRAB  BE. 


-r'-w-irnrt- 


She  happier  days  lias  known,  but  seems  at  ease, 
And  you  may  call  her  lady,  if  you  please  : 
But  if  you  wish,  good  sister,  to  improve, 
You  shall  see  twenty  better  worth  your  love." 

These  Nancy  met ;  but,  spite  of  all  they  taught, 
This  useless  widow  was  the  one  she  sought : 
The  father  growl'd  ;  but  said  he  knew  no  harm 
In  such  connexion  that  could  give  alarm  : 
"  And  if  we  thwart  the  trifler  in  her  course, 
Tis  odds  against  us  she  will  take  a  worse." 

Then  met  the  friends  ;  the  widow  heard  the  sigh 
That  ask'd  at  once  compassion  and  reply. 
"  Would  you,  my  child,  converse  with  one  so  poor, 
Yours  were  the  kindness — yonder  is  my  door ; 
And,  save  the  time  that  we  in  public  pray, 
From  that  poor  cottage  I  but  rarely  stray." 
There  went  the  nymph,  and  mado  her  strong 
complaints, 
Painting  her  wo  as  injured  feeling  paints. 

"  O,  dearest  friend  !  do  think  how  one  must  feel, 
Shock'd  all  day  long,  and  sicken'd  every  meal  I 
Could  you  behold  our  kitchen,  (and  to  you 
A  scene  so  shocking  must  indeed  be  new,) 
A  mind  like  yours,  with  true  refinement  graced. 
Would  let  no  vulgar  scenes  pollute  your  taste  ; 
And  yet,  in  truth,  from  such  a  polish'd  mind 
All  base  ideas  must  resistance  find, 
And  sordid  pictures  from  the  fancy  pass, 
As  the  breath  startles  from  the  polish'd  glass. 

"  Here  you  enjoy  a  sweet  romantic  scene. 
Without  so  pleasant,  and  within  so  clean  ; 
These  twining  jess'mines,  what  delicious  gloom 
And  soothing  fragrance  yield  they  to  the  room  ! 
What  lovely  garden  !  there  you  oft  retire, 
And  tales  of  wo  and  tenderness  admire : 
In  that  neat  case,  your  books,  in  order  placed, 
Soothe  the  full  soul,  and  charm  the  cultured  taste  ; 
And  thus,  while  all  about  you  wears  a  charm. 
How  must  you  scorn  the  farmer  and  the  farm  !" 

The  widow  smiled,  and  "Know  you  npt,"  said  she, 
"  How  much  these  farmers  scorn  or  pity  me  ; 
Who  see  what  you  admire,  and  laugh  at  all  they 

see  ? 
True,  their  opinion  alters  not  my  fate. 
By  falsely  judging  of  an  humble  state  : 
This  garden,  you  with  such  delight  behold. 
Tempts  not  ^  feeble  dame  who  dreads  the  cold  ; 
These  plants,  which  please  so  well  your  livelier 

sense. 
To  mine  but  little  of  their  sweets  dispense  ; 
Books  soon  are  painful  to  my  failing  sight, 
And  oftener  read  from  duty  than  delight ; 
(Yet  let  me  own,  that  I  can  sometimes  find 
Both  joy  and  duty  in  the  act  combined  ;) 
But  view  me  rightly,  you  will  see  no  more 
Than  a  poor  female,  willing  to  be  poor  ; 
Happy  indeed,  but  not  in  books  nor  flowers, 
Not  in  fair  dreams,  indulged  in  earlier  hours, 
Of  never-tasted  joys  ;  such  visions  shun. 
My  youthful  friend,  nor  scorn  the  farmer's  son." 

"  Nay,"  said  the  damsel,  nothing  pleased  to  see 
\  friend's  advice  could  like  a  father's  be  ; 
'  Bless'd  in  your  cottage,  you  must  surely  smile 
At  those  who  live  in  our  detested  style  : 
To  my  Lucinda's  sympathizing  hear*, 
Could  I  my  prospects  and  my  griefs  impart, 
She  would  console  me  ;  but  I  dare  not  show 
Ills  that  would  wound  her  tender  soul  to  know  : 


And  I  confess,  it  shocks  my  pride  to  tel' 
The  secrets  of  the  prison  where  I  dwell; 
For  that  dear  maiden  would  be  shock'd  to  feel 
The  secrets  I  should  shudder  to  reveal ; 
When  told  her  friend  was  by  a  parent  ask'd, 
Fed  you  the  swine  ?  Good  heaven !  how  I  am  task'd 
What !  can  you  smile  !  Ah  !  smile  not  at  the  grieJ' 
That  woos  your  pity  and  demands  relief" 

"  Trifles,  my  love  ;  you  take  a  false  alarm  ; 
Think,  I  beseech  you,  better  of  the  farm : 
Duties  in  every  state  demand  your  care. 
And  light  are  those  that  will  require  it  there : 
Fix  on  the  youth  a  favouring  eye,  and  these. 
To  him  pertaining,  or  as  his,  will  please." 

"  What  words,"  the  lass  replied,  "  offend  my  ear 
Try  you  my  patience  ?  Can  you  be  sincere  ? 
And  am  I  told  a  willing  hand  to  give 
To  a  rude  farmer,  and  with  rustic  live? 
Far  other  fate  was  yours :  some  gentle  youth 
Admired  your  beauty,  and  avow'd  his  truth ; 
The  power  of  love  prevail'd,  and  freely  both 
Gave  the  fond  heart,  and  pledged  the  binding  oath 
And  then  the  rival's  plot,  the  parent's  power. 
And  jealous  fears,  drew  on  the  happy  hour: 
Ah  !  let  not  memory  lose  the  blissful  view. 
But  fairly  show  what  love  has  done  for  you." 

"Agreed,  my  daughter,  what  my  heart  has  known 
Of  love's  strange  power  shall  be  with  frankness 

shown : 
But  let  me  warn  you,  that  experience  finds 
Few  of  the  scenes  that  lively  hope  designs." 

"  Mysterious  all,"  said  Nancy  ;  "  you,  I  know. 
Have  sufFer'd  much  ;  now  deign  the  grief  to  show 
I  am  your  friend,  and  so  prepare  my  heart 
In  all  your  sorrows  to  receive  a  part." 

The  widow  answer'd,  "  I  had  once,  like  you, 
Such  thoughts  of  love  ;  no  dream  is  more  untrue: 
You  judge  it  fated  and  decreed  to  dwell 
In  youthful  hearts,  which  nothing  can  expel, 
A  passion  doom'd  to  reign,  and  irresistible. 
The  struggling  mind,  when  once  subdued,  in  vain 
Rejects  the  fury  or  defies  the  pain  ; 
The  strongest  reason  fails  the  flame  t'  allay, 
And  resolution  droops  and  faints  away  : 
Hence,  when  the  destined  lovers  meet,  they  prove 
At  once  the  force  of  this  all-powerful  love : 
Each  from  that  period  feels  the  mutual  smart. 
Nor  seeks  to  cure  it :  heart  is  changed  for  heart ; 
Nor  is  there  peace  till  they  delighted  stand, 
And,  at  the  altar,  hand  is  joined  to  hand. 

"Alas  I  my  child,  there  are  who,  dreaming  so. 
Waste  their  fresh  youth,  and  waking  feel  the  wo; 
There  is  no  spirit  sent  the  heart  to  move 
With  such  prevailing  and  alarming  love  ; 
Passion  to  reason  will  submit;  or  why 
Should  wealthy  maids  the  poorest  swains  deny  ? 
Or  how  could  classes  and  degrees  create 
The  slightest  bar  to  such  resistless  fate  ? 
Yet  high  and  low,  you  see,  forbear  to  mix ; 
No  beggars'  eyes  the  heart  of  kings  transfix ; 
And  who  but  amorous  peers  or  nobles  sigh 
When  titled  beauties  pass  triumphant  by  ? 
For  reason  wakes,  proud  wishes  to  reprove ; 
You  cannot  hope,  and  therefore  dare  not  love  : 
All  would  be  safe,  did  we  at  first  inquire, 
'  Does  reason  sanction  what  our  hearts  desire  V 
But  quitting  precept,  let  example  show 
What  joys  from  love  uncheck'd  by  prudence  flow 


TALES. 


10. 


"A  youth  my  father  in  his  office  placed, 
Of  humble  fortune,  but  with  sense  and  taste ; 
But  he  was  thin  and  pale,  had  downcast  looks  ; 
He  studied  much,  and  pored  upon  his  books  : 
Confused  he  was  when  seen,  and,  when  he  saw 
Me  or  my  sisters,  would  in  haste  withdraw  ; 
And  had  this  youth  departed  with  the  year, 
His  loss  had  cost  us  neither  sigh  nor  tear. 

"  But  with  my  father  still  the  youth  remain'd 
And  more  reward  and  kinder  notice  gain'd  : 
He  often,  reading,  to  the  garden  stray'd, 
Where  I  by  books  or  musing  was  delay'd  ; 
This  to  discourse  in  summer  evenings  led. 
Of  these  same  evenings,  or  of  what  we  read : 
On  such  occasions  we  were  much  alone  ; 
But,  save  the  look,  the  manner,  and  the  tone, 
(These  might  have  meaning,)  all  that  we  discuss'd 
We  could  with  pleasure  to  a  parent  trust. 

"At  length  'twas  friendship  ;  and  my  friend  and  I 
Said  we  were  happy,  and  began  to  sigh  : 
My  sisters  first,  and  then  my  father,  found 
That  we  were  wandering  o'er  enchanted  ground  ; 
But  he  had  troubles  in  his  own  affairs, 
And  would  not  bear  addition  to  his  cares  : 
J  With  pity  moved,  yet  angry,  '  Child,'  said  he, 

'  Will  you  embrace  contempt  and  beggary' 
Can  you  endure  to  see  each  other  cursed 
By  want,  of  every  human  wo  the  worst  ? 
Warring  for  ever  with  distress,  in  dread 
Either  of  begging  or  of  wanting  bread  ; 
WhI.e  poverty,  with  unrelenting  force, 
Will  your  own  offspring  from  your  love  divorce  :• 
They,  through  your  folly,  must  be  doom'd  to  pine. 
And  you  deplore  your  passion,  or  resign  ; 
Fir,  if  it  die,  what  good  will  then  remain  ? 
And  if  it  live,  it  doubles  every  pain.'  " 

"  But  you  were  true,"  exclaim'd  the  lass,  "  and  fled 
The  tyrant's  power  who  fill'd  your  soul  with  dread  1" 
"  But,"  said   the  smiling  friend,  "  he  fill'd  my 
mouth  with  bread  : 
And  in  what  other  place  that  bread  to  gain 
We  long  consider'd,  and  we  sought  in  vain 
This  was  ray  twentieth  year  :  at  thirty-five 
Our  hope  was  fainter,  yet  our  love  alive; 
So  many  years  in  anxious  doubt  had  pass'd." 
"  Then,"  said  the  damsel, "  you  were  bless'd  at  last  ?" 
A  smile  again  adorn'd  the  widow's  face. 
But  soon  a  starting  tear  usurp'd  its  place. 

"  Slow  pass'd  the  heavy  years,  and  each  had  more 
Pains  and  vexations  than  the  years  before 
My  father  fail'd  ;  his  family  was  rent, 
And  to  new  states  his  grieving  daughters  sent ; 
Each  to  more  thriving  kindred  found  a  way. 
Guests  without  welcome— servants  without  pay  ; 
Our  parting  hour  was  grievous  ;  still  I  feel 
The  sad,  sweet  converse  at  our  final  meal ; 
Our  father  then  reveal'd  his  former  fears, 
Cause  of  his  sternness,  and  then  join'd  our  tears ; 
Kindly  he  strove  our  feelings  to  repress, 
But  died,  and  left  us  heirs  to  his  distress 
The  rich,  as  humble  friends,  my  sisters  chose, 
I  with  a  wealthy  widow  sought  repose  ; 
Who  with  a  chilling  frown  her  friend  received 
Bade  me  rejoice,  and  wonder'd  that  I  grieved ; 
In  vain  my  anxious  lover  tried  his  skill 
To  rise  in  life,  he  was  dependent  still ; 
We  met  in  grief,  nor  can  I  paint  the  fears 
Of  these  unhappy,  troubled  trying  years  : 


Our  dying  hopes  and  stronger  fears  between, 
We  felt  no  season  peaceful  or  serene  ; 
Our  fleeting  joys,  like  meteors  in  the  night, 
Shone  on  our  gloom  with  inauspicious  light ; 
And  then  domestic  sorrows,  till  the  mind. 
Worn  with  distresses,  to  despair  inclined  ; 
Add  too  the  ill  that  from  the  passion  flows. 
When  its  contemptuous  frown  the  world  bestowi. 
The  peevish  spirit  caused  by  long  delay, 
When  being  gloomy  we  contemn  the  gay. 
When,  being  wretched,  we  incline  to  hate 
And  censure  others  in  a  happier  state ; 
Yet  loving  still,  and  still  compell'd  to  move 
In  the  sad  labyrinth  of  lingering  love  : 
While  you,  exempt  from  want,  despair,  alarm. 
May  wed — O !  take  the  farmer  and  the  farm." 

"Nay,"  said  the  nymph,  "joy  ssiUed  on  you  at 
last?" 
"  Smiled  for  a  moment,"  she  replied,  "  and  pasa'd  ; 
My  lover  still  the  same  dull  means  pursued. 
Assistant  call'd,  but  kept  in  servitude; 
His  spirits  wearied  in  the  prime  of  life. 
By  fears  and  wishes  in  eternal  strife ; 
At  length  he  urged  impatient, '  Now  consent  j 
With  thee  united,  fortune  may  relent.' 
I  paused,  consenting;  but  a  friend  arose, 
Pleased  a  fair  view,  though  distant,  to  disclose; 
From  the  rough  ocean  we  beheld  a  gleam 
Of  joy,  as  transient  as  the  joys  we  dream  ; 
By  lying  hopes  deceived,  my  friend  retired 
And   sail'd — was    wounded — reach'd    us — and 

expired ! 
You  shall  behold  his  grave,  and  when  I  die. 
There— but  'tis  folly — I  request  to  lie." 

"  Thus,"  said  the  lass,  "  to  joy  you  bade  adieu 
But  how  a  widow  ? — that  cannot  be  true  : 
Or  was  it  force,  in  some  unhappy  hour. 
That  placed  you,  grieving,  in  a  tyrant's  power?' 

"Force,  my  young  friend,  when  forty  years  are 
fled. 
Is  what  a  woman  seldom  has  to  dread  ; 
She  needs  no  brazen  locks  nor  guarding  walls. 
And  seldom  comes  a  lover  though  she  calls : 
Yet  moved  by  fancy,  one  approved  my  face. 
Though  time  and  tears  had  wrought  it  much  dis- 
grace. 

"  The  man  I  married  was  sedate  and  meek, 
And  spoke  of  love  as  men  in  earnest  speak : 
Poor  as  I  was,  he  ceaseless  sought,  for  years, 
A  heart  in  sorrow  and  a  face  in  tears  ; 
That  heart  I  gave  not ;  and  'twas  long  before 
I  gave  attention,  and  then  nothing  more ; 
But  in  my  breast  some  grateful  feeling  rose 
For  one  whose  love  so  sad  a  subject  chose  ; 
Till  long  delaying,  fearing  to  repent. 
But  grateful  still,  I  gave  a  cold  assent. 

"  Thus  we  were  wed;  no  fault  had  I  to  find, 
And  he  but  one  ;  my  heart  could  not  be  kind : 
Alas!  of  every  early  hope  bereft. 
There  was  no  fondness  in  my  bosom  lefl ; 
So  had  I  tpld  him,  but  had  told  in  vain. 
He  lived  but  to  indulge  me  and  complain  : 
His  was  this  cottage,  he  enclosed  this  ground. 
And  planted  all  these  blooming  shrubs  around , 
He  to  my  room  these  curious  trifles  brought. 
And  with  assiduous  love  my  pleasure  sought- 
He  lived  to  please  me,  and  I  ofttimes  strove, 
Smiling,  to  thank  his  unrequited  love : 


104 


CRABBE. 


•  Teach  me,'  he  cried,  '  that  pensive  mind  to  ease, 
For  all  my  pleasure  is  the  hope  to  please.' 

"  Serene,  though  heavy,  were  the  days  we  spent, 
Yet  kind  each  word,  and  generous  each  intent  ; 
But  his  dejection  lessen'd  every  day. 
And  to  a  placid  kindness  died  away  ; 
In  tranquil  ease  we  pass'd  our  latter  years, 
By  griefs  untroubled,  unassail'd  by  fears. 

"  Let  not  romantic  views  your  bosom  sway. 
Yield  to  your  duties,  and  their  call  obey  : 
Fly  not  a  youth,  frank,  honest,  and  sincere ; 
Observe  his  merits,  and  his  passion  hear ! 
'Tis  true,  no  hero,  but  a  farmer  sues — 
Slow  in  his  speech,  but  worthy  in  his  views ; 
With  him  you  cannot  that  affliction  prove 
That  rends  the  bosom  of  the  poor  in  love  : 
Health,  comfort,  competence,  and  cheerful  days, 
Your  friends'  approval,  and  your  father's  praise, 
Will  crown  the  deed,  and  you  escape  their  fate 
Who  plan  so  wildly,  and  are  wise  too  late." 
The  damsel  heard  ;   at  first  th'  advice  was 
strange. 
Yet  wrought  a  happy,  nay,  a  speedy  change  : 
♦  I  have  no  care,"  she  said,  when  ne.Kt  they  met, 
"  But  one  may  wonder  he  is  silent  yet ; 
He  looks  around  him  with  his  usual  stare, 
And  utters  nothing — not  that  I  shall  care." 
This  pettish   humour   pleased   th'   experienced 
friend — 
None  need  despair  whose  silence  can  offend  ; 
"  Should  I,"  resumed  the  thoughtful  lass,  "  consent 
To  hear  the  man,  the  man  may  now  repent : 
Thlnlv  you  my  sighs  shall  call  him  from  the  plough. 
Or  give  one  hint,  that  *  You  may  woo  me  now  V  " 
"  Persist,    ray  love,"  replied   the    friend,  •'  and 
gain 
A  parent's  praise,  that  cannot  be  in  vaini*' 

The  father  saw  the  change,  but  not  the  cause; 
And  gave  the  alter'd  maid  his  forid  applause  : 
The  coarser  manners  she  in  part  removed. 
In  part  endured,  improving  and  in  proved 
She  spoke  of  household  works,  she  rose  betimes, 
And  said  neglect  and  indolence  were  crimes  ; 
The  various  duties  of  their  life  she  weigh'd. 
And  strict  attention  to  her  dairy  paid  ; 
The  names  of  servants  now  familiar  grew 
And  fair  Lucindas  from  her  mind  withdrew  : 
As  prudent  travellers  for  their  ease  assume 
Their  modes  and  language  to  whose  lands  they 

come  : 
So  to  the  farmer  this  fair  lass  inclined. 
Gave  to  the  business  of  the  farm  her  mind  ; 
To  useful  arts  she  turn'd  her  hand  and  eye  ; 
And  by  her  manners  told  him—"  You  may  try." 

Th'  observing  lover  more  attention  paid. 
With  growing  pleasure,  to  the  alter'd  maid  ; 
He  fear'd  to  lose  her,  and  began  to  see 
That  a  slim  beauty  might  a  helpmate  be : 
'Twixt  hope  and  fear  he  now  the  lass  address'd, 
And  in  his  Sunday  robe  his  love  express'd  : 
She  felt  no  chilling  dread,  no  thrilling  joy. 
Nor  was  too  quickly  kind,  too  slowly  coy  ; 
But  still  she  lent  an  unreluctant  ear 
To  all  the  rural  business  of  the  year  ; 
Till  love's  strong  hopes  endured  no  more  delay, 
And  Harry  ask'd,  and  Nancy  named  the  day. 

"  A  happy  change !  my  boy,"  the  father  cried  : 
^  How  lost  vour  sister  all  her  school-day  pride  ?" 


The  youth  replied,  "It  is  the  widow's  deed : 
The   cure   is  perfect,   and   was   wr.ought  with 

speed." — 
"  And  comes  there,  boy,  this  benefit  of  books. 
Of  that  smart  dress,  and  of  those  dainty  looks  ? 
We  must  be  kind  ;  some  offerings  from  the  farm 
To  the  white  cot  will  speak  our  feelings  warm ; 
Will  show  that  people,  when  they  know  the  fact 
Where  they  have  judged  severely,  can  retract. 
Oft  have  I  smiled,  when  I  beheld  her  pass 
With  cautious  step,  as  if  she  hurt  the  grass , 
Where  if  a  snail's  retreat  she  chanced  to  storm, 
She  look'd  as  begging  pardon  of  the  worm  ; 
And  what,  said  I,  still  laughing  at  the  view. 
Have  these  weak  creatures  in  the  world  to  do  ? 
But  some  are  made  for  action,  some  to  speak ; 
And,  while  she  looks  so  pitiful  and  meek. 
Her  words  are  weighty,  though  her  nerves  are 
weak." 
Soon  told  the  village  bells  the  rite  was  done, 
That  join'd  the  school-bred  miss  and  farmer's  son  ; 
Her  former  habits  some  slight  scandal  raised. 
But  real  worth  was  soon  perceived  and  praised  ; 
She,  her  neat  taste  imparted  to  the  farm. 
And  he,  th'  improving  skill  and  vigorous  arm. 


TALE  VIIL 

THE   MOTHER. 

What  though  you  have  beauty, 
Must  you  be  therefore  proud  and  pitiless? 

As  You  Like  It,  act  iii.  sc.  5. 
I  would  not  marry  her,  though  she  were  endow'd  with 
all  that  Adam  had  left  him  before  he  transgress'd. 

Ibid. 

Wilt  thou  love  such  a  woman  1  What !  to  make  thee 
an  instrument,  airl  play  false  strains  upon  thee !— Not  to 
be  endurec 

Ibid. 
Your  son, 
As  mad  in  folly,  lack'd  the  sense  to  know 
Her  estimation  hence. 

AWs  Well  that  Ends  Well,  act  v.  sc.  3. 
Be  this  sweet  Helen's  knell : 
He  left  a  wife  whose  words  all  ears  took  captive, 
Whose  dear  perfection,  hearts  that  «corn'd  to  serve 
Humbly  call'd  mistress. 

Ibid 

There  was  a  worthy,  but  a  simple  pair, 
Who  nursed  a  daughter  fairest  of  the  fair  : 
Sons  they  had  lost,  and  she  alone  remain'd, 
Heir  to  the  kindness  they  had  all  obtain'd  ; 
Heir  to  the  fortune  they  design'd  for  all. 
Nor  had  th'  allotted  portion  then  been  small  ; 
But  now,  by  fate  enrich'd  with  beauty  rare, 
They  watch'd  their  treasure  with  peculiar  care 
The  fairest  features  they  could  early  trace. 
And,  blind  with  love,  saw  merit  in  her  face — 
Saw  virtue,  wisdom,  dignity,  and  grace  : 
And  Dorothea,  from  her  infant  years, 
Gain'd  all  her  wishes  from  their  pride  or  fears : 
She  wrote  a  billet,  and  a  novel  read. 
And  with  her  fame  her  vanity  was  fed  ; 
Each  word,  each  look,  each  action  was  a  cause 
For  flattering  wonder,  and  for  fond  applause; 
She  rode  or  danced,  and  ever  glanced  around. 
Seeking  for  praise,  and  smiling  when  she  found 


THE.      M_(D)TM]EIic 


TALES. 


lOf 


The  yielding  pair  to  her  petitions  gave 

An  humble  friend  to  be  a  civil  slave  ; 

Who  for  a  poor  support  herself  resign'd, 

To  the  base  toil  of  a  dependent  mind  : 

By  nature  cold,  our  heiress  stoop'd  to  art, 

To  gain  the  credit  of  a  tender  heart. 

Hence  at  her  door  must  suppliant  paupers  stand, 

To  bless  the  bounty  of  hei'  beauteous  hand  : 

And  now  her  education  all  complete, 

She  talk'd  of  virtuous  love  and  union  sweet ; 

She  was  indeed  by  no  soft  passion  moved. 

But  wish'd,  with  all  her  soul,  to  be  beloved. 

Here  on  the  favour'd  beauty  fortune  smiled  ; 

Her  chosen  husband  was  a  man  so  mild. 

So  humbly  temper'd,  so  intent  to  please, 

It  quite  distress'd  her  to  remain  at  ease. 

Without  a  cause  to  sigh,  without  pretence  to  tease : 

She  tried  his  patience  in  a  thousand  modes, 

And  tired  it  not  upon  the  roughest  roads. 

Pleasures  she  sought,  and,  disappointed,  sigh'd 

For  joys,  she  said,  "  to  her  alone  denied  ; 

And  she  was  "  sure  her  parents,  if  alive. 

Would  many  comforts  for  their  child  contrive." 

The  gentle  husband  bade  her  name  him  one  ; 

"No— that,"  she  answer'd,   "should   for  her  be 

done  ; 
How  could  she  say  what  pleasures  were  around  ? 
But  she  was  certain  many  might  be  found." — 
"Would  she  some   sea-port,  Weymouth,   Scarbo- 
rough, grace  ?" — 
"  He  knew  she  hated  every  watering  place." — 
"  The  town  ?" — "  What !  now  'twas  empty,  joyless, 

dull  ?" 
—"In  winter?" — "No;  she  liked  it  worse  when 

full." 
She  talk'd  of  building — "  Would  she  plan  a  room  ?" 
"  No!  she  could  live,  as  he  desired,  in  gloom." 
"  Call  then  our  friends  and    neighbours." — "  He 

might  call. 
And  they  might  come  and  fill  his  ugly  hall ; 
A  noisy  vulgar  set,  he  knew  she  scorn'd  them  all."" 
"  Then  might  their  two  dear  girls  their  time  era- 
ploy. 
And  their  improvement  yield  a  solid  joy." — 
'  So'iid  indeed  !  and  heavy — O!  the  bliss 
Of  teaching  letters  to  a  lisping  miss !" — 
"  My  dear,  my  gentle  Dorothea,  say, 
Can  I  oblige  you  ?" — "  You  may  go  away.' 

Twelve  heavy  years  this  patient  soul  sustain'd 
This  wasp's  attacks,  and  then  her  praise  obtain'd. 
Graved  on  a  marble  tomb,  where  he  at  peace 
remain'd. 
Two  daughters  wept  their  loss  ;  tlie  one  a  child 
With  a  plain  face,  strong  sense,  and  temper  mild, 
Who  keenly  felt  the  mother's  angry  taunt, 
'  Thou  art  the  image  of  thy  pious  aunt." 
Long  time  had  Lucy  wept  her  slighted  face, 
And  then  began  to  smile  at  her  disgrace. 
Her  father's  sister  who  the  world  had  seen 
Near  sixty  years  when  Lucy  saw  sixteen, 
Begg'd  the  plain  girl :  the  gracious  mother  smiled, 
And  freely  gave  her  grieved  but  passive  child  ; 
nd  with  her  elder  born,  the  beauty  bless'd, 
is  parent  rested,  if  such  minds  can  rest : 
No  miss  her  waxen  babe  could  so  admire, 
Nurse  with  such  care,  or  with  such  pride  attire  ; 
They  were  companions  meet,  with  equal  mind, 
Bless'd  with  one  love,  and  to  one  point  inclined  ; 


Beauty  to  keep,  adorn,  increase,  and  guard. 
Was  their  sole  care,  and  had  its  full  reward: 
In  rising  splendour  with  the  one  it  reign'd, 
And  in  the  other  was  by  care  sustain'd. 
The  daughter's  charms  increased,  the  parent's  y«C. 

remain'd. 
Leave  we  these  ladies  to  their  daily  care, 
To  see  how  meekness  and  discretion  fare : — 
A  village  maid,  unvex'd  by  want  or  love, 
Could  not  with  more  delight  than  Lucy  move; 
The  village  lark,  high  mounted  in  the  spring, 
Could  not  with  purer  joy  than  Lucy  sing  ; 
Her  cares  all  light,  her  pleasures  all  sincere, 
Her  duty  joy,  and  her  companion  dear ; 
In  tender  friendship  and  in  true  respect 
Lived  aunt  and  niece,  no  flattery,  no  neglect- 
They  read,  walk'd,  visited — together  pray'd. 
Together  slept  the  matron  and  the  maid  : 
There  was  such  goodness,  such  pure  nature  seen 
In  Lucy's  looks,  a  manner  so  serene  ; 
Such  harmony  in  motion,  speech,  and  air. 
That  without  fairness  she  was  more  than  fair  t 
Had  more  than  beauty  in  each  speaking  grace 
That  lent  their  cloudless  glory  to  the  face; 
Where  mild  good  sense  in  placid  looks  were 

show^n. 
And  felt  in  every  bosom  but  her  own. 
The  one  presiding  feature  in  her  mind, 
Was  the  pure  meekness  of  a  will  resign'd ; 
A  tender  spirit,  freed  from  all  pretence 
Of  wit,  and  pleased  in  mild  benevolence ; 
Bless'd  in  protecting  fondness  she  reposed, 
With  every  wish  indulged  though  undisclosed  ; 
But  love,  like  zephyr  on  the  limpid  lake, 
Was  now  the  bosom  of  the  maid  to  shake. 
And  in  that  gentle  mind  a  gentle  strife  to  make. 

Among  their  chosen  friends,  a  favour'd  few, 
The  aunt  and  niece  a  youthful  reetor  knew ; 
Who,  though  a  younger  brother,  might  address 
A  younger  sister,  fearless  of  success  : 
His  friends  a  lofty  race,  their  native  pride 
At  first  display'd,  and  their  assent  denied  ; 
But,  pleased  such  virtues  and  such  love  to  trace, 
They  own'd  she  would  adorn  the  loftiest  race. 
The  aunt,  a  mother's  caution  to  supply. 
Had  watch'd  the  youthful  priest  with  jealous  eye 
And,  anxious  for  her  charge,  had  view'd  unseen 
The  cautious^iife  that  keeps  the  conscience  cleai. 
In  all  she  found  him  all  she  wish'd  to  find, 
With  slight  exception  of  a  lofty  mind  ; 
A  certain  manner  that  express'd  desire 
To  be  received  as  brother  to  the  'squire. 
Lucy's  meek  eye  had  beam'd  with  many  a  tear, 
Lucy's  soft  heart  had  beat  with  many  a  fear, 
Before  he  told  (although  his  looks,  she  thought, 
Had  oft  confess'd)  that  he  her  favour  sought : 
But  when  he  kneel'd,  (she  wish'd  him  not  to  kneolO 
And  spoke  the  fears  and  hopes  that  lovers  feel ; 
When  too  the  prudent  aunt  herself  confess'd. 
Her  wishes  on  the  gentle  youth  would  rest ; 
The  maiden's  eye  with  tender  passion  beam'd, 
She  dwelt  with  fondness  on  the  life  she  schemed 
The  household  cares,  the  soft  and  lasting  ties 
Of  love,  with  all  his  binding  charities  ; 
Their  village  taught,  consoled,  assisted,  fed. 
Till  the  young  zealot  tears  of  pleasure  shed. 

But  would  her  mother  ?  Ah !  she  fear'd  it  wrong 
To  have  indulged  these  forward  hopes  so  long  ; 


106 


CRABBE. 


Her  mother  loved,  but  was  not  used  to  grant 
Favours  so  freely  as  her  gentle  aunt. — 
Her  gentle  aunt,  with  smiles  that  angels  wear, 
Dispell'd  her  Lucy's  apprehensive  tear  : 
Her  prudent  foresight  the  request  had  made 
To  one  whom  none  could  govern,  lew  persuade  ; 
She  doubled  much  if  one  in  earnest  wooed 
A  girl  with  not  a  single  charm  endued  ; 
The  sister's  nobler  views  she  then  declared, 
And  what  small  sum  for  Lucy  could  be  spared  ; 
"If  more  than  this  the  foolish  priest  requires, 
Tell  him,"  she  wrote,  "  to  check  his  vain  desires." 
At  length,  with  many  a  cold  expression  mix'd, 
With  many  a  sneer  on  girls  so  fondly  fix'd, 
There  came  a  promise— should  they  not  repent. 
But  take  with  grateful  minds  the  portion  meant. 
And  wait  the  sister's  day — the  mother  might  con- 
sent. 

And  here,  might  pitying  hope  o'er  truth  prevail. 
Or  love  o'er  fortune,  we  would  end  our  tale : 
For  who  more  bless'd  than  youthful  pair  removed 
From  fear  of  want— by  mutual  friends  approved — 
Short  time  to  wait,  and  in  that  time  to  live 
With  all  the  pleasures  hope  and  fancy  give  ; 
Their  equal  passion  raised  on  just  esteem, 
When  reason  sanctions  all  that  love  can  dream? 

Yes  I  reason  sanctions  what  stern  fate  denies  : 
The  early  prospect  in  the  glory  dies, 
As  the  soft  smiles  on  dying  infants  play 
In  their  mild  features,  and  then  pass  away. 

The  beauty  died,  ere  she  could  yield  her  hand 
In  the  high  marriage  by  the  mother  plann'd  : 
Who  grieved  indeed,  but  found  a  vast  relief 
In  a  cold  heart,  that  ever  warr'd  with  grief. 

Lucy  was  present  when  her  sister  died, 
Heiress  to  duties  that  she  ill  supplied  : 
There  were  no  mutual  feelings,  sister  arts, 
No  kindred  taste,»nor  intercourse  of  hearts  ; 
When  in  the  mirror  play'd  the  matron's  smile. 
The   maiden's   thoughts  were   travelling   all  the 

while  ; 
And  when  desired  to  speak,  she  sigh'd  to  find 
Her  pause  offended  ;  "  Envy  made  her  blind  : 
Tasteless  she  was,  nor  had  a  claim  in  life 
Above  the  station  of  a  rector's  wife  ; 
Yet  as  an  heiress,  she  must  shun  disgrace. 
Although  no  heiress  to  her  mother's  face  : 
It  is  your  duty,"  said  th'  imperious  dame, 
("  Advanced  your  fortune,)  to  advance  your  name. 
And  with  superior  rank,  superior  offers  claim: 
Your  sister's  lover,  when  his  sorrows  die, 
May  look  upon  you,  and  for  favour  sigh 
Nor  can  you  offer  a  reluctant  hand  ; 
His  birth  is  noble,  and  his  seat  is  grand." 

Alarm'd  was  Lucy,  was  in  tears  ;  "  A  fool ! 
Was  she  a  child  in  love  ?  a  miss  at  school  ? 
Doubts  any  mortal,  if  a  change  of  state 
Dissolves  all  claims  and  ties  of  earlier  date?" 

The  rector  doubted,  for  he  came  to  mourn 
A  sister  dead,  and  with  a  wife  return  : 
Lucy  with  heart  unchanged  received  the  youth, 
True  in  herself,  confiding  in  his  truth  ; 
'lut  own'd  her  mother's  change  :  the  haughty  dame 
Pour'd  strong  contempt  upon  the  youthful  flame  ; 
She  firmly  vow'd  her  purpose  to  pursue. 
Judged  her  own  cause,  and  bade  the  youth  adieu ! 
The  lover  begg'd,  insisted,  urged  his  pain. 
His  brother  wrote  \o  threaten  and  complain. 


Her  sister,  reasoning,  proved  the  promise  made, 
Lucy  appealing  to  a  parent  pray'd  ; 
But  all  opposed  th'  event  that  she  design'd, 
And  all  in  vain ;  she  never  changed  her  mind, 
But  coldly  answer'd  in  her  wonted  way. 
That  she  "  would  rule,  and  Lucy  must  obey." 

With  peevish  fear,  she  saw  her  health  decline^ 
And  cried,  "  O !  monstrdus,  for  a  man  to  pine ; 
But  if  your  foolish  heart  must  yield  to  love. 
Let  him  possess  it  whom  I  now  approve  ; 
This  is  my  pleasure."— Still  the  rector  came 
With  larger  offers  and  with  bolder  claim ; 
But  the  stern  lady  would  attend  no  more  , 
She  frown'd,  and  rudely  pointed  to  the  door, 
Whate'er  he  wrote,  he  saw  unread  return'd. 
And  he,  indignant,  the  dishonour  spurn'd  ; 
Nay,  fix'd  suspicion  where  he  might  confide, 
And  sacrificed  his  passion  to  his  pride. 

Lucy,  meantime,  though  threaten'd  and  distress'd 
Against  her  marriage  made  a  strong  protest : 
All  was  domestic  war  ;  the  aunt  rebell'd 
Against  the  sovereign  will,  and  was  expell'd , 
And  every  power  was  tried,  and  every  art, 
To  bend  to  falsehood  one  determined  heart , 
Assail'd,  in  patience  it  received  the  shock, 
Soft  as  the  wave,  unshaken  as  the  rock  : 
But  while  th'  unconquer'd  soul  endures  the  storm 
Of  angry  fate,  it  preys  upon  the  form  ; 
With  conscious  virtue  she  resisted  still. 
And  conscious  love  gave  vigour  to  her  will 
But  Lucy's  trial  was  at  hand  ;  with  joy 
The  mother  cried,  "  Behold  your  constant  boy- 
Thursday — was  married  :  take  the  paper,  sweet. 
And  read  the  conduct  of  your  reverend  cheat ; 
See  with  what  pomp  of  coaches,  in  what  crowd 
The  creature  married — of  his  falsehood  proud! 
False,  did  I  say  ? — at  least  no  whining  fool  j 
And  thus  will  hopeless  passions  ever  cool : 
But  shall  his  bride  your  single  state  reproach  ? 
No!    give  him  crowd  for  crowd,  and  coach  foi 

coach. 
O !  you  retire ;  reflect  then,  gentle  miss. 
And  gain  some  spirit  in  a  cause  like  this." 

Some  spirit  Lucy  gain'd  ;  a  steady  soul. 
Defying  all  persuasion,  all  control : 
In  vain  reproach,  derision,  threats  were  tried  ; 
The  constant  mind  all  outward  force  defied, 
By  vengeance   vainly  urged,  in  vain  assail'd  by 

pride ; 
Fix'd  in  her  purpose,  perfect  in  her  part, 
She  felt  the  courage  of  a  wounded  heart ; 
The,  world  receded  from  her  rising  view. 
When  Heaven  approach'd  aa  earthly  things  with. 

drew ; 
Not  strange  before,  for  in  the  days  of  love, 
Joy,  hope,  and  pleasure,  she  had  thoughts  above; 
Pious  when  most  of  worldly  prospects  fond. 
When  they  best  pleased  her  she  could  look  beyond 
Had  the  young  priest  a  faithful  lover  died 
Something  had  been  her  bosom  to  divide ; 
Now  Heaven  had  all,  for  in  her  holiest  views 
She  saw  the  matron  whom  she  fear'd  to  lose  ; 
While  from  her  parent,  the  dejected  maid 
Forced  the  unpleasant  thought,  or  thinking  pray'd 

Surprised,  the  mother  saw  the  languid  frame. 
And  felt  indignant,  yet  forbore  to  blame  : 
Once  with  a  frown  she  cried,  "  And  do  you  mean 
To  die  of  love— the  folly  of  fifteen  ?" 


TALES. 


107 


But  as  her  anger  met  with  no  reply, 

She  let  the  gentle  girl  in  quiet  die  ; 

And  to  her  sister  wrote  impell'd  by  pain, 

"  Come  quickly,  Martha,  or  you  come  in  vain." 

Lucy  meantime  profess'd,  with  joy  sincere. 

That  nothing  held,  employ'd,  engaged  her  here. 

"  I  am  an  humble  actor,  doom'd  to  play 
A  part  obscure,  and  then  to  glide  away  ; 
Incurious  how  the  great  or  happy  shine, 
Or  who  have  parts  obscure  and  sad  as  mine  ; 
In  its  best  prospect  I  but  wish'd,  for  life, 
To  be  th'  assiduous,  gentle,  useful  wife  ; 
That  lost,  with  wearied  mind,  and  spirit  poor, 
I  drop  my  efforts,  and  can  act  no  more  ; 
With  growing  joy  I  feel  my  spirits  tend 
To  that  last  scene  where  all  my  duties  end." 
Hope,  ease,   delight,   the    thoughts   of  dying 
gave. 
Till  Lucy  spoke  with  fondness  of  the  grave  ; 
She  smiled  with  wasted  form,  but  spirit  firm, 
And  said,  "  She  left  but  little  for  the  worm." 
As  toird  the  bell,  "  There's  one,"  she  said,  "  hath 

press'd 
A  while  before  me  to  the  bed  of  rest ;" 
And  she  Jbeside  her  with  attention  spread 
The  decorations  of  the  maiden  dead. 

While  quickly  thus  the  mortal  part  declined, 
The  happiest  visions  fill'd  the  active  mind  ; 
A  soft,  religious  melancholy  gain'd 
Entire  possession,  and  for  ever  reign'd  , 
On  holy  writ  her  mind  reposing  dwelt, 
She  saw  the  wonders,  she  the  mercies  felt ; 
Till  in  a  bless'd  and  glorious  re  very, 
She  seem'd  the  Saviour  as  on  earth  to  see. 
And,  fill'd  with  love  divine,  th'  attending  friend 

to  be  ; 
Or  she  who  trembling,  yet  confiding,  stole 
Near  to  the  garment,  touch'd  it,  and  was  whole ; 
When,  such  th'  intenseness  of  the  working  thought, 
On  her  it  seem'd  the  very  deed  was  wrought ; 
She  the  glad  patient's  fear  and  rapture  found, 
The  holy  transport,  and  the  healing  wound ; 
This  was  so  fix'd,  so  grafted  in  the  heart, 
Tha.t  she  adopted,  nay  became  the  part  : 
But  one  chief  scene  was  present  to  her  sight, 
Her  Saviour  resting  in  the  tomb  by  night; 
Her  fever  rose,  and  still  her  wedded  mind 
Was  to  that  scene,  that  hallow'd  cave,  confined  ; 
Where  in  the  shade  of  death  the  body  laid, 
There    watched   the   spirit  of  the    wandering 

maid ; 
Hei  looks  were  fix'd,  entranced,  illumed,  serene, 
In  the  still  glory  of  the  midnight  scene. 
There  at  her  Saviour's  feet,  in  visions  bless'd, 
Th'  enraptured  maid  a  sacred  joy  possess'd; 
In  patience  waiting  for  the  first-born  ray 
Of  that  all-glorious  and  triumphant  day. 
To  this  idea  all  her  soul  she  gave. 
Her  mind  reposing  by  the  sacred  grave  ; 
Then  sleep  would  seal  the  eye,  the  vision  close, 
And  steep  the  solemn  thoughts  in  brief  repose. 

Then  grew  the  soul  serene,  and  all  its  powers 
Again  restored  illumed  the  dying  hours  ; 
But  reason  dwelt  where  fancy  stray 'd  before. 
And  the  mind  wander'd  from  its  views  no  more  ; 
Till  death  approach'd,  when  every  look  express'd 
A  sense  of  blissi  till  every  sense  had  rest. 


The  mother  lives,  and  has  enough  to  buy 
Th'  attentive  ear  and  the  submissive  eye 
Of  abject  natures — these  are  daily  told. 
How  triumph'd  beauty  in  the  days  of  old; 
How,  by  her  window  seated,  crowds  have  cast 
Admiring  glances,  wondering  as  they  pass'd  ; 
How  from  her  carriage  as  she  stepp'd  to  pray. 
Divided  ranks  would  humbly  make  her  way ; 
And  how  each  voice  in  the  astonish'd  throng 
Pronounced  her  peerless  as  she  moved  along. 

Her  picture  then  the  greedy  dame  displays, 
Touch'd  by  no  shame,  she  now  demands  its  praise 
In  her  tall  mirror  then  she  shows  a  face. 
Still  coldly  fair  with  unaffecting  grace  ; 
These  she  compares,  "  It  has  the  form,"  she  criea 
"  But  wants  the  air,  the  spirit,  and  the  eyes ; 
This,  as  a  likeness,  is  correct  and  true. 
But  there  alone  the  living  grace  we  view." 
This  said,  th'  applauding  voice  the  dame  required, 
And,  gazing,  slowly  from  the  glass  retired. 


TALE  IX. 

ARABELLA. 

Thrice  blessed  they  that  master  so  their  blood — 
But  earthly  happier  is  the  rose  distill'd, 
Than  that,  which,  withering  on  the  virgin  thorn 
Grows,  lives,  and  dies  in  single  blessedness. 

Midsummer  Night's  Dream,  act  i.  sc.  1. 

I  sometimes  do  excuse  the  thing  I  hate. 
For  his  advantage  whom  I  dearly  love.         * 

Measure  for  Measure,  act  ii.  bc  4. 

Contempt,  farewell !  and  maiden  pride,  adieu ! 

Ihd. 

Of  a  fair  town  where  Doctor  Rack  was  guide, 

His  only  daughter  was  the  boast  and  pride  ; 

Wise  Arabella,  yet  not  wise  alone, 

She  like  a  bright  and  polish'd  brilliant  shone  ; 

Her  father  own'd  her  for  his  prop  and  stay. 

Able  to  guide,  yet  willing  to  obey  ; 

Pleased  with  her  learning  while  discourse  could 

please. 
And  with  her  love  in  languor  and  disease  ; 
To  every  mother  were  her  virtues  known. 
And  to  their  daughters  as  a  pattern  shown  ; 
Who  in  her  youth  had  all  that  age  requires. 
And  with  her  prudence,  all  that  youth  admires. 
These  odious  praises  made  the  damsels  try 
Not  to  obtain  such  merits,  but  deny  ; 
For,  whatsoever  wise  mammas  might  say. 
To  guide  a  daughter  this  was  not  the  way ;  4. 

From  such  applaus*  disdain  and  anger  rise. 
And  envy  lives  where  emulation  dies. 
In  all  his  strength  contends  the  noble  horse. 
With  one  who  just  precedes  him  on  the  course; 
But  when  the  rival  flies  too  far  before, 
His  spirit  fails,  and  he  attempts  no  more. 

This  reasoning  maid,  above  her  sex's  dread.' 
Had  dared  to  read,  and  dared  to  say  she  read ; 
Not  the  last  novel,  not  the  new-born  play  ; 
Not  the  mere  trash  and  scandal  of  the  day ; 
But,  (though  her  young  companions  felt  the  shocK, 
She  studied  Berkeley,  Bacon,  Hobbes,  and  Locke 


108 


CRABBE. 


Her  mind  within  the  maze  of  history  dwelt, 
And  of  the  moral  muse  the  beauty  felt ! 
The  merits  of  the  Roman  page  she  knew, 
And  could  converse  with  Moore  and  Montagu : 
Thus  she  became  the  wonder  of  the  town, 
From  that  she  reap'd,  to  that  she  gave  renown, 
And  strangers  coming,  all  were  taught  t'  admire 
The  learned  lady,  and  the  lofty  spire. 

Thus  fame  in  public  fix'd  the  maid,  where  all 
Might  throw  their  darts,  and  see  the  idol  fall ; 
A  hundred  arrows  came  with  vengeance  keen, 
From  tongues  envenom'd,  and  from  arms  unseen ; 
A  thousand  eyes  were  fix'd  upon  the  place. 
That,  if  she  fell,  she  might  not  fly  disgrace: 
But  malice  vainly  throws  the  poison'd  dart, 
Unless  our  fraiHy  shows  the  peccant  part ; 
And  Arabella  still  preserved  her  name 
ITntouch'd,  and  shone  with  undisputed  fame ; 
Her  very  notice  some  respect  would  cause, 
And  her  esteem  was  honour  and  applause. 

Men  she  avoided  ;  not  in  childish  fear. 
As  if  she  thought  some  savage  foe  was  near ; 
Not  as  a  prude,  who  hides  that  man  should  seek. 
Or  who  by  silence  hints  that  they  should  speak  ; 
But  with  discretion  all  the  sex  she  view'd. 
Ere  yet  engaged,  pursuing,  or  pursued  ; 
Ere  love  had  made  her  to  his  vices  blind 
Or  hid  the  favourite's  failings  from  her  mind. 

Thus  wf^s  the  picture  of  the  man  portray'd. 
By  merit  destined  for  so  rare  a  maid  : 
\t  whose  request  she  might  exchange  her  state. 
Or  still  be  happy  in  a  virgin's  fate. 

He  must  be  one  with  manners  like  her  own, 
His  life  unquestion'd,  his  opinions  known  ; 
His  stainless  virtue  must  all  tests  endure. 
His  honour  spotless,  and  his  bosom  pure  ; 
She  no  allowance  made  for  sex  or  times. 
Of  lax  opinion — crimes  were  ever  crimes; 
No  wretch  forsaken  must  his  frailty  curse. 
No  spurious  offspring  drain  his  private  purse  : 
He  at  all  times  his  passions  must  command. 
And  yet  possess,  or  be  refused  her  hand. 

All  this  without  reserve  the  maiden  told, 
And  some  began  to  weigh  the  rector's  gold ; 
To  ask  what  sum  a  prudent  man  might  gain. 
Who  had  such  store  of  virtues  to  maintain. 

A  Doctor  Campbell,  north  of  Tweed,  came  forth. 
Declared  his  passion,  and  proclaim'd  his  worth  ; 
Not  unapproved,  for  he  had  much  to  say 
On  every  cause,  and  in  a  pleasant  way ; 
Not  all  his  trust  was  in  a  pliant  tongue. 
His  form  was  good,  and  ruddy  he,  and  young  : 
But  though  the  doctor  was  a  man  of  parts. 
He  read  not  deeply  male  or  female  hearts  ; 
But  judged  that  all  whom  he  esteem'd  as  wise. 
Must  think  alike,  though  some  assumed  disguise; 
That  every  reasoning  Brahmin,  Christian,  Jew, 
Of  all  religions  took  their  liberal  view; 
And  of  her  own,  no  doubt,  this  learned  maid 
Denied  the  substance,  and  the  forms  obey'd  ; 
And  thus  persuaded,  he  his  thoughts  express'd 
Of  her  opinions,  and  his  own  profess'd 
"  A/x  states  demand  this  aid,  the  vulgar  need 
Their  priests  and  prayers,  their  sermons  and  their 

creed  ; 
And  those  of  stronger  minds  should  never  speak 
(In  his  opinion)  what  might  hurt  the  weak  : 


A  man  may  smile,  but  still  he  should  attend 
His  hour  at  church,  and  be  the  church's  friend, 
What  there  he  thinks  conceal,  and  what  he  hears 

commend." 
Frank   was   the  speech,  but  heard  with  higl 

disdain. 
Nor  had  the  doctor  leave  to  speak  again ; 
A  man  who  own'd,  nay,  gloried  in  deceit, 
"  He  might  despise  her,  but  he  should  not  cheat." 
Then  Vicar  Holmes  appear'd  ;  he  heard  it  said. 
That  ancient  men  best  pleased  the  prudent  maid  ; 
And  true  it  was  her  ancient  friends  she  loved. 
Servants  when  old  she  favour'd  and  approved  ; 
Age  in  her  pious  parents  she  revered, 
And  neighbours  were  by  length  of  days  endear'd , 
But,  if  her  husband  too  must  ancient  De, 
The  good  old  vicar  found  it  was  not  he. 

On  Captain  Bligh  her  mind  in  balance  hung — 
Though   valiant,    modest;    and    reserved,  though 

ycung; 
Against  these  tnerits  must  defects  be  set — 
Though  poor,  imprudent;   and    though  proud,  in 

debt. 
In  vain  the  captain  close  attention  paid  ; 
She  found  him  wanting,  whom  she  fairly*weigh'd 
Then  came  a  youth,  and  all  their  friends  agreed, 
That  Edward  Huntly  was  the  man  indeed ; 
Respectful  duty  he  had  paid  a  while, 
Then  ask'd  her  hand,  and  had  a  gracious  smile : 
A  lover  now  declared,  he  led  the  fair 
To  woods  and  fields,  to  visits  and  to  prayer; 
Then  whisper'd  softly,  "  Will  you  name  the  day?* 
She  softly  whisper'd,  "  If  you  love  me,  stay." 
"  O  I  try  me  not  beyond  my  strength  "  he  cried. 
"  O  !  be  not  weak,"  the  prudent  maid  replied  : 
"  But  by  some  trial  your  affection  prove — 
Respect  and  not  impatience  argues  love  : 
And  love  no  more  is  by  impatience  known. 
Than  ocean  s  depth  is  by  its  tempests  shown  : 
He  whom  a  weak  and  fond  impatience  sways, 
But  for  himself  with  all  his  fervour  prays. 
And  not  the  maid  he  wooes,  but  his  own   will 

obeys ; 
And  will  she  love  the  being  who  prefers, 
With  so  much  ardour,  his  desire  to  hers  ?" 
Young  Edward  grieved,  but  let  not  grief  be 

seen ; 
He  knew  obedience  pleased  his  fancy's  queen. 
A  while  he  waited,  and  then  cried,  "  Behold  I 
The  year  advancing,  be  no  longer  cold  I" 
For  she  had  promised — "  Let  the  flowers  appear. 
And  I  will  pass  with  thee  the  smiling  year." 
Then  pressing  grew  the  youth ;   the  more  he 

press'd, 
The  less  inclined  the  maid  to  his  request : 
"  Let  June  arrive." — Alas  !  when  April  came, 
It  brought  a  stranger,  and  the  stranger,  shame  ; 
Nor  could  the  lover  from  his  house  persuade 
A  stubborn  lass  whom  he  had  mournful  made  : 
Angry  and  weak,  by  thoughtless  vengeance  moved 
She  told  her  story  to  the  fair  beloved  , 
In  strongest  words  th'  unwelcome  truth  was  shown 
To  blight  his  prospects,  careless  of  her  own. 

Our  heroine  grieved,  but  had  too  firm  a  heart 
For  him  to  soften,  when  she  swore  to  part ; 
In  vain  his  seeming  penitence  and  prayer. 
His  vows,  his  tears  ;  she  left  him  in  despair : 


TALES. 


109 


His  mother  fondly  laid  her  grief  aside, 
And  to  the  reason  of  the  nymph  applied — 
"  It  well  becomes  thee,  lady,  to  appear, 
But  not  to  be,  in  very  truth,  severe  ; 
Although  the  crime  be  odious  in  thy  sight, 
That  darmg  sex  is  taught  such  things  to  slight, 
His  heart  is  thine,  although  it  once  was  frail  ; 
Think  of  his  grief,  and  let  his  love  prevail  1" 

"  Plead  thou  no  more,"  the  lofty  lass  return'd  ; 
"Forgiving  woman  is  deceived  and  spurn'd  : 
Say  that  the  crime  is  common  ;  shall  I  take 
A  common  man  my  wedded  lord  to  make  ? 
See!  a  weak  woman  by  his  arts  betray 'd, 
An  infant  born  his  father  to  upbraid  ; 
Shall  I  forgive  his  vileness,  take  his  name. 
Sanction  his  error,  and  partake  his  shame  ? 
No !  this  assent  would  kindred  frailty  prove, 
A  love  for  him  would  be  a  vicious  love  : 
Can  a  chaste  maiden  secret  counsel  hold 
With  one  whose  crime  by  every  mouth  is  told  ? 
Forbid  it  spirit,  prudence,  virtuous  pride  ; 
He  must  despise  me,  were  he  not  denied  : 
The  way  from  vice  the  erring  mind  to  win. 
Is  with  presuming  sinners  to  begin. 
And  show,  by  scorning  them,  a  just  contempt  for 
sin." 
The  youth,  repulsed,  to  one  more  mild  convey'd 
His  heart,  and  smiled  on  the  remorseless  maid  ; 
The  maid,  remorseless  in  her  pride,  the  while 
Despised  the  insult,  and  return'd  the  smile. 
First  to  admire,  to  praise  her,  and  defend, 
Was  (now  in  years  advanced)  a  virgin  friend  : 
Much  she  preferr'd,  she  cried,  a  single  state, 
"  It  was  her  choice," — it  surely  was  her  fate  ; 
And  much  it  pleased  her  in  the  train  to  view 
A  maiden  vot'ress,  wise,  and  lovely  too. 

Time  to  the  yielding  mind  his  change  imparts, 
He  varies  notions,  and  he  alters  hearts  ; 
'Tis  right,  'tis  just  to  feel  contempt  for  vice, 
But  he  that  shows  it  may  be  over-nice  : 
There   are  who  feel,  when  young,  the  false  sub- 
lime. 
And  proudly  love  to  show  disdain  for  crime , 
To  whom  the  future  will  new  thoughts  supply, 
The  pride  will  soften,  and  the  scorn  will  die  ; 
Nay,  where  they  still  the  vice  itself  condemn, 
They  bear  the  vicious,  and  consort  with  them : 
Young  Captain  Grove,  when  one  had  changed  his 

side. 
Despised  the  venal  turn-coat,  and  defied  ; 
Old  Colonel  Grove  now  shakes  him  by  the  hand. 
Though  he  who  bribes  may  still  his  vote  command  : 
Why  would  not  Ellen  to  Belinda  speak, 
When  she  had  flown  to  London  for  a  week ; 
And  then  return'd,  to  every  friend's  surprise 
With  twice  the  spirit,  and  with  half  the  size  ? 
She  spoke  not  then  ;  but  after  y'ears  had  flown, 
A  better  friend  had  Ellen  never  known  : 
Was  it  the  lady  her  mistake  had  seen? 
Or  had  she  also  such  a  journey  been  ? 
No  :  'twas  the  gradual  change  in  human  hearts, 
That  time,  in  commerce  with  the  world,  imparts ; 
That  on  the  roughest  temper  throws  disguise, 
And  steals  from  virtue  her  asperities. 
The  young  and  ardent,  who  with  glowing  zeal 
Felt  wrath  for  trifles,  and  were  proud  to  feel 
Now  find  those  trifles  all  the  mind  engage. 
To  sootne  dull  hours,  and  cheat  the  cares  of  age  ; 


As  young  Zelinda,  in  her  quaker  dress, 
Disdain'd  each  varying  fashion's  vile  excess ; 
And  now  her  friends  on  old  Zelinda  gaze, 
Pleased  in  rich  silks  and  orient  gems  to  blaze- 
Changes  like  these  'tis  folly  to  condemn. 
So  virtue  yields  not,  nor  is  changed  by  them. 
Let  us  proceed  :  twelve  brilliant  years  were 
past, 
Yet  each  with  less  of  glory  than  the  last; 
Whether  these  years  to  this  fair  virgin  gave 
A  softer  mind — effect  they  often  have  ; 
Whether  the  virgin  state  was  not  so  bless'd 
As  that  good  maiden  in  her  zeal  profess'd  ; 
Or  whether  lovers  falling  from  her  train. 
Gave  greater  price  to  those  she  could  retain, 
Is  all  unknown  ; — but  Arabella  now 
Was  kindly  listening  to  a  merchant's  vow; 
Who  oflfer'd  terms  so  fair,  against  his  love 
To  strive  was  folly,  so  she  never  strove  ; 
Man  in  his  earlier  days  we  often  find 
With  a  too  easy  and  unguarded  mind  ; 
But  by  increasing  years  and  prudence  taught, 
He  grows  reserved,  and  locks  up  every  thought: 
Not  thus  the  maiden,  for  in  blooming  youth 
She  hides   her   thought,  and   guards   the   tendel 

truth  : 
This,  when  no  longer  young,  no  more  she  hides. 
But  frankly  in  the  favour'd  swain  confides  : 
Man,  stubborn  man,  is  like  the  growing  tree, 
That  longer  standing,  still  will  harder  b^ 
And  like  its  fruit  the  virgin,  first  austere. 
Then  kindly  softening  with  the  ripening  year. 

Now  was  the  lover  urgent,  and  the  kind 
And  yielding  lady  to  his  suit  inclined  : 
"  A  little  time,  my  friend,  is  just,  is  right ; 
We  must  be  decent  in  our  neighbours'  sight :" 
Still  she  allow'd  him  of  his  hopes  to  speak, 
And  in  compassion  look  oflfweek  by  week  ; 
Till  few  remain'd,  when,  wearied  with  delay, 
She  kindly  meant  to  take  oflT  day  by  day. 

That  female  friend  who  gave  our  virgin  praise 
For  flying  man  and  all  his  treacherous  ways, 
Now  heard  with  mingled  anger,  shame,  and  fear. 
Of  one  accepted,  and  a  wedding  near  ; 
But  she  resolved  again,  with  friendly  zeal. 
To  make  the  maid  her  scorn  of  wedlock  feel ; 
For  she  was  grieved  to  find  her  work  utidone, 
And  like  a  sister  mourn'd  the  failing  nun. 

Why  are  these  gentle  maidens  prone  to  make  . 
Their  sister  doves  the  tempting  world  forsake  ? 
Why  all  their  triumph  when  a  maid  disdains 
The  tyrant  sex,  and  scorns  to  wear  its  chains  ? 
Is  it  pure  joy  to  see  a  sister  flown 
From   the  false  pleasures   they  themselves  have 

known  ? 
Or  do  they,  as  the  call-birds  in  the  cage. 
Try,  in  pure  envy,  others  to  engage  ; 
And  therefore  paint  their  native  woods  and  groves, 
As  scenes  of  dangerous  joys  and  naughty  loves? 
Strong  was  the  maiden's  hope :  her  friend  waa 
proud. 
And  had  her  notions  to  the  world  avow'd ; 
And,  could  she  find  the  merchant  weak  and  fraij 
With  power  to  prove  it,  then  she  must  prevail 
For  she  aloud  would  publish  his  disgrace. 
And  save  his  victim  from  a  man  so  base. 

When  all  inquiries  had  been  duly  made, 
Came  the  kind  friend  her  burden  to  unlade. 


1^ 


CRABBE. 


"  Alas !  my  dear !  not  all  our  care  and  art 
Can  tread  the  maze  of  man's  deceitful  heart: 
Look  not  surprise,  nor  let  resentment  swell 
Those  lovely  features,  all  will  yet  be  well ; 
And  thou,  from  love's  and  man's  deceptions  free, 
Wilt  dwell  in  virgin  state,  and   walk  to  heaven 
with  me." 

The  maiden  frown'd,  and  then  conceived  "  that 
wives 
Could  walk  as  well,  and  lead  as  holy  lives 
As  angry  prudes  who  scorn'd  the  marriage-chain, 
Or  luckless  maids  who  sought  it  still  in  vain." 

The  friend  was  vex'd  5  she  paused,  at  length  she 
cried, 
"  Know  your  own  danger,  then  your  lot  decide  ; 
Thaftraitor,  Besweil,  while  he  seeks  your  hand, 
Has,  I  affirm,  a  wanton  at  command  ; 
A  slave,  a  creature  from  a  foreign  place. 
The  nurse  and  mother  of  a  spurious  race  , 
Brown,  ugly  bastards — (Heaven  the  word  forgive, 
And  the  deed  punish !) — in  his  cottage  live  ; 
To  town  if  business  calls  him,  there  he  stays. 
In  sinful  pleasures  wasting  countless  days  ; 
Nor  doubt  the  facts,  for  I  can  witness  call 
For  every  crime,  and  prove  them  one  and  all." 

Here  ceased  th'  informer  ;  Arabella's  look 
Was  like  a  schoolboy's  puzzled  by  his  book ; 
Intent  she  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  floor. 
Paused — then  replied — 

"  I  wish  to  know  no  more  : 
I  question  not  your  motive,  zeal,  or  love. 
But  must  decline  such  dubious  points  to  prove : 
All  is  not  true,  I  judge,  for  who  can  guess 
Those  deeds  of  darkness  men  with  care  suppress? 
He  brought  a  slave,  perhaps,  to  England's  coast, 
And  made  her  free  ;  it  is  our  country's  boast ! 
And  she  perchance  too  grateful — good  and  ill 
Were  sown  at  first,  and  grow  together,  still ; 
The  colour'd  infants  on  the  village  green. 
What  are  they  more  than  we  have  often  seen  ? 
Children  half-clothed  who  round  their  village  stray. 
In  sun  or  rain,  now  starved,  now  beaten,  they 
Will  the  dark  colour  of  their  fate  betray  : 
Let  us  in  Christian  love  for  all  account, 
And  then  behold  to  what  such  tales  amount." 

"  His  heart  is  evil,"  said  th'  impatient  friend 
"  My  duty  bids  me  try  that  heart  to  mend," 
Replied  the  virgin  :   "  we  may  be  too  nice, 
And  lose  a  soul  in  our  contempt  of  vice  ; 
If  false  the  charge,  I  then  shall  show  regard 
For  a  good  man,  and  be  his  just  reward  : 
And  what  for  virtue  can  I  better  do 
Than  to  reclaim  him,  if  the  charge  be  true  ?" 

She  spoke,  nor  more  he.^  loly  work  delay'd  ; 
'Twas  time  to  lend  an  erring  mortal  aid  : 
"  The  noblest  way,"  she  judged,  "  a  soul  to  win. 
Was  with  an  act  of  kindness  to  begin, 
To  make  the  sinner  sure,  and  then  t'  attack  the  sin."* 


*  As  the  author's  purpose  in  this  tale  may  be  mistaken, 
he  wishes  to  observe,  that  conduct  like  that  of  the  lady's 
here  described,  must  be  meritorious  or  censurable,  just 
as  the  motives  to  it  are  pure  or  selfish  ;  that  these  mo- 
tives may  in  a  great  measure  be  concealed  from  the  mind 
of  the  agent ;  and  that  we  often  take  credit  to  our  virtue  for 
actions  which  spring  originally  from  our  tempers,  incli- 
nations, or  our  indifference.  It  cannot  therefore  be  im- 
proper, much  less  immoral,  to  give  an  instance  of  such 
■elf-d-3ception. 


TALE  X. 

THE  lover's  journey. 

The  sun  is  in  the  heavens,  and  the  proud  da/. 
Attended  with  the  pleasures  of  the  world', 
Is  all  too  wanton. 

King  John,  act  iii.  sc.  3L 

The  lunatic,  the  lover,  and  the  poet, 
Are  of  imagination  all  compact. 

Midsummer  NighVs  Dream. 
O  !  how  the  spring  of  love  resembleth 

Th'  uncertain  glory  of  an  April  day, 
Which  now  shows  all  her  beauty  to  the  sun, 

And  by-and-by  a  cloud  bears  all  away. 
And  happily  I  have  arrived  at  last 

Unto  the  wished  haven  of  my  bliss. 

Taming  of  the  Shrew,  act  v.  sc.  1. 

It  is  the  soul  that  sees  ;  the  outward  eyes 
Present  the  object,  but  the  mind  descries  ; 
And  thence  delight,  disgust,  or  cool  indifference  ris# 
When  minds  are  joyful,  then  we  look  around, 
And  what  is  seen  is  all  on  fairy  ground ; 
Again  they  sicken,  and  on  every  view 
Cast  their  own  dull  and  melancholy  hue ; 
Or,  if  absorb'd  by  their  peculiar  cares. 
The  vacant  eye  on  viewless  matter  glares, 
Our  feelings  still  upon  our  views  attend. 
And  their  own  natures  to  the  objects  lend  ; 
Sorrow  and  joy  are  in  their  influence  sure. 
Long  as  the  passion  reigns  th'  effects  endure ; 
But  love  in  minds  his  various  changes  makes, 
And  clothes  each  object  with  the  change  he  takes 
His  light  and  shade  on  every  view  he  throws. 
And  on  each  object,  what  he  feels,  bestows. 

Fair  was  the  morning,  and  the  month  was  June 
When  rose  a  lover  ;  love  awakens  soon ; 
Brief  his  repose,  yet  much  he  dreamt  the  while 
Of  that  day's  meeting,  and  his  Laura's  smile } 
Fancy  and  love  that  name  assign'd  to  her, 
Call'd  Susan  in  the  parish  register  ; 
And  he  no  more  was  John  ;  his  Laura  gave 
The  name  Orlando  to  her  faithful  slave. 

Bright  shone  the  glory  of  the  rising  day. 
When  the  fond  traveller  took  his  favourite  way ; 
He  mounted  gayly,  felt  his  bosom  light. 
And  all  he  saw  was  pleasing  in  his  sight. 

"  Ye  hours  of  expectation,  quickly  fly. 
And  bring  on  hours  of  blest  reality  ; 
When  I  shall  Laura  see,  beside  her  stand. 
Hear  her  sweet  voice,  and  press  her  yielded  hand 

First  o'er  a  barren  heath  beside  the  coast 
Orlandfs  rode,  and  joy  began  to  boast. 

"  This  neat  low  gorge,"  said  he,  "  with  golden 
bloom. 
Delights  each  sense,  is  beauty,  is  perfume  ; 
And  this  gay  ling,  with  all  its  purple  floviwrs, 
A  man  at  leisure  might  admire  for  hours  ; 
This  green-fringed  cup-moss  has  a  scarlet  tip, 
That  yields  to  nothing  but  my  Laura's  lip ; 
And  then  how  fine  this  herbage  !  men  may  say 
A  heath  is  barren  ,•  nothing  is  so  gay : 
Barren  or  bare  to  rail  such  charming  scene 
Argues  a  mind  possess'd  by  care  and  spleen." 

Onward  he  went,  and  fiercer  grew  the  heat, 
Dust  rose  in  clouds  before  the  horse's  feet; 
For  now  he  pass'd  through  lanes  of  burning  sand 
Bounds  to  thin  crops,  or  yet  uncultured  land  ; 


TALES. 


Ill 


Where  the  dark  poppy  flourish'd  on  the  dry 
And  sterile  soil,  and  mock'd  the  thin-set  rye. 

"  How  lovely  this  !"  the  rapt  Orlando  said  ; 
■'  With  what  delight  is  labouring  man  repaid ! 
The  very  lane  has  sweets  that  all  admire, 
The  rambling  suckling  and  the  vigorous  brier; 
See !    wholesome   wormwood   grows    beside    the 

way, 
Where  dew-press'd  yet   the   dog-rose   bends   the 

spray  ,• 
Fresh  herbs  the  fields,  fair  shrubs  the  banks  adorn, 
And  enow-white  bloom  falls  flaky  from  the  thorn ; 
No  fostering  hand  they  need,  no  sheltering  wall, 
They  spring  uncultured,  and  they  bloom  for  all." 

The  lover  rode  as  hasty  lovers  ride. 
And  reach'd  a  common  pasture  wild  and  wide  ; 
Small  black-legg'd  sheep  devour  with  hunger  keen 
The  meagre  herbage,  fleshless,  lank,  and  lean ; 
Such  o'er  thy  level  turf,  Newmarket  I  stray. 
And  there,  with  other  black-legs  find  their  prey  : 
He  saw  some  scatter'd  hovels,  turf  was  piled 
In  square  brown  stacks  ;  a  prospect  bleak  and  wild  .' 
A  mill,  indeed,  was  in  the  centre  found, 
With  short  sear  herbage  withering  all  around  ; 
A  smith's  black  shed  opposed  a  wright's  long  shop, 
And.join'd  an  inn  where  humble  travellers  stop. 

"  Ay,  this  is  nature,"  said  the  gentle  squire  ; 
"  This  ease,  peace,  pleasure,  who  would  not  admire  ? 
With  what  delight  these  sturdy  children  play. 
And  joyful  rustics  at  the  close  of  day  ; 
Sport  follows  labour,  on  this  even  space 
Will  soon  commence  the  wrestling  and  the  race  ; 
Then  will  the  village  maidens  leave  their  home, 
And  to  the  dance  with  buoyant  spirits  come  ; 
No  affectation  in  their  looks  is  seen. 
Nor  know  they  what  disguise  or  flattery  mean ; 
Nor  aught  to  move  an  envious  pang  they  see, 
Easy  their  service,  and  their  love  is  free  ; 
Hence  early  springs  that  love,  it  long  endures, 
And  life's  first  comfort,  while  they  live,  ensures ; 
They  the  low  roof  and  rustic  comforts  prize. 
Nor  cast  on  prouder  mansions  envying  eyes  : 
Sometimes  the  news  at  yonder  town  they  hear. 
And  learn  what  busier  mortals  feel  and  fear  ; 
Secure  themselves,  although  by  tales  amazed, 
Of  towns  bombarded,  and  of  cities  razed  ; 
As  if  they  doubted,  in  their  still  retreat, 
The  very  news  that  makes  their  quiet  sweet, 
And  their  days  happy  ;  happier  only  knows 
He  on  whom  Laura  her  regard  bestov.rs." 

On  rode  Orlando,  counting  all  the  while 
The  miles  he  pass'd,  and  every  coming  mile  ; 
Like  all  attracted  things,  he  quicker  flies. 
The  place  approaching  where  Ih'  attraction  lies ; 
When  next  appear'd  a  dam— so  call  the  place- 
Where  lies  a  road  confined  in  narrow  space  ; 
A  work  of  labour,  for  on  either  side 
Is  level  fen,  a  prospect  wild  and  wide. 
With  dikes  on  either  hand  by  ocean's  self  supplied  : 
Far  on  the  right  the  distant  sea  is  seen, 
And  salt  the  springs  that  feed  the  marsh  between; 
Beneath  an  ancient  bridge,  the  straiten'd  flood 
Rolls  through  its  sloping  banks  of  slimy  mud  ; 
Near  it  a  sunken  boat  resists  the  tide. 
That  frets  and  hurries  to  th'  opposing  si'de  ; 
The  rushes  sharp,  that  on  the  borders  grow. 
Bend  their  brown  flow'rets  to  the  stream  below. 
Impure  in  all  iis  course,  in  all  its  progress  slow  : 


Here  a  grave  Flora*  scarcely  deigns  to  bloom, 

Nor  wears  a  rosy  blush,  nor  sheds  perfume  ; 

The  few  dull  flowers  that  o'er  the  place  are  spread, 

Partake  the  nature  of  their  fenny  bed  ; 

Here  on  its  wiry  stem,  in  rigid  bloom, 

Grows  the  salt  lavender  that  lacks  perfume  ; 

Here  the  dwarf  sallows  creep,  the  septfoil  harsh. 

And  the  soft  slimy  mallow  of  the  marsh  ; 

Low  on  the  ear  the  distant  billows  sound. 

And  just  in  view  appears  their  stony  bound  ; 

No  hedge  nor  tree  conceals  the  glowing  sun. 

Birds,  save  a  watery  tribe,  the  district  shun. 

Nor  chirp  among  the  reeds  where  bitter  waters  run 

"  Various  as  beauteous.  Nature,  is  thy  face," 
Exclaim'd  Orlando  :  "  all  that  grows  has  grace 
All  are  appropriate  ;  bog,  and  marsh,  and  fen. 
Are  only  poor  to  undiscerning  men  ; 
Here  may  the  nice  and  curious  eye  explore 
How  Nature's  hand  adorns  the  rushy  moor; 
Here  the  rare  moss  in  secret  shade  is  found, 
Here  the  sweet  myrtle  of  the  shaking  ground ; 
Beauties  are  these  that  from  the  view  retire. 
But  w  ell  repay  th'  attention  they  require ; 
For  these  my  Laura  will  her  home  forsake. 
And  all  the  pleasures  they  afford  partake." 

Again  the  country  was  enclosed,  a  wide 
And  sandy  road  has  banks  on  either  side  ; 
Where,  lo !  a  hollow  on  the  left  appear'd. 
And  there  a  gipsy  tribe  their  tent  had  rear'd  ; 
'Twas  open  spread,  to  catch  the  morning  sun, 
And  they  had  now  their  early  meal  begun, 
When  two  brown  boys  just  left  their  grassy  seat. 
The  early  traveller  with  their  prayers  to  greet: 
While  yet  Orlando  held  his  pence  in  hand, 
lie  saw  their  sister  on  her  duty  stand  ; 
Some  twelve  years  old,  demure,  affected,  sly, 
Prepared  the  force  of  early  powers  to  try ; 
Sudden  a  look  of  languor  he  descries. 
And  well-feign'd  apprehension  in  her  eyes ; 
Train'd,  but  yet  savage,  in  her  speaking  face 
He  mark'd  the  features  of  her  vagrant  race  ; 
When  a  light  laugh  and  roguish  leer  express'd 
The  vice  implanted  in  her  youthful  breast : 
Forth  from  the  tent  her  elder  brother  came. 
Who  seem'd  offended,  yet  forbore  to  blame 


*  The  ditches  of  a  fen  so  near  the  ocean  are  lined  wiih 
irregular  patches  of  a  coarse  and  stained  lava ;  a  muddy 
sediment  rests  on  the  horse-tail  and  other  perennial 
herbs,  which  in  part  conceal  the  shallowness  of  the 
stream ;  a  fat-leaved,  pale-flowenng  scurvy  grass,  appears 
early  in  the  year,  and  the  razor-edged  bulrush,  in  the 
summer  and  autumn.  The  fen  itself  has  a  dark  and  sa- 
line herbage  ;  there  are  rushes  and  arrow-head,  and  in 
a  few  patches  the  flakes  of  the  cotton  grass  are  seen,  but 
more  commonly  the  sea-aster,  the  dullest  of  that  nume- 
rous and  hardy  genus ;  a  thrift,  blue  in  flower,  but 
withering  and  remaining  withered,  till  the  winter  scatters 
it ;  the  saltwort,  both  simple  and  shrubby  ;  a  few  kinds 
of  grass  changed  by  their  soil  and  atmosphere,  and  low 
plants  of  two  or  three  denominations  undistinguished  in 
a  general  view  of  the  scenery :  such  is  the  vegetation  of 
the  fen  when  it  is  at  a  small  distance  from  the  ocean  ; 
and  in  this  case  there  arise  from  it  effluvia  strong  and 
peculiar,  half  saline,  half-putrid,  which  would  be  consi- 
dered by  most  people  as  offensive,  and  by  some  as  dan- 
gerous ;  but  there  are  others  to  whom  singularity  ol 
taste,  or  association  of  ideas,  has  rendered  it  agreeable 
and  pleasant 


112 


CRAIiJiE. 


The  young  designer,  but  could  only  trace 
The  looks  of  pity  in  the  traveller's  face : 
Within,  the  father,  who  from  fences  nigh 
Had  brought  the  fuel  for  the  fire's  supply, 
Watch'd  now  the  feeble  blaze,  and  stood  dejected  by: 
On  ragged  rug,  just  borrow'd  from  the  bed, 
And  by  the  hand  of  coarse  indulgence  fed, 
In  dirty  patchwork  negligently  dress'd, 
Reclined  the  wife,  an  infant  at  her  breast ; 
In  her  wild  face  some  touch  of  grace  remain'd, 
Of  vigour  palsied  and  of  beauty  stain'd  ; 
Her  blood-shot  eyes  on  her  unheeding  mate 
Were  wrathful   turn'd,  and  seem'd  her  wants  to 

state. 
Pursing  his  tardy  aid — her  mother  there 
With  gipsy  state  engross'd  the  only  chair; 
'  Solemn  and  dull  her  look ;  with  such  she  stands, 
And  reads  the  milk-maid's  fortune  in  her  hands. 
Tracing  the  lines  of  life  ;  assumed  through  years. 
Each  feature  now  the  steady  falsehood  wears ; 
With  hard  and  savage  eye  she  views  the  food, 
And  grudging  pinches  their  intruding  brood  ; 
Last  in  the  group,  the  worn-out  grandsire  sits 
Neglected,  lost,  and  living  but  by  fits  ; 
Useless,  despised,  his  worthless  labours  done, 
And  half  protected  by  the  vicious  son. 
Who  half  supports  him  ;  he  with  heavy  glance 
Views  the  young  ruffians  who  around  him  dance ; 
And,  by  the  sadness  in  his  face,  appeal's 
To  trace  the  progress  of  their  future  years  : 
Through   what  strange   course  of   misery,   vice, 

deceit, 
Must  wildly  wander  each  unpractised  cheat. 
What  shame  and  grief,  what  punishment  and  pain. 
Sport  of  fierce  passions,  must  each  child  sustain — 
Ere  they  like  him  approach  their  latter  end, 
Without  a  hope,  a  comfort,  or  a  friend  ! 

But  this  Orlando  felt  not ;  "  Rogues,"  said  he, 
"  Doubtless  they  are,  but  merry  rogues  they  be  ; 
They  wander  round  the  land,  and  be  it  true. 
They  break  the  laws — then  let  the  laws  pursue 
The  wanton  idlers  ;  for  the  life  they  live 
Acquit  I  cannot,  but  I  can  forgive." 
This  said,  a  portion  from  his  purse  was  thrown, 
And  every  heart  seem'd  happy  like  his  own. 

He  hurried  forth,  for  now  the  town  was  nigh — 
"  The  happiest  man  of  mortal  men  am  I." 
Thou  art !  but  change  in  every  state  is  near, 
(So  while  the  wretched  hope,  the  blest  may  fear;) 
"  Say,  where  is  Laura  ?" — "  That  her  words  must 

show," 
A  lass  replied  ;  "  read  this,  and  thou  shalt  know !" 
"What,  gone!" — her  friend  insisted — forced   to 

go: 
"  Is  vex'd,  was  teased,  could  not  refuse  her ! — No  ?" 
"  But  you  can  follow."    "  Yes  ?"  "  The  miles  are 

few, 
The  way  is  pleasant ;  will  you  come  ?  Adieu  ! 
Thy  Laura !" — "  No  !  I  feel  I  must  resign 
The  pleasing  hope,  thou  hadst  been  here,  if  mine  : 
A  lady  was  it  ?  Was  no  brother  there  ? 
But  why  should  I  afflict  me  if  there  were  ?" 
"  The  way  is  pleasant." — "  What  to  me  the  way  ? 
I  cannot  reach  her  till  the  close  of  day. 
My  dumb  companion  !  is  it  thus  we  speed  ? 
Not  I  from  grief  nor  thou  from  toil  art  freed  ; 
Still  art  thou  doom'd  to  travel  and  to  pine, 
For  ray  vexation — What  a  fate  is  mine  I 


"  Gone  to  a  friend,  she  tells  me ;  I  commend 
Her  purpose ;  means  she  to  a  female  friend  ? 
By  Heaven,  I  wish  she  sufFer'd  half  the  pain 
Of  hope  protracted  through  the  day  in  vain: 
Shall  I  persist  to  see  th'  ungrateful  maid  ? 
Yes,  I  will  see  her,  slight  her,  and  upbraid : 
What !  in  the  very  hour?  She  knew  the  time. 
And  doubtless  chose  it  to  increase  her  crime.* 

Forth  rode  Orlando  by  a  river's  side. 
Inland  and  winding,  smooth,  and  full,  and  wide. 
That  roll'd  majestic  on,  in  one  soft  flowing  tide; 
The  bottom  gravel,  flowery  were  the  banks. 
Tall  willows,  waving  in  their  broken  ranks ; 
The  road,  now  near,  now  distant,  winding  led 
By  lovely  meadows  which  the  waters  fed  ; 
He  pass'd  the  way-side  inn,  the  village  spire. 
Nor  stopp'd  to  gaze,  to  question,  or  admire ; 
On  either  side  the  rural  mansions  stood. 
With  hedge-row  trees,  and  hills  high-crown'd  with 

wood. 
And  many  a  devious  stream  that  reach'd  the  nobler 
flood. 

"  I  hale  these  scenes,"  Orlando  angry  cried, 
"  And  these  proud  farmers  !  yes,  I  hate  their  pride  ; 
See!  that  sleek  fellow,  how  he  strides  along, 
Strong  as  an  ox,  and  ignorant  as  strong  ; 
Can  yon*close  crops  a  single  eye  detain 
But  his  who  counts  the  profits  of  the  grain? 
And  these  vile  beans  with  deleterious  smell, 
Where  is  their  beauty  ?  can  a  mortal  tell  ? 
These  deep  fat  meadows  I  detest ;  it  shocks 
One's  feelings  there  to  see  the  grazing  ox; — 
For  .slaughter  fatted,  as  a  lady's  smile 
Rejoices  man,  and  means  his  death  the  while. 
Lo!  now  the  sons  of  labour!  every  day 
Employ'd  in  toil,  and  vex'd  in  every  way ; 
Theirs  is  but  mirth  assumed,  and  they  conceal, 
In  their  affected  joys,  the  ills  they  feel : 
I  hate  these  long   green   lanes  ;    there's  nothing 

seen 
In  this  vile  country  but  eternal  green  ; 
Woods !  waters !  meadows  !  Will  they  never  end  ? 
'Tis  a  vile  prospect.    Gone  to  see  a  friend  !" 

Still  on  he  rode  !  a  mansion  fair  and  tall 
Rose  on  his  view — the  pride  of  Loddon  Hall. 
Spread  o'er  the  park  he  saw  the  grazing  steer. 
The  full-fed  steed,  the  herds  of  bounding  deer: 
On  a  clear  stream  the  vivid  sunbeams  play'd. 
Through  noble  elms,  and  on  the  surface  made 
That  moving  picture,  ch6cker'd  light  and  shade  ; 
Th'  attended  children,  there  indulged  to  stray, 
Enjoy'd  and  gave  new  beauty  to  the  day ; 
Whose  happy  parents  from  their  room  were  seen 
Pleased  with  the  sportive  idlers  on  the  green. 

"  Well  I"  said  Orlando,  "  and  for  one  so  bless'd, 
A  thousand  reason -ng  wretches  are  distress'd  ; 
Nay,  these  so  seeming  glad,  are  grieving  like  thi 

rest: 
Man  is  a  cheat — and  all  but  strive  to  hide 
Their  inward  misery  by  their  outward  pride. 
What  do  yon  lofty  gates  and  walls  contain, 
But  fruitless  means  to  soothe  unconquer'd  pain? 
The  parents  read  each  infant  daughter's  smile, 
Form'd  to  aeduce,  encouraged  to  beguile  ; 
They  view  the  boys  unconscious  of  their  fate, 
Sure  to  be  tempted,  sure  to  take  the  bait ; 
These  will  be  Lauras,  sad  Orlandos  these — 
There's  guilt  and  grief  in  all  one  hears  and  seet 


TALES. 


113 


Our  traveller,  labouring  up  a  hill,  look'd  down 
Upon  a  lively,  busy,  pleasant  town ; 
All  he  beheld  were  there  alert,  alive, 
The  busiest  bees  that  ever  stock'd  a  hive  : 
A  pair  were  married,  and  the  bells  aloud 
Proclaim'd  their  joy,  and  joyful  seem'd  the  crowd  ; 
And  now  proceeding  on  his  way,  he  spied, 
Bound    by  strong   ties,   the   bridegroom   and   the 

bride  : 
Each  by  some  friends  attended,  near  they  drew. 
And  spleen  beheld  them  with  prophetic  view. 

"  Married  !  nay,  mad  !"  Orlando  cried  in  scorn  ; 
"  Another  wretch  on  this  unlucky  morn  : 
What  are  this  foolish  mirth,  these  idle  joys  ? 
Attempts  to  stifle  doubt  and  fear  by  noise  ; 
To  me  these  robes,  expressive  of  delight, 
Foreshow  distress,  and  only  grief  excite  ; 
And  for  these  cheerful  friends,  will  they  behold 
Their  wailing  brood  in  sickness,  want,  and  cold  ; 
And  his  proud  look,  and  her  soft  languid  air 
Will — but  I  spare  you — go,  unhappy  pair  I" 

And  now  approaching  to  the  journey's  end. 
His  anger  fails,  his  thoughts  to  kindness  tend, 
He  less  offended  feels,  and  rather  fears  t'  offend : 
Now  gently  rising,  hope  contends  with  doubt. 
And  casts  a  sunshine  on  the  views  without; 
And  still  reviving  joy  and  lingering  gloom 
Alternate  empire  o'er  his  soul  assume  ; 
Till,  long  perplex'd,  he  now  began  to  find 
The  softer  thoughts  engross  the  settling  mind; 
He  saw  the  mansion,  and  should  quickly  see 
His  Laura's  self— and  angry  could  he  be  ? 
No  !  the  resentment  melted  all  away. 
"  For  this  my  grief  a  single  smile  will  pay," 
Our  traveller  cried  ;  "  and  why  should  it  offend, 
That  one  so  good  should  have  a  pressing  friend  ? 
Grieve  not,  my  heart!  to  find  a  favourite  guest 
Thy  pride  and  boast — ye  selfish  sorrows,  rest  ; 
She  will  be  kind,  and  1  again  be  blest." 

While  gentler  passions  thus  his  bosom  sway'd. 
He  reach'd  the  mansion,  and  he  saw  the  maid ; 
"  My  Laura  I" — "  My  Orlando  I  this  is  kind  ; 
In  truth  I  came  persuaded,  not  inclined  : 
Our  friends'  amusement  let  us  now  pursue, 
And  I  to-morrow  will  return  with  you," 

Like  man  entranced,  the  happy  lover  stood — 
"  As  Laura  wills,  for  she  is  kind  and  good : 
Ever  the  truest,  gentlest,  fairest,  best — 
As  Laura  wmHs,  I  see  her  and  am  blest." 

Home  went  the  lovers  through  that  busy  place, 
By  Loddon  Hall,  the  country's  pride  and  grace  ; 
By  the  rich  meadows  where  the  oxen  fed,      [bed  ; 
Through    the    green  vale  that  form'd  the   river's 
And  by  unnumber'd  cottages  and  farms, 
That  have  for  musing  minds  unnumber'd  charms  ; 
And  how  affected  by  the  view  of  these 
Was  then  Orlando — did  they  pain  or  please  ? 
Nor   pain   nor   pleasure  could   they  yield — and 
why  ? 
The  mind  was  fill'd,  was  happy,  and  the  eye 
Roved  o'er  the  fleeting  views,  that  but  appear'd  to 
die. 
Alone  Orlando  on  the  morrow  paced 
The  well-known  road  ;  the  gipsy  tent  he  traced ; 
The  dam  high-raised,  the  reedy  dikes  between, 
The  scatter'd  hovels  on  the  barren  green. 
The  burning  sand,  the  fields  of  thin-set  rye, 
Mock'd  by  the  useless  Flora,  blooming  by ; 
Vol.  ni.— 8 


And  last  the  heath  with  all  its  various  bloom, 
And  the  close  lanes  that  led  the  traveller  home. 

Then  could  these  scenes  the  former  joys  renew 
Or  was  there  now  dejection  in  the  view  ? 
Nor  one  or  other  would  they  yield — and  why  ? 
The  mind  was  absent,  and  the  vacant  eye 
Wander'd  o'er  viev»less  scenes,  that  but  appear'<< 
to  die. 


TALE    XL 

EDWARD   SHORE. 

Seem  they  grave  or  learned"? 
Why,  so  didst  thou— Seem  they  religions  1 
Why,  so  didst  thou  ;  or  are  they  spare  in  diet. 
Free  from  gross  passion,  or  of  mirth  or  anger, 
Constant  in  spirit,  not  swerving  with  the  blood, 
Garnish'd  and  deck'd  in  modest  compliment, 
Not  working  with  the  eye  without  the  ear, 
And  but  with  purged  judgment  trusting  neither  7 
Such  and  so  finely  bolted  didst  thou  seem. 

Henry  V.  act  ii.  sc.  2 

Better  I  were  distract, 
So  should  my  thoughts  be  sever'd  from  my  griefs, 
And  woes  by  strong  imagination  lose 
The  knowledge  of  themselves. 

Lear,  act  iv.  sc.  6. 

Genius  I  Ihou  gift  of  Heaven !  thou  light  divine ! 

Amid  what  dangers  art  thou  doom'd  to  shine ! 

Oft  will  the  body's  weakness  check  thy  force. 

Oft  damp  thy  vigour,  and  impede  thy  course; 

And  trembling  nerves  compel  thee  to  restrain 

Thy  nobler  efforts,  to  contend  with  pain  ; 

Or  Want  (sad  guest  I)  will  in  thy  presence  corae 

And  breathe  around  a  melancholy  gloom  ; 

To  life's  low  cares  will  thy  proud  thought  confine, 

And  make  her  sufferings,  her  impatience,  thine. 

Evil  and  strong,  seducing  passions  prey 
On  soaring  minds,  and  win  them  from  their  way; 
Who  then  to  vice  the  subject  spirits  give. 
And  in  the  service  of  the  conqueror  live ; 
Like  captive  Samson  making  sport  for  all 
Who  fear'd  their  strength,  and  glory  in  their  falL 

Genius,  wMth  virtue,  still  may  lack  the  aid 
Implored  by  humble  minds  and  hearts  afraid  ; 
May  leave  to  timid  souls  the  shield  and  sword 
Of  the  tried  faith,  and  the  resistless  word  ; 
Amid  a  world  of  dangers  venturing  forth. 
Frail,  but  yet  fearless,  proud  in  conscious  worth, 
Till  strong  temptation,  in  some  fatal  time. 
Assails  the  heart,  and  wins  the  soul  to  crime ; 
When  left  by  honour,  and  by  sorrow  spent. 
Unused  to  pray,  unable  to  repent. 
The  nobler  powers  that  once  exalted  high 
Th'  aspiring  man,  shall  then  degraded  lie : 
Reason,  through  anguish,  shall  her  throne  forsake, 
And  strength  of  mind  but  stronger  madness  make 

When  Edward  Shore  had  reach'd  his  twentieth 
year. 
He  felt  his  bosom  light,  his  conscience  clear; 
Applause  at  school  the  youthful  hero  gain'd, 
And  trials  there  with  manly  strength  sustain'd  : 
With  prospects  bright  upon  the  world  he  came. 
Pure  love  of  virtue,  strong  desire  of  fame  : 
Men  watch'd  the  way  his  lofty  mind  would  take, 
And  all  foretold  the  progress  he  would  make. 


114 


CRABBE. 


Boast  of  these  friends,  to  older  men  a  guide, 
Proud  of  his  parts,  but  gracious  in  his  pride , 
He  bore  a  gay  good  nature  in  his  face. 
And  in  his  air  were  dignity  and  grace  ; 
Dress  that  became  his  state  and  years  he  wore, 
And  sense  and  spirit  shone  in  Edward  Shore. 

Thus  while  admiring  friends  the  youth  beheld, 
His  own  disgust  their  forward  hopes  repell'd  ; 
For  he  unfix'd,  unfixing,  look'd  around. 
And  no  employment  but  in  seeking  found  ; 
He  gave  his  restless  thoughts  to  views  refined. 
And   shrank   from   worldly  cares   with  wounded 
mind. 
Rejecting  trade,  a  while  he  dwelt  on  laws, 
"  But  who  could  plead,  if  unapproved  the  cause  ?" 
A  doubting,  dismal  tribe  physicians  seem'd  ; 
Divines  o'er  texts  and  disputations  dream'd  ; 
War  and  its  glory  he  perhaps  could  love. 
But  there  again  he  must  the  cause  approve. 

Our  hero  thought  no  deed  should  gain  applause. 
Where  timid  virtue  found  support  in  laws  ; 
He  to  all  good  would  soar,  would  fly  all  sin. 
By  the  pure  prompting  of  the  will  within ; 
"  Who  needs  a  law  that  binds  him  not  to  steal," 
Ask'd  the  young  teacher,  "  can  he  rightly  feel  ? 
To  curb  the  will,  or  arm  in  honour's  cause. 
Or  aid  the  weak,  are  these  enforced  by  laws  ? 
Should  we  a  foul,  ungenerous  action  dread. 
Because  a  law  condemns  th'  adulterous  bed  ? 
Or  fly  pollution,  not  for  fear  of  stain, 
But  that  some  statute  tells  us  to  refrain  ? 
The  grosser  herd  in  ties  like  these  we  bind. 
In  virtue's  freedom  moves  th'  enlighten'd  mind." 
"  Man's  heart  deceives  him,"  said  a  friend.    "  Of 

course," 
Replied  the  youth,  "  but,  has  it  power  to  force  ? 
Unless  it  forces,  call  it  as  you  will. 
It  is  but  wish  and  proneness  to  the  ill." 

"Art  thou  not  tempted  ?" — "  Do  I  fall  ?"  said  Shore. 
*'  The  pure  have  fallen." — "  Then  are  pure  no  more  : 
While  reason  guides  me,  I  shall  walk  aright, 
Nor  need  a  steadier  hand,  or  stronger  light : 
Nor  this  in  dread  of  awful  threats,  design'd 
For  the  weak  spirit  and  the  grovelling  mind  ; 
But  that,  engaged  by  thoughts  and  views  sublime, 
I  wage  free  war  with  grossness  and  with  crime." 
Thus  look'd  he  proudly  on  the  vulgar  crew. 
Whom  statutes  govern,  and  whom  fears  subdue. 

Faith,  with  his  virtue,  he  indeed  profess'd. 
But  doubts  deprived  his  ardent  mind  of  rest; 
Reason,  his  sovereign  mistress,  fail'd  to  show 
Light  through  the  mazes  of  the  world  below  ; 
Questions  arose,  and  they  surpassed  the  skill 
Of  his  sole  aid,  and  would  be  dubious  still ; 
These  to  discuss  he  sought  no  common  guide. 
But  to  the  doubters  in  his  doubts  applied  ; 
When  all  together  might  in  freedom  speak. 
And  their  loved  truth  with  mutual  ardour  seek. 
Alas !  though  men  who  feel  their  eyes  decay. 
Take  more  than  common  pains  to  find  their  way, 
Yet,  when  for  this  they  ask  each  other's  aid. 
Their  mutual  purpose  is  the  more  delay'd  : 
Of  all  their  doubts,  their  reasoning  clear'd  not  one. 
Still  the  same  spots  were  present  in  the  sun  ; 
Still  the  same  scruples  haunted  Edward's  mind, 
Wlio  found  no  rest,  nor  took  the  means  to  find. 

But  though  with  shaken  faith,  and  slave  to  fame. 
Vain  and  aspiring  on  the  world  he  came  ; 


Yet  was  he  studious,  serious,  moral,  grave, 
No  passion's  victim,  and  no  system's  slave  ; 
Vice  he  opposed,  indulgence  he  disdain'd. 
And  o'er  each  sense  in  conscious  triumph  reign'd 
Who  often  reads  will  sometimes  wish  to  write. 
And  Shore  would  yield  instruction  and  delight : 
A  serious  drama  he  design'd,  but  found 
'Twas  tedious  travelling  in  that  gloomy  ground ; 
A  deep  and  solemn  story  he  would  try, 
But  grew  ashamed  of  ghosts,  and  laid  it  by  ; 
Sermons  he  wrote,  but  they  who  knew  his  creed 
Or  knew  it  not,  were  ill  disposed  to  read  ; 
And  he  Avould  lastly  be  the  nation's  guide. 
But,  studying,  fail'd  to  fix  upon  a  side  ; 
Fame  he  desired,  and  talents  he  possess'd. 
But  loved  not  labour,  though  he  could  not  rest. 
Nor  firmly  fix  the  vacillating  mind, 
That,  ever  working,  could  nocentre  find. 

'Tis  thus  a  sanguine  reader  loves  to  trace 
The  Nile  forth  rushing  on  his  glorious  race  ; 
Calm  and  secure  the  fancied  traveller  goes. 
Through  sterile  deserts  and  by  threatening  foes ; 
He  thinks  not  then  of  Afric's  scorching  sands, 
Th'  Arabian  sea,  the  Abyssinian  bands ; 
Fasils*  and  Michaels,  and  the  robbers  all. 
Whom  we  politely  chiefs  and  heroes  call : 
He  of  success  alone  delights  to  think. 
He  views  that  fount,  he  stands  upon  the  brink, 
And  drinks  a  fancied  draught,  exulting  so  to  drink 

In  his  own  room,  and  with  his  books  around. 
His  lively  mind  its  chief  employment  found  ; 
Then  idly  busy,  quietly  employ'd. 
And,  lost  to  life,  his  visions  were  enjoy'd  ; 
Yet  still  he  took  a  keen,  inquiring  view 
Of  all  that  crowds  neglect,  desire,  pursue  ; 
And  thus  abstracted,  curious,  still  serene. 
He,  unemploy'd,  beheld  life's  shifting  scene  ; 
Still  more  averse  from  vulgar  joys  and  cares. 
Still  more  unfitted  for  the  world's  affairs. 

There  was  a  house  where  Edward  ofttimes  wen^ 
And  social  hours  in  pleasant  trifling  spent; 
He  read,  conversed  and  reason'd,  sang  and  play'd, 
And  all  were  happy  while  the  idler  stay'd  ; 
Too  happy  one,  for  thence  arose  the  pain. 
Till  this  engaging  trifler  came  again. 

But  did  he  love  ?     We  answer,  day  by  day, 
The  loving  feet  would  take  th'  accustom'd  way, 
The  amorous  eye  would  rove  as  if  in  quest 
Of  something  rare,  and  on  the  mansion  rest; 
The  same  soft  passion  touch'd  the  gentle  tongue, 
And  Anna's  charms  in  tender  notes  were  sung ; 
The  ear,  too,  seem'd  to  feel  the  common  flame, 
Soothed  and  delighted  with  the  fair  one's  name  : 
And  thus  as  love  each  other  part  possess'd. 
The  heart,  no  doubt,  its  sovereign  power  confess'd. 

Pleased  in  her  sight,  the  youth  required  no  more; 
Nor  rich  himself,  he  saw  the  damsel  poor ; 
And  he  too  wisely,  nay,  too  kindly  loved, 
To  pain  the  being  whom  his  soul  approved. 


•  Fasil  was  a  rebel  chief,  and  Michael  the  general  of 
the  royal  artny  in  Abyssinia,  when  Mr.  Bruce  visiteJ  that 
country.  In  all  other  respects  their  characters  were 
nearly  similar.  They  are  both  represented  as  cruel  and 
trea'cherous  ;  and  even  the  apparently  strong  distinction 
of  loyal  and  rebellious  is  in  a  great  measure  set  aside 
when  we  are  informed  that  Fasil  was  an  open  enemy, 
and  Michael  an  insolent  and  ambitious  controller  of  the 
royal  person  and  family. 


TALES. 


115 


A  serious  friend  our  cautious  youth  possess'd, 
And  at  his  table  sat  a  welcome  guest ; 
Both  unemploy'd,  it  was  their  chief  delight 
To  read  what  free  and  daring  authors  write  ; 
Authors  who  loved  from  common  views  to  soar, 
And  seek  the  fountains  never  traced  before  ; 
Truth  they  profess'd,  yet  often  left  the  true 
And  beaten  prospect,  for  the  wild  and  new. 
His  chosen  friend  his  fiftieth  year  had  seen, 
His  fortune  easy,  and  his  air  serene  ; 
Deist  and  atheist  call'd  ,•  for  few  agreed 
What  were  his  notions,  principles,  or  creed  ; 
His  mind  reposed  not,  for  he  hated  rest. 
But  all  things  made  a  query  or  a  jest ; 
Perplex'd  himself,  he  ever  sought  to  prove 
That  man  is  doom'd  in  endless  doubt  to  rove  ; 
Himself  in  darkness  he  profess'd  to  be, 
And  would  maintain  that  not  a  man  could  see. 

The  youthful  friend,  dissentient,  reason'd  still 
Of  the  soul's  prowess,  and  the  subject  will ; 
Of  virtue's  beauty,  and  of  honour's  force, 
And  a  warm  zeal  gave  life  to  his  discourse : 
Since  from  his  feelings  all  his  fire  arose, 
And  he  had  interest  in  the  themes  he  chose. 

The  friend,  indulging  a  sarcastic  smile. 
Said,  "  Dear  enthusiast !  thou  wilt  change  thy  style, 
When  man's  delusions,  errors,  crimes,  deceit, 
No  more  distress  thee,  and  no  longer  cheat." 

Yet  lo !  this  cautious  man,  so  coolly  WMse. 
On  a  young  beauty  fix'd  unguarded  eyes ; 
And  her  he  married  :  Edward  at  the  view 
Bade  to  his  cheerful  visits  long  adieu  ; 
But  haply  err'd,  for  this  engaging  bride 
No  mirth  suppress'd,  but  rather  cause  supplied  : 
And  v/hen  she  saw  the  friends,  by  reasoning  long, 
Confused  if  right,  and  positive  if  wrong. 
With  playful  speech  and  smile,  that  spoke  delight, 
She  made  them  careless  both  of  wrong  or  right. 

This  gentle  damsel  gave  consent  to  wed. 
With  school,  and  school-day  dinners  in  hei  head  : 
She  now  was  promised  choice  of  daintiest  food. 
And  costly  dress,  that  made  her  sovereign  good  ; 
With  walks  on  hilly  heath  to  banish  spleen. 
And  summer  visits  when  the  roads  were  clean. 
All  these  she  loved,  to  these  she  gave  consent, 
And  she  was  married  to  her  heart's  content. 

Their  manner  this  ;  the  friends  together  read. 
Till  books  a  cause  for  disputation  bred  ; 
Debate  then  folio w'd,  and  the  vapour'd  child 
Declared  they  argued  till  her  head  was  wild  ; 
And  strange  to  her  it  was  that  mortal  brain 
Could  seek  the  trial,  or  endure  the  pain. 

Then  as  the  friend  reposed,  the  younger  pair 
Sat  down  to  cards,  and  play'd  beside  his  chair; 
Till  he,  awaking,  to  his  books  applied. 
Or  heard  the  music  of  th'  obedient  bride  ; 
If  mild  the  evening,  in  the  fields  they  stray'd. 
And  their  own  flock  with  partial  eye  survey'd  ; 
But  oft  the  husband,  to  indulgence  prone. 
Resumed  his  book,  and  bade  them  walk  alone. 

"  Do,  my  kind  Edward  I  I  must  take  mine  ease, 
Name  the  dear  girl  the  planets  and  the  trees  ; 
Tell  her  what  w^arblers  pour  their  evening  song, 
What  insects  flutter,  as  youw^alk  along  ; 
Teach  her  to  fix  the  roving  thoughts,  to  bind 
The  wandering  sense,  and  methodize  the  mind." 

This  was  obey'd  ;  and  oft  when  this  was  done, 
They  calmly  gazed  on  the  declining  sun  ; 


In  silence  saw  the  glowing  landscape  fade, 
Or,  sitting,  sang  beneath  the  arbour's  shade  : 
Till  rose  the  moon,  and  on  each  youthful  face 
Shed  a  soft  beauty,  and  a  dangerous  grace. 

When  the  young  wife  beheld  in  long  debate 
The  friends,  all  careless  as  she  seeming  sate  ; 
It  soon  appear'd,  there  was  in  one  combined 
The  nobler  person  and  the  richer  mind  ; 
He  wore  no  wig,  no  grizzly  beard  was  seen, 
And  none  beheld  him  careless  or  unclean  ; 
Or  watch'd  him.  sleeping  :  we  indeed  have  heard 
Of  sleeping  beauty,  and  it  has  appear'd  ; 
'Tis  seen  in  infants  ;  there  indeed  we  find 
The  features  soften'd  by  the  slumbering  mind  ; 
But  other  beauties,  when  disposed  to  sleep. 
Should  from  the  eye  of  keen  inspector  keep  ; 
The  lovely  nymph  who  would  her  swain  surprise 
May  close  her  mouth,  but  not  conceal  her  eyes ; 
Sleep  from  the  fairest  face  some  beauty  takes, 
And  all  the  homely  features  homelier  makes  ; 
So  thought  our  wife,  beholding  with  a  sigh 
Her  sleeping  spouse,  and  Edward  smiling  by. 

A  sick  relation  for  the  husband  sent. 
Without  delay  the  friendly  skeptic  went; 
Nor  fear'd  the  youthful  pair,  for  he  had  seen 
The  wife  untroubled,  and  the  friend  serene  ; 
No  selfish  purpose  in  his  roving  eyes, 
No  vile  deception  in  her  fond  replies  : 
So  judged  the  husband,  and  with  judgment  true. 
For  neither  yet  the  guilt  or  danger  knew. 

What  now  remain'd  ?  but  they  again  should  play 
Th'  accustom'd  game,  and  walk   th'   accustom'd 

way ; 
With  careless  freedom  should  converse  or  read, 
And  the  friend's  absence  neither  fear  nor  heed  ; 
But  rather  now  they  seem'd  confused,  constrain'd 
Within  their  room  still  restless  they  remain'd, 
And   painfully   they  felt,  and    knew   each    other 

pain'd. — 
Ah  !  foolish  men !  how  could  ye  thus  depend, 
One  on  himself,  the  other  on  his  friend  ? 

The  youth  with  troubled  eye  the  lady  saw, 
Yet  felt  too  brave,  too  daring  to  withdraw  ; 
While  she,  with  tuneless  hand  the  jarring  keys 
Touching,  was  not  one  moment  at  her  ease  : 
Now  would  she  walk,  and  call  her  friendly  guide 
Now  speak  of  rain,  and  cast  her  cloak  aside  ; 
Seize  on  a  book,  unconscious  what  she  read, 
And,  restless  still,  to  new  resources  fled  ; 
Then  laugh'd  aloud,  then  tried  to  look  serene, 
And  ever  changed,  and  every  change  was  seen. 

Painful  it  is  to  dwell  on  deeds  of  shame ; 
The  trying  day  was  past,  another  came  ; 
The  third  was  all  remorse,  confusion,  dread. 
And,  (all  too  late  !)  the  fallen  hero  fled. 

Then  felt  the  youth,  in  that  seducing  time, 
How  feebly  honour  guards  the  heart  from  crime: 
Small  is  his  native  strength ;  man  needs  the  stay. 
The  strength  imparted  in  the  trying  day  ; 
For  all  that  honour  brings  against  the  ibrce 
Of  headlong  passion,  aids  its  rapid  course ; 
Its  slight  resistance  but  provokes  the  fire, 
As  wood-work  stops  the  flame,  and  then  conveys 
it  higher. 

The  husband  came  ;  a  wife  by  guilt  made  bold 
Had,  meeting,  soothed  him,  as  in  days  of  old  ; 
But  soon  this  fact  transpired  ;  her  strong  distress, 
And  his  friend's  absence,  left  him  naught  to  guess. 


116 


CRABBE. 


Still  cool,  though  grieved,  thus  prudence  bade 
hira  write — 
"  I  cannot  pardon,  and  I  will  not  fight; 
Thou  art  too  poor  a  culprit  for  the  laws, 
And  I  too  faulty  to  support  my  cause  ; 
All  must  be  punish'd  ;  I  must  sigh  alone. 
At  home  thy  victim  for  her  guilt  atone  ; 
And  thou,  unhappy  !  virtuous  now  no  more. 
Must  loss  of  ihme,  peace,  purity  deplore  ; 
Sinners  with  praise  will  pierce  thee  to  the  heart. 
And  saints,  deriding,  tell  thee  what  thou  art.  " 

Such  was  his  fall ;  and  Edward,  from  that  time. 
Felt  in  full  force  the  censure  and  the  crime  ; 
Despised,  ashamed  ;  his  noble  views  before, 
And  his  proud  thoughts,  degraded  him  the  more  ; 
Should  he  repent — would  that  conceal  his  shame  ? 
Could  peace  be  his  ?  It  perisli'd  with  his  fame  : 
Himself  he  scorn'd,  nor  could  his  crime  forgive  ; 
He  fear'd  to  die,  yet  felt  ashamed  to  live : 
Grieved,  but  not  contrite,  was  his  heart ;  oppress'd. 
Not  broken  ;  not  converted,  but  distress'd  ; 
He  wanted  will  to  bend  the  stubborn  knee. 
He  wanted  light  the  cause  of  ill  to  see,  [be: 

To  learn  how  irail  is  man,  how  humble  then  should 
For  faith  he  had  not,  or  a  faith  too  weak 
To  gain  the  help  that  humbled  sinners  seek  ; 
Else  had  he  pray'd — to  an  offended  God 
His  tears  had  flown  a  penitential  flood  ; 
Though  far  astray,  he  would  have  heard  the  call 
Of  mercy — "  Come  !  return,  thou  prodigal ;" 
Then-,  though  confused,  distress'd,  ashamed,  afraid. 
Still  had  the  trembling  penitent  obey'd  ; 
Though  faith  have  fainted,  when  assail'd  by  fear, 
Hope  to  the  soul  had  whisper'd,  "  Persevere !" 
Till  in  his  Father's  house  an  humbled  guest. 
He  would  have  found  forgiveness,  comfort,  rest. 

But  all  this  joy  was  to  our  youth  denied 
By  his  fierce  passions  and  his  daring  pride . 
And  shame  and  doubt  impell'd  him  in  a  course. 
Once  so  abhorr'd,  with  unresisted  force. 
Proud  minds  and  guilty,  whom  their  crimes  oppress, 
Fiy  to  new  crimes  for  comfort  and  redress  ; 
So  found  our  fallen  youth  a  short  relief 
In  wine,  the  opiate  guilt  applif'S  to  grief, — 
From  fleeting  mirth  that  o'er  the  bottle  lives, 
From  the  false  joy  its  inspiration  gives ; 
And  from  associates  pleased  to  find  a  friend, 
With  powers  to  lead  them,  gladden,  and  defend. 
In  all  those  scenes  where  transient  ease  is  found, 
For  minds  whom  sins  oppress,  and  sorrows  wound. 

Wine  is  like  anger;  for  it  makes  ys  strong, 
Blind,  and  impatient,  and  it  leads  us  wrong  ; 
The  strength  is  quickly  lost,  we  fesi  the  error  long : 
Thus  led,  thus  strengthen'd  in  an  evil  cause. 
For  folly  pleading,  sought  the  youth  applause  ; 
Sad  for  a  lime,  then  eloquently  wild, 
He  gayly  spoke  as  his  companions!  smiled  ; 
Lightly  he  rose,  and  with  his  former  grace 
Proposed  some  doubt,  and  argued  on  the  case; 
Fate  and  foreknowledge  were  his  favourite  themes, 
How  vain  man's  purpose,  how  absurd  his  schemes  ; 
"  Whatever  is,  was  ere  our  birth  decreed  ; 
We  think  our  actions  from  ourselves  proceed. 
And  idly  we  lament  th'  inevitable  deed  ; 
It  seems  our  own,  but  there's  a  power  above 
Directs  the  motion,  nay,  that  makes  us  move  ; 
Nor  good  nor  evil  can  you  beings  name, 
Who  are  but  rooks  and  castles  in  the  game  ; 


Superior  natures  with  their  puppets  play, 
Till,  bagg'd  or  buried,  all  are  swept  away." 

Such  were  the  notions  of  a  mind  to  ill 
Now  prone,  but  ardent  and  determined  still . 
Of  joy  now  eager,  as  before  of  fame, 
And  screen'd  by  folly  when  assail'd  by  shame, 
Deeply  he  sank  ;  obey'd  each  passion's  call, 
And  used  his  reason  to  defend  them  all. 

Shall  I  proceed,  and  step  by  step  relate 
The  odious  progress  of  a  sinner's  fate  ? 
No — let  me  rather  hasten  to  the  time 
(Sure  to  arrive)  when  misery  waits  on  crime. 

With  virtue,  prudence  fled ;  what  Shore  possess  d 
Was  sold,  was  spent,  and  he  was  now  distress'd  : 
And  Want,  unwelcome  stranger,  pale  and  wan, 
Met  with  her  haggard  looks  the  hurried  man  ; 
His  pride  felt  keenly  what  he  must  expect 
From  useless  pity  and  from  cold  neglect. 

Struck  by  new  terrors,  from  his  friends  he  fled, 
And  wept  his  woes  upon  a  restless  bed ; 
Retiring  late,  at  er.rly  hour  to  rise. 
With  shrunken  features,  and  with  bloodshot  eyes: 
If  sleep  one  moment  closed  the  dismal  view, 
Fancy  her  terrors  built  upon  the  true; 
And  night  and  day  had  their  alternate  woes 
That  baffled  pleasure,  and  that  mock'd  repose  ; 
Till  to  despair  and  anguish  was  consign'd 
The  wreck  and  ruin  of  a  noble  mind. 

Now  .seized  for  debt,  and  lodged  within  a  jail. 
He  tried  his  friendships,  and  he  found  them  fail , 
Then  fail'd  his  spirits,  and  his  thoughts  were  all 
Fix'd  on  his  sins,  his  sufferings,  and  his  fall : 
His  ruffled  mind  was  pictured  in  his  face. 
Once  the  fair  seat  of  dignity  and  grace  : 
Great  was  the  danger  of  a  man  so  prone 
To  think  of  madness,  and  to  think  alone ; 
Yet  pride  still  lived,  and  struggled  to  sustain 
The  drooping  spirit  and  the  roving  brain  ; 
But  this  too  fail'd  :  a  friend  his  freedom  gave, 
And  sent  him  help  the  threatening  world  to  bravo  , 
Gave  solid  counsel  what  to  seek  or  flee. 
But  still  would  stranger  to  his  person  be : 
In  vain  !  the  truth  determined  to  explore. 
He  traced  the  friend  whom  he  had  wrong'd  Defore. 

This  was  too  much  ;  both  aided  and  advised 
By  orie  who  shunn'd  him,  pitied,  and  despised  : 
He  bore  it  not ;  'twas  a  deciding  stroke, 
And  on  his  reason  like  a  torrent  broke: 
In  dreadful  stillness  he  appear'd  a  while, 
With  vacant  horror  and  a  ghastly  smile  ; 
Then  rose  at  once  into  the  frantic  rage. 
That  force  controll'd  not,  nor  could  love  assuage. 

Friends  now  appear'd,  but  in  the  man  was  seen 
The  angry  maniac,  with  vindictive  mien  ; 
Too  late  their  pity  gave  to  care  and  skill 
The  hurried  mind  and  ever- wandering  will; 
Unnoticed  pass'd  all  time,  and  not  a  ray 
Of  reason  broke  on  his  benighted  way ; 
But  now  he  spurn'd  the  straw  in  pure  disdain. 
And  now  laugh'd  loudly  at  the  clinking  chain. 

Then  as  its  wrath  subsided,  by  degrees 
The  mind  sank  slowly  to  infantine  ease ; 
To  playful  folly,  and  to  causeless  joy. 
Speech  without  aim,  and  without  end,  employ, 
He  drew  fantastic  figures  on  the  wall. 
And  gave  some  wild  relation  of  them  all  ; 
With  brutal  shape  he  join'd  the  human  face 
And  idiot  smiles  approved  the  motley  race 


TALES. 


in 


Harmless  at  length  th'  unhappy  man  was  found, 
The  spirit  settled,  but  the  reason  drown'd ; 
And  all  the  dreadful  tempest  died  away. 
To  the  dull  stillness  of  the  misty  day. 

And  now  his  freedom  he  attain'd — if  free, 
The  lost  to   eason,  truth,  and  hope,  can  be  ; 
His  friends  or  wearied  with  the  charge,  or  sure 
The  harml  >'s  wretch  was  now  beyond  a  cure, 
Gave  him  to  wander  where  he  pleased,  and  find 
His  own  resources  for  the  eager  mind  ; 
The  playful  children  of  the  place  he  meets, 
Playful  with  them  he  rambles  through  the  streets ; 
In  all  they  need,  his  stronger  arm  he  lends. 
And  his  lost  mind  to  these  approving  friends. 

That  gentle  maid,  whom  once  the  youth   had 
loved. 
Is  now  with  mild  religious  pity  moved  ; 
Kindly  she  chides  his  boyish  flights,  while  he 
Will  lor  a  moment  fix'd  and  pensive  be  ; 
And  as  she  trembling  speaks,  his  lively  eyes 
Explore  her  looks,  he  listens  to  her  sighs  ; 
Charm'd  by  her  voice,  th'  harmonious  sounds  invade 
His  clouded  mind,  and  for  a  time  persuade  : 
Like  a  pleased  infant,  who  has  newly  caught 
From  the  maternal  glance  a  gleam  of  thought; 
He  stands  enrapt,  the  half  known  voice  to  hear, 
And  starts,  half-conscious,  at  the  falling  tear. 

Rarely  from  town,  nor  then  unwatch'd,  he  goes, 
In  darker  mood,  as  if  to  hide  his  woes  ; 
Returning  soon,  he  with  impatience  seeks 
His  youthful  friends,  and  shouts,  and   sings,  and 

speaks ; 
Speaks  a  wild  speech  with  action  all  as  wild — 
The  children's  leader,  and  himself  a  child  ; 
He  spins  their  top,  or,  at  their  bidding,  bends 
His  back,  while  o'er  it  leap  his  laughing  friends ; 
Simple  and  weak,  he  acts  the  boy  once  more. 
And  heedless  children  call  him  Silly  Shore. 


TALE  XIL 

«Q,UIRE  THOMAS  ;   OR,  THE  PRECIPITATE  CHOICE. 

Such  smiling  rogues  as  tliese, 
Like  rats,  oft  bite  the  holy  cords  in  twain, 

Too  intrinsicate  t'  unloose 

Lear,  act  1.  sc.  2. 

My  other  self,  my  counsel's  consistory, 

My  oracle,  my  prophet, 

I  as  a  child  will  go  by  thy  direction. 

Richard  III.  act  ii.  sc.  2. 

It  I  do  not  have  pity  upon  her,  I'm  a  villain ;  if  I  do  not 
love  her,  I  am  a  Jew. 

Much  Ado  about  Nothing,  act  ii.  sc.  3. 

Women  are  soft,  mild,  pitiable,  flexible  ; 

Bat  thou  art  obdurate,  flinty,  rough,  remorseless. 

Henry  VI.  part  3,  act  ii.  sc.  4. 
He  must  be  told  of  it,  and  he  shall ;  the  office 
Becomes  a  woman  best ;  I'll  take  it  upon  me  ; 
If  I  prove  honey-mouth'd,  let  my  tongue  blister. 

Winter's  Tale,  act  ii.  sc.  2. 

Disguise— I  see  thou  art  a  wickedness. 

Twelfth  Night,  act  ii.  sc.  2. 

'Sat  IRE  Thomas  flatter'd  long  a  wealthy  aunt, 
Who  left  him  all  that  she  could  give  or  grant : 
Ten  years  he  tried,  with  all  his  craft  and  skill, 
To  fix  the  sovereign  lady's  varying  will ; 


Ten  years  enduring  at  her  board  to  sit. 
He  meekly  listen'd  to  her  tales  and  wit; 
He  took  the  meanest  office  man  can  take. 
And  his  aunt's  vices  for  her  money's  sake  : 
By  many  a  threatening  hint  she  waked  his  fear. 
And  he  was  pain'd  to  see  a  rival  near; 
Yet  all  the  taunts  of  her  contemptuous  pride 
He  bore,  nor  found  his  grovelling  spirit  tried  : 
Nay,  when  she  wish'd  his  parents  to  traduce, 
Fawning  he  smiled,  and  justice  call'd  th'  abuse; 
"  They  taught  you  nothing ;  are  you  not,  at  best," 
Said  the  proud  dame,  "a  trifler,  and  a  jest? 
Confess  you  are  a  fool !" — he  bow'd  and  he  con* 
fess'd. 

This  vex'd  him  much,  but  could  not  always  last : 
The  dame  is  buried,  and  the  trial  past. 

There  was  a  female,  who  had  courted  long 
Her  cousin's  gifts,  and  deeply  felt  the  wrong ; 
By  a  vain  boy  forbidden  to  attend 
The  private  councils  of  her  wealthy  friend, 
She  vow'd  revenge,  nor  should  that  crafty  boy 
In  triumph  undisturb'd  his  spoils  enjoy  ; 
He  heard,  he  smiled,  and  when  the  will  was  read, 
Kindly  dismiss'd  the  kindred  of  the  dead  ; 
"  The  dear  deceased,"  he  call'd  her,  and  the  crowd 
Moved  off  with  curses  deep  and  threatenings  loud 

The  youth  retired,  and,  with  a  mind  at  ease. 
Found  he  was  rich,  and  fancied  he  must  please : 
He  might  have  pleased,  and  to  his  comfort  found 
The  wife  he  wish'd,  if  he  had  sought  around  ; 
For  there  were  lasses  of  his  own  degree. 
With  no  more  hatred  to  the  state  than  he  : 
But  he  had  courted  spleen  and  age  so  long, 
His  heart  refused  to  woo  the  fair  and  young ; 
So  long  attended  on  caprice  and  whira 
He  thought  attention  now  was  due  to  him  , 
And  as  his  flattery  pleased  the  wealthy  dame, 
Heir  to  the  wealth  he  might  the  flattery  claim; 
But  this  the  fair,  with  one  accord,  denied, 
Nor  waved  for  man's  caprice  the  sex's  pride: 
There  is  a  season  when  to  them  is  due 
Worship  and  awe,  and  they  will  claim  it  too. 
"  Fathers,"  they  cry,  "  long  hold  us  in  their  chain. 
Nay,  tyrant  brothers  claim  a  right  to  reign  ; 
Uncles  and  guardians  we  in  turn  obey,  ^ 

And  husbands  rule  with  ever-during  sway  ; 
Short  is  the  time  when  lovers  at  the  feet 
Of  beauty  kneel,  and  own  the  slavery  sweet; 
And  shall  we  this  our  triumph,  this  the  aim 
And  boast  of  female  power,  forbear  to  claim? 
No !  we  demand  that  homage,  that  respect. 
Or  the  proud  rebel  punish  and  reject." 

Our  hero,  still  too  indolent,  tr,o  nice 
To  pay  for  beauty  the  accustom'd  price. 
No  less  forbore  t'  address  the  humbler  maid, 
Who  might  have  yielded  with  the  price  unpaid  ; 
But  lived,  himself  to  humour  and  to  please, 
To  count  his  money,  and  enjoy  his  ease. 

It  pleased  a  neighbouring  'squire  to  recommend 
A  faithful  youth,  as  servant  to  his  friend  : 
Nay,  mere  than  servant,  whom  he  praised  for  parti 
Ductiii  yet  strong,  and  for  the  best  of  hearts 
One  who  might  ease  him  in  his  small  affairs. 
With  tenants,  tradesmen,  taxes,  and  repairs  ; 
Answer  his  letters,  look  to  all  his  dues. 
And  entertain  him  with  discourse  and  news. 

The  'squire  believed,  and  found  the  trusted  youth 
A  very  pattern  for  his  care  and  truth  ; 


118 


CRABBE. 


Not  for  his  virtues  to  be  praised  alone, 
Byt  for  a  modest  mien  and  humble  tone  ; 
Assenting  always,  but  as  if  he  meant 
Only  to  strength  of  reasons  to  assent  : 
For  was  he  stubborn,  and  retain'd  his  doubt. 
Till  the  more  subtle  'squire  had  forced  it  out; 
"  Nay,  still  was  right,  but  he  perceived,  that  strong 
And   powerful   minds   could  make  the  right  the 
wrong." 

When  the  'squire's  thoughts  on  some  fair  damsel 
dwelt. 
The  faithful  friend  his  apprehensions  felt ; 
It  would  rejoice  his  faithful  heart  to  find 
A  lady  suited  to  his  master's  mind  ; 
But  who  deserved  that  master  ?  who  would  prove 
That  hers  was  pure,  uninterested  love  ? 
Although  a  servant,  he  would  scorn  to  take 
A  countess,  till  she  suffer'd  for  his  sake  ; 
Some  tender  spirit,  humble,  faithful,  true, 
Such,  my  dear  master !  must  be  sought  for  you. 

Six  m6nths  had  pass'd,  and  not  a  lady  seen 
With  just  this  love,  'twixt  fifty  and  fifteen  ; 
All  seem'd  his  doctrine  or  his  pride  to  shun, 
All  would  be  wooed,  before  they  would  be  won ; 
When  the  chance  naming  of  a  race  and  fair, 
Our  'squire  disposed  to  take  his  pleasure  there  : 
The  friend  profess'd,  "  Although  he  first  began 
To  hint  the  thing,  it  seem'd  a  thoughtless  plan : 
The  roads,  he  fear'd,  were  foul,  the  days  were  short. 
The  village  far,  and  yet  there  might  be  sport." 

"What!  you  of  roads  and  starless  nights  afraid  ? 
You  think  to  govern  !  you  to  be  obey'd  I" 
Smiling  he  spoke,  the  humble  friend  declared 
His  soul's  obedience,  and  to  go  prepared. 

The  place  was  distant,  but  with  great  delight 
They  saw  a  race,  and  hail'd  the  glorious  sight : 
The  'squire  exulted,  and  declared  the  ride 
Had  amply  paid,  and  he  was  satisfied. 
They  gazed,  they  feasted,  and,  in  happy  mood. 
Homeward  return'd,  and  hastening  as  they  rode  ; 
For  short  the  day,  and  sudden  was  the  change 
From  light  to  darkness,  and  the  way  was  strange ; 
Our  hero  soon  grew  peevish,  then  distress'd  ; 
He  dreaded  darkness,  and  he  sigh'd  for  rest: 
Going,  they  pass'd  a  village,  but,  alas ! 
Returning,  saw  no  village  to  repass  ; 
The  'squire  remember'd  too  a  noble  hall. 
Large  as  a  church,  and  whiter  than  its  wall : 
This  he  had  noticed  as  they  rode  along. 
And  justly  reason 'd  that  their  road  was  wrong. 
George,  full  of  awe,  was  modest  in  reply, 
"  The  fault  was  his,  'twas  folly  to  deny  ; 
And  of  his  master's  safety  were  he  sure. 
There  was  no  grievance  he  would  not  endure." 
This  made  his  peace  with  the  relenting  'squire, 
Whose  thoughts  yet  dwelt  on  supper  and  a  fire  ; 
When,  as  they  reach'd  a  long  and  pleasant  green. 
Dwellings  of  men,  and  next  a  man  were  seen. 

"  My  friend,"  said  George,  "  to  travellers  astray 
Point  out  an  inn,  and  guide  us  on  the  way." 

The  man  look'd  up  ;  "  Surprising  !  can  it  be 
My  master's  son  ?  as  I'm  alive,  'tis  he." 

"  How !  Robin,"  George  reolied, "  and  are  we  near 
My  father's  house  ?  how  stvangely  things  appear! 
Dear  sir,  though  wanderers,  we  at  last  are  right : 
Let  us  proceed,  and  glad  my  father's  sight  ; 
We  shall  at  least  be  fairly  lodged  and  fed, 
I  can  ensure  a  supper  and  a  b^d  ; 


Let  us  this  night,  as  one  of  pleasure  date, 
And  of  surprise  :  it  is  an  act  of  fate." 
"  Go  on,"  the  'squire  in  happy  temper  cried ; 
"  I  like  such  blunder  !  I  approve  such  guide." 

They  ride,  they  halt,  the  farmer  comes  in  hasten 
Then  tells  his  wife  how  much  their  house  is  graced , 
They  bless  the  chance,  they  praise  the  lucky  son 
That  caused  the  error — Nay  !  it  w^as  not  one  ; 
But  their  good  fortune — Cheerful  grew  the  'squire 
Who  found  dependants,  flattery,  wine,  and  fire  ; 
He  heard  the  jack  turn  round,  the  busy  dame 
Produced  her  damask  ;  and  with  supper  came 
The  daughter,  dress'd  with  care,  and  full  of  maid- 
en shame. 

Surprised,  our  hero  saw  the  air  and  dress, 
And  strove  his  admiration  to  express  ; 
Nay  !  felt  it  too — for  Harriet  was,  in  truth, 
A  tall  fair  beauty  in  the  bloom  of  youth  ; 
And  from  the  pleasure  and  surprise,  a  grace 
Adorn'd  the  blooming  damsel's  form  and  face; 
Then  too,  such  high  respect  and  duty  paid 
By  all — such  silent  reverence  in  the  maid ; 
Venturing  with  caution,  yet  with  haste,  a  glance  , 
Loath  to  retire,  yet  trembling  to  advance, 
Appear'd  the  nymph,  and  in  her  gentle  guest 
Stirr'd  soft  emotions  till  the  hour  of  rest  : 
Sweet  was  his  sleep,  and  in  the  morn  again 
He  felt  a  mixture  of  delight  and  pain. 
"How  fair,  how  gentle,"  said  the  'squire,  "  hov: 

meek. 
And  yet  how  sprightly,  when  disposed  to  speak! 
Nature  has  bless'd  her  form,  and  Heaven  her  mind 
But  in  her  favours  Fortune  is  unkind  ; 
Poor  is  the  maid — nay,  poor  she  cannot  prove 
Who  is  enrich'd  with  beauty,  worth,  and  love.'* 

The  'squire  arose,  with  no  precise  intent 
To  go  or  stay,  uncertain  what  he  meant : 
He  moved  to  part ;  they  begg'd  him  first  to  dine  ; 
And  who  could  then  escape  from  love  and  wine  ? 
As  came  the  night,  more  charming  grew  the  fair 
And  seem'd  to  watch  him  with  a  two-fold  care  : 
On  the  third  morn,  resolving  not  to  stay. 
Though  urged  by  love,  he  bravely  rode  away. 

Arrived  at  home,  three  pensive  days  ho  gave 
To  feelings  fond  and  meditations  grave ; 
Lovely  she  was,  and,  if  he  did  not  err. 
As  fond  of  him  as  his  fond  heart  of  her  ; 
Still  he  delay'd,  unable  to  decide 
Which  was  the  master  passion,  love  or  pride : 
He  sometimes  wonder'd  how  his  friend  could  make 
And  then  exulted  in,  the  night's  mistake; 
Had  she  but  fortune,  "  Doubtless  then,"  he  cried, 
"  Some  happier  man  had  won  the  wealthy  bride." 

While  thus  he  hung  in  balance,  now  inclined 
To  change  his  slate,  and  then  to  change  his  mind 
That  careless  George  dropp'd  idly  on  the  ground 
A  letter,  which  his  crafty  master  found  ; 
The  stupid  youth  confess'd  his  fault,  and  pray'd 
The  generous  'squire  to  spare  a  gentle  maid  ; 
Of  whom  her  tender  mother,  full  of  fears. 
Had  written  much  ;  "  She  caught  her  oft  in  teai», 
For  ever  thinking  on  a  youth  above 
Her  humble  fortune  :  still  she  own'd  not  love  ; 
Nor  can  define,  dear  girl !  the  cherish'd  pain, 
But  would  rejoice  to  see  the  cause  again  : 
That  neighbouring  youth,  whom  she  endured  be 

fore. 
She  now  rejects,  and  will  behold  no  mor«  : 


TALES. 


119 


Raised  by  her  passion,  she  no  longer  stoops 

To  her  own  equals,  but  she  pines  and  droops, 

Like  to  a  lily,  on  whose  sweets  the  sun 

Has  withering  gazed — she  saw  and  was  undone: 

His  wealth  allured  her  not,  nor  was  she  moved 

By  his  superior  state,  himself  she  loved  ; 

So  mild,  so  good,  so  gracious,  so  genteel, — 

But  spare  your  sister,  and  her  love  conceal ; 

We  must  the  fault  forgive,  since  she  the  pain  must 

feel." 
"Fault!"  said  the  'squire,  "there's  coarseness  in 

the  mind 
That  thus  conceives  of  feelings  so  refined  ; 
Here  end  my  doubts,  nor  blame  yourself,  my  friend, 
Fate  made  you  careless; — here  my  doubts  have 
end." 
The  way  is  plain  before  us — there  is  now 
The  lover's  visit  first,  and  then  the  vow 
Mutual  and  fond,  the  marriage  rite,  the  bride 
Brought  to  her  home  with  all  a  husband's  pride  ; 
The  'squire  receives  the  prize  his  merits  won. 
And  the  glad  parents  leave  the  patron  son. 

But  in  short  time  he  saw  with  much  surprise, 
First  gloom,  then  grief,  and  then  resentment  rise, 
From  proud,  commanding  frowns,  and  anger-dart- 
ing eyes  : 
*  Is  there  in  Harriet's  humble  mind  this  fire, 
This  fierce  impatience  ?"  ask'd  the  puzzled  'squire  : 
"  Has  marriage  changed  her  ?  or  the  mask  she  wore 
Has  she  thrown  by,  and  is  herself  once  more  ?" 

Hour  after  hour,  when  clouds  on  clouds  appear, 
Dark  and  more  dark,  we  krow  the  tempest  near ; 
And  thus  the  frowning  brow,  the  restless  form. 
And  threatening  glance,  forerun  domestic  storm: 
So  read  the  husband,  and,  with  troubled  mind, 
Reveal'd  his  fears  ; — "  My  love,  I  hope  you  find 
All  here  is  pleasant ;  but  I  must  confess 
You  seem  offended,  or  in  some  distress  : 
Explain  the  grief  you  feel,  and  leave  me  to  redress." 
"  Leave  it  to  you  ?"  replied  the  nymph,  "  indeed  I 
What !  to  the  cause  from  whence  the  ills  proceed  ? 
Good  heaven !  to  take  me  from  a  place,  where  I 
Had  every  comfort  underneath  the  sky  ; 
And  then  immure  me  in  a  gloomy  place. 
With  the  grim  monsters  of  your  ugly  race. 
That  from  their  canvass  staring,  make  me  dread 
Through  the  dark  chambers  where  they  hang  to 

tread ! 
No  friend  nor  neighbour  comes  to  give  that  joy, 
Which  all  things  here  must  banish  or  destroy  : 
Where  is  the  promised  coach  ?  the  pleasant  ride  ? 

0  I  what  a  fortune  has  a  farmer's  bride  ! 
Your  sordid  pride  has  placed  me  just  above 
Your  hired  domestics  ;  and  what  pays  me  ?  love ! 
A  selfish  fondness  I  endure  each  hour. 

And  share  unwitness'd  pomp,  unenvied  power ; 

1  hear  your  folly,  smile  at  your  parade. 
And  see  your  favourite  dishes  duly  made  ; 
Then  am  I  richly  dress'd  for  you  t'  admire, 
Such  is  my  duty  and  my  lord's  desire  ; 

Is  this  a  life  for  youth,  for  health,  for  joy  ? 
Are  these  my  duties,  this  my  base  employ  ? 
No !  to  my  father's  house  will  I  repair, 
And  make  your  idle  wealth  support  me  there  ; 
Was  it  your  wish  to  have  an  humble  bride 
For  bondage  thankful  ?    Curse  upon  your  pride  ! 
Was  It  a  slave  you  wanted  ?    You  shall  see, 
That  if  not  happy,  I  at  least  am  free  ; 


Well,  sir,  your  answer."     Silent  stood  the  'squire. 

As  looks  a  miser  at  his  house  on  fire ; 

Where  all  he  deems  is  vanish'd  in  that  flame, 

Swept  from  the  earth  his  substance  and  his  nama 

So,  lost  to  every  promised  joy  of  life. 

Our  'squire  stood  gaping  at  his  angry  wife  ; — 

His  fate,  his  ruin,  where  he  saw  it  vain 

To  hope  for  peace,  pray,  threaten,  or  complain ; 

And  thus,  betwixt  his  wonder  at  the  ill 

And  his  despair,  there  stood  he  gaping  still. 

"  Your  answer,  sir  ; — shall  I  depart  a  spot 
I  thus  detest  ?" — "  O,  miserable  lot  1" 
Exclaim'd  the  man.    "  Go,  serpent  1  nor  remain 
To  sharpen  wo  by  insult  and  disdain  : 
A  nest  of  harpies  was  I  doom'd  to  meet  ; 
What  plots,  what  combinations  of  deceit! 
I  see  it  now  ;  all  plann'd,  design'd,  contrived  ; 
Served  by  that  villain — by  this  fury  wived — 
What  fate  is  mine  !  What  wisdom,  virtue,  truth, 
Can  stand,  if  demons  set  their  traps  for  youth  ? 
He  lose  his  way !  vile  dog !  he  cannot  lo^ 
The  way  a  villain  through  his  life  pursues  ; 
And  thou,  deceiver!  thou  afraid  to  move. 
And  hiding  close  the  serpent  in  the  dove  ! 
I  saw — but,  fated  to  endure  disgrace — 
Unheeding  saw  the  fury  in  thy  face  ; 
And  call'd  it  spirit; — O!  I  might  have  found 
Fraud  and  imposture — all  the  kindred  round! 
A  nest  of  vipers  " — 

— "  Sir,  I'll  not  admit 
These  wild  eflTusions  of  your  angry  wit : 
Have  you  that  value,  that  we  all  should  use 
Such  mighty  arts  for  such  important  views  ? 
Are  you  such  prize,  and  is  my  state  so  fair 
That  they  should  sell  their  souls  to  get  me  there? 
Think  you  that  we  alone  our  thoughts  disguise  ? 
When  in  pursuit  of  some  contended  prize. 
Mask  we  alone  the  heart,  and  soothe  whom  we  de- 
spise !        , 
Speak  you  of  craft  and  subtle  schemes,  who  know 
That  all  your  wealth  you  to  deception  owe ; 
Who  play'd  for  ten  dull  years  a  scoundrel  part, 
To  worm  yourself  into  a  widow's  heart  ? 
Now,  when  you  guarded,  with  superior  skill, 
That  lady's  closet,  and  preserved  her  will, 
Blind  in  your  craft,  you  saw  not  one  of  those 
Opposed  by  you  might  you  in  turn  oppose  ,• 
Or  watch  your  motions,  and  by  art  obtain 
Share  of  that  wealth  you  gave  your  peace  to  gain  ? 
Did  conscience  never" — 

— "  Cease,  tormentor,  cease— 
Or  reach  me  poison let  me  rest  in  peace !" 

"  Agreed — but  hear  me — let  the  truth  appear." 
"  Then  state  your  purpose  ;  I'll  be  calm  and  hear." 
"  Know  then,  this  wealth,  sole  object  of  your  care, 
I  had  some  right,  without  your  hand,  to  share  ; 
My  mother's  claim  was  just ;  but  soon  she  saw 
Your  power,  compell'd,  insulted,  to  withdraw : 
'Twas  then  my  father,  in  his  anger,  swore 
You  should  divide  the  fortune,  or  restore  ; 
Long  we  debated  ; — and  you  find  me  now 
Heroic  victim  to  a  father's  vow  ; 
Like  Jephthah's  daughter,  but  in  different  state. 
And  both  decreed  to  mourn  our  early  fate  ; 
Hence  was  my  brother  servant  to  your  pride, 
Vengeance  made  him  your  slave,  and  meyourbridei 
Now  all  is  known :  a  dreadful  price  I  pay 
For  our  revenge  ; — but  still  we  have  our  day ; 


130 


CRABBE. 


All  that  you  love  you  must  with  others  share, 
Or  all  you  dread  from  their  resentment  dare  ! 
Yet  terms  I  offer— let  contention  cease : 
Divide  the  spoil,  and  let  us  part  in  peace." 

Our  hero  trembling  heard— he  sat — he  rose — 
Nor  could  his  motions  nor  his  mind  compose  ; 
He  paced  the  room— and,  stalking  to  her  side. 
Gazed  on  the  face  of  his  undaunted  bride  ; 
And  nothing  there  but  scorn  and  calm  aversion 

spied. 
He  would  have  vengeance,  yet  he  fear'd  the  law  : 
Her  friends  w'ould  threaten, and  their  power  he  saw; 
"  Then  let  her  go  :"— but  O !  a  mighty  sum 
Would  that  demand,  since  he  had  let  her  come  • 
Nor  from  his  sorrows  could  he  find  redress. 
Save  that  which  led  him  to  a  like  distress. 
And  all  his  ease  was  in  his  wife  to  see 
A  wretch  as  anxious  and  distress'd  as  he  : 
Her  strongest  wish,  the  fortune  to  divide 
And  part  in  peace,  his  avarice  denied ; 
And  thiMi  it  happen'd,  as  in  all  deceit. 
The  cheater  found  the  evil  of  the  cheat; 
The  husband  grieved — nor  was  the  wife  at  rest; 
Him  she  could  vex,  and  he  could  her  molest  ; 
She  could  his  passion  into  frenzy  raise. 
But  when  the  fire  was  kindled,  fear'd  the  blaze  : 
As  much  they  studied,  so  in  time  they  found 
The  easiest  way  to  give  the  deepest  wound  ; 
But  then,  like  fencers,  they  were  equal  still. 
Both  lost  in  danger  what  they  gain'd  in  skill  ; 
Each  heart  a  keener  kind  of  rancour  gain'd. 
And  paining  more,  was  more  severely  pain'd  ; 
And  thus  by  both  were  equal  vengeance  dealt. 
And  both  the  anguish  they  inflicted  felt. 


TALE  XIII. 

JESSY   AND   COLIN. 

Then  she  plots,  then  she  ruminates,  then  she  de- 
vises ;  and  what  they  think  in  their  hearts  they  may  ef- 
fect, they  will  break  their  hearts  but  they  will  effect. 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  act  ii.  sc.  2. 
She  hath  spoken  that  she  should  not,  I  am  sure  of 
that ;  Heaven  knows  what  she  hath  known. 

Macbelh,  act  v.  sc.  1. 
Our  house  is  hell,  and  thou  a  merry  devil. 

3Ierchant  of  Venice,  act  ii.  sc.  3. 
And  yet,  for  aught  I  see,  they  are  as  sick  that  surfeit 
of  too  much,  as  they  that  starve  with  nothing ;  it  is  no 
mean  happiness,  therefore,  to  be  seated  in  the  mean. 

Id.  act  i.  sc.  2. 

A  VICAR  died,  and  left  his  daughter  poor — 
It  hurt  her  not,  she  was  not  rich  before  : 
Her  humble  share  of  worldly  goods  she  sold, 
Paid  every  debt,  and  then  her  fortune  told  ; 
And  found,  with  youth  and  beauty,  hope  and  health. 
Two  hundred  guineas  was  her  worldly  wealth ; 
It  then  remain'd  to  choose  her  path  in  life, 
And  first,  said  Jessy,  "  Shall  I  be  a  wife  ? — 
Colin  is  mild  and  civil,  kind  and  just, 
I  know  his  love,  his  temper  I  can  trust  ; 
But  small  his  farm,  it  asks  perpetual  care, 
And  we  must  toil  as  well  as  trouble  share : 
True,  he  was  taught  in  all  the  gentle  arts 
That  raise  the  soul,  and  soften  human  hearts : 


And  boasts  a  parent,  who  deserves  to  shine 
In  higher  class,  and  I  could  wish  her  mine ; 
Nor  wants  he  will  his  station  to  improve, 
A  just  ambition  waked  by  faithful  love ; — 
Still  is  he  poor — and  here  my  father's  friend 
Deigns  for  his  daughter,- as  her  own,  to  send ; 
A  worthy  lady,  who  it  seems  has  known 
A  world  of  griefs  and  troubles  of  her  own : 
I  was  an  infant,  when  she  came,  a  guest 
Beneath  my  father's  humble  roof  to  rest  ; 
Her  kindred  all  unfeeling,  vast  her  woes, 
Such  her  complaint,  and  there  she  found  repose  . 
Enrich'd  by  fortune,  now  she  nobly  lives, 
And  nobly,  from  the  blest  abundance,  gives ; 
The  grief,  the  want  of  human  life,  she  knows. 
And  cotpfort  there  and  here  relief  bestows  ; 
But  are  they  not  dependants? — Foolish  pride 
Am  I  not  honour'd  by  such  friend  and  guide  ? 
Have  I  a  home,"  (here  Jessy  dropp'd  a  tear,) 
"  Or  friend  beside  ?" — A  faithful  friend  was  near. 

Now  Colin  came,  at  length  resolved  to  lay 
His  heart  before  her  and  to  urge  her  stay  ; 
True,  his  own  plough  the  gentle  Colin  drove. 
An  humble  farmer  with  aspiring  love  ; 
Who,  urged  by  passion,  never  dared  till  now, 
Thus  urged  by  fears,  his  trembling  hopes  avow: 
Her  father's  glebe  he  managed  ;  every  year 
The  grateful  vicar  held  the  youth  more  dear ; 
He  saw  indeed  the  prize  in  Colin's  view. 
And  wish'd  his  Jessy  with  a  man  so  true  ; 
Timid  as  true,  he  urged  with  anxious  air 
His  tender  hope,  and  made  the  trembling  prayer; 
When  Jessy  saw,  nor  could  with  coldness  see, 
Such  fond  respect,  such  tried  sincerity . 
Grateful  for  favours  to  her  father  dealt, 
She  more  than  grateful  for  his  passion  felt ; 
Nor  could  she  frown  on  one  so  good  and  kind, 
Yet  fear'd  to  smile,  and  was  unfix'd  in  mind  ; 
But  prudence  placed  the  female  friend  in  viev/— 
What  might  not  one  so  rich  and  grateful  do  ? 
So  lately,  too,  the  good  old  vicar  died, 
His  faithful  daughter  must  not  cast  aside 
The  signs  of  filial  grief,  and  be  a  ready  bride : 
Thus,  led  by  prudence,  to  the  lady's  seat 
The  village  beauty  purposed  to  retreat  ; 
But  as  in  hard-fought  fields  the  victor  knows 
What  to  the  vanquish'd  he  in  honour  owes. 
So  in  this  conquest  over  powerful  love. 
Prudence  resolved  a  generous  foe  to  prove  ; 
And  Jessy  felt  a  mingled  fear  and  pain 
In  her  dismission  of  a  faithful  swain, 
Gave   her  kind   thanks,  and   when  she   saw  hit 

wo. 
Kindly  betray'd  that  she  was  loath  to  go  ; 
"  But  would  she  promise,  if  abroad  she  met 
A  frowning  world,  she  would  remember  yet 
Where   dwelt  a  friend?" — "That  could  she  r«ot 

ibrget." 
And  thus  they  parted  ;  but  each  faithful  heart 
Felt  the  compulsion  and  refused  to  part. 

Now  by  the  morning  mail  the  timid  maid 
Was  to  that  kind  and  wealthy  dame  convey'4 ; 
Whose  invitation,  when  her  father  died, 
Jessy  as  comfort  to  her  heart  applied  ; 
She  knew  the  days  her  generous  friend  had  seea 
As  wife  and  widow,  evil  days  had  been ; 
She  married  early,  and  for  half  her  life 
Was  an  insulted  and  forsaken  wife ; 


TALES. 


121 


Widow 'd  and  poor,  her  angry  father  gave, 

Mix'd  with  reproach,  the  pittance  of  a  slave; 

Forgetful  brothers  pass'd  her,  but  she  knew 

Her  humbler  friends,  and  to  their  home  withdrew  ; 

The  good  old  vicar  to  her  sire  applied 

For  help,  and  help'd  her  when  her  sire  denied  ; 

When  in  few  years  death  stalk'd  through  bower 

and  hall. 
Sires,  sons,  and  sons  of  sons,  were  buried  all  : 
She  then  abounded,  and  had  wealth  to  spare 
For  softening  grief  she  once  was  doom'd  to  share  ; 
Thus  train'd  in  misery's  school,  and  taught  to  feel, 
She  would  rejoice  an  orphan's  woes  to  heal : 
So  Jessy  thought,  who  look'd  within  her  breast, 
And  thence  conceived  how  bounteous  minds  are 
bless'd. 

From  her  vast  mansion  look'd  the  lady  down 
On  humbler  buildings  of  a  busy  town; 
Thence  came  her  friends  of  either  sex,  and  all 
With  whom  she  lived  on  terms  reciprocal  : 
They  pass'd  the  hours  with  their  accustom'd  ease, 
As  guests  inclined,  but  not  compell'd  to  please  ; 
But  there  were  others  in  the  mansion  found, 
For  office  chosen,  and  by  duties  bound  ; 
Three  female  rivals,  each  of  power  possess'd, 
Th'  attendant  maid,  poor  friend,  and  kindred  guest. 

To  these  came  Jessy,  as  a  seaman  thrown 
By  the  rude  storm  upon  a  coast  unknown 
The  view  was  flattering,  civil  seem'd  the  race. 
But  all  unknown  the  dangers  of  the  place,     [freed. 

Few  hours  had  pass'd,  when,  from    attendants 
The  lady  utter'd — "  This  is  kind  indeed  ; 
Believe  me,  love  !  that  I  for  one  like  you 
Have  daily  pray'd,  a  friend  discreet  and  true ; 
O!  wonder  not  that  I  on  you  depend, 
You  are  mine  own  hereditary  friend  : 
Hearken,  my  Jessy,  never  can  I  trust 
Beings  ungrateful,  selfish,  and  unjust ; 
But  you  are  present,  and  my  load  of  care 
Your  love  will  serve  to  lighten  and  to  share  : 
C  me  near  me,  Jessy  ;  let  not  those  below 
Of  my  reliance  on  your  friendship  know; 
Look  as  they  look,  be  in  their  freedoms  free — 
But  all  they  say  do  you  convey  to  me." 

Here  Jessy's  thoughts  to  Colin's  cottage  dew, 
And  W'ith   such  speed  she  scarce   their  absence 
knew. 

"  Jane  loves  her  mistress,  and  should  she  depart, 
I  lose  her  service,  and  she  breaks  her  heart ; 
My  wMys  and   wishes,   looks   and   thoughts   she 

knows. 
And  duteous  care  by  close  attention  shows : 
But  is  she  faithful  ?  in  temptation  strong  ? 
Will  she  not  wrong  me  ?  ah  !  I  fear  the  wrong  : 
Your  father  loved  me  ;  now,  in  time  of  need, 
Watch  for  my  good,  and  to  his  place  succeed. 

"  Blood  doesn't  bind — that  girl,  who  every  day 
Eats  of  my  bread,  would  wish  my  life  away  ; 
T  'JiU  her  dear  relation,  and  she  thinks 
To  make  her  fortune,  an  ambitious  minx  ! 
She  only  courts  me  for  the  prospect's  sake, 
Because  she  knows  I  have  a  will  to  make  ; 
Yes,  love  !  my  will  delay'd,  I  know  not  how — 
But  you  are  here,  and  I  will  nriake  it  now. 

"That  idle  creature,  keep  her  in  your  view, 
See  what  she  does,  what  she  desires  to  do ; 
On  her  young  mind  may  artful  villains  prey. 
And  to  my  plate  and  jewels  find  a  way ; 


A  pleasant  humour  has  the  girl :  her  smile 
And  cheerful  manner  tedious  hours  beguile  : 
But  well  observe  her,  ever  near  her  be. 
Close  in  your  thoughts,  in  your  professions  free. 

"  Again,  my  Jessy,  hear  what  I  advise, 
And  watch  a  woman  ever  in  disguise  ; 
Issop,  that  widow,  serious,  subtle,  sly — 
But  what  of  this — I  must  have  company  : 
She  markets  for  me,  and  although  she  makes 
Profit,  no  doubt,  of  all  she  undertakes, 
Yet  she  is  one  I  can  to  all  produce, 
.And  all  her  talents  are  in  daily  use  ; 
Deprived  of  her,  I  may  another  find 
As  sly  and  selfish,  with  a  weaker  mind : 
But  never  trust  her,  she  is  full  of  art. 
And  worms  herself  into  the  closet  heart ; 
Seem  then,  I  pray  you,  careless  in  her  sight, 
Nor  let  her  know,  my  love,  how  we  unite. 

"  Do,  my  good  Jessy,  cast  a  view  around, 
And  let  no  wrong  within  my  house  be  found  ; 

That  girl  associates  with 1  know  not  ^ho 

Are  her  companions,  nor  what  ill  they  do  ; 
*Tis  then  the  widow  plans,  'tis  then  she  tries 
Her  various  arts  and  schemes  for  fresh  supplies ; 
'Tis  then,  if  ever,  Jane  her  duty  quits. 
And,  whom  I  know  not,  favours  and  admits  : 
01  watch  their  movements  all ;  for  me  'tis  hard, 
Indeed  is  vain,  but  you  may  keep  a  guard  ; 
And  I,  when  none  your  watchful  glance  deceive. 
May  make  my  will,  and  think  what  I  shall  leave.* 

Jessy,  with  fear,  disgust,  alarm,  surprise. 
Heard  of  these  duties  for  her  ears  and  eyes ; 
Heard  by  what  service  she  must  gain  her  bread. 
And  went  with  scorn  and  sorrow  to  her  bed. 

Jane  was  a  servant  fitted  for  her  place. 
Experienced,  cunning,  fraudful,  selfish,  base  ; 
Skill'd  in  those  mean  humiliating  arts 
That  make  their  way  to  proud  and  selfish  hearts; 
By  instinct  taught,  she  felt  an  aw^e,  a  fear, 
For  Jessy's  upright,  simple  character  ; 
Whom  with  gross  flattcKtV  she  a  while  assail'd, 
And  then  beheld  with  hatred  when  it  fail'd; 
Yet  trying  still  upon  her  mind  for  hold. 
She  all  the  secrets  of  the  mansion  told  ; 
And  to  invite  an  equal  trust,  she  drew 
Of  every  mind  a  bold  and  rapid  view ; 
But  on  the  widow'd  friend  with  deep  disdain. 
And  rancorous  envy,  dwelt  the  treacherous  Jane  >— 
In  vain  such  arts ;  without  deceit  or  pride. 
With  a  just  taste  and  feeling  for  her  guide, 
From  all  contagion  Jessy  kept  apart, 
Free  in  her  manners,  guarded  in  her  heart. 

Jessy  one  morn  was  thoughtful,  and  her  sigh 
The  widow  heard  as  she  was  passing  by ; 
And — '*  Well  I"   she   said,  "  is   that  some  distao* 

swain, 
Or  aught  with  us,  that  gives  your  bosom  pain  ? 
Come,  we  are  fellow  sufferers,  slaves  in  thrall, 
And  tasks  and  griefs  are  common  to  us  all ; 
Think   not  my  franknecs   strange  :   they  love  to 

paint 
Their  state  with  freedom,  who  endure  restraint; 
And  there  is  something  in  that  speaking  eye 
And  sober  mien,  that  prove  I  may  rely  : 
You  came  a  stranger ;  to  my  words  attend. 
Accept  my  offer,  and  you  find  a  friend  ; 
It  is  a  labyrinth  in  which  you  stray. 
Come,  hold  my  clue,  end  I  will  lead  the  way. 


122 


CRABBE. 


"Good  Heaven!   that  one  so  jealous,  envious, 
base, 
Should  be  the  mistress  of  so  sweet  a  place  ; 
She,  who  so  long  herself  was  low  and  poor, 
Now  broods  suspicious  on  her  useless  store  ; 
She  loves  to  see  us  abject,  loves  to  deal 
Her  insult  round,  and  then  pretends  to  feel  : 
Prepare  to  cast  all  dignity  aside. 
For  know  your  talents  will  be  quickly  tried  ; 
Nor  think,  from  favours  past,  a  friend  to  gain, 
Tis  but  by  duties  we  our  posts  maintain : 
I  read  her  novels,  gossip  through  the  town. 
And  daily  go,  for  idle  stories,  down  ; 
I  cheapen  all  she  buys,  and  bear  the  curse 
Of  honest  tradesmen  for  my  niggard  purse  ; 
And,  when  for  her  this  meanness  I  display, 
She  cries,  *  I  heed  not  what  I  throw  away  ;' 
Of  secret  bargains  I  endure  the  shame, 
And  stake  my  credit  for  our  fish  and  game  ; 
Oft  h'as  she  smiled  to  hear  *  her  generous  soul 
Would  gladly  give,  but  sloops  to  my  control.' 
Nay  !  I  have  heard  her,  when  she  chanced  to  come 
Where  I  contended  for  a  petty  sum. 
Affirm  'twas  painful  to  behold  such  care, 
*  But  Issop's  nature  is  to  pinch  and  spare.' 
Thus  all  the  meanness  of  the  house  is  mine, 
And  my  reward,  to  scorn  her,  and  to  dine. 

"  See  next  that  giddy  thing,  with  neither  pride 
To  keep  her  safe,  nor  principle  to  guide  ; 
Poor,  idle,  simple  flirt !  as  sure  as  fate 
Her  maiden  fame  will  have  an  early  date : 
Of  her  beware  ;  for  all  who  live  below 
Have  faults  they  wish  not  all  the  world  to  know ; 
And  she  is  fond  of  listening,  full  of  doubt. 
And  stoops  to  guilt  to  find  an  error  out. 

"  And  now  once  more  observe  the  artful  maid, 
A  lying,  prying,  jilting,  thievish  jade  ; 
I  think,  my  love,  you  would  not  condescend 
To  call  a  low,  illiterate  girl  your  friend  : 
But  in  our  troubles  we  are  apt,  you  know. 
To  lean  on  all  who  some  compassion  show  , 
And  she  has  flexile  features,  acting  eyes. 
And  seems  with  every  look  to  sympathize  ; 
No  mirror  can  a  mortal's  grief  express 
With  more  precision,  or  can  feel  it  less  ; 
That  proud,  mean  spirit,  she  by  fawning  courts, 
By  vulgar  flattery,  and  by  vile  reports  ; 
And,  by  that  proof  she  every  instant  gives, 
To  one  so  mean,  that  yet  a  meaner  lives. 

"  Come,  I  have  drawn  the  curtain,  and  you  see 
Your  fellow  actors,  all  our  company  ; 
Should  you  incline  to  throw  reserve  aside. 
And  in  my  judgment  and  my  love  confide, 
I  could  some  prospects  open  to  your  view. 
That  ask  attention  ;  and,  till  then,  adieu." 

"  Farewell !"  said  Jessy,  hastening  to  her  room. 
Where  all  she  saw  within,  without,  was  gloom  : 
Confused,  perplex'd,  she  pass'd  a  dreary  hour. 
Before  her  reason  could  exert  its  power  ; 
To  her  all  seem'd  mysterious,  all  allied 
To  avarice,  meanness,  folly,  craft,  and  pride  ; 
Wearied  with  thought,  she  breathed  the  garden's 

air. 
Then  came  the  laughing  lass,  and  join'd  her  there. 

"  My  sweetest  friend  has  dwelt  with  us  a  week, 
And  does  she  love  us  ?  be  sincere  and  speak  ; 
My  aunt  you  cannot — Lord  !  how  I  should  hate 
To  be  like  her,  all  misery  and  state  ; 


Proud,  and  yet  envious,  she  disgusted  sees 

All  who  are  happy,  and  who  look  at  ease. 

Let  friendship  bind  us,  I  will  quickly  show 

Some  favourites  near  us,  you'll  be  bless'd  to  know 

My  aunt  forbids  it,  but  can  she  expect. 

To  soothe  her  spleen,  we  shall  ourselves  negiCCt 

Jane  and  the  widow  were  to  watch  and  stay 

My  free-born  feet ;  I  watch'd  as  well  as  they ; 

Lo !  what  is  this  ?  this  simple  key  explores 

The  dark  recess  that  holds  the  spinster's  stores; 

And,  led  by  her  ill  star,  I  chanced  to  see 

Where  Issop  keeps  her  stock  of  ratafie ;/ 

Used  in  the  hours  of  anger  and  alarm. 

It  makes  her  civil,  and  it  keeps  her  warm  ; 

Thus  bless'd  with  secrets   both  would  choose  U 

hide. 
Their  fears  now  grant  me  what  their  scorn  denied. 

"  My  freedom  thus  by  their  assent  secured, 
Bad  as  it  is,  the  place  may  be  endured  ; 
And  bad  it  is  ;  but  her  estates,  you  know. 
And  her  beloved  hoards  she  must  bestow  ; 
So  we  can  slyly  our  amusements  take. 
And  friends  of  demons,  if  they  help  us,  make." 

"  Strange  creatures  these,"  thought  Jessy,  half 
inclined 
To  smile  at  one  malicious  and  yet  kind  ; 
Frank  and  yet  cunning,  with  a  heart  to  love 
And  malice  prompt — the  serpent  and  the  dove. 
Here  could  she  dwell  ?  or  could  she  yet  depart? 
Could  she  be  artful  ?  could  she  bear  with  art? 
This  splendid  mansion  gave  the  cottage  grace, 
She  thought  a  dungeon  was  a  happier  place  ; 
And  Colin  pleading,  when  he  pleaded  best. 
Wrought  not  such  sudden  change  in  Jessy's  breart 

The  wondering  maiden,  who  had  only  read 
Of  such  vile  beings,  saw  them  now  with  dread ; 
Safe  in  themselves,  for  nature  has  design'd 
The  creature's  poison  harmless  to  the  kind  ; 
But  all  beside  who  in  the  haunts  are  found 
Must  dread  the  poison,  and  must  feel  the  wound. 

Days  full  of  care,  slow  weary  weeks  pass'd  on, 
Eager  to  go,  still  Jessy  was  not  gone ; 
Her  time  in  trifling  or  in  tears  she  spent. 
She  never  gave,  she  never  felt  content : 
The  lady  wonder'd  that  her  humble  guest 
Strove  not  to  please,  would  neither  lie  nor  jest; 
She  sought  no  news,  no  scandal  would  convey, 
But  walk'd  for  health,  and  was  at  church  to  pray 
All  this  displeased,  and  soon  the  widow  cried, 
"  Let  me  be  frank  ;  I  am  not  satisfied  ; 
You  know  my  wishes,  I  your  judgment  trust; 
You  can  be  useful,  Jessy,  and  you  must. 
Let  me  be  plainer,  child  ;  I  want  an  ear 
When  I  am  deaf,  instead  of  mine  to  hear, 
When  mine  is  sleeping,  let  your  eye  awake  ; 
When  I  observe  not,  observation  take ; 
Alas  !  I  rest  not  on  my  pillow  laid. 
Then  threatening  whispers  make  my  soul  afraid  ; 
The  tread  of  strangers  to  my  ear  ascends. 
Fed  at  my  cost,  the  minions  of  my  friends; 
While  you,  without  a  care,  a  wish  to  please, 
Eat  the  vile  bread  of  idleness  and  ease." 

Th'  indignant  girl,  astonish'd,  answer'd,  "  Nay 
This  instant,  madam,  let  me  haste  away  ; 
Thus  speaks  my  father's,  thus  an  orphan's  friend? 
This  instant,  lady,  ler  your  bounty  end." 

The  lady  frown'd  indignant :  "  What !"  she  crie4 
"  A  vicar's  daughter  with  a  princess'  pride ! 


TALES. 


123 


And  pauper's  lot !  but  pitying,  I  forgive  ; 
How,  simple  Jessy,  do  you  think  to  live  ? 
Have  I  not  power  to  help  you,  foolish  maid  ? 
To  my  concerns  be  your  attention  paid  ; 
With  cheerful  mind  th'  allotted  duties  take, 
And  recollect  I  have  a  will  to  make." 

Jessy,  who  felt  as  liberal  natures  feel, 
When  thus  the  baser  their  designs  reveal, 
Replied,  "  Those  duties  were  to  her  unfit. 
Nor  would  her  spirit  to  her  tasks  submit." 
In  silent  scorn  the  lady  sat  a  while. 
And   then    replied   with    stern    contemptuous 
smile, — 
"  l^ink  you,  fair  madam,  that  you  came  to 
share 
Fortunes  like  mine  without  a  thought  or  care  ? 
A  guest,  indeed  !    from  every  trouble  free, 
Dress'd  by  my  help,  with  not  a  care  for  me  ; 
When  I  a  visit  to  your  father  made, 
I  for  the  poor  assistance  largely  paid  ; 
To  his  domestics  I  their  tasks  assign'd, 
I  fix'd  the  portion  for  his  hungry  hind  ; 
And  had  your  father  (simple  man  I)  obey'd 
My  good    advice,  and    watch'd    as    well    as 

pray'd, 
He  might  have   left  you  something   with   his 

prayers. 
And  lent  some  colour  for  these  lofty  airs. 
"In   tears,  my  love!    O,   then,   my  soften'd 
heart 
Cannot  resist ;  we  never  more  will  part  ; 
I  need  your  friendship,  I  will  be  your  friend. 
And  thus  determined,  to  my  will  attend." 

Jessy  went  forth,  but  with  determined  soul 
To  fly  such  love,  to  break  from  such  control ; 
*  I  hear  enough,"  the  trembling  damsel  cried  ; 
"  Flight  be  my  care,  and  Providence  my  guide  : 
Ere  yet  a  prisoner,  I  escape  will  make ; 
Will,  thus  display'd,  th'  insidious  arts  forsake. 
And,   as  the   rattle  sounds,  will   fly  the  fatal 
snake." 
Jessy  her  thanks  upon  the  morrow  paid. 
Prepared  to  go,  determined,  though  afraid. 

"  Ungrateful  creature,"  said  the  lady,  "  this 
Could  1  imagine  ?— are  you  frantic,  miss  ? 
What!   leave  your  friend,  your  prospects — is  it 

true  ?" 
This  Jessy  answer'd  by  a  mild  "  Adieu  !" 
The  dame  replied,  "  Then  houseless  may  you 
rove. 
The  starving  victim  to  a  guilty  love  ; 
Branded  with  shame,  in  sickness  doom'd  to  nurse 
An  ill-form'd  cub,  your  scandal  and  your  curse  ; 
Spurn'd  by  its  scoundrel  father,  and  ill  fed 
By  surly  rustics  with  the  parish  bread  I — 
Relent  you  not  ? — speak — yet  I  can  forgive  ; 
Still  live  with  me."  —  "With  you,"  said   Jessy, 

"live? 
No!  I  would  first  endure  what  you  describe, 
Rather  than  breathe  with  your  detested  tribe  , 
Wh5   long   have   feign'd,   till   now   their   very 

liearts 
Are  firmly  fix'd  in  their  accursed  parts  ; 
Who  all  profess  esteem,  and  feel  disdain, 
^nd  all,  with  justice,  of  deceit  complain  ; 
iVhom  1  could  pity,  but  that,  while  I  stay, 
My  terror  dr. yes  all  kinder  thoughts  away  ; 


Grateful  for  this,  that  when  T  think  of  you, 
I  little  fear  what  poverty  can  do." 

The  angry  matron  her  attendant  Jane 
Summon'd  in  haste  to  soothe  the  fierce  disdain. 

"  A  vile,  detested  wretch  !"  the  lady  cried, 
"  Yet  shall  she  be,  by  many  an  eflfort,  tried. 
And,  clogg'd  with  debt  and  fear,  against  her  wiL 

abide  ; 
And,  once  secured,  she  never  shall  depart 
Till  I  have  proved  the  firmness  of  her  heart ; 
Then  when  she  dares  not.  would  not,  cannot  go, 
I'll  make  her  feel  what  'tis  to  use  me  so." 

The  pensive  Colin  in  his  garden  stray'd. 
But  felt  not  then  the  beauties  it  display'd  ; 
There  many  a  pleasant  objec   ;x.et  his  view, 
A  rising  wood  of  oaks  behind  it  grew  ; 
A  stream  ran  by  it,  and  the  village  green 
And  public  road  were  from  the  gardens  seen ; 
Save  where  the  pine  and  larch  the  boundary 

made. 
And  on  the  rose-beds  threw  a  softening  shade. 

The  mother  sat  beside  the  garden  door, 
Dress'd  as  in  times  ere  she  and  hers  were  poor ; 
The  broad-laced  cap  was  known    in    ancient 

days, 
When    madam's  dress    compell'd    the    village 

praise  ; 
And  still  she  look'd  as  in  the  times  of  old, 
Ere  his  last  farm  the  erring  husband  sold ; 
While  yet  the  mansion  stood  in  decent  state, 
And  paupers  waited  at  the  well-known  gate 

"Alas!  my  son  !"  the  mother  cried,  "  and  why 
That  silent  grief  and  oft-repeated  sigh? 
True,  we  are  poor,  but  thou  hast  never  felt 
Pangs  to  thy  father  for  his  error  dealt ; 
Pangs  from  strong  hopes  of  visionary  gain. 
For  ever  raised,  and  ever  found  in  vain. 
He  rose  unhappy !  from  his  fruitless  schemes. 
As  guilty  wretches  from  their  blissful  dreams ; 
But  thou  wert  then,  my  son,  a  playful  child. 
Wondering  at  grief,  gay,  innocent,  and  wild. 
Listening  at  times  to  ihy  poor  mother's  sighs. 
With  curious  looks  and  innocent  surprise  ; 
Thy  father  dying,  thou,  my  virtuous  boy. 
My  comfort  always,  waked  my  soul  to  joy  ; 
With  the  poor  remnant  of  our  fortune  left, 
Thou  hast  our  station  of  its  gloom  bereft: 
Thy  lively  temper,  and  thy  cheerful  air. 
Have  cast  a  smile  on  sadness  and  despair: 
Thy  active  hand  has  dealt  to  this  poor  space 
The  bliss  of  plenty  and  the  charm  of  grace; 
And  all  around  us  wonder  when  they  find 
Such  taste   and   ^rength,  such   skill  and  pow# 

combined  ; 
There  is  no  mother,  Colin,  no,  not  one 
But  envies  me  so  kind,  so  good  a  son  ; 
By  thee  supported  on  this  failing  side. 
Weakness  itself  awakes  a  parent's  pride  : 
I  bless  the  stroke  that  was  my  grief  before. 
And  feel  such  joy  that  'tis  disease  no  more  ; 
Shielded  by  thee,  my  want  becomes  ray  wealth, 
And  soothed  by  Colin,  sickness  smiles  at  health," 
The  old  men  love  thee,  they  repeat  thy  praise. 
And  say,  like  thee  were  youth  in  earlier  days  ; 
While  every  village  maiden  cries,  '  How  gay, 
How    smart,   how   brave,   how  good   is  Colin 
Grey !' 


184 


CRABBE. 


"  Yet  art  thou  sad  ;  alas  !  my  son,  I  know 
Thy  heart  is  wounded,  and  the  cure  is  slow  ; 
Fain  would  I  think  thai  Jessy  still  may  come 
To  share  the  comforts  of  our  rustic  home  : 
She  surely  loved  thee  ;  I  have  seen  the  maid, 
When  thou  hast  kindly  brought  the  vicar  aid — 
When  thou  hast  eased  his  bosom  of  its  pain, 
O !  I  have  seen  her — she  will  come  again.' 

The  matron  ceased ;  and  Colin  stood  the  while 
Silent,  but  striving  for  a  grateful  smile  ; 
He  then  replied,  "  Ah !  sure,  had  Jessy  stay'd, 
And  shared  the  comforts  of  our  sylvan  shade, 
The  tenderest  duty  and  the  fondest  love 
Would  not  have  fail'd  that  generous  heart  to 

move  ; 
A  grateful  pity  would  have  ruled  her  breast. 
And  my  distresses  would  have  made  me  blest 

"  But  she  is  gone,  and  ever  has  in  view 
Grandeur  and  taste  ;  and  what  will  then  ensue  ? 
Surprise,  and  then  delight,  iii   scenes  so  fair  and 

new: 
For  many  a  day,  perhaps  for  many  a  week. 
Home  will  have  charms,  and  to  her  bosom  speak ; 
But  thoughtless  ease,  and  affluence,  and  pride, 
Seen  day  by  day,  will  draw  the  heart  aside : 
And  she  at  length,  though  gentle  and  sincere, 
W^ill  think  no  more  of  our  enjoyment  here." 
Sighing  he   spake — but  hark!  he  hears  the  ap- 
proach 
Of  rattling  wheels!  and  lo  !  the  evening  coach; 
Once  more  the  movement  of  the  horses'  feet 
Makes  the  fond  heart  with  strong  emotion  beat ; 
Faint  were  his  hopes,  but  ever  had  the  sight 
Drawn  him  to  gaze  beside  his  gate  at  night ; 
And  when  with  rapid  wheels  it  hurried  by. 
He  grieved  his  parent  with  a  hopeless  sigh; 
And  could  the  blessing  have  been  bought,  what 

sum 
Had  he  not  ofFer'd,  to  have  Jessy  come  ! 
She  came — he  saw  her  bending  from  the  door, 
Her  face,  her  smile,  and  he  beheld  no  more ; 
Lost  in  his  joy — the  mother  lent  her  aid 
T'  assist  and  to  detain  the  willing  maid ; 
Who  thought  her  late,  her  present  home  lo  make, 
Sure  of  a  welcome  for  the  vicar's  sake : 
But  the  good  parent  was  so  pleased,  so  kind, 
So  pressing  Colin,  she  so  much  inclined. 
That  night  advanced  ;  and  then  so  long  detain'd,  , 
No  wishes  to  depart  she  felt,  or  feign'd  ; 
Yet  long  in  ^doubt  she  stood,  and  then  perforce 
remain'd. 
Here  was  a  lover  fond,  a  friend  sincere  ; 
Here  was  content  and  joy,  for  she  was  here  : 
In  the  mild  evening,  in  the  scene  around. 
The  maid,  now  free,  peculiar  beauties  found  ; 
Blended  with  village  tones,  the  evening  gale 
Gave  the  sweet  night-bird's  warblings  to  the  vale  ; 
The  youth  imbolden'd,  yet  abash'd,  now  told 
His  fondest  wish,  nor  found  the  maiden  cold  ; 
The  mother  smiling  whisper'd — "  Let  him  go 
And  seek  the  license  I"    Jessy  answer'd,  "  No  :" 
But  Colin  went.    I  know  not  if  they  live 
With  all  the  comforts  wealth  and  plenty  give : 
But  with  pure  joy  to  envious  souls  denied. 
To  suppliant  meanness  and  suspicious  pride  ; 
And  village  maids  of  happy  couples  say, 
'*  They  live  like  Jessy  Bourn  and  Colin  Grey." 


TALE  XIV. 

THE   STRUGGLES  DF  CONSCIENCE. 

I  am  a  villain  ;  yet  I  lie,  I  am  not ; 
Fool!  of  thyself  speak  well:— Fool!  do  not  flatter 
My  Conscience  hath  a  thousand  several  tonguea, 
And  every  tongue  brings  in  a  several  tale. 

Richard  III.  act  v.  sc.  ft 

My  Conscience  is  but  a  kind  of  hard  Conscience.  .  .  . 
The  fiend  gives  the  more  friendly  counsel. 

Merchant  of  Venice,  act  ii.  sc.  2. 
Thou  hast  it  now— and  I  fear 
Thou  play'dst  most  foully  for  it. 

Macbeth,  act  iii.  sc.  1. 
Canst  thou  not  minister  to  a  mind  diseased, 
Pluck  from  the  memory  a  rooted  sorrow, 
Rase  out  the  written  troubles  of  the  brain, 
And  with  some  sweet  oblivious  antidote 
Cleanse  the  foul  bosom  of  that  perilous  stuff 
Which  weighs  upon  the  heart  1 

lb.  act  V.  sc.  3. 

Soft !  1  did  but  dream— 
O  !  coward  Conscience,  how  dost  thou  afflict  me  ! 
Richard  IIL  act  v.  sc.  3. 

A  SERIOUS  toyman  in  the  city  dwelt. 

Who  much  concern  for  his  religion  felt ; 

Reading,  he  changed  his  tenets,  read  again. 

And  various  questions  could  with  skill  maintain; 

Papist  and  quaker  if  we  set  aside. 

He  had  the  road  of  every  traveller  tried  ; 

There  walk'd  a  while,  and  on  a  sudden  turn'd 

Into  some  by-way  he  had  just  discern'd  : 

He  had  a  nephew,  Fulham — Fulham  went 

His  uncle's  way,  with  every  turn  content ; 

He  saw  his  pious  kinsman's  watchful  care. 

And   thought   such  anxious  pains  his  own  might 

spare. 
And  he,  the  truth  obtain'd,  without  the  toil,  might 

share. 
In  fact,  young  Fulham,  though  he  little  read, 
Perceived  his  uncle  was  by  fancy  led ; 
And  smiled  to  see  the  constant  care  he  took, 
Collating  creed  with  creed,  and  book  with  book. 

At  length  the  senior  fix'd  ;  I  pass  the  sect 
He  call'd  a  church,  'twas  precious  and  elect ; 
Yet  Ihe  seed  fell  not  in  the  richest  soil, 
For  few  disciples  paid  the  preacher's  toil ; 
All  in  an  attic  room  were  wont  to  meet. 
These  few  disciples  at  their  pastor's  feet ; 
With  these  went  Fulham,  who,  discreet  and  grave, 
Follow'd  the  light  his  worthy  uncle  gave  ; 
Till  a  warm  preacher  found  a  way  t'  impart 
Awakening  feelings  to  his  torpid  heart: 
Some  weighty  truths,  and  of  unpleasant  kind. 
Sank,  though  resisted,  in  his  struggling  mind; 
He  wish'd  to  fly  them,  but  compell'd  to  stay. 
Truth  to  the  waking  Conscience  found  her  way  ; 
For  though  the  youth  was  call'd  a  prudent  lad, 
And  prudent  was,  yet  serious  faults  he  had  ; 
Who  now  reflected—"  Much  am  I  surprised, 
I  find  these  notions  cannot  be  despised  ; 
No!  there  is  something  I  perceive  at  last, 
Although  my  uncle  cannot  hold  it  fast ; 
Though  I  the  strictness  of  these  men  reject. 
Yet  I  determine  to  be  circumspect ; 
This  man  alarms  me,  and  I  must  begin 
To  look  more  closely  to  the  things  within  j 


TALES. 


125 


These  sons  of  zeal  hav«  I  derided  long, 
But  now  begin  to  think  the  laughers  wrong; 
Nay,  my  good  uncle,  by  all  teachers  moved, 
Will  be  preferr'd  to  him  who  none  approved  ; 
Better  to  love  amiss  than  nothing  to  have  loved." 

Such  were  his  thoughts,  when  Conscience  first 
began 
To  hold  close  converse  with  Ih'  awaken'd  man :  ^ 
He  from  that  time  reserved  and  cautious  grew. 
And  for  his  duties  felt  obedience  due ; 
Pious  he  was  not,  but  he  fear'd  the  pain 
Of  sins  committed,  nor  would  sin  again. 
Whene'er   he  stray'd,  he  found    his    Conscience 

rose. 
Like  one  determined  what  was  ill  t'  oppose, 
What  wrong  t'  accuse,  what  secret  to  disclose  : 
To  drag  forth  every  latent  act  to  light. 
And  fix  them  fully  in  the  actor's  sight : 
This  gave  him  trouble,  but  he  still  confess'd 
The  labour  useful,  for  it  brought  him  rest. 

The  uncle  died,  and  when  the  nephew  read 
The  will,  and  saw  the  substance  cf  the  dead — 
Five  hundred  guineas,  with  a  stock  in  trade — 
He  much  rejoiced,  and  thought  his  fortune  made ; 
Yet  felt  aspiring  pleasure  at  the  sight, 
And  for  increase,  increasing  appetite  : 
Desire  of  profit,  idle  habits  check'd, 
(For  Fulham's  virtue  was  to  be  correct ;) 
He  and  his  Conscience  had  their  compact  made — 
"  Vrge  me  with  truth,  and  you  will  soon  persuade  ; 
But  not,"  he  cried,  "  for  mere  ideal  things 
Give  me  to  feel  those  terror-breeding  stings." 

"  Let  not  such  thoughts,"  she  said,  "  your  mind 
confound  ; 
Trifles  may  wake  me,  but  they  never  wound  ; 
In  them  indeed  there  is  a  wrong  and  right, 
But  you  will  find  me  pliant  and  polite  ; 
Not  like  a  Conscience  of  the  dotard  kind, 
Awake  to  dreams,  to  dire  offences  blind : 
Let  all  within  be  pure,  in  all  beside 
Be  your  own  master,  governor,  and  guide ; 
Alive  to  danger,  in  temptation  strong, 
And  I  shall  sleep  our  whole  existence  long." 

"  Sweet   be   thy  sleep,"  said  Fulham ;  "  strong 
must  be 
The  tempting  ill  that  gains  access  to  me  : 
Never  will  1  to  evil  deed  consent. 
Or,  if  surprised,  O  !  how  will  I  repent! 
Should  gain  be  doubtful,  soon  would  I  restore 
The  dangerous  good,  or  give  it  to  the  poor. 
Repose  for  them  my  growing  wealth  shall  buy — 
Or  build-  who  knows  ? — an  hospital  like  Guy  ? — 
Yet  why  tjkch  means  to  soothe  the  smart  within. 
While  firmly  purposed  to  renounce  the  sin  ?" 

Thus  our  young  Trader  and  his  Conscience  dwelt 
In  mutual  love,  and  great  the  joy  they  felt; 
But  yet  in  small  concerns,  in  trivial  things, 
'  She  was,"  he  said,  "  too  ready  with  the  stings  ;" 
And  he  too  apt,  in  search  of  growing  gains, 
To  lose  the  fear  of  penalties  and  pains  : 
Yet  these  were  trifling  bickerings,  petty  jars, 
Domestic  strifes,  preliminary  wars  ; 
He  ventured  little,  little  she  express'd 
Of  indignation,  and  they  both  had  rest. 

Thus  was  he  fix'd  to  walk  the  worthy  way, 
When  profit  urged  hirn  to  a  bold  essay  : — 
A  time  was  that  when  all  at  pleasure  gamed 
In  lottery  chances,  yet  of  law  unblamed ; 


This  Fulham  tried  :  who  would  to  him  advance 
A  pound  or  crown,  he  gave  in  turn  a  chance 
For  weighty  prize  ;  and  should  they  nothing  share, 
They  had  their  crown  or  pound  in  Fulham's  ware; 
Thus  the  old  stores  within  the  shop  were  sold 
For  that  which  none  refuses,  new  or  old. 
Was  this  unjust?  yet  Conscience  could  not  rest. 
But  made  a  mighty  struggle  in  the  breast  • 
And  gave  th'  aspiring  man  an  early  proof, 
That  should  they  war  he  would  have  work  enough 
"  Suppose,"  said  she,  "  your  vended  numbers  rise 
The  same  with  those  which  gain  each  real  prize, 
(Such  your  proposal,)  can  you  ruin  shun  ?" — 
"A  hundred  thousand,"  he  replied,  "  to  one."— 
"  Still  it  may  happen." — "  I  the  sum  must  pay.''— 
"  You  know  you  cannot." — "  I  can  run  away." 
"  That  is  dishonest." — "  Nay,  but  you  must  wink 
At  a  chance  hit ;  it  cannot  be,  I  think. 
Upon  my  conduct  as  a  whole  decide, 
Such  trifling  errors  let  my  virtues  hide  ; 
Fail  I  at  meeting  ?  am  I  sleepy  there  ? 
My  purse  refuse  I  with  the  priest  to  share  ? 
Do  I  deny  the  poor  a  helping  hand  ? 
Or  stop  the  wicked  women  in  the  Strand  ? 
Or  drink  at  club  beyond  a  certain  pitch  ? 
Which  are   your    charges  ?   Conscience,  tell  me 
which  ?" 

"'Tis   well,"  said  she,  "  but — "   "Nay,  I  pray, 
have  done : 
Trust  me,  I  will  not  into  danger  run." 

The  lottery  drawn,  not  one  demand  was  made ; 
Fulham  gain'd  profit  and  increase  of  trade. 
"  See  now,"  said  he — for  Conscience  yet  arose — 
"  How  foolish  'tis  such  measures  to  oppose  : 
Have  I  not  blameless  thus  my  state  advanced  ?" — 
"  Still,"  mutter'd  Conscience,  still  it  might  have 

chanced." — 
"  Might  1"  said  our  hero,  "  who  is  so  exact 
As  to  inquire  what  might  have  been  a  fact  ?" 

Now  Fulham's  shop  contain'd  a  curious  view 
Of  costly  trifles  elegant  and  new  : 
The  papers  told  where  kind  mammas  might  buy 
The  gayest  toys  to  charm  an  infant's  eye  ; 
Where  generous  beaux  might  gentle  damsels  please. 
And  travellers  call  who  cross  the  land  or  seas, 
And  find  the  curious  art,  the  neat  device 
Of  precious  value  and  of  trifling  price. 
Here  Conscience  rested,  she  was  find  pleased  to  find. 
No  less  an  active  than  an  honest  mind  ; 
But  when  he  named  his  price,  and  when  he  swore. 
His  conscience  check'd  him,  that  he  ask'd  no  more 
When  half  he  sought  had  been  a  large  increase 
On  fair  demand,  she  could  not  rest  in  peace 
(Beside  th'  affront  to  call  th'  adviser  in. 
Who  would  prevent,  to  justify  the  sin  ?) 
She  therefore  told  him,  that  "  he  vainly  tried 
To  soothe  her  anger,  conscious  that  he  lied  ; 
If  thus  he  grasp'd  at  such  usurious  gains, 
He  must  deserve,  and  should  expect  her  pains." 

The  charge  was  strong ;  he  would  in  part  con" 
fefs 
Offence  there  was:  but  who  offended  less? 
"  What  I  is  a  mere  assertion  call'd  a  lie  ? 
And  if  it  be,  are  men  compeli'd  to  buy  ? 
'Twas  strange   that  Conscience  on    such    points 

should  dwell. 
While  he  was  acting  (he  would  call  it)  well : 
H  e  bought  as  others  buy,  he  sold  as  others  sell 


126 


CRABBE. 


There  was  no  fraud,  and  he  demanded  cause 
Why  he  was  troubled,  when  he  kept  the  laws  ?" 

"  My  laws  ?"  said  Conscience  :  "  What,"  said  he, 
are  thine  ? 
'  Oral  or  written,  human  or  divine  ? 
Show  me  the  chapter,  let  me  see  the  text ; 
By  laws  uncertain  subjects  are  perplex'd  : 
Let  me  my  finger  on  the  statute  lay. 
And  I  shall  feel  it  duty  to  obey." 

"  Reflect,"   said  Conscience,  "  'twas  your  own 
desire 
Thai  I  should  warn  you — does  the  compact  tire  ? 
Repent  you  this  ?  then  bid  me  not  advise. 
And  rather  hear  your  passions  as  they  rise  ; 
So  you  may  counsel  and  remonstrance  shun, 
But  then  remember  it  is  war  begun  ; 
And  you  may  judge  from  some  attacks,  my  friend, 
What  serious  conflicts  will  on  war  attend." 

"  Nay,  but,"  at  length  the  though tfu.  man  replied, 
•  I  say  not  that ;  I  wish  you  for  my  guide  ; 
Wish  for  your  checks  and  your  reproofs — but  then 
Be  like  a  Conscience  of  my  fellow-men  ; 
Worthy  I  mean,  and  men  of  good  report. 
And  not  the  wretches  who  with  Conscience  sport  : 
There's  Bice,  my  friend,  who  passes  off  his  grease 
Of  pigs  for  bears',  in  pots  a  crown  apiece  ; 
His  Conscience  never  checks  him  when  he  swears 
Th'!  fat  he  sells  is  honest  fat  of  bears  ; 
And  so  it  is,  for  he  contrives  to  give 
A  drachm  to  each — 'tis  thus  that  tradesmen  live  : 
Now  why  should  you  and  I  be  overnice  ? 
What  man  is  held  in  more  repute  than  Bice  ?" 

Here  ended  the  dispute  ;  but  yet  'twas  plain 
The  parties  both  expected  strife  again : 
Their  friendship  cool'd,  he  look'd  about  and  saw 
Numbers  who  scem'd  unshackled  by  his  awe  ; 
While  like  a  schoolboy  he  was  threaten'd  still. 
Now  for  the  deed,  now  only  for  the  will ; 
Here  Conscience  answer'd,  "  To  thy  neighbour's 

guide 
Thy  neighbour  leave,  and  in  thine  own  confide." 

Such  were  each  day  the  charges  and  replies. 
When  a  new  object  caught  the  trader's  eyes ; 
A  vestry  patriot,  could  he  gain  the  name. 
Would  famous  make  him,  and  would  pay  the  fame : 
He  knew  full  well  the  sums  bequeath'd  in  charge 
For  schools,  for  alms-men,  for  the  poor,  were  large  ; 
Report  had  told,  and  he  could  feel  it  true, 
That  most  unfairly  dealt  the  trusted  few  ; 
No  partners  would  they  in  their  office  take. 
Nor  clear  accounts  at  annual  meetings  make  ; 
Aloud  our  hero  in  the  vestry  spoke 
Of  hidden  deeds,  and  vow'd  to  draw  the  cloak  ; 
It  was  the  poor  man's  cause,  and  he,  for  one, 
Was  quite  determined  to  see  justice  done  : 
His  foes  affected  laughter,  then  disdain. 
They  too  were  loud  and  threatening,  but  in  vain  ; 
The  pauper's  friend,  their  foe,  arose  and  spoke  again: 
Fiercely  he  cried,  "  Your  garbled  statements  show 
That  you  determine  we  shall  nothing  know ; 
But  we  shall  bring  your  hidden  crimes  to  light. 
Give  you  to  shame,  and  to  the  poor  their  right." 

Virtue  like  this  might  some  approval  ask. 
But  Conscience  sternly  said,  "  You  wear  a  mask !" 

At  least,"  said  Fulham,  "  if  I  have  a  view 
To  serve  myself,  I  serve  the  public  too." 

Fulham,  though  check'd,  retain'd  his  former  zeal. 
And  this  the  cautious  rogues  began  to  feel ; 


"  Thus  will  he  ever  bark,"  in  peevish  tone. 
An  elder  cried  ;  "  the  cur  must  have  a  bono  ** 
They  then  began  to  hint,  and  to  begin 
Was  all  they  needed — it  was  felt  within  ; 
In  terms  less  veil'd  an  offer  then  was  made. 
Though  distant  still,  it  fail'd  rti  to  persuade ; 
More  plainly  then  was  every  pcvnt  proposed, 
Approved,  accepted,  and  the  bargain  closed 
"  Th'  exulting  paupers  hail'd  their  friend's  rM 

cess. 
And  bade  adieu  to  murmurs  and  distress." 

Alas  !  their  friend  had  now  superior  light, 
And,  view'd  by  that,  he  found  that  all  was  right; 
"  There  were  no  errors,  the  disbursements  small , 
This  was  the  truth,  and  truth  was  due  to  all." 

And  rested  Conscience  ?  No !   she  would  not 
rest. 
Yet  was  content  with  making  a  protest : 
Some  acts  she  now  with  less  resistance  bore. 
Nor  took  alarm  so  quickly  as  before : 
Like  those  in  towns  besieged,  who  every  ball 
At  first  with  terror  view,  and  dread  them  all ; 
But,  grown  familiar  with  the  scenes,  they  fear 
The  danger  less,  as  it  approaches  near; 
So  Conscience,  more  familiar  with  the  view 
Of  growing  evils,  less  attentive  grew  : 
Yet  he  who  felt  some  pain,  and  dreaded  more, 
Gave  a  peace-offering  to  the  angry  poor. 

Thus  had  he  quiet ;  but  the  time  was  brief. 
From  his  new  triumph  sprang  a  cause  of  grief ,  # 
In  office  join'd,  and  acting  with  the  rest. 
He  must  admit  the  sacramental  test : 
Now,  as  a  sectary,  who  had  all  his  life. 
As  he  supposed,  been  with  the  church  at  strife, 
(No  rules  of  hers,  no  laws  had  he  perused, 
Nor  knew  the  tenets  he  by  rote  abused  ;) 
Yet  Conscience  here  arose  more  fierce  and  strong 
Than  when  she  told  of  robbery  and  wrong; 
"  Change  his  religion  !    No  !  he  must  bo  sure 
That  was  a  blow  no  Conscience  could  endure." 

Though  friend  to  virtue,  yet  she  oft  abides 
In  early  notions,  fix'd  by  erring  guides  ; 
And  is  more  startled  by  a  call  from  those, 
Than  when  the  foulest  crimes  her  rest  oppose  ; 
By  error  taught,  by  prejudice  misled. 
She  yields  her  rights,  and  fancy  rules  instead  ; 
When  Conscience  all  her  stings  and  terror  deals. 
Not  as  truth  dictates,  but  as  fancy  feels  : 
And  thus  within  our  hero's  troubled  breast. 
Crime  was  less  torture  than  the  odious  test. 
New  forms,  new  measures,  he  must  now  embrace^ 
With  sad  conviction  that  they  warr'd  with  grace; 
To  his  new  church  no  former  friend  would  come. 
They  scarce  preferr'd  her  to  the  church  of  Rome : 
But  thinking  much,  and  weighing  guilt  and  gain, 
Conscience  and  he  commuted  for  her  pain  ; 
Then  promised  Fulham  to  retain  his  creed. 
And  their  peculiar  paupers  still  to  feed  ; 
Their  attic  room  (in  secret)  to  attend. 
And  not  forget  he  was  the  preacher's  friend  ; 
Thus  he  proposed,  and  Conscience,  troubled,  tried, 
And  wanting  peace,  reluctantly  complied. 

Now  care  subdued,  and  apprehensions  gone. 
In  peace  our  hero  went  aspiring  on  ; 
But  short  the  period  ; — soon  a  quarrel  rose. 
Fierce  in  the  birth,  and  fatal  in  the  close  ; 
With  times  of  truce  between,  which  rather  proved 
That  both  were  weary,  than  that  either  loved 


TALES. 


127 


Fulham  e'en  now  disliked  the  heavy  thrall, 
And  for  her  death  would  in  his  anguish  call, 
As  Rome's  mistaken  friend  exclaim'd.  Let  Carthage 

fall ! 
So  felt  our  hero,  so  his  wish  express'd, 
Against  this  powerful  sprite — delenda  est ; 
Rome  in  her  conquest  saw  not  danger  near, 
Freed  from  her  rival,  and  without  a  fear  ; 
So,  Conscience  conquer'd,  men  perceive  how  free. 
But  not  how  fatal  such  a  state  must  be. 
Fatal,  not  free  our  hero's  ;  foe  or  friend 
Conscience  on  him  was  destined  to  attend  : 
She  dozed  indeed,  grew  dull,  nor  seem'd  to  spy 
Crime  following  crime,  and  each  of  deeper  dye  ; 
But  all  were  noticed,  and  the  reckoning  time 
With  her  account  came  on  ;  crime  following  crime. 

This,  once  a  foe,  now  brother  in  the  trust, 
Whom  Fulham  late  described  as  fair  and  just, 
W^as  the  sole  guardian  of  a  wealthy  maid. 
Placed  in  his  power,  and  of  his  frown  afraid  : 
Not  quite  an  idiot,  for  her  busy  brain 
Sought,  by  poor  cunning,  trifling  points  to  gain ; 
Success  in  childish  projects  her  delight, 
She  took  no  heed  of  each  important  right. 
The  friendly  parties  met :  the  guardian  cried, 
"  I  am  too  old  ;  my  sons  have  each  a  bride  : 
Martha,  my  ward,  would  make  an  easy  wife  ; 
On  easy  terms  I'll  make  her  yours  for  life  ; 
And  then  the  creature  is  so  weak  and  mild. 
She  may  be  soothed  and  threaten'd  as  a  child." — 
"  Yet  not  obey,"  said  Fulham,  "  for  your  fools, 
Female  and  male,  are  obstinate  as  mules." 

Some  points  adjusted,  these  new  friends  agreed. 
Proposed  the  day,  and  hurried  on  the  deed. 

"  'Tis  a  vile  act,"  said  Conscience.     "  It  will 
prove," 
Replied  the  bolder  man,  "  an  act  of  love  ; 
Her  wicked  guardian  might  the  girl  have  sold 
To  endless  misery  for  a  tyrant's  gold  ; 
Now  may  her  life  be  happy,  for  I  mean 
To  keep  my  temper  even  and  serene." 
"  I  cannot  thus  com-pound,"  the  spirit  cried, 
"  Nor  have  ray  laws  thus  broken  and  defied : 
This  is  a  fraud,  a  bargain  for  a  wife ; 
Expect  my  vengeance,  or  amend  your  life." 

The  wife  was  pretty,  trifling,  childish,  weak  ; 
She  could  not  think,  but  would  not  cease  to  speak : 
This  he  forbade  ;  she  took  the  caution  ill. 
And  boldly  rose  against  his  sovereign  will  ; 
With  idiot  cunning  she  would  watch  the  hour, 
When  friends  were  present,  to  dispute  his  power: 
With  tyrant  craft,  he  then  was  still  and  calm, 
But  raised  in  private  terror  and  alarm  : 
By  many  trials,  she  perceived  how  far 
To  vex  and  tease,  without  an  open  war ; 
And  he  discover'd  that  so  weak  a  mind 
No  art  could  lead,  and  no  compulsion  bind  ; 
The  rudest  force  would  fail  such  mind  to  tame. 
And  she  was  callous  to  rebuke  and  shame : 
Proud  of  her  wealth,  the  power  of  law  she  knew, 
And  would  assist  him  in  the  spending  too  : 
His  threatening  words  with  insult  she  defied, 
To  all  his  reasoning  with  a  stare  replied  ; 
And  when  he  begg'd  her  to  attend,  would  say, 
"  Attend  I  will,  but  let  me  have  my  way." 

Nor  rest  had  Conscience  :    "  While  you  merit 
pain. 
From  me,"  she  cried,  'you  seek  redress  in  vain." 


His  thoughts  were  grievous  :  "  All  that  I  possess 
From  this  vile  bargain  adds  to  my  distress  ; 
To  pass  a  life  with  one  who  will  not  mend, 
Who  cannot  love,  nor  save,  nor  wisely  spend. 
Is  a  vile  prospect,  and  I  see  no  end  ; 
For  if  we  part,  I  must  of  course  restore 
Much  of  her  money,  and  must  wed  no  more. 

"  Is  there  no  way  ?" — here  Conscience  rose  in 
power, 
"  O  !  fly  the  danger  of  this  fatal  hour  ; 
I  am  thy  Conscience,  faithful,  fond,  and  true, 
Ah,  fly  this  thought,  or  evil  must  ensue  ; 
Fall  on  thy  knees,  and  pray  with  all  thy  soul. 
Thy  purpose  banish,  thy  design  control ; 
Let  every  hope  of  such  advantage  cease, 
Or  never  more  expect  a  moment's  peace." 

Th'  afTrighten'd  man  a  due  attention  paid, 
Felt  ;he  rebuke,  and  the  command  obey'd. 

Again  the  wife  rebell'd,  again  express'd 
A  love  lor  pleasure,  a  contempt  of  rest ; 
"  She,  whom   she    pleased,  would   visit,  would 

receive 
Those  who  pleased  her,  nor  deign  to  ask  for  leave." 
"  One  way  there  is,"  said  he,  "  I  might' contrive 
Into  a  trap  this  foolish  thing  to  drive  : 
Who  pleased  her,  said  she  ? — I'll  be  certain  who — " 
"  Take  heed,"  said  Conscience, "  what  thou  mean'sl 

to  do  : 
Insnare  thy  wife  ?" — "  Why,  yes,"  he  must  confess, 
"  It  might  be  wrong,  but  there  was  no  redress  ; 
Besides,  to  think,"  said  he,  "  is  not  to  sin." 
"  Mistaken  man  !"  replied  the  power  within. 
No  guest  unnoticed  to  the  lady  came, 
He  judged  th'  event  with  mingled  joy  and  shame; 
Oft  he  withdrew,  and  seem'd  to  leave  her  free, 
But  still  as  watchful  as  a  lynx  was  he ; 
Meanwhile  the  wife  was  thoughtless,  cool,  and  gay 
And,  without  virtue,  had  no  wish  to  stray. 

Though  thus  opposed,  his  plans  were  not  resign'd; 
"Revenge,"  said  he,  "will  prompt  that  daring  mind; 
Refused  supplies,  insulted  and  distress'd. 
Enraged  with  me,  and  near  a  favourite  guest — 
Then  will  her  vengeance  prompt  the  daring  deed, 
And  I  shall  watch,  detect  her,  and  be  freed." 

There  was  a  youth — but  let  me  hide  the  name, 
With  all  the  progress  of  this  deed  of  shame, 
He  had  his  views — on  him  the  husband  cast 
Ilis  net,  and  saw  him  in  his  trammels  fast. 

"  Pause  but  a  moment,  think  what  you  intend," 
Said  the  roused  sleeper,  "  I  am  yet  a  friend  : 
Must  all  our  days  in  enmity  be  spent  ?" 
"  No  I"  and  he  paused  ; — "  I  surely  shall  repent" 
Then  hurried  on — the  evil  plan  was  laid. 
The  wife  was  guilty,  and  her  friend  betray'd, 
And  Fulham  gain'd  his  wish,  and  for  his  will  wa« 
paid. 

Had  crimes  less  weighty  on  the  spirit  press'd. 
This  troubled  Conscience  might  have  sunk  to  rest; 
And,  like  a  foolish  guard,  been  bribed  to  peace. 
By  a  false  promise,  that  offence  should  cease  ; 
Past  faults  had  seem'd  familiar  to  the  view 
Confused  if  many,  and  obscure  though  true ; 
And  Conscience,  troubled  with  the  dull  account, 
Had  dropp'd  her  tale,  and  slumber'd  o'er  th'  amount" 
But,  struck  by  daring  guilt,  alert  she  rose, 
Disturb'd,  alarm'd,  and  could  no  more  repose;  > 

All  hopes  of  friendship  and  of  peace  were  past, 
And  every  view  with  gloom  was  overcast. 


138 


CRABBE. 


Hence,  from  that  day,  that  day  of  shame  and  sin, 

Arose  the  restless  enmity  within  ; 

On  no  resource  could  Fulham  now  rely, 

Doom'd  all  expedients,  and  in  vain,  to  try  ; 

Fcr  Conscience,  roused,  sat  boldly  on  her  throne, 

Watch'd  every  thought,  attack'd  the  foe  alone, 

And  with  envenom'd  sting  drew  forth  the  inward 

groan : 
Expedients  fail'd  that  brought  relief  before, 
In  vain  his  alms  gave  comfort  to  the  poor, 
Give  what  he  would,  to  him  the  comfort  came  no 

more : 
Not  prayer  avaii'd,  and  when  (his  crimes  confess'd) 
He  felt  some  ease,  she  said,  "  Are  they  redress'd  ? 
You  still  retain  the  profit,  and  be  sure, 
T/)ng  as  it  lasts,  this  anguish  shall  endure." 

Fulham  still  tried  to  soothe  her,  cheat,  mislead  ; 
But  Conscience  laid  her  finger  on  the  deed. 
And  read  the  crime  with  power,  and  all  that  must 

succeed  : 
He  tried  t'  expel  her,  but  was  sure  to  find 
Her  strength  increased  by  all  that  he  design'd  ; 
Nor  ever  was  his  groan  more  loud  and  deep. 
Than  when  refresh'd  she  rose  from  momentary  sleep. 

Now  desperate  grown,  weak,  harass'd,  and  afraid. 
From  new  allies  he  sought  for  doubtful  aid  ; 
To  thought  itself  he  strove  to  bid  adieu, 
And  from  devotions  to  diversions  flew ; 
He  took  a  poor  domestic  for  a  slave, 
(Though  Avarice  grieved  to  sec  the  price  he  gave ,-) 
Upon  his  board,  once  frugal,  press'd  a  load 
Of  viands  rich,  the  appetite  to  goad  ; 
The  long-protracted  meal,  the  sparkling  cup, 
Fought  with  his  gloom,  and  kept  his  courage  up : 
Soon  as  the  morning  came,  there  met  his  eyes 
Accounts  of  wealth,  that  he  might  reading  rise  ; 
To  profit  then  he  gave  some  active  hours, 
Till   food    and   wine  agaiji  should   renovate   his 

powers : 
Yet,  spite  of  all  defence,  of  every  aid, 
The  watchful  foe  her  close  attention  paid  ; 
In  ever)'^  thoughtful  moment  on  she  press'd, 
And  gave  at  once  her  dagger  to  his  breast  ; 
He  waked  at  midnight,  and  the  fears  of  sin, 
As  waters,  through  a  bursten  dam,  broke  in  ; 
Nay,  in  the  banquet,  with  his  friends  around, 
When  all  their  cares  and  half  their  crimes  were 

drown'd, 
Would  some  chance  act  awake  the  slumbering  fear. 
And  care  and  crime  in  all  their  strength  appear: 
The  news  is  read,  a  guilty  victim  swings. 
And  troubled  looks  proclaim  the  bosom-stings ; 
Some  pair  are  wed  ;  this  brings  the  wife  in  view. 
And  some  divorced  ;  this  shows  the  parting  too  ; 
Nor  can  he  hear  of  evil  word  or  deed. 
But  they  to  thought,  and  thought  to  sufferings  lead. 

Such  was  his  life  :  no  other  changes  came, 
The  hurrying  day,  the  conscious  night  the  same; 
The  night  of  horror,  when  he  starting  cried. 
To  the  poor  startled  sinner  at  his  side, 
'  Is  it  in  law  ?  am  I  condemn'd  to  die  ? 

Let  me  escape  ! I'll  give — O  !  let  me  fly — 

How!  but  a  dream — no  judges!  dungeon!  chain! 
Or  these  grim  men  ! — I  will  not  sleep  again. 
Wilt  thou,  dread  being !  thus  thy  promise  keep  ? 
Day  is  thy  time — and  wilt  thou  murder  sleep? 
Sorrow  and  want  repose,  and  wilt  thou  come, 
Nar  give  one  hour  of  pure,  untroubled  gloom  ? 


"  O !  Conscience !  Conscience  !  man's  most  faitti* 
ful  friend. 
Him  canst  thou  comfort,  ease,  relieve,  defend ) 
But  if  he  will  thy  friendly  checks  forego. 
Thou  art,  O !  wo  for  me,  his  deadliest  foe  !" 


TALE  XV. 


ADVICE  ;   OR,  THE   'saUIRE   AND   THE   PRIEST. 

His  hours  fiU'd  up  with  riots,  banquets,  sports— 
And  nevernoted  him  in  any  study, 
Any  retirement,  any  sequestration. 

Henry  V.  act  i.  sc.  I. 

I  will  converse  with  iron-witted  fools, 
With  unrespective  boys ;  none  are  for  me. 
Who  look  into  me  with  considerate  eyes. 

Richard  III.  act  Iv.  sc.  2 

You  cram  these  words  into  mine  ears,  against 
The  stomach  of  my  sense. 

Tempest,  act  ii.  sc.  1 

A  WEALTHY  lord  of  far-extended  land. 
Had  all  that  pleased  him  placed  at  his  command ; 
Widow'd  of  late,  but  finding  much  relief 
In  the  world's  comforts,  he  dismiss'd  his  grief; 
He  was  by  marriage  of  his  daughters  eased. 
And  knew  his  sons  could  marry  if  they  pleased: 
Meantime  in  travel  he  indulged  the  boys, 
And  kept  no  spy  nor  partner  of  his  joys. 

These  joys,  indeed,  were  of  the  grosser  kind, 
That  fed  the  cravings  of  an  earthly  mind  ; 
A  mind  that,  conscious  of  its  own  excess, 
Felt  the  reproach  his  neighbours  would  express. 
Long  at  th'  indulgent  board  he  loved  to  sit, 
Where  joy  was  laughter,  and  profaneness  wit ; 
And  such  the  guest  and  manners  of  the  hall. 
No  wedded  lady  on  the  'squire  would  call : 
Here  reign'd  a  favourite,  and  her  triumph  gain'd 
O'er  other  favourites  who  before  had  reign'd  ; 
Reserved  and  modest  seem'd  the  nymph  to  be, 
Knowing  her  lord  was  charm'd  with  modesty  ; 
For  he,  a  sportsman  keen,  the  more  enjoy'd, 
The  greater  value  had  the  thing  destroy'd. 

Our  'squire  declared,  that,  from  a  wife  released 
He  would  no  more  give  trouble  to  a  priest ; 
Seem'd  it  not  then  ungrateful  and  unkind, 
That  he  should  trouble  from  the  priesthood  find  ? 
The  church  he  honour'd,  and  he  gave  the  due 
And  full  respect  to  every  son  he  knevv- : 
But  envied  those  who  had  the  luck  to  meet 
A  gentle  pastor,  civil  and  discreet ; 
Who  never  bold  and  hostile  sermon  penn'd. 
To  wound  a  sinner,  or  to  shame  a  friend  ; 
One  whom  no  being  either  shunn'd  or  fear'd. 
Such  must  be  loved  wherever  they  appear'd 

Not  such  the  stern  old  rector  of  the  time, 
Who  soothed  no  culprit,  and  who  spared  no  crime, 
Who  would  his  fears  and  his  contempt  express 
For  irreligion  and  licentiousness  ; 
Of  him  our  village  lord,  his  guests  among, 
By  speech  vindictive  proved  his  feelings  stung. 

"  Were  he  a  bigot,"  said  the  'squire,  "  whose  £ea 
Condemn'd  us  all,  I  should  disdain  to  feel; 
But  when  a  man  of  parts,  in  college  train'd. 
Prates  of  our  conduct,  who  would  not  be  pain'd 


TALES. 


139 


While  he  declaims  (where  no  one  dares  reply) 
On  men  abandon'd,  grovelling  in  the  sty 
(Like  beasts  in  human  shape)  of  shameless  luxury. 
Yet  with  a  patriot's  zeal  I  stand  the  shock 
Of  vile  rebuke,  example  to  his  flock: 
But  let  this  rector,  thus  severe  and  proud, 
Change  his  wide  surplice  for  a  narrow  shroud, 
And  I  will  place  within  his  seat  a  youth, 
Train'd  by  the  Graces,  to  explain  the  truth  ; 
Then  shall  the  flock  with  gentle  hand  be  led, 
By  wisdom  won,  and  by  compassion  fed." 

This  purposed  teacher  was  a  sister's  son. 
Who  of  her  children  gave  the  priesthood  one  ; 
And  she  had  early  train'd  for  this  employ 
The  pliant  talents  of  her  college  boy  : 
At  various  times  her  letters  painted  all 
Her  brother's  views,  the  manners  of  the  hall ; 
The  rector's  harshness,  and  the  mischief  made 
By  chiding  those  whom  preachers  should  per- 
suade : 
This  led  the  youth  to  views  of  easy  life, 
A  friendly  patron,  an  obliging  wife  ; 
His  tithe,  his  glebe,  the  garden  and  the  steed, 
With  books  as  many  as  he  wish'd  to  read. 

All  this  accorded  with  the  uncle's  will, 
He  loved  a  priest  compliant,  easy,  still ; 
Sums  he  had  often  to  his  favourite  sent, 
"  To  be,"  he  wrote,  "  in  manly  freedom  spent ; 
For  well  it  pleased  his  spirit  to  assist 
An  honest  lad,  who  scorn'd  a  Methodist." 
His  mother,  too,  in  her  maternal  care, 
Bade  him  of  canting  hypocrites  beware  ; 
Who  from  his  duties  would  his  heart  seduce, 
And  make  his  talents  of  no  earthly  use. 

Soon  must  a  trial  of  his  worth  be  made, — 
The  ancient  priest  is  to  the  tomb  convey'd  ; 
And  the  youth  sumraon'd  from  a  serious  friend, 
His  guide  and  host,  new  duties  to  attend. 

Three  months  before,  the  nephew  and  the  'squire 
Saw  mutual  worth  to  praise  and  to  admire  ; 
And  though  the  one  too  early  left  his  wine, 
The  other  still  exclaim'd — "  My  boy  will  shine  ; 
Yes,  I  perceive  that  he  will  soon  improve, 
And  I  shall  form  the  very  guide  1  love  ; 
Decent  abroad,  he  will  my  name  defend. 
And,  w'hen  at  home,  be  social,  and  unbend." 

The  plan  was  specious,  for  the  mind  of  James 
Accorded  duly  with  his  uncle's  schemes: 
He  then  aspired  not  to  a  higher  name 
Than  sober  clerks  of  moderate  talents  claim  ; 
Gravely  to  pray,  and  reverently  to  preach. 
Was  all  he  saw,  good  youth !  within  his  reach. 
Thus  may  a  mass  of  sulphur  long  abide 
Cold  and  inert,  but  to  the  flame  applied, 
Kindling  it  blazes,  and  consuming  turns 
To  smoke  and  poison,  as  it  boils  and  burns. 

James,  leaving  college,  to  a  preacher  stray'd ; 
What  call'd,  he  kne\v  not,  but  the  call  obey'd  : 
Mild,  idle,  pensive,  ever  led  by  those 
Who  could  some  specious  novelty  propose  ; 
Humbly  he  listen'd,  while  the  preacher  dwelt 
On  touching  themes,  and  strong  emotions  felt ; 
And  in  this  night  was  fix'd  that  pliant  will 
To  one  sole  point,  and  he  retains  it  still. 

At  first  his  care  was  to  himself  confined  ; 
Himself  assured,  he  gave  it  to  mankind : 
His  zeal  grew  active  ;  honest,  earnest  zeal. 
And  comfort  dealt  to  him,  he  long'd  to  deal ; 
Vol.  III.— 9 


He  to  his  favourite  preacher  now  withdrew, 
Was  taught  to  teach,  instructed  to  subdue  ; 
And  train'd  for  ghostly  warfare,  when  the  call 
Of  his  new  duties  reach'd  him  from  the  hall. 

Now  to  the  'squire,  although  alert  and  stout. 
Came  unexpected  an  attack  of  gout ; 
And  the  grieved  patron  felt  such  serious  pain, 
He  never  thought  to  see  a  church  again : 
Thrice  had  the  youthful  rector  taught  the  crowd. 
Whose  growing  numbers  spoke  his  powers  aloud, 
Before  the  patron  could  himself  rejoice 
(His  pam  still  lingering)  in  th^ general  voice; 
For  he  imputed  all  this  early  fame 
To  graceful  manner,  and  the  well-known  name ; 
And  to  himself  assumed  a  share  of  praise. 
For  worth  and  talents  he  was  pleased  to  raise. 

A  month  had  flown,  and  with  it  fled  disease ; 
What  pleased  before,  began  again  to  please  ; 
Emerging  daily  from  hi§  chamber's  gloom. 
He  found  his  old  sensations  hurrying  home ; 
Then  call'd  his   nephew,  and   exclaim'd,  "  My 

boy, 
Let  us  again  the  balm  of  life  enjoy  ; 
The  foe  has  left  me,  and  I  deem  it  right. 
Should  he  return,  to  arm  me  for  the  fight.' 

Thus  spoke  the   'squire,  the  favourite  nymph 
stood  by. 
And  view'd  the  priest  with  insult  in  her  eye  : 
She  til  rice  had  heard  him  when  he  boldly  spoke 
On  dangerous  points,  and  fear'd  he  would  revoke  ^ 
For  James  she  loved  not — and  her  manner  lold 
"  This  warm  affection  will  be  quickly  cold." 
And  still  she  fear'd  impression  might  be  made 
Upon  a  subject  nervous  and  decay 'd  ; 
She  knew  her  danger,  and  had  no  desire 
Of  reformation  in  the  gallant  'squire  ; 
And  felt  an  envious  pleasure  in  her  breast 
To  see  the  rector  daunted  and  distress'd. 

Again  the  uncle  to  the  youth  applied  ; 
"  Cast,  my  dear  lad,  that  cursed  gloom  aside  : 
There  are  for  all  things  time  and  place  ;  appear 
Grave  in  your  pulpit,  and  be  merry  here  : 
Now  take  your  wine  ; — for  woes  a  sure  resource. 
And  the  best  prelude  to  a  long  discourse." 

James  half  obey'd,  but  cast  an  angry  eye 
On  the  fair  lass,  who  still  stood  watchful  by  ; 
Resolving  thus,  "  I  have  my  fears  ;  but  still 
I  must  perform  my  duties,  and  I  will : 
No  love,  no  interest," shall  my  mind  control. 
Better  to  lose  my  comforts  than  my  soul ; 
Better  my  uncle's  favour  to  abjure, 
Than  the  upbraidings  of  my  heart  endure." 

He  took  his  glass,  and  then  address'd  the  'squire 
"  I  feel  not  well,  permit  me  to  retire." 
The  'squire  conceived  that  the  ensuing  day 
Gave  him  these  terrors  for  the  grand  essay. 
When  he  himself  should  this  young  preacher  try, 
And  stand  before  him  with  observant  eye  ; 
This  raised  compassion  in  his  manly  breast. 
And  he  would  send  the  rector  to  his  rest: 
Yet  first,  in  soothing  voice — '  A  moment  stay, 
And  these  suggestions  of  a  friend  obey  : 
Treasure  these  hints,  if  fame  or  peace  you  prizOt 
The  bottle  emptied,  I  shall  close  my  eyes. 

"On  every  priest  a  twofold  care  attends. 
To  prove  his  talents,  and  ensure  his  friends, 
First,  of  the  first — your  stores  at  once  produce, 
And  bring  your  reading  to  its  proper  use : 


ISO 


CRABBE. 


On  doctrines  dwell,  and  every  point  enforce 
By  quoting  much,  the  scholar's  sure  resource  : 
For  he  alone  can  show  us  on  each  head 
What  ancient  schoolmen  and  sage  fathers  said : 
No  worth  has  knowledge,  if  you  fail  to  show 
How  well  you  studied,  and  how  much  you  know : 
Is  faith  your  subject,  and  you  judge  it  right 
On  theme  so  dark  to  cast  a  ray  of  light? 
Be  it  that  faith  the  orthodox  maintain, 
Found  in  the  rubric,  what  the  creeds  explain ; 
Fail  not  to  show  us  on  this  ancient  faith 
(And  quote  the  pasgpge)  what  some  martyr  saith: 
Dwell  not  one  moment  on  a  faith  that  shocks 
The  minds  of  men  sincere  and  orthodox  ; 
That  gloomy  faith,  that  robs  the  wounded  mind 
Of  all  the  comfort  it  was  wont  to  find 
From  virtuous  acts,  and  to  the  soul  denies 
Its  proper  due  for  alms  and  charities  5 
That  partial  faith,  that,  weighing  sins  alone ; 
Lets  not  a  virtue  for  a  fault  atone  ; 
That  starving  faith,  that  would  our  tables  clear, 
And  make  one  dreadful  Lent  of  all  the  year ; 
And  cruel  too,  for  this  is  faith  that  rends 
Confiding  beauties  from  protecting  friends  ; 
A  faith  that  all  embracing,  what  a  gloom 
Deep  and  terrific  o'er  the  land  would  come ! 
What  scenes  of  horror  would  that  time  disclose  ! 
No  sight  but  misery,  and  no  sound  but  woes ; 
Your  nobler  faith,  in  loftier  style  convey'd, 
Shall  be  with  praise  and  admiration  paid  : 
On  points  like  these  your  hearers  all  admire 
A  preacher's  depth,  and  nothing  more  require  ; 
Shall  we  a  studious  youth  to  college  send. 
That  every  clow-n  his  words  may  comprehend  ? 
'Tis  for  your  glory,  when  your  hearers  own 
Your  learning  matchless,  but  the  sense  unknown. 

"  Thus  honour  gain'd,  learn  now  to  gain  a  friend, 
And  the  sure  way  is — never  to  offend  ; 
For,  James,  consider — what  your  neighbours  do 
Is  their  own  business,  and  concerns  not  you  : 
Shun  all  resemblance  to  that  forward  race 
Who  preach  of  sins  before  a  sinner's  face; 
And  seem  as  if  they  overlook'd  a  pew, 
Only  to  drag  a  failing  man  in  view  : 
Much  should  I  feel,  when  groaning  in  disease, 
If  a  rough  hand  upon  my  limb  should  seize  ; 
But  great  my  anger,  if  this  hand  were  found 
The  very  doctor's,  who  should  make  it  sound  : 
So  feel  our  minds,  young  priest,  so  doubly  feel, 
When  hurt  by  those  whose  office  is  to  heal. 

"Yet  of  our  duties  you  must  something  tell, 
And  must  at  times  on  sin  and  frailty  dwell  ; 
Here  you  may  preach  in  easy,  flowing  style. 
How  errors  cloud  us,  and  how  sins  defile: 
Here  bring  persuasive  tropes  and  figures  forth, 
To  show  the  poor  that  wealth  is  nothing  worth ; 
That  they,  in  fact,  possess  an  ample  share 
Of  the  world's  good,  and  feel  not  half  its  care; 
Give  them  this  comfort,  and,  indeed,  my  gout 
In  its  full  vigour  causes  me  some  doubt ; 
And  let  it  always,  for  your  zeal,  suffice. 
That  vice  you  combat,  in  the  abstract — vice : 
The  very  captious  will  be  quiet  then; 
We  all  confess  we  are  offending  men: 
In  lashing  sin,  of  every  stroke  beware. 
For  sinners  feel,  and  sinners  you  must  spare  ; 
111  general  satire,  every  man  perceives 
\  slight  attack,  yet  neither  fears  nor  grieves ; 


But  name  th'  offence,  and  you  absolve  the  rest, 
And  point  the  dagger  at  a  single  breast. 

"  Yet  are  there  sinners  of  a  class  so  low, 
That  you  with  safety  may  the  lash  bestow  ; 
Poachers,  and  drunkards,  idle  rogues,  who  feed 
At  others'  cost,  a  mark'd  correction  need  : 
And  all  the  better  sort,  who  see  your  zeal. 
Will  love  and  reverence  for  their  pastor  feel ; 
Reverence  for  one  who  can  inflict  the-^raart. 
And  love,  because  he  deals  them  not  a  part. 

"  Remember  well  what  love  and  age  advise  ; 
A  quiet  rector  is  a  parish  prize. 
Who  in  his  learning  has  a  decent  pride  ; 
Who  to  his  people  is  a  gentle  guide ; 
Who  only  hints  at  failings  that  he  sees  ; 
Who  loves  his  glebe,  his  patron,  and  his  ease. 
And  finds  the  way  to  fame  and  profit  is  to  please. ' 

The  nephew  answer'd  not,  except  a  sigh 
And  look  of  sorrow  might  be  term'd  reply; 
He  saw  the  fearful  hazard  of  his  state. 
And  held  with  truth  and  safety  strong  debate; 
Nor  long  he  reason'd,  for  the  zealous  youth 
Resolved,  though  timid,  to  profess  the  truth ; 
And  though  his  friend  should  like  a  lion  roar. 
Truth  would  he  preach,  and  neither  less  nor  more 

The  bells  had  toll'd — arrived  the  time  of  prayer 
The  flock  assembled,  and  the  'squire  was  there: 
And  now  can  poet  sing,  or  proseman  say, 
The  disappointment  of  that  trying  day  ? 

As  he  who  long  had  train'd  a  favourite  steed, 
(Whose   Blood   and    bone  gave     promise    of   hit 

speed,) 
Sanguine  with  hope,  he  runs  with  partial  eye 
O'er  every  feature,  and  his  bets  are  high; 
Of  triumph  sure,  he  sees  the  rivals  start. 
And  waits  their  coming  with  exulting  heart; 
Forestalling  glory,  with  impatient  glance. 
And  sure  to  see  his  conquering  steed  advance  ; 
The  conquering  steed  advances — luckless  day! 
A  rival's  Herod  bears  the  prize  away. 
Nor  second  his,  nor  third,  but  lagging  last. 
With  hanging  head  he  comes,  by  all  surpass'd  ; 
Surprise  and  wrath  the  owner's  mind  inflame. 
Love  turns  to  scorn,  and  glory  ends  in  shame ; — 
Thus  waited,  high  in  hope,  the  partial  'squire. 
Eager  to  hear,  impatient  to  admire : 
When  the  young  preacher  in  the  tones  that  find 
A  certain  passage  to  the  kindling  mind. 
With  air  and  accent  strange,  impressive,  sad, 
Alarm'd  the  judge — he  trembled  (or  the  lad  ; 
But  when  the  text  announced  the  power  of  grace, 
Amazement  scowl'd  upon  his  clouded  face. 
At  this  degenerate  son  of  his  illustrious  race 
Staring  he  stood,  till  hope  again  arose, 
That  James  might  w'ell  define  the  words  he  <'bo«^ 
For  this  he  listen'd  ;  but,  alas  !  he  found 
The  preacher  always  on  forbidden  ground. 

And  now  the  uncle  left  the  hated  pew, 
With  James,  and  James's  conduct  in  his  view: 
A  long  farewell  to  all  hi.s  favourite  schemes! 
For  now  no  crazed  fanatic's  frantic  dreams 
Seem'd  vile  as  James's  condi'ct,  or  as  James  : 
All  he  had  long  derided,  hated,  fear'd, 
This  from  the  chosen  youth  the  uncle  heard  ;— 
The  needless  pause,  the  fierce  disorder'd  air. 
The  groan  for  sin,  the  vehemence  of  prayer, 
Gave  birth  to  wrath,  that,  in  a  long  discourse 
Of  grace,  triumphant  rose  to  fourfold  force* 


TALES. 


131 


He   found  his  thoughts  despised,  his  rules   trans- 

grcss'd, 
And  while  the  anger  kindled  in  his  breast,  [press'd  : 
The  pain  must  be  endured  that  could  not  be  ex- 
Each  new  idea  more  inflamed  his  ire. 
As  fuel  thrown  upon  a  rising  fire  : 
A  hearer  yet,  he  sought  by  threatening  sign 
To  ease  his  heart,  and  awe  the  young  divine  ; 
But  James  refused  those  angry  looks  to  meet, 
Till  he  dismiss'd  his  flock,  and  left  his  seat: 
Exhausted  then  he  felt  his  trembling  frame. 
But  fix'd  his  soul — his  sentiments  the  same  ; 
And  therefore  wise  it  seem'd  to  fly  from  rage. 
And  seek  for  shelter  in  his  parsonage  : 
There,  if  forsaken,  yet  consoled  to  find 
Some  comforts  left,  though  not  a  few  resign'd  ; 
There,  if  he  lost  an  erring  parent's  love. 
An  honest  conscience  must  the  cause  approve ; 
If  the  nice  palate  were  no  longer  fed. 
The  mind  enjoy 'd  delicious  thoughts  instead; 
And  if  some  part  of  earthly  good  was  flown, 
Still  was  the  tithe  of  ten  good  farms  his  own. 
Fear  now,  and  discord,  in  the  village  reign. 
The  cool  remonstrate,  and  the  meek  complain  ; 
But  there  is  war  within,  and  wisdom  pleads  in  vain  : 
Now  dreads  the  uncle,  and  proclaims  his  dread. 
Lest  the  boy-priest  should  turn  each  rustic  head  ; 
The  certain  converts  cost  him  certain  wo. 
The  doubtful  fear  lest  they  should  join  the  foe : 
Matrons  of  old,  with  whom  he  used  to  joke, 
Now  pass  his  honour  with  a  pious  look  ; 
Lasses,  who  met  him  once  with  lively  airs. 
Now  cross  his  way,  and  gravely  walk  to  prayers  : 
An  old  companion,  whom  he  long  has  loved, 
By  coward  fears  confess'd  his  conscience  moved  ; 
As  the  third  bottle  gave  its  spirit  forth. 
And  tjiey  bore  witness  to  departed  worth, 
The  friend  arose,  and  he  too  would  depart : — 
•  Man,"  said  the  'squire,  "  thou  wert  not  wont  to 
Hast  thou  attended  to  that  foolish  boy,  [start ; 

\Vlio  would  abridge  all  comforts,  or  destroy?" 

Yes,  he  had  listen'd,  who  had  slumber'd  long, 
And  was  convinced  that  something  must  be  wrong : 
But,  though  affected,  still  his  yielding  heart, 
And  craving  palate,  took  the  uncle's  part ; 
Wine  now  oppress'd  him,  who,  when  free   from 

wine, 
Could  seldom  clearly  utter  his  design  ; 
But  though  by  nature  and  indulgence  weak, 
Yet,  half  converted,  he  resolved  to  speak; 
And,  speaking,  own'd,  "  that  in  his  mind  the  youth 
Had  gifts  and  learning,  and  that  truth  was  truth  : 
The  'squire  he  honour'd,  and,  for  his  poor  part, 
He  hated  nothing  like  a  hollow  heart : 
But  'twas  a  maxim  he  had  often  tried. 
That  right  was  right,  and  there  he  would  abide  ; 
He  honour'd  learning,  and  he  would  confess 
The  preacher  had  Jhis  talents — more  or  less  : 
Why  not  agree  ?  he  thought  the  young  divine 
Had  no  such  strictness — they  might  drink  and  dine  ; 
For  them  sufficient — but  he  said  before, — 
That  truth  w^as  truth,  and  he  would  drink  no  more." 
This  heard  the  'squire  with  mix'd  contempt  and 
pain ; 
He  fear'd  the  priest  this  recreant  sot  would  gain. 
The  favourite  nymph,  though  not  a  convert  made. 
Conceived  the  man  she  scorn'd  her  cause  would 


And  when  the  spirits  of  her  lord  were  low. 
The  lass  presumed  the  wicked  cause  to  show  : 
"  It  was  the  wretched  life  his  honour  led, 
And  would  draw  vengeance  on  his  guilty  head* 
Their  loves  (Heaven   knew   how  dreadfully  dis- 

tress'd 
The  thought  had  made  her !)  were  as  yet  unbless'd  : 
And  till  the  church  had  sanction'd" — Here  she  saw 
The  wrath  that  forced  her  trembling  to  withdraw. 

Add  to  these  outward  ills,  some  inward  light. 
That  show'd  him  all  was  not  correct  and  right : 
Though  now  he  less  indulged — and  to  the  poor, 
From  day  to  day,  sent  alms  from  door  to  door; 
Though  he  some  ease  from  easy  virtues  found. 
Yet  conscience  told  him  he  could  not  compound  ; 
But  must  himself  the  darling  sin  deny. 
Change  the  whole  heart ;  but  here  a  heavy  sigh 
Proclaim'd,  "  How  yast   the  toil !   and   ah  I   how 
weak  am  I !" 

James  too  has  trouble — he  divided  sees 
A  parish,  once  harmonious  and  at  ease: 
With  him  united  are  the  simply  meek, 
The  warm,  the  sad,  the  nervous,  and  the  weak  ; 
The  rest  his  uncle's,  save  the  few  beside 
Who  own  no  doctrine,  and  obey  no  guide  ; 
With  stragglers  of  each  adverse  camp,  who  lend 
Their  aid  to  both,  but  each  in  turn  offend. 

Though  zealous  still,  yet  he  begins  to  feel 
The  heat  too  fierce,  that  glows  in  vulgar  zeal ; 
With  pain  he  hears  his  simple  friends  relate 
Their  week's  experience,  and  their  w^oful  state: 
With  small  temptation  struggling  every  hour, 
And  bravely  battling  with  the  tempting  power; 
His  native  sense  is  hurt  by  strange  complaints 
Of  inward  motions  in  these  warring  saints  ; 
Who  never  cast  on  sinful  bait  a  look 
But  they  perceive  the  devil  at  the  hook : 
Grieved,  yet  compell'd  to  smile,  he  finds  it  hard 
Against  the  blunders  of  conceit  to  guard  ; 
He  sighs  to  hear  the  jests  his  converts  cause. 
He  cannot  give  their  erring  zeal  applause  ; 
But  finds  it  inconsistent  to  condemn 
The  flights  and  follies  he  has  nursed  in  them  : 
These,  in  opposing  minds,  contempt  produce, 
Or  mirth  occasion,  or  provoke  abuse  : 
On  each  momentous  theme  disgrace  they  bring. 
And  give  to  Scorn  her  poison  and  her  sting. 


TALE  XVL 

THE  CONFIDANT. 

Think'st  thou  I'd  make  a  life  of  jealousy, 
To  follow  still  the  changes  of  the  moon, 
With  fresh  suspicion  1 

Othello,  act  iii.  gc  S 

Why  hast  thou  lost  the  fresh  blood  in  thy  cheeks, 
And  given  my  treasure  and  my  rights  in  thee 
To  thick-eyed  musing  and  cursed  melancholy 

Henry  IV.  Part  I.  act  ii.  8C.  3 

It  is  excellent 
To  have  a  giant's  strength,  but  tyrannous 
To  use  it  as  a  giant. 

Measure  for  Measure,  act  ii.  ae.  % 

Anna  was  young  and  lovely — in  her  eye 
The  glance  of  beauty,  in  her  cheek  the  dye  ; 


132 


CRABBE. 


Her  shape  was  slender,  and  her  features  small, 
But  graceful,  easy,  unaffected  all : 
The  liveliest  tints  her  youthful  face  disclosed; 
There  beauty  sparkled,  and  there  health  reposed  ; 
For  the  pure  blood  that  flush'd  that  rosy  cheek 
Spoke  what  the  heart  forbade  the  tongue  to  speak  ; 
And  told  the  feelings  of  that  heart  as  well, 
Nay,  with  more  candour  than  the   tongue   could 

tell: 
Though  this  fair  lass  had  with  the  wealthy  dwelt. 
Yet  like  the  damsel  of  the  cot  she  felt ; 
And,  at  the  distant  hint  or  dark  surmise. 
The  blood  into  the  mantling  cheek  would  rise. 
Now  Anna's  station  frequent  terrors  wrought 
In  one   whose    looks   were  with  such  meaning 

fraught  ; 
For  on  a  lady,  as  an  humble  friend. 
It  was  her  painful  office  to  attend. 

Her  duties  here  were  of  the  usual  kind, 
And  some  the  body  harass'd,  some  the  mind  : 
Billets  she  wrote,  and  tender  stories  read, 
To  make  the  lady  sleepy  in  her  bed  ; 
She  play'd  at  whist,  but  with  inferior  skill, 
And  heard  the  summons  as  a  call  to  drill  ; 
Music  was  ever  pleasant  till  she  play'd 
At  a  request  that  no  request  convey'd  ; 
The  lady's  tales  with  anxious  looks  she  heard. 
For  she  must  witness  what  her  friend  averr'd  : 
The  lady's  taste  she  must  in  all  Approve, 
Hate  whom  she  hated,  whom  she  loved  must  love  ; 
These,  with  the  various  duties  of  her  place. 
With  care  she  studied,  and  perform'd  with  grace; 
She  veil'd  her  troubles  in  a  mask  of  ease. 
And  show'd  her  pleasure  was  a  power  to  please. 

Such  were  the  damsel's  duties  ;  she  was  poor — 
Above  a  servant,  but  with  service  more  : 
Men  on  her  face  with  careless  freedom  gazed, 
Nor  thought  how  painful  was  the  glow  they  raised  ; 
A  wealthy  few  to  gain  her  favour  tried. 
But  not  the  favour  of  a  grateful  bride  : 
They  spoke  their  purpose  with  an  easy  air, 
That  shamed  and  frighten'd  the  dependent  fair; 
Past  time  she  view'd,  the  passing  time  to  cheat, 
But  nothing  found  to  make  the  present  sweet, 
With  pensive  soul  she  read  life's  future  page, 
And  saw  dependent,  poor,  repining  age. 

But  who  shall  dare  t'  assert  what  years  may  bring. 
When  wonders  from  the  passing  hour  may  spring  ? — 
There  dwelt  a  yeoman  in  the  place,  whose  mind 
Was  gentle,  generous,  cultivated,  kind  ; 
For  thirty  years  he  labour'd  ;  fortune  then 
Placed  the  mild  rustic  with  superior  men 
A  richer  Stafford  who  had  lived  to  save. 
What  he  had  treasured  to  the  poorer  gave  ; 
Who  with  a  sober  mind  that  treasure  view'd. 
And  the  slight  studies  of  his  youth  renew'd  : 
He  not  profoundly,  but  discreetly  read. 
And  a  fair  mind  with  useful  culture  fed. 
Then  thought  of  marriage ;  "  But  the  great,"  said  he, 
"  I  shall  not  suit,  nor  will  the  meaner  me." 
Anna  he  saw,  admired  her  modest  air. 
He  thought  her  virtuous,  and  he  knew  her  fair; 
Love  raised  his  pity  for  her  humble  state. 
And  prompted  wishes  for  her  happier  fate  ; 
No  pride  in  money  would  his  feelings  wound. 
Nor  vulgar  manners  hurt  him  and  confound  : 
He  then  the  lady  at  the  hall  address'd, 
Sought  her  consent,  and  his  regard  express'd  ; 


Yet  if  some  cause  his  earnest  wish  denied, 

He  begg'd  to  know  it,  and  he  bow'd  and  sigh'd. 

The  lady  own'd  that  she  was  loath  to  part, 
But  praised  the  damsel  for  her  gentle  heart. 
Her  pleasing  person,  and  her  blooming  health, 
But  ended  thus,  •'  Her  virtue  is  her  wealth." 

"  Then  is  she  rich  !"  he  cried,  with  lively  air; 
"  But  whence,  so  please  you,  came  a  lass  so  fair  ? 

"  A  placeman's  child  was  Anna,  one  who  died 
And  left  a  widow  by  afflictions  tried  ; 
She  to  support  her  infant  daughter  strove. 
But  early  Mi  the  object  of  her  love ; 
Her  youth,  her  beauty,  and  her  orphan  state, 
Gave  a  kind  countess  interest  in  her  fate  ; 
With  her  she  dwelt,  and  still  might  dwelling  be. 
When  the  earl's  folly  caused  the  lass  to  flee  ; 
A  second  friend  was  she  compell'd  to  shun. 
By  the  rude  offers  of  an  imcheck'd  son  ; 
I  found  her  then,  and  with  a  mother's  love 
Regard  the  gentle  girl  whom  yon  approve  ; 
Yet,  e'en  with  me  protection  is  not  peace. 
Nor  man's  designs,  nor  beauty's  trial,  cease  ; 
Like  sordid  boys  by  costly  fruit  they  feel, 
They  will  not  purchase,  but  they  try  to  steal." 

Now  this  good  lady,  like  a  witness  true. 
Told  but  the  truth,  and  all  the  truth  she  knew ; 
And  'tis  our  duty  and  our  pain  to  show 
Truth  this  good  lady  had  not  means  to  know. 
Yes,  there  was  lock'd  within  the  damsel's  breast 
A  fact  important  to  be  now  confess'd  ; 
Gently,  my  muse,  th'  afflicting  tale  relate, 
And  have  some  feeling  for  a  sister's  fate. 

Where  Anna  dwelt,  a  conquering  hero  came,— » 
An  Irish  captain,  Sedley  was  his  name  ; 
And  he  too  had  that  same  prevailing  art. 
That  gave  6cft  wishes  to  the  virgin's  heart  • 
In  years  they  differ'd  ;  he  had  thirty  seen 
When  this  young  beauty  counted  just  fifteen 
But  still  they  were  a  lovely,  lively  pair. 
And  trod  on  earth  as  if  they  trod  on  air. 

On  love,  delightful  theme  !  the  captain  dwell, 
With  force  still  growing  with  the  hopes  he  felt ; 
But  with  some  caution  and  reluctance  told. 
He  had  a  father,  crafty,  harsh,  and  old  ; 
Who,  as  possessing  much,  would  much  expect. 
Or  both,  for  ever,  from  his  love  reject  : 
Why  then  offence  to  one  so  powerful  give. 
Who  (for  their  comfort)  had  not  long  to  live  ? 

With  this  poor  prospect  the  deluded  maid. 
In  words  confiding,  was  indeed  betray'd  ; 
And,  soon  as  terrors  in  her  bosora  rose. 
The  hero  fled  ;  they  hinder'd  his  repose. 
Deprived  of  him,  she  to  a  parent's  breast 
Her  secrets  trusted,  and  her  pains  express'd  ; 
Let  her  to  town  (so  prudence  urged)  repair. 
To  shun  disgrace,  at  least  to  hide  it  there  ; 
But  ere  she  went,  the  luckless  damsel  prsiy'd 
A  chosen  friend  might  lend  her  timely  aid  : 
"  Yes  ;  my  soul's  sister,  my  Eliza,  come. 
Hear  her  last  sigh,  and  ease  thy  Anna's  doom." 
"  'Tis  a  fool's  wish,"  the  angry  father  cried. 
But,  lost  in  troubles  of  his  own,  complied  : 
And  dear  Eliza  to  her  friend  was  sent, 
T'  indulge  that  wish,  and  be  her  punishment: 
The  time  arrived,  and  brought  a  tenfold  dread ; 
The  time  was  past,  and  all  the  tifrrror  fled  ; 
The  infant  died  ;  the  face  resumed  each  charm 
And  reason  now  brought  trouble  and  alarm  : 


TALES. 


133 


•  Should  her  Eliza — no !  she  was  too  just, 
Too  good  and  kind— but  ah  !  too  young  to  trust." 
Anna  return'd,  her  former  place  resumed, 
And  faded  beauty  with  new  grace  rebloom'd  ; 
And  if  some  whispers  of  the  past  were  heard, 
They  died  innoxious,  as  no  cause  appear'd; 
But  other  cares  on  Anna's  bosom  press'd, 
She  saw  her  father  gloomy  and  distress'd  ; 
H©  died   o'erwhelm'd  with  debt,  and  soon  was 

shed 
The  filial  sorrow  o'er  a  mother  dead  : 
She  sought  Eliza's  arms,  that  faithful  friend  was 

wed ; 
Then  was  compassion  by  the  countess  shown. 
And  all  th'  adventures  of  her  life  are  known. 

And  now  beyond  her  hopes — no  longer  tried 
By  slavish  awe — she  lived  a  yeoman's  bride  ; 
Then  bless'd  her  lot,  and  with  a  grateful  mind 
Was  careful,  cheerful,  vigilant,  and  kind ; 
The  gentle  husband  felt  supreme  delight, 
Bless'd  by  her  joy,  and  happy  in  her  sight ; 
He  saw  with  pride  in  every  friend  and  guest 
High  admiration  and  regard  express'd  : 
With  greater  pride,  and  with  superior  joy, 
He  look'd  exulting  on  his  first-born  boy  ; 
To  her  fond  breast  the  wife  her  infant  strain'd. 
Some  feelings  utter'd,  some  were  not  explain'd  ; 
And  she  enraptured  with  her  treasure  grew. 
The  sight  familiar,  but  the  pleasure  new. 

Yet  there  appear'd  within  that  tranquil  state 
Some  threatening  prospect  of  uncertain  fate  ; 
Between  the  married  when  a  secret  lies, 
It  wakes  suspicion  from  enforced  disguise  : 
Still  thought  the  wife  upon  her  absent  friend, 
With  all  that  must  upon  her  truth  depend; 
*  There  is  no  being  in  the  world  beside. 
Who  can  discover  what  that  friend  will  hide  ; 
Who  knew  the  fact,  knew  not  my  name  or  state, 
Who  these  can  tell  cannot  the  fact  relate ; 
But  thou,  Eliza,  canst  the  whole  impart. 
And  all  my  safety  is  thy  generous  heart." 

Mix'd  with  these  fears — but  light  and  transient 
these — 
Fled  years  of  peace,  prosperity,  and  ease  ; 
So  tranquil  all,  that  scarce  a  gloomy  day 
For  days  of  gloom  unmix'd  prepared  the  way  ; 
One  eve,  the  wife,  still  happy  in  her  state, 
Sang  gayly,  thoughtless  of  approaching  fate: 
Then  came  a  letter,  that  (received  in  dread, 
Not  unobserved)  she  in  confusion  read  ; 
The  substance  this  ;  "  Her  friend  rejoiced  to  find 
That  she  had  riches  with  a  grateful  mind  ; 
While  poor  Eliza  had  from  place  to  place 
Been  lured  by  hope  to  labour  for  disgrace  ; 
That  every  scheme  her  wandering  husband  tried, 
Pain'd  while  he  lived,  and  perish'd  when  he  died." 
She  then  of  want  in  angry  style  complain'd, 
Her  child  a  burden  to  her  life  remain'd, 
Her   kindred  shunn'd  her  prayers,  no  friend   her 
soul  sustain'd. 

"  Yet  why  neglected  ?    Dearest  Anna  knew 
Her  worth  once  tried,  her  friendship  ever  true  ; 
She  hoped,  she  trusted,  though  by  wants  oppress'd. 
To  lock  the  treasured  secret  in  her  breast  ; 
Yet,  vex'd  by  trouble,  must  apply  to  one. 
For  kindness  due  to  her  for  kindness  done." 

In  Anna's  mind  was  tumult,  in  her  face 
Flushings  of  dread  had  momentary  place : 


"  I  must,"  she  judged,  "  these  cruel  lines  ex'pose. 
Or  fears,  or  worse  than  fears,  my  crime  disclose." 

The  letter  shown,  he  said,  with  sober  smile, 
"  Anna,  your  friend  has  not  a  friendly  style  : 
Say,  where  could  you  with  this  fair  lady  dwell, 
Who  boasts  of  secrets  that  she  scorns  to  tell  ?" 
"At  school,"  she  answer'd :  he  "At  school  I"  replied 
"  Nay,  then  I  know  the  secrets  you  would  hide  : 
Some  longings  these,  without  dispute. 
Some  youthful  gaspings  for  forbidden  fruit : 
Why  so  disorder'd,  love  ?  are  such  the  crimes 
That  give  us  sorrow  in  our  graver  times  ? 
Come,  take  a  present  for  your  friend,  and  rest 
In  perfect  peace — you  find  you  are  confess'd." 

This  cloud,  though  past,  alarn  '-^  the  conscioua 
wife. 
Presaging  gloom  and  sorrow  for  her  life  ; 
Who  to  her  answer  join'd  a  fervent  prayer, 
That  her  Eliza  would  a  sister  spare  : 
If  she  again — but  was  there  cause  ? — should  send, 
Let  her  direct — and  then  she  named  a  friend  : 
A  sad  expedient  untried  friends  to  trust. 
And  still  to  fear  the  tried  may  be  unjust  : 
Such  is  his  pain,  who,  by  his  debt  oppress'd. 
Seeks  by  new  bonds  a  temporary  rest. 

Few  were  her  peaceful  days  till  Anna  read 
The  words  she  dreaded,  and  had  cause  to  dread  h- 

"  Did  she  believe,  did  she,  unkind,  suppose 
That  thus  Eliza's  friendship  was  to  close  ? 
No  !  though  she  tried,  and  her  desire  was  plain, 
To  break  the  friendly  bond,  she  strove  in  vain  : 
Ask'd  she  for  silence  ?  why  so  loud  the  call, 
And  yet  the  token  of  her  love  so  small  ? 
By  means  like  these  W'ill  you  attempt  to  bind 
And  check  the  movements  of  an  injured  mind  ? 
Poor  as  I  am.  I  shall  be  proud  to  show 
What  dangerous  secrets  I  may  safely  know  : 
Secrets  to  men  of  jealous  minds  convey'd, 
Have  many  a  noble  house  in  ruins  laid  : 
Anna,  I  trust,  although  with  wrongs  beset, 
And  urged  by  want,  I  shall  be  faithful  yet; 
But  what  temptation  may  from  these  arise, 
To  take  a  slighted  woman  by  surprise. 
Becomes  a  subject  for  your  serious  care — 
For  who  offends,  must  for  offence  prepare." 

Perplex'd,  dismay'd,  the  wife  foresaw  her  doom  ; 
A  day  deferr'd  was  yet  a  day  to  come  ; 
But  still,  though  painful  her  suspended  state. 
She  dreaded  more  the  crisis  of  her  fate  ; 
Better  to  die  than  Stafford's  scorn  to  meet, 
And  her  strange  friend  perhaps  would  be  discreet 
Presents  she  sent,  and  made  a  strong  appeal 
To  woman's  feelings,  begging  her  to  feel ; 
With  too  much  force  she  wrote  of  jealous  men, 
And  her  tears  falling  spoke  beyond  the  pen  ; 
Eliza's  silence  she  again  implored. 
And  promised  all  that  prudence  could  afford. 

For  looks  composed  and  careless  Anna  tried  ; 
She  seem'd  in  trouble,  and  unconscious  sigh'd  : 
The  faithful  husband,  who  devoutly  loved 
His  silent  partner,  with  concern  reproved : 
"  What  secret  sorrows  on  my  Anna  press, 
That  love  may  not  partake,  nor  care  redress  ?" 
"  None,  none,"   she   answer'd,  with   a  look   so 

kind, 
That  the  fond  man  determined  to  be  blind. 

A  few  succeeding  weeks  of  brief  repose. 
In  Anna's  cheek  revived  the  faded  rose  ; 


134 


CRAliBE. 


A  hue  like  this  the  western  sky  displays, 
That  glows  a  while,  and  withers  as  we  gaze. 

Again  the  friend's  tormenting  letter  came — 
*  The  wants  she  suffer'd  were  affection's  shame  ; 
She  with  her  child  a  life  of  terrors  led, 
Unhappy  fruit !  but  of  a  lawful  bed  : 
Her  friend  was  tasting  every  bliss  in  life, 
The  joyful  mother,  and  the  wealthy  wife  ; 
While  she  was  placed  in  doubt,  in  fear,  in  want, 
To  starve  on  trifles  that  the  happy  grant ; 
Poorly  for  all  her  faithful  silence  paid, 
And  tantalized  by  ineffectual  aid  : 
She  could  not  thus  a  beggar's  lot  endure  ; 
She  wanted  something  permanent  and  sure  : 
If  they  were  friends,  then  equal  be  their  lot. 
And  she  was  free  to  speak  if  they  were  not.' 

Despair  and  terror  seiz'ed  the  wife,  to  find 
The  artful  workings  of  a  vulgar  mind  ; 
Money  she  had  not,  but  the  hint  of  dress 
Taught  her  new  bribes,  new  terrors  to  redress : 
She  with  such  feeling  then  described  her  woes, 
That  envy's  self  might  on  the  view  repose; 
Then  to  a  mother's  pains  she  made  appeal, 
And  painted  grief  like  one  compell'd  to  feel. 

Yes  I  so  she  felt,  that  in  her  air,  her  face, 
In  every  purpose,  and  in  every  place  ; 
In  her  slow  motion,  in  her  languid  mien. 
The  grief,  the  sickness  of  her  soul  were  seen. 

Of  some  mysterious  ill  the  husband  sure. 
Desired  to  trace  it,  for  he  hoped  to  cure  ; 
Something  he  knew  obscurely,  and  had  seen 
His  wife  attend  a  cottage  on  the  green  ; 
Love,  loath  to  wound,  endured  conjecture  long, 
Till   fear  would   speak,  and   spoke   in  language 
strong. 

"  All  I  must  know,  my  Anna — truly  know 
Whence  these  emotions,  terrors,  troubles  flow ; 
Give  me  thy  grief,  and  I  will  fairly  prove 
Mine  is  no  selfish,  no  ungenerous  love." 

Now  Anna's  soul  the  seat  of  strife  became. 
Fear  with  respect  contended,  love  with  shame  ; 
But  fear  prevailing  was  the  ruling  guide. 
Prescribing  what  to  show  and  what  to  hide. 

"  It  is  my  friend,"  she  said — "  But  why  disclose 
A  woman's  weakness  struggling  with  her  woes  ? 
Yes,  she  has  grieved  me  by  her  fond  complaints, 
The  wrongs  she  suffers,  the  distress  she  paints: 
Something  we  do — but  she  aflflicts  me  still. 
And  says,  with  power  to  help,  I  want  the  will ; 
This  plaintive  style  I  pity  and  excuse, 
Help  when  I  can,  and  grieve  when  I  refuse  ; 
But  here  my  useless  sorrows  I  resign, 
And  will  be  happy  in  a  love  like  thine. 
The  husband  doubled  ;  he  was  kind  but  cool : — 
"  'Tis  a  strong  friendship  to  arise  at  school ; 
Once    more  then,  love,   once  more   the  sufferer 

aid, — 
1  too  can  pity,  but  I  must  upbraid  ; 
Of  these  vain  feelings  then  thy  bosom  free. 
Nor  be  o'erwhelm'd  by  useless  sympathy." 

The  wife  again  despatch'd  the  useless  bribe, 
Again  essay'd  her  terrors  to  describe  ; 
Again  wflh  kindest  words  entreated  peace. 
And  begg'd  her  offerings  for  a  time  might  cease. 

A  calm  succeeded,  but  too  like  the  one 
That  causes  terror  ere  the  storm  comes  on : 
A  secret  sorrow  lived  in  Anna's  heart, 
In  Stafford's  mind  a  secret  fear  of  art ; 


Not  long  they  lasted — this  determined  foe 
Knew  all  her  claims,  and  nothing  would  forego ; 
Again  her  letter  came,  where  Anna  read, 
"  My  child,  one  cause  of  my  distress,  is  dead  : 
Heaven  has  my  infant." — "  Heartless  wretch  !"  aht 

cried, 
"  Is  this  thy  joy  ?" — "I  am  no  longer  tied  : 
Now  will  I,  hastening  to  my  friend,  partake 
Her  cares  and  comforts,  and  no  more  forsake ; 
Now  shall  we  both  in  equal  station  move. 
Save  that  my  friend  enjoys  a  husband's  love." 

Complaint  and  threats  so  strong  the  wife  amazed 
Who  wildly  on  her  cottage  neighbour  gazed  ; 
Her  tones,  her  trembling,  first  betray'd  her  grief; 
When  floods  of  tears  gave  anguish  its  relief 

She  fear'd  that  Stafford  would  refuse  assent. 
And  knew  her  selfish  friend  would  not  releutj 
She  must  petition,  yet  delay'd  the  task, 
Ashamed,  afraid,  and  yet  compell'd  to  ask; 
Unknown  to  him  some  object  fill'd  her  mind, 
And,  once  suspicious,  he  became  unkind  : 
They  sate  one  evening,  each  absorb'd  in  gloom, 
When,  hark !  a  noise,  and,  rushing  to  the  room. 
The  friend  tripp'd  lightly  in,  and  laughing  said,  ' 
come." 

Anna  received  her  with  an  anxious  mind, 
And  meeting  whisper'd,  "  Is  Eliza  kind  ?" 
Reserved  and  cool,  the  husband  sought  to  prove 
The  depth  and  force  of  this  mysterious  love. 
To  naught  that  pass'd  between  the  stranger  friend 
And  his  meek  partner  seem'd  he  to  attend ; 
But,  anxious,  listen'd  to  the  lightest  word 
That  might  some  knowledge  of  his  guest  afford ; 
And  learn  the  reason  one  to  him  so  dear 
Should  feel  such  fondness,  yet  betray  such  fear. 

Soon  he  perceived  this  uninvited  guest, 
Unvi^elcome  too,  a  sovereign  power  possess'd  :, 
Lofty  she  was  and  careless,  while  the  meek 
And  humbled  Anna  was  afraid  to  speak : 
As  mute  she  listen'd  with  a  painful  smile. 
Her  friend  sate  laughing  and  at  ease  the  while. 
Telling  her  idle  tales  with  all  the  glee 
Of  careless  and  unfeeling  levity. 
With  calm  good  sense  he  knew  his  wife  endued, 
And  now  with  wounded  pride  her  conduct  vie w'd; 
Her  speech  was  low,  her  every  look  convey'd — 
"  I  am  a  slave  subservient  and  afraid." 
All  trace  of  comfort  vanish'd  if  she  spoke, 
The  noisy  friend  upon  her  purpose  broke ; 
To  her  remarks  with  insolence  replied, 
And  her  assertions  doubted  or  denied  ; 
While  the  meek  Anna  like  an  infant  shook, 
Wo-struck  and  trembling  at  the  serpent's  look. 

*'  There  is,"  said  Stafford,  "  yes,  there  is  a  cause— 
This  creature  frights  her,  overpowers,  and  awes." 
Six  weeks   had   pass'd — "  In  truth,  my  love,  thii 

friend 
Has  liberal  notions ,  what  does  she  intend  ? 
Without  a  hint  she  came,  and  will  she  stay 
Till  she  receives  the  hint  to  go  away  ?" 

Confused  the  wife  replied,  in  spite  of  truth, 
"  I  love  the  dear  companion  of  my  youth." 
"  'Tis  well,"  said  Staflford  ;"  then  your  loves  renew. 
Trust  me,  your  rivals,  Anna,  will  be  few." 

Though  playful  this,  she  felt  too  much  distress'*! 
T'  admit  the  consolation  of  a  jest ; 
111  she  reposed,  and  in  her  dreams  would  sigh. 
And,  murmuring  forth  her  anguish,  beg  to  die ; 


TALES. 


135 


With  sunken  eye,  slow  pace,  and  pallid  cheek, 
She  look'd  confusion,  and  she  fear'd  to  speak. 

All  this  the  friend  beheld,  for,  quick  of  sight. 
She  knew  the  husband  eager  for  her  flight ; 
4nd  that  by  force  alone  she  could  retain 
The  lasting  comforts  she  had  hope  to  gain : 
She  now  perceived,  to  win  her  post  for  life. 
She  must  infuse  fresh  terrors  in  the  wife ; 
Must  bid  to  friendship's  feebler  ties  adieu, 
And  boldly  claim  the  object  in  her  view  : 
She  saw  the  husband's  love,  and  knew  the  power 
Her  friend  might  use  in  some  propitious  hour. 

Meantime  the  anxious  wife,  from  pure  distress 
Assuming  courage,  said,  "  I  will  confess  ;" 
But  with  her  children  felt  a  parent's  pride, 
And  sought  once  more  the  hated  truth  to  hide. 

Offended,  grieved,  impatient,  Stafford  bore 
The  odious  change  till  he  could  bear  no  more  ; 
A  friend  to  truth,  in  speech  and  action  plain, 
He  held  all  fraud  and  cunning  in  disdain  ; 
But,  fraud  to  find,  and  falsehood  to  detect, 
For  once  he  fled  to  measures  indirect. 

One  day  the  friends  were  seated  in  that  room 
The  guest  with  care  adorn'd,  and  nam.ed  her  home  : 
To    please    the  eye,   there   curious    prints   were 

placed. 
And  some  light  volumes  to  amuse  the  taste; 
Letters  and  music,  on  a  table  laid. 
The  favourite  studies  of  the  fair  betray'd  ; 
Beneath  the  window  was  the  toilet  spread, 
And  the  fire  gleara'd  upon  a  crimson  bed. 

In  Anna's  looks  and  falling  tearj  were  seen 
Kow  interesting  had  their  subjocis  been  : 
"  O !  then,  "  resumed  the  friend,  "  I  plainiy  find 
That  you  and  Stafford  know  each  c-disr'a  mind  ; 
I  must  depart,  must  on  the  world  bo  thrown. 
Like  one  discarded,  worthless,  and  unknown ; 
But  shall  I  carry,  and  to  please  a  foe, 
A  painful  secret  in  ray  bosom  ?    No ! 
Think  not  your  friend  a  reptile  you  may  tread 
Beneath  your  feet,  and  say,  the  worm  is  dead  ; 
I  have  some  feeling,  and  will  not  be  made 
The  scorn  of  her  whom  love  cannot  persuade  : 
Would  not  your  word,  your  slightest  wph,  efTect 
All  that  I  hope,  petition,  or  expect? 
The  power  you  have,  but  you  the  use  decline — 
Proof  that  you  feel  not,  or  you  fear  not  mine. 
There  was  a  time,  when  I  i  tender  maid, 
Flew  at  a  call,  and  your  desi."'^8  obey'd ; 
A  very  mother  to  the  child  became, 
Consoled  your  sorrow,  and  conceal'd  your  shame; 
But  now,  grown  rich  and  happy,  from  the  door 
You  thrust  a  bosom  friend,  despised  and  poor ; 
That  child  alive,  its  mother  might  have  known 
The  hard  ungrateful  spirit  she  has  shown." 

Here    paused    the   guest,   and    Anna    cried    at 
length — 
"  You  try  me,  cruel  friend  !  beyond  my  strength  ; 
Would  I  had  been  beside  my  infant  laid, 
Where  none  would  vex  me,  threaten,  or  upbraid." 

In  Anna's  looks  the  friend  beheld  despair; 
Her  speech  she  ouften'd,  and  composed  her  air; 
Yet,  while  professing  love,  she  answered  still — 
"  You  can  befriend  me,  but  you  want  the  will." 
They  parted  thus,  and  Anna  went  her  way, 
To  she^  her  secret  sorrows,  and  to  pray. 

Stafford,  amused  with  books,  and  fond  of  home. 
By  reading  oft  dispell'd  the  evening  gloom  ; 


History  or  tale — all  heard  him  with  delight, 
And  thus  was  pass'd  this  memorable  night. 
The  listening  friend  bestow'd  a  flattering  smile ; 
A  sleeping  boy  the  mother  held  the  while ; 
And  ere  she  fondly  bore  him  to  his  bed. 
On  his  fair  face  the  tear  of  anguish  shed. 

And  now  his  task  resumed,  "  My  tale,"  said  he, 
"  Is  short  and  sad,  short  may  our  sadness  be  !" 

"  The  Caliph  Harun,*  as  historians  toll. 
Ruled,  for  a  tyrant,  admirably  well ; 
Where  his  own  pleasures  were  not  touch'd,to  men 
He  was  humane,  and  sometimes  even  then  ; 
Harun  was  fond  of  fruits,  and  gardens  fair. 
And  wo  to  all  whom  he  found  poaching  there ! 
Among  his  pages  was  a  lively  boy, 
Eager  in  search  of  every  trifling  joy  ; 
His  feelings  vivid,  and  his  fancy  strong. 
He  sigh'd  for  pleasure  while  he  shrank  from  wrong," 
When  by  the  caliph  in  the  garden  placed 
He  saw  the  treasures  which  he  long'd  to  taste , 
And  oft  alone  he  ventured  to  behold 
Rich  hanging  fruits  with  rind  of  glowing  gold ; 
Too  long  he  stayed  forbidden  bliss  to  v  )ew. 
His  virtue  failing,  as  his  longings  grew  ; 
Athirst  and  wearied  with  the  noontide  heat. 
Fate  to  the  garden  led  his  luckless  feet ; 
With  eager  eyes  and  open  mouth  he  stood. 
Smelt  the  sweet  breath,  and  touch'd  the  fragrant 

food  ; 
The  tempting  beauty  sparkling  in  the  sun 
Charm'd  his  young  sense — he  ate,  and  was  undone : 
When  the  fond  glutton  paused,  his  eyes  around 
He  turn'd,  and  eyes  upon  him  turning  found ; 
Pleased  he  beheld  the  spy,  a  brother  page, 
A  friend  allied  in  office  and  in  age  ; 
Who  promised  much  that  secret  he  would  be, 
But  high  the  price  he  fix'd  on  secrecy. 

"  *  Were  you  suspected,  my  unhappy  friend,' 
Began  the  boy,  '  where  would  your  sorrows  end? 
In  all  the  palace  there  is  not  a  page 
The  caliph  would  not  torture  in  his  rage  : 
I  think  I  see  thee  now  impaled  alive. 
Writhing  in  pangs — but  come,  ray  friend!  revive; 
Had  some  beheld  you,  all  your  purse  contains 
Could  not  have  saved  you  from  terrific  pains ; 
I  scorn  such  meanness  ;  and,  if  not  in  debt. 
Would  not  an  asper  on  your  folly  set.' 

"  The  hint  was  strong ;  young  Osmyn  search'd 
his  store 
For  bribes,  and  found  he  soon  could  bribe  no  more ; 
That  time  arrived,  for  Osrayn's  stock  was  small, 
And  the  young  tyrant  now  possess'd  it  all ; 
The  cruel  youth,  with  his  companions  near, 
Gave  the  broad  hint  that  raised  the  sudden  fear ; 
Th'  ungenerous  insult  now  was  daily  shown. 
And  Osmyn's  peace  and  honest  pride  were  flown  ; 
Then  came  augmenting  woes,  and  fancy  strong 
Drew  forms  of  suffering,  a  tormenting  throng  ; 
He  felt  degraded,  and  the  struggling  mind 
Dared  not  be  free,  and  could  not  be  resign'd  ; 
And  all  his  pains  and  fervent  prayers  obtain'd 
Was  truce  from  insult,  while  the  fears  remain'd. 


»The  sovereign  here  meant  is  the  Haroun  Alraschid, 
or  Harun  al  Rashid,  who  died  early  in  the  ninth  century 
he  is  often  the  hearer,  and  sometimes  the  hero,  of  atal« 
in  the  Arabian  Nights'  Entertainments. 


136 


CRABBE. 


«  One  day  it  chanced  that  this  degraded  boy 
And  tyrant  friend  were  fix'd  at  their  employ  ; 
Who  now  had  thrown  restraint  and  form  aside, 
And  for  his  bribe  in  plainer  speech  applied  : 
•  Long  have  I  waited,  and  the  last  supply 
Was  but  a  pittance,  yet  how  patient  I ! 
But  give  me  now  what  thy  first  terrors  gave, 
My  speech  shall  praise    thee,    and    my  silence 
save.' 

"  Osmyn  had  found,  in  many  a  dreadful  day 
The  tyrant  fiercer  when  he  seem'd  in  play 
He  begg'd  forbearance ;  '  I  have  not  to  give  , 
Spare  me  a  while,  although  'tis  pain  to  live  : 
O !  had  that  stolen  fruit  the  power  possess'd 
To  war  with  life,  I  now  had  been  at  rest.' 

" '  So  fond  of  death,'  replied  the  boy,  '  'tis  plain 
Thou  hast  no  certain  notion  of  the  pain  ; 
But  to  the  caliph  were  a  secret  shown. 
Death  has  no  pain  that  would  be  then  unknown.' 

"  Now,  says  the  story,  in  a  closet  near. 
The  monarch,  seated,  chanced  the  boys  to  hear ; 
There  oft  he  came,  when  wearied  on  his  throne, 
To  read,  sleep,  listen,  pray,  or  be  alone. 

"  The   tale    proceeds,  when    first    the    caliph 
found 
That  he  was  robb'd,  although  alone,  he  frown'd  : 
And  swore  in  wrath,  that  he  would  send  the  boy 
Far  from  his  notice,  favour,  or  employ ; 
But  gentler  movements  soothed  his  ruffled  mind, 
And  his  own  failings  taught  him  to  be  kind. 

"  Relenting  thoughts  then  painted  Osmyn  young, 
His  passion  urgent,  and  temptation  strong; 
And  that  he  suffer'd  from  that  villain  spy 
Pains  worse  than  death  till  he  desired  to  die; 
Then  if  his  morals  had  received  a  stain, 
His  bitter  sorrows  made  him  pure  again : 
To  Reason,  Pity  lent  her  generous  aid, 
For  one  so  tempted,  troubled,  and  betray'd ; 
And  a  free  pardon  the  glad  boy  restored 
To  the  kind  presence  of  a  gentle  lord  ; 
Who  from  his  office  and  his  country  drove 
That  traitor  friend,  whom  pair£  nor  prayers  couil 

move; 
Who  raised  the  fears  no  mortal  could  endure, 
And  then  with  cruel  avarice  sold  the  cure. 

"  My  tale  is  ended  ;  but,  to  be  applied, 
.1  must  describe  the  place  where  caliphs  hide." 

Here   both    the    females    look'd    alarm'd,  dis- 
tress'd. 
With  hurried  passions  hard  to  be  express'd. 

"  It  was  a  closet  by  a  chamber  placed, 
Where  slept  a  lady  of  no  vulgar  taste  ; 
Her  friend  attended  in  that  chosen  room 
That  she  had  honour'd  and  proclaim'd  her  home  : 
To  please  the  eye  were  chosen  pictures  placed. 
And  some  light  volumes  to  amuse  the  taste  , 
Letters  and  music  on  a  table  laid, 
For  much  the  lady  wrote,  and  often  play'd  ; 
Beneath  the  window  was  a  toilet  spread. 
And  a  fire  gleam'd  upon  a  crimson  bed." 

He  paused,  he  rose ;  with  troubled  joy  the  wife 
Felt  the  new  era  of  her  changeful  life  ; 
Frankness  and  love  appear'd  in  Stafford's  face. 
And  all  her  trouble  to  delight  give  place. 

Twice  made  the  guest  an  effort  to  sustain 
Her  feelings,  twice  resumed  her  seat  in  vain. 
Nor  could  suppress  her  shame,  nor  could  support 
her  pain : 


Quick  she  retired,  and  all  the  dismal  night 
Thought  of  her  guilt,  her  folly,  and  her  flight ; 
Then  sought  unseen  her  miserable  home, 
To  think  of  comforts  lost,  and  brood  on  wants  tc 
come. 


TALE  XVn. 


RESENTMENT. 


She  hath  a  tear  for  pity,  and  a  hand 
Open  as  day  for  melting  charity  ; 

Yet,  notwithstanding,  being  incensed,  is  flint 

Her  temper,  therefore,  must  be  well  observ'd. 

Henry  IV.  Part  i.  act  iv.  sc.  4. 

Three  or  four  wenches  where  I  stood  cried— 

"Alas!  good  soul!"  and  forgave  him  with  all  theii 
hearts:  but  there  is  no  heed' to  be  taken  of  them;  if 
Ceesar  had  stabb'd  their  mothers,  they  would  have  done 
no  less. 

Julius  CcBsar,  act  i.  sc.  2. 

How  dost  1    Art  cold  1 
I'm  cold  myself— Where  is  the  straw,  my  fellow  1 
The  art  af  our  necessities  is  strange, 
That  can  make  vile  things  precious. 

King  Lear,  act  iii.  sc.  2, 

Females  there  are  of  unsuspicious  mmd. 
Easy  and  soft,  and  credulous  and  kind ; 
Who,  when  offended  for  the  twentieth  time, 
Will  hear  th'  offender  and  forgive  the  crime : 
And  there  are  others  whom  like  these  to  cheat, 
Asks  but  the  humblest  effort  of  deceit ; 
But  they,  once  injured,  feel  a  strong  disdain. 
And,  seldom  pardoning,  never  trust  again  ; 
Urged  by  religion,  they  forgive — but  yet 
Guard  the  warm  heart,  and  never  more  forget: 
Those  are  like  wax — apply  them  to  the  fire, 
Melting,  they  take  th'  impressions  you  desire; 
Easy  to  mould,  and  fashion  as  you  please, 
And  again  moulded  with  an  equal  ease : — 
Like  smelted  iron  these  the  forms  retain. 
But  once  impress'd  will  never  melt  again. 

A  busy  pert  a  serious  merchant  made 
His  chosen  place  to  recommence  his  trade  ; 
And  brought  his  lady,  who,  their  children  dead, 
Their  native  seat  of  recent  sorrow  fled  : 
The'husband  duly  on  the  quay  was  seen. 
The  wife  at  home  became  at  length  serene ; 
There  in  short  time  the  social  couple  grew 
With  all  acquainted,  friendly  with  a  few : 
When  the  good  lady,  by  disease  assail'd, 
In  vain  resisted — hope  and  science  fail'd  : 
Then  spake  tlie  female  friends,  by  pity  led, 
"  Poor  merchant  Paul !  what  think  ye  ?  will  h« 

wed? 
A  quiet,  easy,  kind,  religious  man, 
Thus  can  he  rest  ? — I  wonder  if  he  can." 

He  too,  as  grief  subsided  in  his  mind. 
Gave  pi  tee  to  notions  of  congenial  kind  ; 
Grave  was  the  man,  as  we  have  told  before ; 
Hi?  years  were  forty — he  might  pass  for  more , 
Composed  his  features  were,  his  stature  low. 
His  air  important,  and  his  motion  slow; 
His  dress  became  him,  it  was  neat  and  pfein, 
The  colour  purple,  and  without  a  stain  ; 
His  words  were  few,  and  special  was  his  care 
In  simplest  terms  his  purpose  to  declare ; 


TALES. 


137 


A  man  more  civil,  sober,  and  discreet, 
More  grave  and  courteous,you  could  seldom  meet 
Though  frugal  he,  yet  sumptuous  was  his  board, 
As  if  to  prove  how  much  he  could  afford  ; 
For  though  reserved  himself,  he  loved  to  see 
His  table  plenteous,  and  his  neighbours  free  : 
Among  these  friends  he  sat  in  solemn  style. 
And  rarely  soflen'd  to  a  sober  smile  ; 
For  this  observant  fi-iends  their  reasons  gave — 
"  Concerns  so  vast  would  n»ake  the  idlest  grave  : 
And  for  such  man  to  be  of  language  free, 
Would  seem  incongruous  as  a  singing  tree  : 
Trees  have  their  music,  but  the  birds  they  shield 
Ihe  pleasing  tribute  for  protection  yield  ; 
Each  ample  tree  the  tuneful  choir  defends. 
As  this  rich  merchant  cheers  his  happy  friends !" 

In  the  same  town  it  was  his  chance  to  meet 
A  gentle  lady,  with  a  mind  discreet ; 
Neither  in  life's  decline,  nor  bloom  of  youth. 
One  famed  for  maiden  modesty  and  truth  : 
By  nature  cool,  in  pious  habits  bred. 
She  look'd  on  lovers  with  a  virgin's  dread  : 
Deceivers,  rakes,  and  libertines  were  they. 
And  harmless  beauty  their  pursuit  and  prey  ; 
As  bad  as  giants  in  the  ancient  times 
Were  modern  lovers,  and  the  same  their  crimes : 
Soon  as  she  heard  of  her  all-conquering  charms, 
At  once  she  fled  to  her  defensive  arms  ; 
Conn'd  o'er  the  tales  her  maiden  aunt  had  told, 
And  statue-like,  was  motionlike  and  cold  ; 
From  prayer  of  love,  like  that  Pygmalion  pray'd. 
Ere  the  hard  stone  became  the  yielding  maid — 
A  different  change  in  this  chastG  nymph  ensued, 
And  turn'd  to  stone  the  breathing  flesh  and  blood  : 
Whatever  youth  described  his  wounded  heart, 
"  He  came  to  rob  her,  and  she  sc-ora'd  his  art ; 
And  who  of  raptures  once  presumed  to  speak, 
Told   listening   maids  he  thought  them  fond  and 

weak : 
But  should  a  worthy  man  his  hopes  display 
In  few  plain  words,  and  beg  a  yes  or  nay, 
He  would  deserve  ^n  answer  just  and  plain, 
Since  adulation  only  moved  disdain — 
Sir,  if  my  friends  object  not,  come  again." 

Hence  our  brave  lover,  though  he  liked  the  face. 
Praised  not  a  feature — dwelt  not  on  a  grace ; 
But  in  the  simplest  terms  declared  his  state, 
"  A  widow'd  man,  who  wish'd  a  virtuous  mate  ; 
Who  fear'd  neglect,  and  was  compell'd  to  trust 
Dependants  wasteful,  idle,  or  unjust; 
Or  should  they  not  the  trusted  stores  destroy, 
At  best,  they  could  not  help  him  to  enjoy. 
But  with  her  person  and  her  prudence  blest, 
His  acts  would  prosper,  and  his  soul  have  rest : 
Would  she  be  his  ?" — "  Why  that  was  much  to  say; 
She  would  consider  :  he  a  while  might  stay ; 
She  liked  his  manners,  and  believed  his  word ; 
He  did  not  flatter,  flattery  she  abhorr'd : 
It  was  her  happy  lot  in  peace  to  dwell — 
Would  change  make  better  what  was  now  so  well  ? 
But  she  would  ponder." — "  This,"  he  said,  "  was 

kind," 
And   begg'd    to  know  "  when  she  had  fix'd   her 
mind." 
ilomaniic  maidens  would  have  scorn'd  the  air, 
And  the  cool  prudence  of  a  mind  eo  fair ; 
But  well  it  pleased  this  wiser  maid  to  find 
Her  ov^  n  mild  virtues  in  her  lover's  mind. 


His  worldly   wealth  she    sought,   and  quickly 
grew 
Pleased  with  her  search,  and  happy  in  the  view 
Of  vessels  freighted  with  abundant  stores. 
Of    rooms   whose   treasures  press'd  the  groan 'ng 

■  floors ; 
And  he  of  clerks  and  servants  could  display 
A  little  army,  on  a  public  day. 
Was  this  a  man  like  needy  bard  to  speak 
Of  balmy  lip,  bright  eye,  or  rosy  cheek  ? 

The  sum  appointed  for  her  widow'd  state, 
Fix'd  by  her  friend,  excited  no  debate  ; 
Then  the  kind  lady  gave  her  hand  Mid  heart, 
And,  never  finding,  never  dealt  with  art; 
In  his  engagements  she  had  no  concern  ; 
He  taught  her  not,  nor  had  she  wish  to  learn : 
On  him  in  all  occasions  she  relied. 
His  word  her  surety,  and  his  worth  her  pride. 
When  ship  was  launch'd,  and  merchant  Paul  haa 

share, 
A  bounteous  feast  became  the  lady  s  cnre; 
Who  then  her  entry  to  the  dinner  made, 
In  costly  raiment,  and  w  ith  kind  parade. 
Call'd  by  this  duty  on  a  certain  day,     " 
And  robed  to  grace  it  in  a  rich  array. 
Forth   from  her    room  with   measured   step    she 

came. 
Proud  of  th'  event,  and  stately  look'd  the  dame  : 
The  husband  met  her  at  his  study-door — 
"  This  way,  my  love— one  moment  and  no  more  : 
A  trifling  business — you  will  understand, 
The  law  requires  that  you  affix  your  hand  ; 
But  first  attend,  and  you  shall  learn  the  cause 
Why  forms   like  these  have  been  prescribed   by 

laws." 
Then  from  his  chair  a  man  in  black  arose. 
And  with  much  quickness  hurried  off  his  prose  : 
That  "  Ellen  Paul  the  wife,  and  so  forth,  freed 
From  all  control,  her  own  the  act  and  deed. 
And  forasmuch" — said  she,  "  I've  no  distrust. 
For  he  that  asks  it  is  discreet  and  just ; 
Our  friends  are  waiting — where  am  I  to  sign  ? 
There  ! Now    be    ready  when    we  meet    te 

dine." 
This  said,  she  hurried  off  in  great  delight, 
The  ship  was  launch'd,  and  joyful  was  the  night 

Now,  says  the  reader,  and  in  much  disdain. 
This  serious  merchant  was  a  rogue  in  grain ; 
A  treacherous  wretch,  an  artful,  sober  knave. 
And  ten  times  worse  for  manners  cool  and  grave, 
And  she  devoid  of  sense,  to  set  her  hand 
To  scoundrel  deeds  she  could  not  understand. 

Alas  !  'tis  true  ;  and  I  in  vain  had  tried 
To  soften  crime,  that  cannot  be  denied  ; 
And  might  have  labour'd  many  a  tedious  verse 
The  latent  cause  of  mischief  to  rehearse  : 
Be  it  confess'd,  that  long,  with  troubled  look, 
This  trader  view'd  a  huge  accompting  book 
(His  former  marriage  for  a  time  delay'd 
The  dreaded  hour,  the  present  lent  its  aid  ;) 
But  he  too  clearly  saw  the  evil  day. 
And  put  the  terror,  by  deceit,  away  ; 
Thus  by  connecting  with  his  sorrows  crime. 
He  gain'd  a  portion  of  uneasy  time. — 
All  this  too  late  the  injured  lady  saw, 
What  love  had  given,  again  she  gave  to  law ; 
His  guilt,  her  folly— these  at  once  impress'd 
Their  lasting  feelings  on  her  guileless  breast 


1^ 


CRABBE. 


"  Shame  I  can  bear,"  she  cried,  "  and  want  sus- 
tain. 
But  will  not  see  this  guilty  wretch  again  ;" 
For  all  was  bst,  and  he,  with  many  a  tear, 
Confess'd  the  fault — she  turning  scom'd  to  hear. 
To  legal  claim  he  yielded  all  his  worth, 
But  small  the  portion,  and  the  wrong'd  were  wroth, 
Nor  to  their  debtor  would  a  part  allow  ; 
A.nd  where  to  live  he  knew  not — knew  not  how. 

The  wife  a  cottage  found,  and  thither  went 
The  suppliant  man,  but  she  would  not  relent : 
Thenceforth  she  utter'd  with  indignant  tone, 
"  I  feel  the  misery,  and  will  feel  alone." 
He  w^ould  turn  servant  for  her  sake,  would  keep 
The  poorest  school ;  the  very  streets  would  sweep. 
To  show  his  love. — "  It  was  already  shown  : 
And  her  affliction  should  be  all  her  own. 
His  wants  and  weakness  might  have  touch'd  her 

heart, 
But  from  his  meanness  she  resolved  to  part." 

In  a  small  alley  was  she  lodged,  beside 
Its  humblest  poor,  anJ  at  the  view  she  cried, 
"  Welcome — yes !  let  me  welcome,  if  I  can. 
The  fortune  dealt  me  by  this  cruel  man  ; 
Welcome  this  low  ihatch'd  roof,  this  shatter'd 

door, 
These  walls  of  clay,  this  miserable  floor  ; 
Welcome,  my  envied  neighbours  ;  this,  to  you. 
Is  all  familiar — all  to  me  is  new  ; 
You  have  no  hatred  to  the  loathsome  meal ; 
Your  firmer  nerves  no  trembling  terrors  feel. 
Nor,  what  you  must  expose,  desire  you  to  conceal ; 
What  your  coarse  feelings  bear  without  offence, 
Disgusts  my  taste,  and  poisons  every  sense: 
Daily  shall  I  your  sad  relations  hear. 
Of  wanton  women,  and  of  men  severe  ; 
There  will  dire  curses,  dreadful  oaths  abound. 
And  vile  expressions  shock  me  and  confound  ; 
Noise  of  dull  wheels,  and  songs  with  horrid  words. 
Will  be  the  music  that  this  lane  affords  ; 
Mirth  that  disgusts,  and  quarrels  that  degrade 
The  human  mind,  must  my  retreat  invade : 
Hard  is  my  fate  !  yet  easier  to  sustain 
Than  to  abide  with  guilt  and  fraud  again ; 
A  grave  impostor!  who  expects  to  meet. 
In  such  gray  locks  and  gravity,  deceit  ? 
Where  the  sea  rages,  and  the  billows  roar. 
Men  know  the  danger,  and  they  quit  the  shore  ; 
But,  be  there  nothing  in  the  way  descried. 
When  o'er  the  rocks  smooth  runs  the  wicked  tide. 
Sinking  unwarn'd,  they  execrate  the  shock. 
And  the  dread  peril  of  the  sunken  rock." 

A  frowning  world  had  now  the  man  to  dread. 
Taught  in  no  arts,  to  no  profession  bred  ; 
Pining  in  grief,  beset  with  constant  care. 
Wandering  he  went,  to  rest  he  knew  not  where. 

Meantime  the  wife — but  she  abjured  the  name — 
Endured  her  lot,  and  struggled  with  the  shame  ; 
When  lo  !  an  uncle  on  the  mother's  side. 
In  nature  something,  as  in  blood  allied. 
Admired  her  firmness,  his  protection  gave. 
And  show'd  a  kindness  she  disdain'd  to  crave. 

Frugal  and  rich  the  man,  and  frugal  grew 
The  sister  mind,  without  a  selfish  view  ; 
And  further  still ;  the  temperate  pair  agreed 
With  what  they  saved  the  patient  poor  to  feed  : 
His  whole  estate,  when  lo  the  grave  consign'd. 
Left  the  good  kinsman  tc  the  kindred  mind ; 


Assured  that  law,  with  spell  secure  and  tight. 
Had  fix'd  it  as  her  own  peculiar  right. 

Now  to  her  ancient  residence  removed, 
She  lived  as  widow,  well  emlow'd  and  loved. 
Decent  her  table  was,  and  to  her  door 
Came  daily  welcomed  the  neglected  poor ; 
The  absent  sick  were  soothed  by  her  relief. 
As  her  free  bounty  sought  the  haunts  of  grief  j 
A  plain  and  homely  charity  had  she. 
And  loved  the  objects  tf  her  alms  to  see  ; 
With  her  own  hands  she  dress'd  the  savoury  mca4 
With  her  own  fingers  wrote  the  ciioice  receipt; 
She  heard  all  tales  that  injured  wives  relate. 
And  took  a  double  interest  in  their  fate  ; 
But  of  all  husbands  not  a  wretch  was  known 
So  vile,  so  mean,  so  cruel  as  her  own. 

This  bounteous  lady  kept  an  active  spy. 
To  search  th'  abodes  of  want,  and  to  supply  ; 
The  gentle  Susan  served  the  liberal  dame — 
Unlike  their  notions,  yet  their  deeds  the  same  : 
No  practised  villain  could  a  victim  find 
Than  this  stern  lady  naore  completely  blind  ; 
Nor  (if  detected  in  his  fraud)  could  meet 
One  less  disposed  to  pardon  a  deceit ; 
The  wrong  she  treasured,  and  on  no  pretence 
Received  th'  offender,  or  forgot  th'  offence  : 
But  the  kind  servant,  to  the  thrice-proved  knave 
A  fourth  time  liAen'd,  and  the  past  forgave. 

First  in  her  youth,  when  she  was  blithe  and  gay 
Came  a  smooth  rogue,  and  stole  her  love  away  : 
Then  to  another  and  another  flew, 
To  boast  the  wanton  mischief  he  could  do : 
Yet  she  forgave  him,  though  so  great  her  pain. 
That  she  was  never  blithe  or  gay  again. 

Then  came  a  spoiler,  who,  with  villain  art. 
Implored  her  hand,  and  agonized  her  heart  ; 
He  seized  her  purse,  in  idle  waste  to  spend 
With  a  vile  wanton,  whom  she  call'd  her  friend ; 
Five  years  she  suffer'd — he  had  revell'd  five — 
Then  came  to  show  her  he  was  just  alive  ; 
Alone  he  came,  his  vile  companion  dead ; 
And  he,  a  wandering  pauper,  wanting  bread  ; 
His  body  wasted,  wither'd  life  and  limb. 
When  this  kind  soul  became  a  slave  to  him  : 
Nay,  she  was  sure  that,  should  he  now  survive, 
No  better  husband  would  be  left  alive  ; 
For  him  she  mourn'd,  and  then,  alone  and  poor, 
Sought  and  found  comfort  at  her  lady's  door : 
Ten  years  she  served,  and,  mercy  her  employ, 
Her  tasks  were  pleasure,  and  her  duty  joy. 

Thus  lived  the  mistress  and  the  maid,  design'd 
Each  other's  aid — one  cautious,  and  both  kind  : 
Oft  at  their  window,  working,  they  would  sigh 
To  see  the  aged  and  the  sick  go  by  ; 
Like  wounded  bees,  that  at  their  home  arrive. 
Slowly  and  weak,  but  labouring  for  the  hive. 

The  busy  people  of  a  mason's  yard 
The  curious  lady  view'd  with  much  regard  ; 
With  steady  motion  she  perceived  them  draw 
Through  blocks  of  stone  the  slowly- working  saw 
It  gave  her  pleasure  and  surprise  to  see 
Among  these  men  the  signs  of  revelry  : 
Cold  was  the  season,  and  confined  their  view. 
Tedious  their  tasks,  but  merry  were  the  crew ; 
There  she  beheld  an  aged  pauper  wait. 
Patient  and  still,  to  take  an  humble  freight, 
Within  the  panniers  on  an  ass  he  laid 
The  ponderous  grit,  and  for  the  portion  paid  ; 


TALES. 


139 


This  he  resold,  and,  with  each  trifling  gift. 
Made  shift  to  live,  and  wretched  was  the  shift. 

Nor  will  it  be  by  every  reader  told 
SVho  was  this  humble  trader,  poor  and  old. 
In  vain  an  author  would  a  name  suppress. 
From  the  least  hint  a  reader  learns  to  guess  ; 
Of  children  lost  our  novels  sometimes  treat, 
We  never  care — assured  again  to  meet : 
In  vain  the  writer  for  concealment  tries, 
We  trace  his  purpose  under  all  disguise  ; 
Nay,  though  he  tells  us  they  are  dead  and  gone, 
Of  whom  we  wot — they  will  appear  anon ; 
Our  favourites  fight,  are  wounded,  hopeless  lie, 
Survive  they  cannot — nay,  they  cannot  die ; 
Now,  as  these  tricks  and  stratagems  are  known, 
'Tis  best,  at  once,  the  simple  truth  to  own. 

This  was  the  husband  ;  in  an  humble  shed 
He  nightly  slept,  and  daily  sought  his  bread  : 
Once  for  relief  the  weary  man  applied  ; 
"  Your  wife  is  rich,"  the  angry  vestry  cried  : 
Alas !  he  dared  not  to  his  wife  complain, 
Feeling  her  wrongs,  and  fearing  her  disdain ; 
By  various  methods  he  had  tried  to  live. 
But  not  one  effort  would  subsistence  give  : 
He  was  an  usher  in  a  school,  till  noise 
Made  him  less  able  than  the  weaker  boys  ; 
On  messages  he  went,  till  he  in  vain 
Strove  names,  or  words,  or  meanings  to  retain  ; 
Each  small  employment  in  each  neighbouring  town 
By  turn  he  tool?,  to  lay  as  quickly  down  : 
For,  such  his  fate,  he  fail'd  in  all  he  plann'd. 
And  nothing  prosper'd  in  his  luckless  hand. 

At  his  old  home,  his  motive  half  suppress'd, 
He  sought  no  more  for  riches,  but  for  rest : 
There  lived  the  bounteous  wife,  and  at  her  gate 
He  saw  in  cheerful  groups  the  needy  wait ; 
"  Had  he  a  right  with  bolder  hope  t'  apply  ?" 
He  ask'd,  was  answer'd,  and  went  groaning  by  : 
For  some  remains  of  spirit,  temper,  pride, 
Forbade  a  prayer  he  knew  would  be  denied. 

Thus  was  the  grieving  man,  with  burden'd  ass, 
Seen  day  by  day  along  the  street  to  pass  : 
"  Who  is  he,  Susan  ?  who  the  poor  old  man  ? 
He  never  calls ;  do  make  him,  if  you  can." 
The  conscious  damsel  still  delay'd  to  speak. 
She  slopp'd  confused,  and  had  her  words  to  seek ; 
From  Susan's  fears  the  fact  her  mistress  knew. 
And  cried — "  The  wretch !   what  scheme  has  he 

in  view  ? 
Is  this  his  lot  ? — but  let  him,  let  him  feel — 
Who  wants  the  courage,  not  the  will  to  steal." 

A  dreadful  winter  came,  each  day  severe, 
Misty  when  mild,  and  icy  cold  when  clear ; 
And  still  the  humble  dealer  took  his  load. 
Returning  slow,  and  shivering  on  the  road  : 
The  lady,  &till  relentless,  saw  him  come. 
And  said,  "  I  wonder,  has  the  wretch  a  home  ?" — 
'•■  A  hut !  a  hovel  !" — "  Then  his  fate  appears 
To  suit  his  crime." — "  Yes,  lady,  not  his  years  ; — 
No .  nor  his  sufferings,  nor  that  form  decay'd." — 
■  W'ell !  let  the  parish  give  its  paupers  aid  ; 
You  must  the  vileness  of  his  acts  allow." — 
"  An:  you,  dear  lady,  that  he  feels  it  now." — 
"  When  such  dissemblers  on  their  deeds  reflect. 
Can  they  the  pity  they  refused  expect  ? 
He  that  doth  evil,  evil  shall  he  dread."— 
"The  snow,"  quoth  Susan,  "  falls  upon  his  bed — 
It  blows  beside  the  thatch — it  melts  upon  his  head." 


"  'Tis  weakness,  child,  for  grieving  guilt  to  feel."— 
"  Yes,  but  he  never  sees  a  wholesome  meal  ; 
Through  his  bare    dress    appears   his  shrivell'd 

skin. 
And  ill  he  fares  without,  and  worse  within  ! 
With  that  weak  body,  lame,  diseased,  and  slow. 
What  cold,  pain,  peril,  must  the  sufferer  know !" — 
"  Think  on  his   crime." — "  Yes,  sure,  'twas  very 

wrong ; 
But  look,  (God  bless  him  !)  how  he  gropes  along." — 
"  Brought  me   to  shame." — "  O .'  yes,  I  know  it 

all; 
What  cutting  blast !  and  he  can  scarcely  crawl ; 
He  freezes  as  he  moves  ;  he  dies !  if  he  should  fall 
With  cruel  fierceness  drives  this  icy  sleet. 
And  must  a  Christian  perish  in  the  street, 
In  sight  of  Christians  ? — There  !  at  last,  he  lies  ;— 
Nor  unsupported  can  he  ever  rise  : 
He  cannot  live." — "  But  is  he  fit  to  die  ?" — 
Here  Susan  softly  multer'd  a  reply, 
Look'd   round   the   room,   said   something  of  its 

stale, 
Dives  the  rich,  and  Lazarus  at  his  gate  ; 
And  then  aloud — "  In  pity  do  behold 
The  man  affrighten'd,  weeping,  trembling,  cold : 
O !  how  those  flakes  of  snow  their  entrance  win 
Through  the  poor  rags,  and  keep  the  frost  within 
His  very  heart  seems  frozen  as  he  goes. 
Leading  that  starved  companion  of  his  woes  : 
He  tried  to  pray — his  lips,  I  saw  them  move, 
And  he  so  turn'd  his  piteous  looks  above ; 
But  the  fierce  wind  the  willing  heart  opposed, 
And,  ere  he  spoke,  the  lips  in  misery  closed  : 
Poor  suffering  object !  yes,  for  ease  you  pray'd, 
And  God  will  hear — he  only,  I'm  afraid." 

"  Peace  !  Susan,  peace  I    Pain  ever  follows  sin." 
— "Ah I   then,"  thought  Susan,  "when   will  o'l"* 

begin  ? 
When  reach'd  his  home,  to  what  a  cheerless  fir 
And  chilling  bed  will  those  cold  limbs  retire! 
Yet  ragged,  wretched  as  it  is,  that  bed 
Takes  half  the  space  of  his  contracted  shed  ; 
I  saw  the  thorns  beside  the  narrow  grate. 
With  straw  collected  in  a  putrid  state  : 
There  will  he,  kneeling,  strive  the  fire  to  raise. 
And  that  will  warm  him,  rather  than  the  blaze; 
The  sullen,  smoky  blaze,  that  cannot  last 
One  moment  after  his  attempt  is  past : 
And  I  so  warmly  and  so  purely  laid. 
To  sink  to  rest — indeed,  I  am  afraid." — 
"Know    you    his   conduct?" — "Yes,   indeed,  ) 

know — 
And  how  he  wanders  in  the  wind  and  snow: 
Safe  in  our  rooms  the  threatening  storm  we  hear, 
But  he  feels  strongly  what  we  faintly  fear."— 
"  Wilful  was  rich,  and  he  the  storm  defied. 
Wilful  is  poor,  and  must  the  storm  abide  ;" 
Said  the  stern  lady — "  'Tis  in  vain  to  feel ; 
Go  and  prepare  the  chicken  for  our  meal." 

Susan  her  task  reluctantly  began. 
And  utter'd  as  she  went — "  The  poor  old  man !" 
But  while  her  soft  and  ever-yielding  heart 
Made  strong  protest  against  her  lady's  part. 
The  lady's  self  began  to  think  it  wrong 
To  feel  so  wrathful  and  resent  so  long. 

"  No    more    the    wretch    would   she   receive 

again. 
No  more  behold  him— but  she  would  sustain  ; 


140 


CRABBE. 


Great  his  offence,  and  evil  was  his  mind, — 
But  he  had  suffer'd,  and  she  would  be  kind  : 
She    spurn'd    such    baseness,  and    she    found 

within 
A  fair  acquittal  from  so  foul  a  sin  ; 
Yet  she  too  err'd,  and  must  of  Heaven  expect 
To  be  rejected,  him  should  she  reject." 

Susan  was  summon'd  ;  "  I'm  about  to  do 
A  foolish  act,  in  part  seduced  by  you  ; 
Go  to  the  creature,  say  that  I  intend, 
Foe  to  his  sins,  to  be  his  sorrow's  friend  ; 
Take,  for  his  present  comforts,  food  and  wine. 
And  mark  his  feelings  at  this  act  of  mine  : 
Observe  if  shame  be  o'er  his  features  spread, 
By  his  own  victim  to  be  soothed  and  fed  ; 
But,  this  inform  him,  that  it  is  not  love 
That  prompts  my  heart,  that  duties  only  move  : 
Say,  that  no  merits  in  his  favour  plead, 
But  miseries  only,  and  his  abject  need  ; 
Nor  bring  me  grovelling  thanks,  nor  high-flown 

praise  ; 
I  would  his  spirits,  not  his  fancy  raise ; 
Give  him  no  hope  that  I  shall  ever  more 
A  man  so  vile  to  my  esteem  restore  ; 
But  warn  him  rather,  that,  in  time  of  rest, 
His  crimes  be  all  remember'd  and  confess'd  : 
I  know  not  all  that  form  the  sinner's  debt. 
But  there  is  one  that  he  must  not  forget." 

The  mind  of  Susan  prompted  her  with  speed 
To  act  her  part  in  every  courteous  deed  : 
All  that  was  kind  she  was  prepared  to  say. 
And  keep  the  lecture  for  a  future  day ; 
When  he  had  all  life's  comforts  by  his  side, 
Pity  might  sleep,  and  good  advice  be  tried. 

This  done,  the  mistress  felt  disposed  to  look. 
As  self-approving,  on  a  pious  book : 
Yet,  to  her  native  bias  still  inclined, 
She  felt  her  act  loo  merciful  and  kind  ; 
But  when,  long  musing  on  the  chilling  scene 
So  lately  past — the  frost  and  sleet  so  keen — 
The  man's  whole  misery  in  a  single  view — 
Yes  !  she  could  think  some  pity  was  his  due. 

Thus  fix'd,  she  heard  not  her  attendant  glide 
With  soft  slow  step — till,  standing  by  her  side. 
The   trembling  servant  gasp'd    for    breath,   and 

shed 
Relieving  tears,  then  utter'd — '*  He  is  dead !" 

"  Dead !"  said  the  startled   lady.     "  Yes,  he 
fell 
Close  at  the  door  where  he  was  wont  to  dwell ; 
There  his  sole  friend,  the  ass,  was  standing  by, 
Half  dead  himself,  to  see  his  master  die." 

"Expired  he  then,  good  Heaven  I  for  want  of 
food  ?"— 
"  No  !  crusts  and  water  in  a  corner  stood  ; — 
To  have  this  plenty,  and  to  wait  so  long. 
And  to  be  right  too  late,  is  doubly  wrong  : 
Then,  every  day  to  see  him  totter  by. 
And  to  forbear — O  !  what  a  heart  had  I !" 

"  Blame  me  not,  child  ;  I  tremble  at  the  news." — 
"  'Tis  my  own  heart,"  said  Susan,  "  I  accuse : 
To  have  this  money  in  my  purse — to  know 
What  grief  was  his,  and  what  to  grief  we  owe  : 
To  see  him  often,  always  to  conceive 
How    he  must    pine    and    languish,  groan    and 

grieve  ; 
And  every  day  in  ease  and  peace  to  dine. 
And  rest  in  comfort  .'—what  a  heart  is  mile  !" 


TALE  XVm. 


THE  WAGER. 


'Tis  thought  your  deer  doth  hold  you  at  a  bay. 

Taming  of  the  Shrew,  act  v.  sc.  2 

I  choose  her  for  myself: 

If  she  and  I  are  pleased,  what's  that  to  you 

Jbid 


Let's  Bend  each  one  to  his  wife, 
And  he  whose  wife  is  most  obedient 
Shall  win  the  wager. 


Jbid 


Now  by  the  world  it  is  a  lusty  wench, 
I  love  her  ten  times  more  than  e'er  I  did. 

ib.  act.  ii.  sc.  1, 

Counter  and  Clubb  were   men  in  trade,  whose 

pains. 
Credit,  and  prudence,  brought  them  constant  gains 
Partners  and  punctual,  every  friend  agreed 
Counter  and  Clubb  were  men  who  must  succeed. 
When  they  had  fix'd  some  little  time  in  life. 
Each  thought  of  taking  to  himself  a  wife  ; 
As  men  in  trade  alike,  as  men  in  love 
They  seem'd  with  no  according  views  to  move ; 
As  certain  ores  in  outward  view  the  same. 
They  show'd   their  difference  when  the  magnet 

came. 
Counter  was  vain  :  with  spirit  strong  and  high, 
'Twas  not  in  him  like  suppliant  swain  to  sigh : 
"  His  wife  might  o'er  his  men  and  maids  preside, 
And  in  her  province  be  a  judge  and  guide  ; 
But  what  he  thought,  or  did,  or  wish'd  to  do, 
She  must  not  know,  or  censure  if  she  knew; 
At  home,  abroad,  by  day,  by  night,  if  he 
On  aught  determined,  so  it  was  to  be  : 
How  is  a  man,"  he  ask'd,  "  for  business  fit. 
Who  to  a  female  can  his  will  submit  ? 
Absent  a  while,  let  no  inquiring  eye 
Or  plainer  speech  presume  to  question  W'hy, 
But  all  be  silent ;  and,  when  seen  again, 
Let  all  be  cheerful  ;~shall  a  wife  complain  ? 
Friends  1  invite,  and  who  shall  dare  t'  object. 
Or  look  on  them  with  coolness  or  neglect  ? 
No !  I  must  ever  of  my  house  be  head, 
And,  thus  obey'd,  I  condescend  to  wed." 

Clubb  heard  the  speech — "  My  friend  is  nicep 
said  he ; 
"  A  wife  with  less  respect  will  do  for  me  : 
How  is  he  certain  such  a  prize  to  gain  ? 
What  he  approves,  a  lass  may  learn  to  feign. 
And  so  affect  t'  obey,  till  she  begins  to  reign ; 
A  while  complying,  she  may  vary  then. 
And  be  as  wives  of  more,  unwary  men  ; 
Besides,  to  him  who  plays  such  lordly  part 
How  shall  a  tender  creature  yield  her  heart  ? 
Should  he  the  promised  confidence  refuse. 
She  may  another  more  confiding  choose  : 
May  show  her  anger,  yet  her  purpose  hidC; 
And  wake  his  jealousy,  and  wound  his  pride. 
In  one  so  humbled,  who  can  trace  the  friend  ? 
I  on  an  equal,  not  a  slave,  depend  ; 
If  true,  my  confidence  is  wisely  placed. 
And  being  false,  she  only  is  disgraced." 

Clubb,  with  these  notions,  cast  his  eye  around 
And  one  so  easy  soon  a  partner  found. 
The  lady  chosen  was  of  good  repute  ; 
Meekness  she  had  not,  and  was  seldom  muto 


TALES. 


Ul 


Thougn  quick  to  anger,  still  she  loved  to  smile  ; 
And  would  be  calm  if  men  would  wait  a  while  . 
She  knew  her  duty,  and  she  loved  her  way, 
More  pleased  in  truth  to  govern  than  obey  ; 
She  heard  her  priest  with  reverence,  and  her  spouse 
As  one  who  felt  the  pressure  of  her  vows  ; 
Useful  and  civil,  all  her  friends  confess'd. 
Give  her  her  way,  and  she  would  choose  the  best ; 
Though  some,  indeed,  a  sly  remark  would  make, 
Give  it  her  not,  and  she  would  choose  to  take. 
All  this,  when  Clubb  some  cheerful  months  had 
spent. 
He  saw,  confess'd,  and  said  he  was  content- 
Counter  meantime  selected,  doubted,  weigh'd, 
And  then  brought  home  a  young  complying  maid  ; 
A  tender  creature,  full  of  fears  as  charms, 
A  beauteous  nursling  from  its  mother's  arms  ; 
A  soft,  sweet  blossom,  such  as  men  must  love, 
But  to  preserve  must  keep  it  in  the  stove  : 
She  had  a  mild,  subdued,  expiring  look — 
Raise  but  the  voice,  and  this  fair  creature  shook; 
Leave  her  alone,  she  felt  a  thousand  fears — 
Chide,  and  she  melted  into  floods  of  tears  ; 
Fondly  she  pleaded,  and  would  gently  sigh, 
For  very  pity,  or  she  knew  not  why  ; 
One  whom  to  govern  none  could  be  afraid — 
Hold  up  the  finger,  this  meek  thing  obey'd  ; 
Her  happy  husband  had  the  easiest  task — 
Say  but  his  will,  no  question  would  she  ask  ; 
She  sought  no  reasons,  no  affairs  she  knew. 
Of  business  spoke  not,  and  had  naught  to  do. 
Oft  he  exclaim'd,  "  How  meek  !  how  mild  !  how 
kind! 
With  her  'twere  cruel  but  to  seem  unkind  ; 
Though  ever  silent  when  I  take  my  leave. 
It  pains  my  heart  to  think  how  hers  will  grieve  ; 
'Tis  heaven  on  earth  with  such  a  wife  to  dwell, 
l  am  in  raptures  to  have  sped  so  well ; 
But  let  me  not,  my  friend,  your  envy  raise. 
No !  on  my  life,  your  patience  has  my  praise." 

His  friend,  though  silent,  felt  the  scorn  implied, 
•'  What  need  of  patience  ?"  to  himself  he  cried  : 
"  Better  a  woman  o'er  her  house  to  rule. 
Than  a  po(Jr  child  just  hurried  from  her  school ; 
Who  has  no  care,  yet  never  lives  at  ease  ; 
Unfit  to  rule,  and  indisposed  to  please  ; 
What  if  he  govern  ?  there  his  boast  should  end, 
No  husband's  power  can  make  a  slave  his  friend." 

It  was  the  custom  of  these  friends  to  meet 
With  a  few  neighbours  in  a  neighbouring  street ; 
Where  Counter  oft  times  would  occasion  seize 
To  move  his  silent  friend  by  words  like  these  : 
"  A  man,"  said  he,  "  if  govern'd  by  his  wife, 
Gives  up  his  rank  and  dignify  in  life  ; 
Now  better  fate  befalls  my  friend  and  me" — 
He  spoke,  airt  look'd  th'  approving  smile  to  see. 

The  quiet  partner,  when  he  chose  to  speak. 
Desired  his  friend,  "  another  theme  to  seek  ; 
When  thus  they  met,  he  judged  that  state  affairs 
And  such  important  subjects  should  be  theirs." 
But  still  the  partner,  in  his  lighter  vein. 
Would  cause  in  Clubb  affliction  or  disdain  ; 
It  made  him  anxious  to  detect  the  cause 
Of  all  that  boasting  ;  "  Wants  triy  friend  applause  ? 
This  plainly  proves  him  not  at  perfect  ease. 
For,  felt  he  pleasure,  he  would  wish  to  please. 
These  triumphs  here  for  some  regrets  atone — 
Men  who  are  blest  let  other  men  alone." 


Thus  made  suspicious,  he  observed  and  saw 
His  friend  each  night  at  early  hour  withdraw  ; 
He  sometimes  mention'd  Juliet's  tender  nerves, 
And  what  attention  such  a  wife  deserves  : 
"  In  this,"  thought  Clubb,  "  full  sure  some  mystery 

lies — 
He  laughs  at  me,  yet  he  with  much  complies. 
And  all  his  vaunts  of  bliss  are  proud  apologies." 

With  such  ideas  treasured  in  his  breast, 
He  grew  composed,  and  let  his  anger  rest ; 
Till  Counter  once  (when  wine  so  long  went  round 
That  friendship  and  discretion  both  were  drown'dj 
Began  in  teasing  and  triumphant  mood 
His  evening  banter. — "  Of  all  earthly  good. 
The  best,"  he  said,  "  was  an  obedient  spouse, 
Such  as  my  friend's — that  every  one  allows  : 
What  if  she  wishes  his  designs  to  know  ? 
It  is  because  she  would  her  praise  bestow ; 
What  if  she  wills  that  he  remains  at  home  ? 
She  knows  that  mischief  may  from  travel  corae 
I,  who  am  I'ree  to  venture  where  I  please, 
Have  no  such  kind  preventing  checks  as  these; 
But  mine  is  double  duty,  first  to  guide 
Myself  aright,  then  rule  a  house  beside  ; 
While  this  our  friend,  more  happy  than  the  free, 
Resigns  all  power,  and  laughs  at  liberty." 

"By  Heaven,"  said   Clubb,   "excuse   me   if  I 
swear, 
I'll  bet  a  hundred  guineas,  if  he  dart*. 
That  uncontroll'd  I  will  such  freedoms  take, 
That  he  will  fear  to  equal— there's  my  stake." 

"  A  match  1"  said  Counter,  much  by  wine  in- 
flamed ; 
"  But  we  are  friends ;  let  smaller  stake  be  named : 
Wine  for  our  future  meeting,  that  will  I 
Take,  and  no  more— what  peril  shall  we  try  ?" 
"  Let's  to  Newmarket,"  Clubb  replied  ;  "  or  choose 
Yourself  the  place,  and  what  you  like  to  lose ; 
And  he  who  first  returns,  or  fears  to  go. 
Forfeits  his  cash — "     Said  Counter,  "  Be  it  so." 

The  friends  around  them  saw  with  much  delight 
The  social  war,  and  hail'd  the  pleasant  night ; 
Nor  would  they  further  hear  the  cause  discuss'd. 
Afraid  the  recreant  heart  of  Clubb  to  trust. 

Now  sober  thoughts  return'd  as  each  withdrew. 
And  of  the  subject  took  a  serious  view  : 

"  'Twas  wrong,"  thought  Counter,  "  and  will 
grieve  my  love." 
"  'Twas   wrong,"  thought  Clubb,  "  my  wife  will 

not  approve : 
But  friends  were  present ;  I  must  try  the  thing, 
Or  with  my  folly  half  the  town  will  ring." 

He  sought  his  lady  ;  "  Madam,  I'm  to  blame. 
But  was  reproach'd,  and  could  not  bear  the  shame,' 
Herein  my  folly — for  'tis  best  to  say 
The  very  truth— I've  sworn  to  have  my  way  : 
To  that  Newmarket — (though  I  hate  the  place. 
And  have  no  taste  or  talents  for  a  race. 
Yet  so  it  is — well,  now  prepare  to  chide) — 
I  laid  a  wager  that  I  dared  to  ride  ; 
And  I  must  go  :  by  Heaven,  if  you  resist 
I  shall  be  scorn'd,  and  ridiculed,  and  hiss'd  ; 
Let  me  with  grace  before  my  friends  appear, 
You  know  the  truth,  and  must  not  be  severe ; 
He  too  must  go,  but  that  he  will  of  course  ; 
Do  you  consent  ? — I  never  think  of  force." 

"  You  never  need,"  the  worthy  dame  replied 
"  The  husband's  honour  is  the  woman's  pride , 


142 


CRABBE. 


If  1  in  trifles  be  the  wilful  wife, 
Still  for  your  credit  I  would  lose  my  life; 
Go  !  and  when  fix'd  the  day  of  your  return, 
Stay  longer  yet,  and  let  the  blockheads  learn, 
That  though  a  wife  may  sometimes  wish  to  rule, 
She  would  not  make  th'  indulgent  man  a  fool ; 
I  would  at  times  advise — but  idle  they 
Who  think  th'  assenting  husband  must  obey." 
The  happy  man,  who  thought  his  lady  right 
In  other  cases,  was  assured  to-night ; 
Then  for  the  day  with  proud  delight  prepared, 
To  show  his  doubting  friends     how  much    he 

dared. 
Counter — who  grieving  sought    his     bed,  his 

rest 
Broken  by  pictures  of  his  love  distress'd — 
With  soft  and  winning  speech  the  fair  prepared  ; 
*  She    all     his     counsels     comforts,  •  pleasures 

shared : 
She  was  assured  he  loved  her  from  his  soul, 
She  never  knew  and  need  not  fear  control ; 
But  so  it  happen'd  he  was  grieved  at  heart 
It  happen'd  so,  that  they  a  while  must  part — 
\.  little  time — the  distance  was  but  short, 
And  business  eall'd  him— he  despised  the  sport ; 
But  to  Newmarket  he  engaged  to  ride. 
With  his  friend  Clubb,"  and  there  he  stopp'd  and 

sigh'd. 
A  while  the  tender  creature  look'd  dismay'd, 
Then  floods  of  tears  the  call  of  grief  obey'd. 
"  She  an  objection !      No !"     she  sobb'd,  "  not 

one  ; 
Her  work  was  finish'd,  and  her  race  was  run  ; 
For  die  she  must,  indeed  she  would  not  live 
A  week  alone,  for  all  the  world  could  give  ; 
He  too  must  die  in  that  same  wicked  place ; 
It  always  happen'd — was  a  common  case  ; 
Among  those  horrid  horses,  jockeys,  crowds, 
'Twas   certain  death — they  might  bespeak   their 

shrowds  ; 
He  would  attempt  a  race,  be  sure  to  fall — 
And  she  expire  with  terror — that  was  all ; 
With  love  like  hers  she  was  indeed  unfit 
To  bear  such  horrors,  but  she  must  submit." 
"  But  for   three  days,  my  love !  three  days   at 

most—" 
"  Enough  for  me ;  I  then  shall  be  a  ghost — " 
'  My  honour's  pledged  !" — "  O  !   yes,  my  dearest 

life, 
I  know  your  honcYi*  "^ust  outweigh  your  wife  ; 
But  ere  this  absence,  have  you  sought  a  friend  ? 
I  shall  be  dead — on  whom  can  you  depend  ? 
Let  me  one  favour  of  your  kindness  crave. 
Grant  me  the  stone  I  mention'd  for  my  grave." 
"  Nay,    love,  attend — why,   bless    my    soul — I 

say 
I  will  return — there — weep  no  longer — nay  !" 
'*  Well !  I  obey,  and  to  the  last  am  true. 
But  spirits  fail  me  ;  I  must  die  ;  adieu  !' 

"  What,  madam !  must  ? — 'tis  wrong — I'm  angry — 

zounds ! 
Can  I  remain  and  lose  a  thousand  pounds  ?" 
"  Go  then,  my  love  !  it  is  a  monstrous  sum. 
Worth  twenty  wives — go,  love  !  and  I  am  dumb — 
Nor  be  displeased — had  I  the  power  to  live. 
You  might  be  angry,  now  you  must  forgive ; 
Alas !  I  faint — ah  !  cruel — there's  no  need 
Of  wounds  or  fevers — this  had  done  the  deed." 


The  lady  fainted,  and  the  husband  sent 
For  every  aid,  for  every  comfort  went ; 
Strong    terror   seized    him ;   "  O !   she    loved   so 

well. 
And  who  th'  effect  of  tfenderness  could  tell  ?" 

She  now  recover'd,  and  again  began 
With  accent  querulous — "  Ah  !  cruel  man — " 
Till    the  sad    husband,  conscience    struck,  con* 

fess'd, 
'Twas  very  wicked  with  his  friend  to  jest ; 
For  now  he  saw  that  those  who  were  obey'd, 
Could  like  the  most  subservient  feel  afraid  ; 
And  though  a  wife  might  not  dispute  the  will. 
Of  her  liege  lord,  she  could  prevent  it  still. 

The  morning  came,  and  Clubb  prepared  to  ride 
With  a  smart  boy,  his  servant  and  his  guide  ; 
When,  ere  he  mounted  on  the  ready  steed. 
Arrived  a  letter,  and  he  stopp'd  to  read. 

"  My  friend,"  he  read — "  Our  journey  I  decline, 
A  heart  too  tender  for  such  strife  is  mine  ; 
Yours  is  the  triumph,  be  you  so  inclined  , 
But  you  are  too  considerate  and  kind. 
In  tender  pity  to  my  Juliet's  fears 
I  thus  relent,  o'ercome  by  love  and  tears  ; 
She  knows  your  kindness  ;  I  have  heard  her  say, 
A  man  like  you  'tis  pleasure  to  obey  : 
Each  faithful  wife,  like  ours,  must  disapprove 
Such  dangerous  trifling  with  connubial  love  ; 
What  has  the  idle  world,  my  friend,  to  do 
With  our  afl^airs  ?  they  envy  me  and  you  : 
What  if  I  could  my  gentle  spouse  command — 
Is  that  a  cause  I  should  her  tears  withstand  ? 
And  what  if  you,  a  friend  of  peace,  submit 
To  one  you  love — is  that  a  theme  for  wit  ? 
'Twas  wrong,  and  I  shall  henceforth  judge  it  weak 
Both  of  submission  and  control  to  speak  : 
Be  it  agreed  that  all  contention  cease. 
And  no  such  follies  vex  our  future  peace  ; 
Let  each  keep  guard  against  domestic  strife, 
And  find  nor  slave  nor  tyrant  in  his  wife." 
"  Agreed,"    said    Clubb,   "  with    all    my  soul 

agreed" — 
And  to  the  boy,  delighted,  gave  his  steed ; 
"  I  think  my  friend  has  well  his  mind  express'd. 
And  I  assent ;  such  things  are  not  a  jest." 

"  True,"  said  the  wife,  "  no  longer  he  can  hide 
The  truth  that  pains  him  by  his  wounded  pride: 
Your  friend  has  found  it  not  an  easy  thing. 
Beneath  his  yoke,  this  yielding  soul  to  bring  , 
These  weeping  willows,  though  they  seem  inclined 
By  every  breeze,  yet  not  the  strongest  wind 
Can  from  their  bent  divert  this  weak  but  stubborn 

kind  ; 
Drooping  they  seek  your  pity  to  excite. 
But  'tis  at  once  their  nature  and  delight ; 
Such    women     feel    not;    while    tj^ey  sigh   and 

weep, 
'Tis  but  their  habit — their  affections  sleep ; 
They  are  like  ice  that  in  the  hand  we  hold, 
So  very  melting,  yet  so  very  cold  ; 
On  such  affection  let  not  man  rely. 
The  husbands  suffer,  and  the  ladies  sigh  ; 
But  your  friend's  offer  let  us  kindly  take, 
And  spare  his  pride  for  his  vexation's  sake ; 
For  he  has  found,  and  through  his  life  will  find. 
'Tis  easiest  dealing  with  the  firmest  mind — 
More  just  when  it  resists,  and,  when  it  yields,  mora 

kind." 


TALEb. 


143 


TALE  XIX. 


THE  CONVERT. 


^A  tapster  is  a  good  trade,  and  an  old  cloak  makes 

anew  jerkin;  a  withered  serving-man,  a  fresh  tapster. 
Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  act  i.  sc.  3. 

A  fellow,  sir,  that  I  have  known  go  about  with  my 
troU-my -dames. 

Winter's  Tale,  act  iv.  sc.  2. 

1  myself,  sometimes  leaving  the  fear  of  Heaven  on 

the  left  hand,  and  holding  mine  honour  in  my  necessity, 
am  forced  to  shuffle,  to  hedge,  and  to  lurch. 

Merry  Wives  of  Windsor,  act  ii.  sc.  2. 

Yea,  and  at  that  very  moment, 
Consideration  like  an  angel  came. 
And  whipp'd  th'  offending  Adam  out  of  him. 

Henry  V.  act  i.  sc.  1. 

I  have  lived  long  enough ;  My  May  of  life 
Is  fall'n  into  the  sere,  the  yellow  leaf; 
And  that  which  should  accompany  old  age, 
As  honour,  love,  obedience,  troops  of  friends, 
I  must  not  look  to  have. 

Macbeth,  act  v.  sc.  3. 

Some  to  our  hero  have  a  hero's  name 

Denied,  because  no  father's  he  could  claim  : 

Nor  could  his  mother  with  precision  state 

A  full  fair  claim  to  her  certificate ; 

On  her  own  word  the  marriage  must  depend — 

A  point  she  was  not  eager  to  defend  : 

But  who,  without  a  father's  name,  can  raise 

His  own  so  high,  deserves  the  greater  praise : 

The  less  advantage  to  the  strife  he  brought, 

The  greater  wonders  has  his  prowess  wrought; 

He  who  depends  upon  his  wind  and  limbs, 

Needs  neither  cork  nor  bladder  when  he  swims  ; 

Nor  will  by  empty  breath  be  puft'd  along, 

As  not  himself— but  in  his  helpers — strong. 

Suffice  it  then,  our  hero's  name  was  clear, 
For,  call  John  Dighton,  and  he  answer'd,  "  Here!" 
But  who  that  name  in  early  life  assign'd 
He  never  found,  he  never  tried  to  find ; 
Whether  his  kindred  were  to  John  disgrace. 
Or  John  to  them,  is  a  disputed  case  ; 
His  infant  state  owed  nothing  to  their  care — 
His  mind  neglected,  and  his  body  bare ; 
All  his  success  must  on  himself  depend. 
He  had  no  money,  counsel,  guide,  or  friend  ; 
But  in  a  market  town  an  active  boy 
Appear'd,  and  sought  in  various  ways  employ  ; 
Who  soon,  thus  cast  upon  the^world,  began 
To  show  the  talents  of  a  thriving  man. 

With    spirit  high    John   learn'd    the  world   to 
brave. 
And  in  both  senses  was  a  ready  knave : 
Knave  as  of  old,  obedient,  keen,  and  quick, 
Knave  as  at  present,  skill'd  to  shift  and  trick ; 
Some  Ifcimble  part  of  many  trades  he  taught, 
He  for  the  builder  and  the  painter  wrought; 
For  serving  maids  on  secret  errands  ran. 
The  waiter's  helper,  and  the  hostler's  man  ; 
Ana  when  he  chanced  (oft  chanced  he)  place  to 

lose. 
His  varying  genius  shone  in  blacking  shoes: 
A  midnight  fisher  by  the  pond  he  stood, 
Assistant  poacher,  he  o'erlook'd  the  wood  ; 
At  an  election  John's  impartial  mind 
Was  to  no  cause  nor  candidate  confined  ; 


To  all  in  turn  full  he  allegiance  swore, 
And  in  his  hat  the  various  badges  bore  : 
His  liberal  soul  with  every  sect  agreed. 
Unheard  their  reasons,  he  received  their  creed  ; 
At  church  he  deign'd  the  organ  pipes  to  fill. 
And  at  the  meeting  sang  both  loud  and  shrill ; 
But  the  full  purse  these  different  merits  gain'd 
By  strong  demands  his  lively  passions  drain'd 
Liquors  he  loved  of  each  inflaming  kind, 
To  midnight  revels  flew  with  ardent  mind  ; 
Too  warm  at  cards,  a  losing  game  he  play'd, 
To  fleecing  beauty  his  attention  paid  ; 
His  boiling  passions  were  by  oaths  express'd, 
And  lies  he  made  his  profit  and  his  jest. 

Such  was  the  boy,  and  such  the  man  had  been. 
But  fate  or  happier  fortune  changed  the  scene ; 
A  fever  seized  him,  "  He  should  surely  die — " 
He  fear'd,  and  lo  !  a  friend  was  praying  by  ; 
With  terror  moved,  this  teacher  he  address'd, 
And  all  the  errors  of  his  youth  confess'd  : 
The  good  man  kindly  clear'd  the  sinner's  way 
To  lively  hope,  and  counsell'd  him  to  pray ; 
Who  then  resolved,  should  he  from  sickness  rise. 
To  quit  cards,  liquors,  poaching,  oaths,  and  lies : 
His  health  restored,  he  yet  resolved,  and  grew 
True  to  his  masters,  to  their  meeting  true  : 
His  old  companions  at  his  sober-face 
Laugh'd  loud,  while  he,  attesting  it  was  grace. 
With  tears  besought  them  all  his  calling  to  em 

brace : 
To  his  new  friends  such  converts  gave  applause. 
Life  to  their  zeal,  and  glory  to  their  cause  : 
Though   terror  wrought  the   mighty  change,  yet 

strong 
Was  the  impression,  and  it  lasted  long  ; 
John  at  the  lectures  due  attendance  paid, 
A  convert  meek,  obedient,  and  afraid. 
His  manners  strict,  though  form'd  on  fear  alone. 
Pleased  the  grave  friends,  nor    less    his   solemn 

tone, 
The  lengthen'd  face  of  care,  the  low  and  inward 

groan  : 
The  stern  good  men  exulted,  when  they  saw 
Those  timid  looks  of  penitence  and  awe  ; 
Nor  thought  that  one  so  passive,  humble,  meek, 
Had  yet  a  creed  and  principles  to  seek. 

The  faith  that  reason  finds,  confirms,  avows, 
The  hopes,  the  views,  the  comforts  she  allows— 
These  were  not  his,  who  by  his  feelings  found, 
And  by  them  only,  that  his  faith  was  sound  ; 
Feelings  of  terror  these,  for  evil  past. 
Feelings  of  hope,  to  be  received  at  last ; 
Now  weak,  now  lively,  changing  with  the  day, 
These  were  his  feelings,  and  he  felt  his  way. 

Sprung  from  such  sources,  will  this  faith  remain 
While  these  supporters  can  their  strength  retain ; 
As  heaviest  weights  the  deepest  rivers  pass, 
While  icy  chains  fast  bind  the  solid  mass  ; 
So,  born  of  feelings,  faith  remains  secure. 
Long  as  their  firmness  and  their  strength  endure : 
But  when  the  waters  in  their  channel  glide, 
A  bridge  must  bear  us  o'er  the  threatening  tide  : 
Such  bridge  is  reason,  and  there  faith  relies, 
Whether  the  varying  spirits  fall  or  rise. 

His  patrons,  still  disposed  their  aid  to  lend, 
Behind  a  counter  placed  their  humble  friend  ; 
Where  pens  and  paper  were  on  shelves  display'd, 
And  pious  pamphlets  on  the  windows  laid ; 


144 


CRABBE. 


By  nature  active  and  from  vice  restrain'd, 
Increasing  trade  his  bolder  views  sustain'd  ; 
His  friends  and  teachers,  finding  so  much  zeal 
In  that  young  convert  whom  they  taught  to  feel, 
His  trade  encouraged,  and  were  pleased  to  find 
A  hand  so  ready,  with  such  humble  mind. 

And  now,  his  health  restored,  his  spirits  eased, 
He  wish'd  to  marry,  if  the  teachers  pleased. 
They,  not  unwilling,  from  the  virgin  class 
Took  him  a  comely  and  a  courteous  lass  ; 
Simple  and  civil,  loving  and  beloved. 
She  long  a  fond  and  faithful  partner  proved ; 
In  every  year  the  elders  and  the  priest 
Were  duly  summon'd  to  a  christening  feast ; 
Nor  came  a  babe,  but  by  his  growing  trade, 
John  had  provision  for  the  coming  made  : 
For  friends  and  strangers  all  were  pleased  to  deal 
With  one  whose  care  was  equal  to  his  zeal. 

In  human  friendship,  it  compels  a  sigh. 
To  think  what  trifles  will  dissolve  the  tie. 
John,  now  become  a  master  of  his  trade. 
Perceived  how  much  improvement  might'be  made ; 
And  as  this  prospect  open'd  to  his  view, 
A  certain  portion  of  his  zeal  withdrew  ; 
His  fear  abated — "  What  had  he  to  fear— 
His  profits  certain,  and  his  conscience  clear  ?" 
Above  his  door  a  board  was  placed  by  John, 
And,  "  Dighton,  stationer,"  was  gilt  thereon  ; 
His  window  next,  enlarged  to  twice  the  size, 
Shone  with  such  trinkets  as  the  simple  prize  ; 
While  in  the  shop  with  pious  works  were  seen 
The  last  new  play,  review,  or  magazine  : 
In  orders  punctual,  he  observed — "  The  books 
He  never  read,  and  could  he  judge  their  looks  ? 
Readers  and  critics  should  Iheir  merits  try. 
He  had  no  office  but  to  sell  and  buy  ; 
Like  other  traders,  profit  was  his  care  ; 
Of  what  they  print,  the  authors  must  beware." 
He  held  his  patrons  and  his  teachers  dear. 
But  with  his  trade — they  must  not  interfere. 

'Twas  certain  now  that  John  had  lost  the  dread 
And  pious  thoughts  that  once  such  terrors  bred ; 
His  habits  varied,  and  he  more  inclined 
To  the  vain  world,  which  he  had  half  resign'd : 
He  had  moreover  in  his  brethren  seen, 
Or  he  imagined,  craft,  conceit,  and  spleen  ; 
"They  are  but  men,"  said  John,  "and  shall  I  then 
Fear  man's  control,  or  stand  in  awe  of  men? 
'Tis  their  advice,  (their  convert's  rule  and  law,) 
And  good  it  is — I  will  not  stand  in  awe." 

Moreover  Dighton,  though  he  thought  of  books 
As  one  who  chiefly  on  the  title  looks. 
Yet  sometimes  ponder'd  o'er  a  page  to  find, 
When  vex'd  with  cares,  amusement  for  his  mind  ; 
And  by  degrees  that  mind  had  treasured  much 
From  works  his  teachers  were  afraid  to  touch  : 
Satiric  novels,  poets  bold  and  free, 
And  what  their  writers  term  philosophy  ; 
All  these  were  read,  and  he  began  to  feel 
Some  self-approval  on  hjs  bosom  steal. 
Wisdom  creates  humility,  but  he 
Who  thus  collects  it  will  not  humble  be  : 
No  longer  John  was  fill'd  with  pure  delight 
And  humble  reverence  in  a  pastor's  sight  ; 
Who,  like  a  grateful  zealot,  listening  stood, 
To  hear  a  man  so  friendly  and  so  good  ; 
But  felt  the  dignity  of  one  who  made 
Himself  important  by  a  thriving  trade; 


And  growing  pride  in  Dighton's  mind  was  bred 
By  the  strange  food  on  which  it  coarsely  fed. 

Their  brother's  fall  the  grieving  brethren  heard 
The  pride  indeed  to  all  around  appear'd  ; 
The  world,  his  friends  agreed,  had  won  the  sou. 
From  its  best  hopes,  the  man  from  their  control : 
To  make  him  humble,  and  confine  his  views 
Within  their  bounds,  and  books  which  they  peruse « 
A  deputation  from  these  friends  select. 
Might  reason  with  him  to  some  good  effect ; 
Arm'd  with  authority,  and  led  by  love. 
They  might  those  follies  from  his  mind  remove ; 
Deciding  thus,  and  with  this  kind  intent, 
A  chosen  body  with  its  speaker  went. 

"  John,"   said  the  teacher,  "  John,  with  grea< 
concern. 
We  see  thy  frailty,  and  thy  fate  discern ;  « 

Satan  with  toils  thy  simple  soul  beset. 
And  thou  art  careless,  slumbering  in  the  net ; 
Unmindful  art  thou"Df  thy  early  vow  ? 
Who  at  the  morning  meeting  sees  thee  now  ? 
Who  at-  the  evening  ?  where  is  brother  John  ? 
We  ask— are  answer'd,  To  the  tavern  gone : 
Thee  on  the  Sabbath  seldom  we  behold  ; 
Thou  canst  not  sing,  thou'rt  nursing  for  a  cold  ; 
This  from  the  churchmen  thou  hast  learn'd,  for  thejr 
Have  colds  and  fevers  on  the  Sabbath  day  ; 
When  in  some  snug  warm  room  they  sit,  and  pen 
Bills  from  their  ledgers,  (world  entangled  men !) 

"  See  with  what  pride  thou  hast  enlarged  thy  shop 
To  view  thy  tempting  stores  the  heedless  stop  ; 
By  what  strange  names  dost  thou  these   baublei 

know, 
Which  wantons  wear,  to  make  a  sinful  show  ? 
Hast  thou  in  view  these  idle  volumes  placed. 
To  be  the  pander  cf  a  vicious  taste  ? 
What's  here  ?  a  book  of  dances  ! — you  advance 
In  goodly  knowledge — John,  wilt  learn  to  dance  ( 
How  !  '  Go  I — '  it  says,  and  '  to  the  devil  go  ! 

And  shake  thyself  I'  I  tremble — but  'tis  so 

Wretch  as  thou  art,  what  answer  canst  thou  make  I 
O  !  without  question  thou  wilt  go  and  shake. 
What's  here  ?    the   '  School  for  Scandal' — pretty 

schools ! 
Well,  and  art  thou  proficient  in  the  rules  ? 
Art  thou  a  pupil,  is  it  thy  design 
To  make  our  names  contemptible  as  thine  ? 
'  Old  Nick,  a  novel !'   O I  'tis  mighty  well ; 
A  fool  has  courage  when  he  laughs  at  hell ; 
'  Frolic  and  Fun,'  the  humours  of  '  Tim  Grin ;' 
Why,  John,  thou  grc^w'st  facetious  in  thy  sin  ; 
And    what  ?    '  th'   Archdeacon's  Charge  '—'tis 

mighty  well — 
If  Satan  publish'd,  thou  wouldst  doubtless  sell ; 
Jests,  novels,  dances,  and  this  precious  stuff, 
To  crown  thy  folly  we  have  seen  enough  ,' 
We  find  thee  fitted  for  each  evil  work — 
Do  print  the  Koran,  and  become  a  Turk. 

"John,  thou  art  lost;  success  and  worldly  prid» 
O'er  all  thy  thoughts  and  purposes  preside. 
Have  bound  thee  fast,  and  drawn  thee  far  aside : 
Yet  turn  ;  these  sin-traps  from  thy  shop  expel, 
'  Repent  and  pray,  and  all  may  yet  be  well. 

"  And  here  thy  wife,  thy  Dorothy,  behold, 
How  fashion's  wanton  robes  her  form  infold ! 
Can  grace,   can  goodness  with  such  trappings 

dwell? 
John,  thou  hast  made  thy  wiffi  a  Jezebel : 


TALES. 


145 


See  !  on  her  bosom  rests  the  sign  of  sin, 
The  glaring  proof  of  naughty  thoughts  within; 
What !  'lis  a  cross  ;  come  hither — as  a  friend 
Thus  from  thy  neck  the  shameful  badge  I  rend." 

"Rend,  if  you  dare,"  said  Dighton  ;  "you  shall 
find 
A  man  of  spirit,  though  to  peace  inclined; 
Call  me  ungrateful !  have  I  not  my  pay 
At  all  times  ready  for  th'  expected  day  ? — 
To  share  my  plenteous  board  you  deign  to  come, 
Myself  your  pupil,  and  my  house  your  home  ; 
And  shall  the  persons  who  my  meat  enjoy 
Talk  of  my  faults,  and  treat  me  as  a  boy  ? 
Have  you  not  told  how  Rome's  insulting  priests 
Led  their  meek  laymen  like  a  herd  of  beasts; 
And  by  their  fleecing  and  their  forgery  made 
Their  holy  calling  an  accursed  trade  ? 
Can  you  such  acts  and  insolence  condemn. 
Who  to  your  utmost  power  resemble  them? 

"  Concerns  it  you  what  boSks  I  set  for  sale? 
The  tale  perchance  may  be  a  virtuous  tale  ; 
And  for  the  rest,  'tis  neither  wise  nor  just, 
In  you,  who  read  not,  to  condemn  on  trust ; 
Why  should  th'  Archdeacon's  Charge  your  spleen 

excite  ? 
ie,  or  perchance  th'  archbishop,  may  bo  right. 

"  That  from  your  m.eetings  I  refmin,  it  true  ; 

meet  with  nothing  pleasant — nothing  mew ; 
But  the  same  proofs,  that  not  one  text  CApiain, 
And  the  same  lights,  where  all  things  dark  remain  ; 
I  thought  you  saints  on  earth — but  I  have  found 
Some  sins  among  you,  and. the  best  unsound  : 
You  have  your  failings,  like  the  crowds  below, 
And  at  your  pleasure  hot  and  cold  can  blow. 
When  I  at  first  your  grave  deportment  saw, 
(I  ovi'n  my  folly,)  I  was  fiU'd  with  awe  ; 
You  spoke  so  warmly,  and  it  seems  so  well, 
I  should  have  thought  it  treason  to  rebel ; 
Is  it  a  wonder  that  a  man  like  me 
Should  such  perfection  in  such  teachers  see  ? 
Nay,  should  conceive  you  sent  from  heaven  to  brave 
The  host  of  sin,  and  sinful  souls  to  save  ? 
But  as  our  reason  wakes,  our  prospects  clear, 
And  failings,  flaws,  arid  blemishes  appear. 

"  When  you  were  mounted  in  your  rostrum  high, 
We  shrank  beneath  your  tone,  your  frown,  your  eye  ; 
Then  you  beheld  us  abject,  fallen,  low, 
And  felt  your  glory  from  our  baseness  grow  ; 
Touch'd  by  your  w"ords,  I  trembled  like  the  rest, 
And  my  own  vileness  and  your  power  confess'd  : 
These,  I  exclaim'd,  are  men  divine,  and  gazed 
On  him  who  taught,  delighted,  and  amazed  ; 
Glad  when  he  finish'd,  if  by  chance  he  cast 
One  look  on  such  a  sinner,  as  he  pass'd. 

"  But  when  I  view'd  you  in  a  clearer  light, 
And  saw  the  frail  and  carnal  appetite ; 
When,  at  his  humble  prayer,  you  deign'd  to  eat 
Saints  as  you  are,  a  civil  sinner's  meat ; 
When  as  you  sat  contented  and  at  ease. 
Nibbling  at  leisure  on  the  ducks  and  pease  ; 
And,  pleased  some  comforts  in  such  place  to  find, 
You  could  descend  to  be  a  little  kind  ; 
And  gave  us  hope,  in  heaven  there  might  be  room 
For  a  few  souls  besides  your  own  to  come  ; 
While  this  world's  good  engaged  your  carnal  view, 
And  like  a  sinner  you  enjoy'd  it  too ; 
.\11  this  perceiving,  can  you  think  it  strange 
That  change  in  you  should  work  an  equal  change  ?" 

YoL.  in.— 10 


"  Wretch  that  thou  art,"  an  elder  cried,  "  and  gone 

For  everlasting."- "  Go  thyself,"  said  John  ; 

"  Depart  this  instant,  let  me  hear  no  more 
My  house  my  castle  is,  and  that  my  door." 

The  hint  they  took,  and  from  the  door  withdrew 
And  John  to  meeting  bade  a  long  adieu  ; 
Attach'd  to  business,  he  in  time  became 
A  wealthy  man  of  no  inferior  name. 
It  seem'd,  alas  !  in  John's  deluded  sight. 
That  all  was  wrong  because  not  all  was  right ; 
And  when  he  found  his  teachers  had  their  stains, 
Resentment  and  not  reason  broke  his  chains  : 
Thus  on  his  feelings  he  again  relied. 
And  never  look'd  to  reason  for  his  guide  : 
Could  he  have  wisely  view'd  the  frailty  shown, 
And  rightly  weigh'd   their   wanderings   and    hia 

own, 
He  might  have  known  that  men  may  be  sincere, 
Though  gay  and  feasting  on  the  savoury  cheer  ; 
That  doctrines  sound  and  sober  they  may  teach. 
Who  love  to  eat  with  all  the  glee  they  preach  ; 
Nay,  who  believe  the  duck,  the  grape,  the  pine, 
Were  not  intended  for  the  dog  and  swine; 
But  Dighton's  hasty  mind  on  every  theme 
Ran  from  the  truth,  and  rested  in  th'  extreme  : 
Flaws  in  his  friends  he  found,  and  then  withdret? 
,(Vain  of  his  knowledge)  from  their  virtues  too. 
Best  of  his  books  he  loved  the  liberal  kind. 
That,  if  they  improve  not,  still  enlarge  the  mind ; 
And  found  himself,  with  such  advisers,  free 
From  a  fix'd  creed,  as  mind  enlarged  could  be. 
His  humble  wife  at  these  opinions  sigh'd, 
But  her  he  never  heeded  till  she  died  : 
He  then  assented  to  a  last  request. 
And  by  the  meeting  window  let  her  rest; 
And  on  her  stone  llie  sacred  text  was  seen, 
Which  had  her  comfort  in  departing  been. 

Dighton  with  joy  beheld  his  trade  advance. 
Yet  seldom  publish'd,  loath  to  trust  to  chance  ; 
Then  wed  a  doctor's  sister — poor  indeed. 
But  skill'd  in  works  her  husband  could  not  read 
Who,  if  he  wish'd  new  ways  of  wealth  to  seek. 
Could  make  her  half-crown  pamphlet  in  a  week ; 
This  he  rejected,  though  without  disdain. 
And  chose  the  old  and  certain  way  to  gain. 
Thus  he  proceeded,  trade  increased  the  while, 
And  fortune  woo'd  him  with  perpetual  smile  : 
On  early  scenes  he  sometimes  cast  a  thought. 
When  on  his  heart  the  mighty  change  was  wrought 
And  all  the  ease  and  comfort  converts  find 
Was  magnified  in  his  reflecting  mind  : 
Then  on  the  teacher's  priestly  pride  he  dwelt, 
That  caused  his  freedom,  but  with  this  he  felt 
The  danger  of  the  free — for  since  that  day, 
No  guide  had  shown,  no  brethren  join'd  his  way 
Forsaking  one,  he  found  no  second  creed, 
But  reading  doubted,  doubting  what  to  read. 

Still,  though  reproof  had  brought  some  present 
pain. 
The  gain  he  made  was  fair  and  honest  gain , 
He  laid  his  wares,  indeed,  in  public  view. 
But  that  all  traders  claim  a  right  to  do : 
By  means  like  these,  he  saw  his  wealth  increase. 
And  felt  his  consequence,  and  dwelt  in  peace. 

Our  hero's  age  was  threescore  years  and  five. 
When  he  exclaim'd,  "  Why  longer  should  I  strive' 
Why  more  amass,  who  never  must  behold 
A  young  John  Dighton,  to  make  glad  the  old  '' 


146 


CRABBE. 


.The  sons  he  had  to  early  graves  were  gone, 
And  girls  were  burdens  to  the  mind  of  John.) 
",Had  I  a  boy,  he  would  our  name  sustain, 
That  now  to  nothing  must  return  again  ; 
But  what  are  all  ray  profits,  credit,  trade. 
And  parish  honours  ? — folly  and  parade." 

Thus  Dighton  thought,  and  in  his  looks  appear'd 
Sadness  increased  by  much  he  saw  and  heard  : 
The  brethren  often  at  the  shop  would  stay, 
And  make  their  comments  ere  they  walk'd  away  : 
They  mark'd  the  window,  fill'd  in  every  pane 
With  lawless  prints  of  reputations  slain  ; 
Distorted  forms  of  men  with  honours  graced, 
And  our  chief  rulers  in  derision  placed  : 
Amazed  they  stood,  remembering  well  the  days 
When  to  be  humble  was  their  brother's  praise , 
When  at  the  dwelling  of  their  friend  they  stopp'd 
To  drop  a  word,  or  to  receive  it  dropp'd  ; 
Where  they  beheld  the  prints  of  men  renown'd, 
And  far-famed  preachers  pasted  all  around ; 
'Such  mouths  I  eyes  !  hair !  so  prim  i  so  fierce  !  so 

sleek ! 
They  look'd  as  speaking  what  is  wo  to  speak  :) 
On  these  the  passing  brethren  loved  to  dwell — 
How  lonir  'ht^y  spake !   how  strongly  !   warmly ! 

well ! 
What  power  had  each  to  dive  in  mysteries  deep. 
To  warm  the  cold,  to  make  the  harden'd  weep  ; 
To  lure,  to  fright,  to  soothe,  to  awe  the  soul. 
And  listening  flocks  to  lead  and  to  control ! 

But  now  discoursing,  as  they  linger'd  near, 
They  tempted  John  (whom  they  accused)  to  hear 
Their  weighty  charge — "  And  can  the  lost  one  feel, 
As  in  the  time  of  duty,  love,  and  zeal ; 
When  all  were  summoned  at  the  rising  sun, 
And  he  was  ready  with  his  friends  to  run ; 
When  he,  partaking  with  a  chosen  few. 
Felt  the  great  change,  sensation  rich  and  new  ? 
IVo !  all  is  lost,  her  favours  Fortune  shower'd 
Upon  the  man,  and  he  is  overpower'd  ; 
The  world  has  won  him  with  its  tempting  store 
Of  needless  wealth,  and  that  has  made  him  poor  : 
Success  undoes  him,  he  has  risen  to  fall. 
Has  gain'd  a  fortune,  and  has  lost  his  all; 
Gone  back  from  Sion,  he  will  find  his  ago 
Loath  to  commence  a  second  pilgrimage  ; 
He  has  retreated  from  the  chosen  track  ; 
And  now  must  ever  bear  the  burden  on  his  back." 

Hurt  by  such  censure,  John  began  to  find 
Fresh  revolutions  working  in  his  mind  ; 
He  sought  for  comfort  in  his  books,  but  read 
Without  a  plan  or  method  in  his  head  ; 
What  once  amused,  now  rather  made  him  sad. 
What  should  inform,  increased  the  doubts  he  had  ; 
Shame  would  not  let  him  seek  at  church  a  guide, 
And  from  his  meeting  he  was  held  by  pride ; 
His  wife  derided  fears  she  never  felt. 
And  passing  brethren  daily  censures  dealt ; 
Hope  for  a  son  was  now  for  ever  past, 
He  was  the  first  John  Dighton,  and  the  last ; 
His  stomach  fail'd,  his  case  the  doctor  knew. 
But  said,  "  He  still  might  hold  a  year  or  two." 
"  No  more  !"  he  said,  "  but  why  should  I  complain  ? 
A  life  of  doubt  must  be  a  life  of  pain  : 
Could  I  be  sure — but  why  should  I  despair? 
I'm  siire  my  conduct  has  been  just  and  fair  ; 
In  youth  indeed  I  had  a  wicked  will, 
But  I  repented  and  have  sorrow  still  : 


I  had  my  comforts,  and  a  growing  trade 

Gave  greater  pleasure  than  a  fortune  made  ; 

And  as  I  more  possess'd  and  reason'd  more, 

I  lost  those  comforts  I  enjoy'd  before. 

When  reverend  guides  I  saw  my  table  round. 

And  in  my  guardian  guest  my  safety  found  : 

Now  sick  and  sad,  no  appetite,  no  ease. 

Nor  pleasure  have  I,  nor  a  wish  to  please  ; 

Nor  views,  nor  hopes,  nor  plans,  nor  taste  have  I. 

Yet  sick  of  life,  have  no  desire  to  die." 

He  said,  and  died  ;  his  trade,  his  name  is  gone 
And  all  that  once  gave  consequence  to  John. 
Unhappy  Dighton !  had  he  found  a  friend. 
When  conscience  told  him  it  was  time  to  mend ! 
A  friend  discreet,  considerate,  kind,  sincere. 
Who  would  have  shown  the  grounds  of  hope  and 

fear; 
And  proved  that  spirits,  whether  high  or  low. 
No  certain  tokens  of  man's  safety  show  ; 
Had  reason  ruled  hi«n  in  her  proper  place, 
And  virtue  led  him  while  he  lean'd  on  grace ; 
Had  he  while  zealous  been  discreet  and  pure, 
His  knowledge  humble,  and  his  hope  secure  ;— 
These  guides  had  placed  him  on  the  solid  rock. 
Where  faith  had  rested,  nor  received  a  shock; 
But  his,  alas !  was  placed  upon  the  sand. 
Where  long  it  stood  not,  and  where  none  can  stand. 


TALE  XX. 


THE   fiROTHERS. 


A  brother  noble, 
Whose  nature  is  so  far  from  doing  harms, 
That  he  suspects  none  ;  on  whose  foolish  korettj 
My  practice  may  ride  easy. 

Ki7ig  Lear,  act  i.  sc.  2. 
He  lets  me  feed  with  hinds, 
13ars  me  the  place  of  brother. 

As  You  Like  It,  act  i.  sc.  L 
'Twas  I,  but  'tis  not  I :  I  do  not  shame 
To  tell  you  what  I  was,  being  what  I  am. 

lb.  act  iv.  sc.  3. 

Than  old  George  Fletcher,  on  the  British  coast, 
Dwelt  not  a  seaman  who  had  more  to  boast ; 
Kind,  simple,  and  sincere — he  seldom  spoke. 
But  sometimes  sang  and  choruss'd,"Hear/so/'Oa/i 
In  dangers  steady,  with  his  lot  content. 
His  days  in  labour  and  in  love  were  spent. 

He  left  a  son  so  like  him,  that  the  old 
With  joy  exclaim'd,  "  'tis  Fletcher  we  behold  ;" 
But  to  his  brother  when  the  kinsmen  came, 
And  view'd  his  form,  they  grudged   the  father'i 
name. 

George  was  a  bold,  intrepid,  careless  lad, 
With  just  the  failings  that  his  father  had  ; 
Isaac  was  weak,  attentive,  slow,  exact, 
Witli  just  the  virtues  that  his  father  lack'd. 

George  lived  at  sea  ;  upon  the  land  a  guest — 
He  sought  for  recreation,  not  for  rest  ; 
While,  far  unlike,  his  broiher's  fertbler  form 
Shrank  from  the  cold,  and  shudder'd  at  the  storra  , 
Still  with  the  seaman's  to  connect  his  trade, ' 
The  boy  was  bound  where  blocks  and  ropes  wer« 
made. 

George,  strong  and  sturdy,  had  a  tender  mind 
And  was  to  Isaac  pitiful  and  kind  • 


TALES. 


147 


\  verj'  father,  till  his  art  was  gain'd. 
And  then  a  friend  unwearied  he  remain'd  : 
He  saw  his  brother  was  of  spirit  low, 
His  temper  peevish,  and  his  motions  slow  ; 
Not  fit  to  bustle  in  a  world,  or  make 
Friends  to  his  fortune  for  his  merit's  sake : 
But  the  kind  sailor  could  not  boast  the  art 
Of  looking  deeply  in  the  human  heart ; 
Else  had  he  seen  that  this  weak  brother  kne\v 
What  men  to  court,  what  objects  to  pursue  ; 
That  he  to  distant  gain  the  way  discern'd, 
And  none  so  crooked  but  his  genius  learn'd. 
Isaac  was  poor,  and  this  the  brother  felt ; 
He  hired  a  house,  and  there  the  landsman  dwelt; 
Wrought  at  his  trade,  and  had  an  easy  home. 
For  there  would  George  with  cash  and  comforts 

come  ; 
And  when  they  parted,  Isaac  look'd  around. 
Where  other  friends  una  helpers  might  be  found. 

He  wish'd  for  some  pori-place,  and  one  might  fall, 
He  wisely  thought,  ii  he  suould  try  for  all ; 
He  had  a  vote — and,  wetv.  it  well  applied. 
Might  have  its  worth — and  nn  had  views  beside  ; 
Old  Burgess  Steel  was  able  tw  promote 
An  humble  man  who  served  h.ra  with  a  vote  ; 
For  Isaac  felt  not  what  some  tempers  feel. 
But  bow'd  and  bent  the  neck  to  i^urgess  Steel  ; 
And  great  attention  to  a  lady  gave. 
His  ancient  friend,  a  maiden  spare  and  grave : 
One  whom  the  visage  long  and  look  demure 
Of  Isaac  pleased — he  seem'd  sedate  and  pure  ; 
And  his  soft  heart  conceived  a  gentle  flame 
For  her  who  waited  on  this  virtuous  dame  : 
Not  an  outrageous  love,  a  scorching  fire. 
But  friendly  liking  and  chastised  desire; 
And  thus  he  waited,  patient  in  delay. 
In  present  favour  and  in  fortune's  way. 

George  then  was  coasting — war  was  yet  celay'd. 
And  what  he  gain'd  was  to  his  brother  paid  ; 
Nor  ask'd  the  seaman  what  he  saved  or  spent : 
But    took    his    grog,    wrought    hard,   and  was 

content ; 
Till  war  awaked  the  land,  and  George  began 
To  think  what  part  became  a  useful  man : 
"  Press'd,  I  must  go  ;  why  then,  'tis  better  far 
At  once  to  enter  like  a  British  tar, 
Than  a  brave  captain  and  the  foe  to  shun, 
As  if  I  fear'd  the  music  of  a  gun." 
"  Go  not !"  said  Isaac — "  You  shall  wear  disguise." 
"  What !"  said  the  seaman,  "  clothe  myself  with 

lies?" 
"  O  !  but  there's  danger." — "  Danger  in  the  fleet? 
You  cannot  mean,  good  brother,  of  defeat ; 
And  other  dangers  I  at  land  must  share — 
So  now  adieu  !  and  trust  a  brother's  care." 
Isaac  awhile  demurr'd — but,  in  his  heart. 
So  might  he  share,  he  was  disposed  to  part: 
The  better  mind  will  sometimes  feel  the  pain 
Of  benefactions — favour  is  a  chain  ; 
But  they  the  feeling  scorn,  and  what  they  wish 

disdain; — 
While  beings  form'd  in  coarser  mould  will  hate 
The  helping  hand  they  ought  to  venerate  ; 
No  wonder  George  should  in  this  cause  prevail, 
With  one  contending  who  was  glad  to  fail : 
'  Isaac,  farewell !  do  wipe  that  doleful  eye  ; 
Crying  we  came,  and  groaning  we  may  die. 
Let  us  do  something  'twixt  the  groan  and  cry : 


And  hear  me,  brother,  whether  pay  or  prize. 
One-half  to  thee  I  give  and  I  devise ; 
For  thou  hast  oft  occasion  for  the  aid 
Of  learn'd  physicians,  and  they  will  be  paid: 
Their  wives  and  children  men  support,  at  sea. 
And  thou,  my  lad,  art  wife  and  child  to  me  : 
Farewell  I — I  go  where  hope  and  honour  call. 
Nor  does  it  follow  that  who  fights  must  fall." 

Isaac  here  made  a  poor  attempt  to  speak. 
And  a  huge  tear  moved  slowly  down  his  cheek ; 
Like  Pluto's  iron  drop,  hard  sign  of  grace, 
It  slowly  roU'd  upon  the  rueful  face, 
Forced  by  the  striving  will  alone  its  way  to  trace. 

Years  fled — war  lasted — George  at  sea  remain'd. 
While  the  slow  landsman  still  his  profits  gain'd : 
An  humble  place  was  vacant ;  he  besought 
His  patron's  interest,  and  the  office  caught ; 
For  still  the  virgin  was  his  faithful  friend. 
And  one  so  sober  could  with  truth  commend, 
Who  of  his  own  defects  moet  humbly  thought, 
And  their  advice  with  zeal  and  reverence  sought : 
Whom  thus  the  mistress  praised,  the  maid  approved, 
And  her  he  wedded  whom  he  wisely  loved. 

No  more  he  needs  assistance — but,  alas  ! 
He  fears  the  money  will  for  liquor  pass ; 
Or  that  the  seaman  might  to  flatterers  lend, 
Or  give  support  to  some  pretended  friend  : 
Still  he  must  write — he  wrote,  and  he  confess'd 
That,  till  absolved,  he  should  be  sore  distress'd; 
But  one  so  friendly  would,  he  thought,  forgive 
The  hasty  deed — heaven  knew  how  he  should  live 
"  But  you,"  he  added,  "  as  a  man  of  sense, 
Have  well  consider'd  danger  and  expense  : 
I  ran,  alas  !  into  the  fatal  snare. 
And  now  for  trouble  must  my  mind  prepare ; 
And  how,  with  children,  I  shall  pick  my  way. 
Through  a  hard  world,  is  more  than  I  can  say  ; 
Then  change  not,  brother,  your  more  happy  state, 
Or  on  the  hazard  long  deliberate." 

George  answer'd  gravely,  "  It  is  right  and  fit, 
In  all  our  crosses,  humbly  to  submit: 
Your  apprehensions  are  unwise,  unjust ; 
Forbear  repining,  and  expel  distrust." 
He  added,  "  Marriage  was  the  joy  of  life," 
And  gave  his  service  to  his  brother's  wife ; 
Then  vow'd  to  bear  in  all  expense  a  part. 
And  thus  concluded,  "  Have  a  cheerful  heart," 

Had  the  glad  Isaac  been  his  brother's  guide. 
In  these  same  terms  the  seaman  had  replied  ; 
At  such  reproofs  the  crafty  landsman  smiled, 
And  softly  said,  "  This  creature  is  a  child." 

Twice  had  the  gallant  ship  a  capture  made, 
And  when  in  port  the  happy  crew  were  paid, 
Home  went  the  sailor,  with  his  pocket  stored. 
Ease  to  enjoy,  and  pleasure  to  afford  ; 
His  time  was  short,  joy  shone  in  every  face, 
Isaac  half  fainted  in  the  fond  embrace  : 
The  wife  resolved  her  honour'd  guest  to  please, 
The  children  clung  upon  their  uncle's  knees  ; 
The  grog  went  round,  the  neighbours  drank  \m 

health. 
And  George  exclaim'd,  "Ah!  what  to  this  is  wealth? 
Better,"  said  he,  "  to  bear  a  loving  heart. 

Than  roll  in  riches but  we  now  must  part!" 

All  yet  is  still— but  hark  !  the  winds  o'ersvveep 
The  rising  waves,  and  howl  upon  the  deep  ; 
Ships  late  becalm'd  on  mountain-billows  ride — 
So  life  is  threaten'd.  and  so  man  is  tried. 


148 


CRABBE. 


Ill  were  the  tidings  that  arrived  from  sea, 
The  worthy  George  must  now  a  cripple  be; 
His  leg  was  lopp'd ;  and  though  his  heart  was  sonnd, 
Though  his  brave  captain  was  with  glory  crown'd, 
Yet  much  it  vex'd  him  to  repose  on  shore, 
An  idle  log,  and  be  of  use  no  more  : 
True,  he  was  sure  that  Isaac  would  receive 
All  of  his  brother  that  the  foe  might  leave  ; 
To  whom  the  seaman  his  design  had  sent. 
Ere  from  the  port  the  wounded  hero  went : 
His  wealth  and  expectations  told,  he  "  knew 
Wherein  they  faii'd,  what  Isaac's  love  would  do  ; 
That  he  the  grog  and  cabin  would  supply, 
Where  George  at  anchor  during  life  would  lie." 

The  landsman  read — and,  reading,  grew  dis- 
tress'd : — 
*  Could  he  resolve  t'  admit  so  poor  a  guest  ? 
Better  at  Greenwich  might  the  sailor  stay. 
Unless  his  purse  could  for  his  comforts  pay  ;" 
So  Isaac  judged,  and  to  his  wife  appeal'd. 
But  yet  acknowledged  it  was  best  to  yield  : 
"  Perhaps  his  pension,  with  what  sums  remain 
Due  or  unsquander'd,  may  the  man  maintain  ; 
Refuse  we  must  not." — With  a  heavy  sigh 
The  lady  heard,  and  made  her  kind  reply : 
"JiJor  would  I  wish  it,  Isaac,  were  we  sure 
How  long  his  crazy  building  will  endure  ; 
Like  an  old  house,  that  every  day  appears 
About  to  fall — he  may  be  propp'd  for  years  ; 
For  a  few  months,  indeed,  we  might  comply. 
But  these  old  batter'd  fellows  never  die." 

The  hand  of  Isaac,  George  on  entering  took. 
With  love  and  resignation  in  his  look  ; 
Declared  his  comfort  in  the  fortune  past. 
And  joy  to  find  his  anchor  safely  cast ; 
"  Call  then  my  nephews,  let  the  grog  be  brought, 
And  I  will  tell  them  how  the  ship  was  fought." 

Alas  I  our  simple  seaman  should  have  known. 
That  all  the  care,  the  kindness,  he  had  shown, 
Were  from  his  brother's  heart,  if  not  his  memory, 

flown  : 
All  swept  away  to  be  perceived  no  more, 
Like  idle  structures  on  the  sandy  shore  ; 
The  chance  amusement  of  the  playful  boy. 
That  the  rude  billows  in  their  rage  destroy. 

Poor  George  confess'd,  though  loath  the  truth  to 
find. 
Slight  was  his  knowledge  of  a  brother's  mind  : 
The  vulgar  pipe  was  to  the  wife  offence, 
The  frequent  grog  to  Isaac  an  expense  ; 
Would  friends  like  hers,  she  question'd,  "  choose  to 

come. 
Where  clouds  of  poison 'd  fume  defiled  a  room? 
This  could  their  lady  friend,  and  Burgess  Steel, 
(Teased  with  his  worship's  asthma,)  bear  to  feel  ? 
(Jould  they  associate  or  converse  with  him — 
A  loud  rough  sailor  with  a  timber  limb?" 

Cold  as  he  grew,  still  Isaac  strove  to  show. 
By  well-feign'd  care,  that  cold  he  could  not  grow ; 
And  when  he  saw  his  brother  look  distress'd, 
He  strove  some  petty  comforts  to  suggest ; 
On  his  wife  solely  their  neglect  to  lay. 
And  then  t'  excuse  it,  is  a  woman's  way  ; 
He  too  was  chidden  when  her  rules  he  broke, 
And  then  she  sicken'd  at  the  scent  of  smoke. 

George,  though  in  doubt,  was  still  consoled  to 
find 
His  brother  wishing  to  be  reckon'd  kind  : 


That  Isaac  seem'd  concern'd  by  his  distress 

Gave  to  his  injured  feelings  some  redress; 

But  none  he  found  disposed  to  lend  an  ear 

To  stories,  all  were  once  intent  to  hear  : 

Except  his  nephew,  seated  on  his  knee, 

He  found  no  creature  cared  about  the  sea  ; 

But  George  indeed — for  George  they  call'd   th« 

boy. 
When  his  good  uncle  was  their  boast  and  joy — 
Would  listen  long,  and  would  contend  with  sleep 
To  hear  the  woes  and  wonders  of  the  deep  ; 
Till    the  fond    mother    cried — "That   man  will 

teach 
The  foolish  boy  his  loud  and  boisterous  speech." 
So  judged  the  father — and  the  boy  was  taught 
To  shun  the  uncle,  whom  his  love  had  sought. 

The  mask  of  kindness  now  but  seldom  worn, 
George  felt  each  evil  harder  to  be  borne  ; 
And  cried,  (vexation  growing  day  by  day,) 
"  Ah  !  brother  Isaac  ! — What !  I'm  in  the  way!" 
"  No  !  on  my  credit,  look  ye,  No  !  but  I 
Am  fond  of  peace,  and  my  repose  would  buy 
On  any  terms — in  short,  we  must  comply  : 
My  spouse  had  money — she  must  have  her  will—' 
Ah  I  brother — marriage  is  a  bitter  pill." 

George  tried  the  lady — "  Sister,  I  offend." 
"  Me  V  she  replied — "O  no! — you  may  depend 
On  my  regard  — but  watch  your  brother's  way, 
Whom  I,  like  you,  must  study  and  obey." 

*'  Ah  !"  thought  the  seaman,  "  what  a  head  WM 
mine, 
That  easy  birth  at  Greenwich  to  resign  I 

ril  to  the  parish" but  a  little  pride. 

And  some  affection,  put  the  thought  aside. 

Now  gross  neglect  and  open  scorn  he  bore 
In  silent  sorrow — but  he  felt  the  more  : 
The  odious  pipe  he  to  the  kitchen  took. 
Or  strove  to  profit  by  some  pious  book. 

When  the  mind  stoops  to  this  degraded  state, 
New  griefs  will  darken  the  dependant's  fate ; 
"  Brother !"  said  Isaac,  "  you  will  sure  excuse 
The  little  freedom  I'm  compell'd  to  use : 
My  wife's  relations — (curse  the  haughty  crew) — 
Affect  such  niceness,  and  such  dread  of  you: 
You  speak  so  loud— and  they  have  natures  soft — 
Brother 1  wish do  go  upon  the  loft !" 

Poor  George  obey'd,  and  to  the  garret  fled, 
Where  not  a  being  saw  the  tears  he  shed  : 
But  more  was  yet  required,  for  guests  were  corai^ 
Who  could  not  dine  if  he  disgraced  the  room. 
It  shock'd  his  spirit  to  be  esteem'd  unfit  , 

With  an  own  brother  and  his  wife  to  sit ; 
He  grew  rebellious — at  the  vestry  spoke 

For  weekly  aid they  heard  it  as  a  joke  : 

"  So  kind  a  brother,  and  so  wealthy you 

Apply  to  us  ? No  !  this  will  never  do  : 

Good  neighbour  Fletcher,"  said  the  overseer, 
"  We  are  engaged — you  can  have  nothing  here  '' 

George  mutler'd  something  in  despairing  tone 
Then  sought  his  loft,  to  think  and  grieve  alone  ; 
Neglected,  slighted,  restless  on  his  bed. 
With  heart  half  broken,  and  with  scraps  ill  fed  ; 
Yet  was  he  pleased,  that  hours  for  play  design'd 
Were  given  to  ease  his  ever-troubled  mind  , 
The  child  still  listen'd  with  increasing  joy. 
And  he  was  soothed  by  the  attentive  boy 

At  length  he  sicken'd,  and  this  duteous  child 
Watch'd  o'er  his  sickness,  and  his  pains  beguiled ; 


TALES. 


143 


The  mother  bade  him  from  the  loft  refrain, 

But,  though  with  caution,  yet  he  went  again : 

And  now  his  tales  the  sailor  feebly  told, 

His  heart  was  heavy,  and  his  limbs  were  cold  : 

The  tender  boy  came  often  to  entreat 

His  good  kind  friend  would  of  his  presents  eat ; 

Purloin'd  or  purchased,  for  he  saw,  with  shame. 

The  food  untouch'd  that  to  his  uncle  came ; 

Who,  sick  in  body  and  in  mind,  received 

The  boy's  indulgence,  gratified  and  grieved. 

-  Uncle  will   die !"    said   George — the   piteous 
wife 
Exclaim'd,  "  She  saw  no  value  in  his  life  ; 
But  sick  or  well,  to  my  commands  attend. 
And  go  no  more  to  your  complaining  friend." 
The  boy  was  vex'd  ;  he  felt  his  heart  reprove 
The  stern  decree. — What !  punish'd  for  his  love  I 
No  I  he  would  go,  but  softly  to  the  room, 
Stealing  in  silence— for  he  knew  his  doom. 

Once  in  a  week  the  father  came  to  say, 
"George,  are  you  ill  ?" — and  hurried  him  away  ; 
Yet  to  his  wife  would  on  their  duties  dwell, 
And  often  cry,  "  Do  use  my  brother  well :" 
And  something  kind,  no  question,  Isaac  meant, 
Who  took  vast  credit  for  the  vague  intent. 
But  truly  kind,  the  gentle  boy  essay'd 
To  cheer  his  uncle,  firm,  although  afraid  ,• 
But  now  tJie  father  caught  him  at  the  door. 
And,  swearing — yes,  the  man  in  office  swore, 
And  cried,  "  Away!  How!  brother,  I'm  surprised, 
That  one  so  old  can  be  so  ill  advised  : 
Let  him  not  dare  to  visit  you  again. 
Your  cursed  stories  will  disturb  his  brain  ; 
Is  it  not  vile  to  court  a  foolish  boy, 
Your  own  absurd  narrations  to  enjoy  ? 
What !  sullen ! — ha !   George   Fletcher !  you  shall 

see. 
Proud  as  you  are,  your  bread  depends  on  me!" 
He  spoke,  and,  frowning,  to  his  dinner  went, 
Then  cool'd  and  felt  some  qualms  of  discontent  ; 
And  thought  on  times  when  he  compell'd  his  son 
To  hear  these  stories,  nay,  to  beg  for  one  : 
But  the  wife's  wrath  o'ercame  the  brother's  pain, 
And  shame  was  felt,  and  conscience  rose  in  vain. 

George  yet  stole  up,  he  saw  his  uncle  lie 
Sick  on  the  bed,  and  heard  his  heavy  sigh : 
So  he  resolved,  before  he  went  to  rest. 
To  comfort  one  so  dear  and  so  distress'd  ; 
Then  watch'd  his  time,  but  with  a  childlike  art, 
Betray'd  a  something  treasured  at  his  heart: 
Th'    observant     wife    remark'd,    "  The    boy    is 

grown 
So  like  your  brother,  that  he  seems  his  own  ; 
So  close  and  sullen  !  and  I  still  suspect 
They  often  meet — do  watch  them  and  detect." 
George    now   remark'd   that    all  was    still    at 
night, 
And  hasten'd  up  witli  terror  and  delight; 
"  Uncle  1"  he  cried,  and  softly  tapp'd  the  door , 
"  Do  let  me  in" — but  he  could  add  no  more  ; 
The  careful  father  caught  him  in  the  fact. 
And  cried, — "  You  serpent !  is  it  thus  you  act  ? 
Back  to  your  mother!" — and  with  hasty  blow, 
He  sent  th'  indignant  boy  Iq  grieve  below; 
Then  at  the  door  an  angry  speech  began — 
'  Is  this  your  conduct  ? — is  it  thus  you  plan  ? 
Seduce  my  child,  and  make  my  house  a  scene 
Of  vile  dispute What  is  it  that  you  mean  ?— 


George,  are  you  dumb  ?   do  learn  to    know  youi 

friends. 
And  think  a  while  on  whom  your  bread  depends 
What!  not  a  word  ?  be  thankful  I  am  cool — 
But,  sir,  beware,  no  longer  play  the  fool ; 
Come!  brother,  come  !  what  is  that  you  seek 
By  this  rebellion  ? — Speak,  you  villain,  speak! — 
Weeping!  I  warrant — sorrow  makes  you  dumb; 
I'll  ope  your  mouth,  impostor  !  if  I  come  : 
Let  me  approach — I'll  shake  you  from  the  bed, 

You  stubborn  dog O  God  !  my  brother's  dead !" 

Timid  was  Isaac,  and  in  all  the  past 
He  felt  a  purpose  to  be  kind  at  last ; 
Nor  did  he  mean  his  brother  to  depart. 
Till  he  had  shown  this  kindness  of  his  heait: 
But  day  by  day  he  put  the  cause  aside. 
Induced  by  avarice,  jeevishness,  or  pride. 
But  now  awaken'd,  from  this  fatal  lime 
His  conscience  Isaac  felt,  and  found  his  crirpe  : 
He  raised  to  George  a  monumental  stone, 
And  there  retired  to  sigh  and  think  alone  ; 
An  ague  seized  him,  he  grew  pale,  and  shook — 
"  So,"  said  his  son,  •'  would  my  poor  uncle  look."- 
"  And  so,  my  child,  shall  I  like  him  expire." — 
"  No !  you  have  physic  and  a  cheerful  fire." — 
"  Unhappy  sinner!  yes,  I'm  well  supplied 
With  every  comlbrt  my  cold  heart  denied." 
He  view'd  his  brother  now,  but  ncjt  as  one   • 
Who  vex'd  liis  wife  by  fondness  for  her  son  ; 
Not  as  wiili  wooden  limb,  and  seaman's  tale, 
The  odious  pipe,  vile  grog,  or  humbler  ale  : 
He  now  the  worth  and  grief  alone  can  view 
Of  one  so  mild,  so  generous,  and  so  true  ; 
"  The  frank,  kind  brother,  with  such  open  henrt, 
And  I  to  break  it — 'twas  a  demon's  pari  * 

So  Isaac  now,  as  led  by  conscience,  feels, 
Nor  his.unkindness  palliates  or  conceals. 
"This  is  your  folly,"  said  his  heartless  wife. 
"  Alas !  my  folly  cost  my  brother's  lite  ; 
It  suffer'd  him  to  languish  and  decay. 
My  gentle  brother,  whom  I  could  not  pay. 
And  therefore  left  to  pine,  and  fret  his  life  away." 

He  takes  his  son,  and  bids  the  boy  unfold 
All  the  good  uncle  of  his  feelings  told. 
All  he  lamented — and  the  ready  tear 
Falls  as  he  listens,  soothed,  and  grieved  to  hear. 
"  Did   he   not   curse  me,  child  ?" — "  He   never 
cursed. 
But  could  not  breathe,  and  said  his  heart  would 

burst." — 
"  And  so  will  mine." — "  Then,  father,  you   must 

pray; 
My  uncle  said  it  took  his  pains  away." 

Repeating  thus  his  sorrows,  Isaac  shows 
That  he,  repenting,  feels  the  debt  he  owes. 
And  from  this  source  alone  his  every  comfort  flowa. 
He  takes  no  joy  in  office,  honours,  gain  : 
They  make  him  humble,  nay,  they  give  him  pain ; 
"These   from    my  heart,"    he  cries,    "all  feeling 

drove ; 
They  made  me  cold  to  nature,  dead  to  love :" 
He  takes  no  joy  in  home,  but  sighing,  sees 
A  son  in  sorrow,  and  a  wife  at  ease: 
He  takes  no  joy  in  office— see  him  now, 
And  Burgess  Steel  has  but  a  passing  bow ; 
Of  one  sad  train  of  gloomy  thoughts  possess'd. 
He  takes  rto  joy  in  friends,  in  food,  in  rest — 
Dark  are  the  evil  days,  and  void  of  peace  the  best^ 


150 


CRABBE. 


As  thus  he  lives,  if  living  be  to  sigh, 
And  from  all  comforts  of  the  world  to  fly, 
Without  a  hope  in  life — without  a  wish  to  die. 


TALE  XXI. 


THE  LEARNED   BOY. 


Like  one  well  studied  in  a  sad  ostent, 
To  please  his  grandam. 

Merchant  of  Venice^  act  ii.  sc.  2. 

And  then  the  whining  school-boy,  with  his  satchel 
And  shining  morning  face,  creeping  like  snail, 
Unwillingly  to  school. 

As  Yoii  Like  It,  act  ii,  sc.  7. 

He  is  a  better  scholar  th-in  I  thought  he  was— 
He  has  a  good  sprag  memory. 

Merry  V/ives  of  Windsor,  act  iv.  sc.  I. 
One  that  feeds 
On  objects,  arts,  and  imitations, 
Which  out  of  use,  and  staled  by  other  men. 
Begin  his  fashion. 

Julius  CcEsar,  act  iv.  sc.  1. 

O  !  torture  me  no  more— I  will  confess. 

Henri/  VI.  Part  2.  act  ii.  sc.  3. 

An  honest  man  was  Farmer  Jones,  and  true, 

He  did  by  all  as  all  by  him  should  do ; 

Grave,  cautious,  careful,  fond  of  gain  was  he, 

Yet  famed  for  rustic  hospitality  : 

Left  with  his  children  in  a  widow'd  state. 

The  quiet  man  submitted  to  his  fate ; 

Though  prudent  matrons  waited  for  his  call, 

With  cool  forbearance  he  avoided  all  ; 

Though  each  profess'd  a  pure  maternal  joy, 

By  kind  attention  to  his  feeble  boy  : 

And  though  a  friendly  widow  knew  no  rest. 

Whilst  neighbour  Jones  was  lonely  and  distress'd  r 

Nay,  though  the  maidens  spoke  in  tender  tone 

Their  hearts'  concern  to  see  him  left  alone — 

Jones  still  persisted  in  that  cheerless  life, 

As  if  'twere  sin  to  take  a  second  wife. 

O !  'tis  a  precious  thing,  when  wives  are  dead. 
To  find  such  numbers  who  will  serve  instead  ; 
And  in  whatever  slate  a  man  be  thrown, 
'Tis  that  precisely  they  would  wish  their  own  ; 
Left  the  departed  infants — then  their  joy 
Is  to  sustain  each  lovely  girl  and  boy  : 
Whatever  calling  his,  whatever  trade. 
To  that  their  chief  attention  has  been  paid  ; 
His  happy  taste  in  all  things  they  approve. 
His  friends  they  honour,  and  his  food  they  love ; 
His  wish  for  order,  prudence  in  affairs. 
And  equal  temper,  (thank  their  stars  !)  are  theirs ; 
In  fact,  it  seem'd  to  be  a  thing  decreed. 
And  fix'd  as  fate,  that  marriage  must  succeed  ; 
Yet  some  like  Jones,  with  stubborn  hearts  and  hard. 
Can  hear  such  claims,  and  show  them  no  regard. 

Soon  as  our  farmer,  like  a  general,  found 
By  what  strong  foes  he  was  encompass'd  round — 
Engage  he  dared  not,  and  he  could  not  fly, 
But  saw  his  hope  in  gentle  parley  lie  ; 
With  looks  of  kindness  then,  and  trembling  heart. 
He  met  the  foe,  and  art  opposed  to  art. 

Now  spoke  that  foe  insidious — gentle  tones, 
And  gentle  looks,  assumed  for  Farmer  Jones  : 
"  Three  girls,"  the  widow  cried,  "  a  lively  three 
To  govern  wel? — indeed  it  cannot  be." — 


"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  it  calls  for  pains  and  care  ; 
But  I  must  bear  it." — "  Sir,  you  cannot  bear ; 
Your  son  is  weak,  and  asks  a  mother's  eye." — 
"  That,  my  kind  friend,  a  father's  may  supply." — 
"  Such  growing  griefs  your  very  soul  will  tease."— 
"  To  grieve  another  would  not  give  me  ease — 
I  have  a  mother" — "  She,  poor  ancient  soul ! 
Can  she  the  spirits)  of  the  young  control  ? 
Can  she  thy  peace  promote,  partake  thy  caie, 
Procure  thy  comforts,  and  thy  sorrows  share  ? 
Age  is  itself  impatient,  uncontroll'd." — 
"  But  wives  like  mothers  must  at  length  be  old."-« 
"  Thou   hast  shrewd    servants — they  are   evils 

sore." — 
"  Yet  a  shrewd  mistress  might  aflllict  me  more."-* 
"  Wilt  thou  not  be  a  weary  wailing  man  ?" — 
"  Alas  !  and  I  must  bear  it  as  I  can." 

Resisted  thus,  the  widow  soon  withdrew, 
That  in  his  pride  the  hero  might  pursue  ; 
And  off  his  wonted  guard,  in  some  retreat, 
Find  from  a  foe  prepared  entire  defeat : 
But  he  was  prudent,  for  he  knew  in  flight 
These  Parthian  warriors  turn  again  and  fight : 
He  but  at  freedom,  not  at  glory  aim'd. 
And  only  safety  by  his  caution  claim'd. 

Thus,  when  a  great  and  powerful  state  decrees 
Upon  a  small  one,  in  its  love,  to  seize — 
It  vows  in  kindness  to  protect,  defend. 
And  be  the  fond  ally,  the  faithful  friend  ; 
It  therefore  wills  that  humbler  state  to  place 
Its  hopes  of  safety  in  a  fond  embrace  ; 
Then  must  that  humbler  state  its  wisdom  prove. 
By  kind  rejection  of  such  pressing  love  ; 
Must  dread   such   dangerous   friendship   to   CG!0» 

mence. 
And  stand  collected  in  its  own  defence  : — 
Our  farmer  thus  the  profTer'd  kindness  fled. 
And  shunn'd  the  love  that  into  bondage  led. 

The  widow  failing,  fresh  besiegers  came, 
To  share  the  fate  of  this  retiring  dame  : 
And  each  foresaw  a  thousand  ills  attend 
The  man  that  fled  from  so  discreet  a  friend  ; 
And  pray'd,  kind  soul !  that  no  event  might  raak« 
The  harden'd  heart  of  Farmer  Jones  to  ache. 

But  he  still  govern'd  with  resistless  hand. 
And  where  he  could  not  guide,  he  would  command 
With  steady  view  in  course  direct  he  steer'd. 
And    his  fair  daughters  loved   him,  though   thej 

fear'd  ; 
Each  had  her  school,  and,  as  his  wealth  was  known 
Each  had  in  time  a  household  of  her  own. 

The  boy  indeed  was,  at  the  grandam's  side, 
Humour'd  and  train'd,  her  trouble  and  her  pride: 
Companions  dear,  with  speech  and  spirits  mild, 
The  childish  widow  and  the  vapourish  child  ; 
This  nature  prompts  ;  minds  uninform'd  and  weak, 
In  such  alliance  ease  and  comfort  seek; 
Push'd  by  the  levity  of  youth  aside, 
The  cares  of  man,  his  humour,  or  his  pride, 
They  feel,  in  their  defenceless  state,  allied  : 
The  child  is  pleased  to  meet  regard  from  age 
The  old  are  pleased  e'en  children  to  engage  ; 
And  all  their  wisdom,  scorn'd  by  proud  mankintt 
They  love  to  pour  into  the  ductile  mind  ; 
By  its  own  weakness  into  error  led. 
And  by  fond  age  with  prejudices  fed. 

The  father,  thankful  for  the  good  he  had, 
Yet  saw  with  pain  a  whining,  timid  lad  ; 


TALES. 


151 


Whom  ho,  instructing,  led  through  cultured  fields, 
To  show  what  man  performs,  what  nature  yields : 
But  Stephen,  listless,  wander'd  from  the  view, 
From  heasts  he  fled,  for  butterflies  he  flew, 
And  idly  gazed  about,  in  search  of  something  new. 
The  lambs  indeed  he  loved,  and  wish'd  to  play 
With  things  so  mild,  so  harmless,  and  so  gay  ; 
Best  pleased  the  weakest  of  the  flock  to  see, 
With  whom  he  felt  a  sickly  sympathy. 

Meantime,  the  dame  was  anxious,  day  and  night, 
To  guide  the  notions  of  her  babe  aright. 
And  on  the  favourite  mind  to  throw  her  glimmering 

light  ; 
Her  Bible  stories  she  impress'd  betimes. 
And  fill'd  his  head  with  hymns  and  holy  rhymes; 
On  powers  unseen,  the  good  and  ill,  she  dwelt, 
And  the  poor  boy  mysterious  terrors  felt ; 
From  frightful  dreams,  he  waking  sobb'd  in  dread, 
Till  the  good  lady  came  to  guard  his  bed. 

The  father  wish'd  such  errors  to  correct, 
But  let  them  pass  in  duty  and  respect  • 
But  more  it  grieved  his  worthy  mind  tu  see 
That  Stephen  never  would  a  farmer  be  ; 
In  vain  he  tried  the  shiftless  lad  to  guide. 
And  yet  'twas  time  that  something  should  be  tried  : 
He  at  the  village  school  perchance  might  gain 
All  that  such  mind  could  gather  and  retain  ; 
Yet  the  good  dame  aflirm'd  her  favourite  child 
Was  apt  and  studious,  though  sedate  and  mild  ; 
"  That  he  on  many  a  learned  point  could  speak, 
And  that  his  body,  not  his  mind,  was  weak." 

The  father  doubted — but  to  school  was  sent 
The  timid  Stephen,  weeping  as  he  went : 
There  the  rude  lads  compell'd  the  child  to  fight. 
And  sent  him  bleeding  to  his  home  at  night ; 
At  this  the  grandam  more  indulgent  grew. 
And  bade  her  darling  "  Shun  the  beastly  crew  ; 
Whom  Satan  ruled,  and  who  were  sure  to  lie, 
Howling  in  torments,  when  they  came  to  die." 
This  was  such  comfort,  that  in  high  disdain 
He  told  their  fate,  and  felt  their  blows  again  : 
Yet  if  the  boy  had  not  a  hero's  heart. 
Within  the  school  he  play'd  a  better  part ; 
He  wrote  a  clean,  fine  hand,  and  at  his  slate. 
With  more  success  than  many  a  hero,  sate  ; 
He  thought  not  much  indeed — but  what  depends 
On  pains  and  care,  was  at  his  fingers'  ends. 

This  had  his  father's  praise,  who  now  espied 
A  spark  of  merit,  with  a  blaze  of  pride  : 
And  though  a  farmer  he  would  never  make, 
He  might  a  pen  with  some  advantage  take ; 
And  as  a  clerk  that  instrument  employ. 
So  well  adapted  to  a  timid  boy. 

A  London  cousin  soon  a  place  obtain'd. 
Easy,  but  humble — little  could  be  gain'd  : 
The  time  arrived  when  youth  gnd  age  must  part, 
Tears  in  each  eye,  and  sorrow  in  each  heart ; 
The  careful  father  bade  his  son  attend 
To  all  his  duties,  and  obey  his  friend  ; 
To  keep  his  church  and  there  behave  aright. 
As  one  existing  in  his  Maker's  sight. 
Till  acts  to  habits  led,  and  duty  to  delight : 
"  Then  try,  my  boy,  as  quickly  as  you  can, 
T'  assume  the  looks  and  spirit  of  a  man  ; 
I  say,  be  honest,  faithful,  civil,  true, 
And  this  you  may,  and  yet  have  courage  too : 
heroic  men,  their  country's  boast  and  pride. 
Have  fear'd  their  God,  and  nothing  fear'd  beside : 


While  others  daring,  yet  imbecile,  fly 
The  power  of  man,  ami  that  of  God  defy  : 
Be  manly  then,  though  mild,  for  sure  as  fate. 
Thou  art,  my  Stephen,  too  effeminate  ; 
Here,  take  my  purse,  and  make  a  worthy  use 
('Tis  fairly  stock'd)  of  what  it  will  produce  : 
And  now  my  blessing,  not  as  any  charm 
Or  conjuration,  but  'twill  do  no  harm." 

Stephen,  whose   thoughts  were  wandering  U{ 
and  down, 
Now  charm'd  with  promised  sights  in  London  town, 
Now  loath  to  leave  his  grandam — lost  the  force, 
The  drift,  and  tenor  of  this  grave  discourse  i 
3ut,  in  a  general  way,  he  understood 
Twas  good  advice,  and  meant,  "  My  son,  be  good ;" 
And  Stephen  knew  that  all  such  precepts  mean. 
That  lads  should  read  their  Bible,  and  be  clean. 

The  good  old  lady,  though  in  some  distress, 
Begg'd  her  dear  Stephen  would  his  grief  suppress ; 
"Nay,  dry  those  eyes,  my  child — and,  first  of  a.l 
Hold  fast  thy  faith,  whatever  may  befall : 
Hear  the  best  preacher,  and  preserve  the  text 
For  meditation,  till  you  hear  the  next ; 
Within  your  Bible  night  and  morning  look  ; 
There  is  your  duty,  read  no  other  book  ; 
Be  not  in  crowds,  in  broils,  in  riots  seen. 
And  keep  your  conscience  and  your  linen  clean: 
Be  you  a  Joseph,  and  the  time  may  be. 
When  kings  and  rulers  will  be  ruled  by  thee.' 

"  Nay,"  said  the  father — "  Hush,  my  son,"  replied 
The  dame  ;  "  The  Scriptures  must  not  be  denied." 
The  lad,  still  weeping,  heard   the    wheels   ap- 
proach, 
And  took  his  place  within  the  evening  coach. 
With  heart  quite  rent  asunder.     On  one  side 
Was  love,  and  grief,  and  fear,  for  scenes  untried  ; 
Wild  beasts  and  w-ax-work  fill'd  the  happier  part 
Of  Stephen's  varying  and  divided  heart: 
This  he  betray'd  by  sighs  and  questions  strange. 
Of  famous  shows,  the  Tower,  and  the  Exchange. 

Soon  at  his  desk  was  placed  the  curious  boy. 
Demure  and  silent  at  his  new  employ  : 
Yet  as  he  could,  he  much  attention  paid 
To  all  around  him,  cautious  and  afraid  ; 
On  older  clerks  his  eager  eyes  were  fix'd. 
But  Stephen  never  in  their  council  mix'd : 
Much  their  contempt  he  fear'd,  for  if  like  them, 
He  felt  assured  he  should  himself  contemn  ; 
O!  they  were  all  so  eloquent,  so  free. 
No  !  he  was  nothing — nothing  could  he  be  : 
They  dress  so  smartly,  and  so  boldly  look, 
And  talk  as  if  they  read  it  from  a  book  ; 
'*  But  I,"  said  Stephen,  "  will  forbear  to  speak, 
And  they  will  think  me  prudent  and  not  weak. 
They  talk,  the  instant  they  have  dropp'd  the  pen, 
Of  singing  women,  and  of  acting  men  ; 
Of  plays  and  places  where  at  night  they  walk 
Beneath  the  lamps,  and  with  the  ladies  talk; 
While  other  ladies  for  their  pleasure  sing, 
O !  'tis  a  glorious  and  a  happy  thing  : 
They  would  despise  me,  did  they  understand 
I  dare  not  look  upon  a  scene  so  grand  ; 
Or  see  the  plays  when  critics  rise  and  roar. 
And  hiss  and  groan,  and  cry — Encore  !  encore  '» 
There's  one  among  them  looks  a  little  kind  ; 
If  more  encouraged,  I  would  ope  mv  mind." 
Alas !  poor  Stephen,  happier  had  he  kept 
His  purpose  secret,  while  his  envy  slept ; 


1 52 


CRABBE. 


Virtue,  perhaps,  had  conquer'd,  or  his  shame 
At  least  preserved  him  simple  as  he  came. 
A  year  elapsed  before  this  clerk  began 
To  treat  the  rustic  something  like  a  man 
He  then  in  trifling  points  the  youth  advised, 
Talk'd  of  his  coat,  and  had  it  modernized  ; 
Or  with  the  lad  a  Sunday  walk  would  take, 
And  kindly  strive  his  passions  to  awake  ; 
Meanwhile  explaining  all  they  heard  and  saw. 
Till  Stephen  stood  in  wonderment  and  awe  : 
To  a  neat  garden  near  the  town  they  stray'd. 
Where  the  lad  felt  delighted  and  afraid  ; 
There  all  he  saw  was  smart,  and  fine,  and  fair, — 
He  could  bat  marvel  how  he  ventured  there  : 
Soon  he  observed,  with  terror  and  alarm, 
His  friend  enlock'd  within  a  lady's  arm. 
And  freely  talking — "  But  it  is,"  said  he, 
"  A  near  relation,  and  that  makes  him  free  ;" 
And  much  amazed  was  Stephen,  when  he  knev" 
This  was  the  first  and  only  interview  : 
Nay,  had  that  lovely  arm  by  him  been  seized, 
The  lovely  owner  had  been  highly  pleased  : 
"  Alas  !"  he  sigh'd,  "  I  never  can  contrive. 
At  such  bold,  blessed  freedoms  to  arrive  ; 
Never  shall  I  such  happy  courage  boast, 
I  dare  as  soon  encounter  with  a  ghost," 

Now  to'ia  play  the  friendly  couple  went. 
But  the  boy  murmur'd  at  the  money  spent  ; 
"  He  loved,"  he  said,  "  to  buy,  but  not  to  spend — 
They  only  talk  a  while,  and  there's  an  end." 
"Come,  you   shall  purchase  books,"  the  friend 
replied  ; 
"  You  are  bewilder'd,  and  you  want  a  guide; 
To  me  refer  the  choice,  and  you  shall  find 
The  light  break  in  upon  your  stagnant  mind  !" 

The  cooler  clerks  exclaim'd,  "  In  vain  your  art 
T'  improve  a  cub  without  a  head  or  heart; 
Rustics  though  coarse,  and  savages  though  wild. 
Our  cares  may  render  liberal  and  mild  j 
But    what,  my  friend,  can    flow  from    all    these 

pains ! 
There  is  no  dealing  with  a  lack  of  brains." — 

"  True  I  am  hopeless  to  behold  him  man, 
But  let  me  make  the  booby  ^vhat  I  can  : 
Though  the  rude  stone  no  polish  will  oisplay, 
Yet  you  may  strip  the  rugged  coat  away." 

Stephen  beheld  his  books — "  I  love  to  know 
How  money  goes — now  here  is  that  to  show  : 
And  now,"  he  cried,  "I  shall  be  pleased  to  get 
Beyond  the  Bible — there  I  puzzle  yet." 
He    spoke    abash'd — "  Nay,   nay !"    the   friend 
replied, 
"  You  need  not  lay  the  good  old  book  aside ; 
Antique  and  curious,  I  myself  indeed 
Read  it  at  times,  but  as  a  man  should  read  ; 
A.  fine  old  work  it  is,  and  I  protest 
\  hate  to  hear  it  treated  as  a  jest ; 
The  book  has  wisdom  in  it,  if  you  look 
Wisely  upon  it,  as  another  book : 
For  superstition  (as  our  priests  of  sin 
Are  pleased  to  tell  us)  makes  us  blind  within: 
Of  this  hereafter — we  will  now  select 
Some  works  to  please  you,  others  to  direct  : 
Tales  and  romances  shall  your  fancy  feed, 
A.nd  reasoners  form  your  morals  and  your  creed." 
The   books  were   view'd,  the  price  was   fairly 
paid. 
And  Stephen  read  undaui;ted,  undismay'd: 


But  not  till  first  he  paper'd  all  the  row. 
And  placed  in  order,  to  enjoy  the  show  ; 
Next  letter'd  all  the  backs  with  care  and  speed. 
Set  them  in  ranks,  and  then  began  to  read. 

The  love  of  order, — I  the  thing  receive 
From  reverend  men,  and  I  in  part  believe, — 
Shows  a  clear  mind  and  clean,  and  whoso  need* 
This  love,  but  seldom  in  tte  world  succeeds ; 
And  yet  with  this  some  other  love  must  be, 
Ere  I  can  fully  to  the  fact  agree  : 
Valour  and  study  may  by  order  gain. 
By  order  sovereigns  hold  more  steady  reign  : 
Through  all  the  tribes  of  nature  order  runs, 
And  rules  around  in  systems  and  in  suns  : 
Still  has  the  love  of  order  found  a  place. 
With  all  that's  low,  degrading,  mean,  and  base 
With  all  that  merits  scorn,  and  all  that  meets  di» 

grace : 
In  the  cold  miser,  of  all  change  afraid. 
In  pompous  men  in  public  seats  obey'd  ; 
In  humble  placemen,  heralds,  solemn  drones. 
Fanciers  of  flowers,  and  lads  like  Stephen  Jones; 
Order  to  these  is  armour  and  defence, 
And  love  of  method  serves  in  lack  of  sense. 

For  rustic  youth  could  I  a  list  produce 
Of  Stephen's  books,  how  great  might  be  the  use ; 
But  evil  fate  was  theirs — survey'd,  enjoy'd 
'  Some  happy  months,  and  then  by  force  destroy'd  : 
I  So  will'd  the  fates — but  these,  with  patience  read« 
I  Had  vast  effect  on  Stephen's  heart  and  head, 
j      This  soon  appear'd — within  a  single  week 
He  oped  his  lips,  and  made  attempt  to  speak; 
He  fail'd  indeed — but  still  his  friend  confess'd 
ThQ  best  have  fail'd,  and  he  had  done  his  best: 
The  first  of  swimmers,  when  at  first  he  swims, 
Has  little  use  or  freedom  in  his  limbs  ; 
Nay,  when  at  length  he  strikes  with  manly  fore©, 
The  cramp  may  seize  him,  and  impede  his  course 
Encouraged  thus,  our  clerk  again  essay'd 
The  daring  act,  though  daunted  and  afraid  ; 
Succeeding  now,  though  partial  his  success. 
And  pertness  mark'd  his  manner  and  address, 
1  Yet  such  improvement  issued  from  his  books, 
That  all  discern'd  it  in  his  speech  and  looks; 
He  ventured  then  on  every  theme  to  speak, 
And  felt  no  feverish  tingling  in  his  cheek  ; 
His  friend  approving,  hail'd  the  happy  change, 
The    clerks    exclaim'd — "  'Tis   famous,    and    'til 
strange !" 
Two  years  had  pass'd  ;  the  youth  attended  still 
(Though  thus  accomplish'd)  with  a  ready  quill; 
He  sat  th'  allotted  hours,  though  hard  the  case, 
While  timid  prudence  ruled  in  virtue's  place  : 
By  promise  bound,  the  son  his  letters  penn'd 
To  his  good  parent,  at  the  quarter's  end. 
At  first  he  sent  those  lines,  the  state  to  tell 
Of  his  own  health,  and   hoped  his   friends  were 

well ; 
He  kept  their  virtuous  precepts  m  his  mind. 
And  needed  nothing — then  his  name  was  sign'd  : 
But  now  he  wrote  of  Sunday  walks  and  views. 
Of  actors'  names,  choice  novels,  and  strange  newf 
How  coats  were  cut,  and  of  his  urgent  need 
For  fresh  supply,  which  he  desired  with  speed. 
The  father  doubted,  when  these  letters  came, 
Ta  what  they  tended,  yet  was  loath  to  blame : 
"  Stephen  was  once  mij  duteous  son,  and  now 
My  most  obedient — this  can  I  allow  ? 


TALES. 


153 


Can  I  with  pleasure  or  with  patience  see 
A  boy  at  once  so  heartless,  and  so  free  ?" 

But  soon  the  kinsman  heavy  tidings  told, 
That  love  and  prudence  could  no  more  withhold  : 
'  Stephen,  though  steady  at  his  desk,  was  grown 
A  rake  and  coxcomb — this  he  grieved  to  own  ; 
His  cousin  left  his  church,  and  spent  the  day 
Lounging  about  in  quite  a  heathen  way  ; 
Sometimes  he  swore,  but  had  indeed  the  grace 
To  show  the  shame  imprinted  on  his  face  : 
I  aearch'd  his  room,  and  in  his  absence  read 
Books  that  I  knew  would  turn  a  stronger  head  ; 
The  works  of  atheists  half  the  number  made, 
The  rest  were  lives  of  harlots  leaving  trade  ; 
Which  neither  man  or  boy  would  deign  to  read. 
If  from  the  scandal  and  pollution  freed  : 
I  sometimes  threaten'd,  and  would  fairly  state 
My  sense  of  things  so  vile  and  profligate  ; 
But  I'm  a  cit,  such  works  are  lost  on  me — 
They're  knowledge,  and  (good  Lord  I)  philosophy." 

"  O,  send  him  down,"  the  father  soon  replied  ; 
"  Let  me  behold  him,  and  my  skill  be  tried  : 
If  care  and  kindness  lose  their  wonted  use. 
Some  rougher  medicine  will  the  end  produce." 

Stephen  with  grief  and  anger  heard  his  doom — 
"  Go  to  the  farmer  ?  to  the  rustic's  home  ? 
Curse  the  base  ihreat'ning — "  "  Nay,  child,  never 

curse ; 
Corrupted  long,  your  case  is  growing  worse." — 
•'  I !"  quoth  the  youth,  "  I  challenge  all  mankind 
To  find  a  fault ;  what  fault  have  you  to  find  ? 
mprove  I  not  in  manner,  speech,  and  grace  ? 
inquire — my  friends  will  tell  it  to  your  face  ; 
Have  I  been  taught  to  guard  his  kine  and  sheep  ? 
A  man  like  me  has  other  things  to  keep; 
This  let  him  know." — "  It  would  his  wrath  excite  : 
But  come,  prepare,  you  must  away  to-night." — 
"  What  I  leave  my  studies,  my  improvements  leave, 
My  faithful  friends  and  intimates  to  grieve  !" — 
"  Go  to  your  father,  Stephen,  let  him  see 
All  these  improvements :  they  are  lost  on  me." 

The  youth,  though  loath,  obey'd,  and  soon  he  saw 
The  farmer  father,  with  some  signs  of  awe  ; 
Who  kind,  yet  silent,  waited  to  behold 
How  one  would  act,  so  daring  yet  so  cold  : 
And  soon  he  found,  between  the  friendly  pair 
That  secrets  pass'd  which  he  was  not  to  share  ; 
But  he  resolved  those  secrets  to  obtain, 
And  quash  rebellion  in  his  lawful  reign. 

Stephen,    though    vain,  was    with    his    father 
mute ; 
He  fear'd  a  crisis,  and  he  shunn'd  dispute  : 
And  yet  he  long'd  with  youthful  pride  to  show 
He  knew  such  things  as  farmers  could  not  know  : 
These  to  the  grandara  he  with  freedom  spoke, 
Saw  her  amazement,  and  enjoy'd  the  joke  : 
But  on  the  father  when  he  cast  his  eye. 
Something  he  found  that  made  his  valour  shy  ; 
And  thus  there  seem'd  to  be  a  hollow  truce. 
Still  threatening  something  dismal  to  produce. 

Ere  this  the  father  at  his  leisure  read 
The  son's  choice  volumes,  and  his  wonder  fled  ; 
He  saw  how  wrought  the  works  of  either  kind 
On  so  presuming,  yet  so  weak  a  mind  ; 
These  in  a  chosen  hour  he  made  his  prey, 
Condemn'd,  and  bore  with  vengeful  thoughts  aw-ay ; 
Then  in  a  close  recess,  the  couple  near, 
He  sat  unsf  en  to  see  unheard  to  hear. 


There  soon  a  trial  for  his  patience  came  ; 
Beneath  were  placed  the  youth  and  ancient  dame, 
Each  on  a  purpose  fix'd — but  neither  thought 
How  near  a  foe,  with  power  and  vengeance  fraughl- 

And  now  the  matron  told,  as  tidings  sad. 
What  she  had  heard  of  her  beloved  lad  ; 
How  he  to  graceless,  wicked  men  gave  heed, 
And  wicked  books  would  night  and  morning  read 
Some  former  lectures  she  again  began. 
And  begg'd  attention  of  her  little  man; 
She  brought,  with  many  a  pious  boast,  in  view 
His  former  studies,  and  condemn'd  the  new : 
Once  he  the  names  of  saints  and  pati'iirchs  old. 
Judges  and  kings,  and  chiefs  and  prophets,  told ; 
Then  he  in  winter  nights  the  Bible  took, 
To  count  how  often  in  the  sacred  book 
The  sacred  Name  appeared  ;  and  could  rehearse 
Which  were  the  middle  chapter,  word  and  verse. 
The  very  letter  in  the  middle  placed. 
And  so  employ'd  the  hours  that  others  waste. 

"  Such  wert    thou  once ;    and    now,  my  child, 
they  say 
Thy  faith  like  water  runneth  fast  away  ; 
The  prince  of  devils  hath,  I  fear,  beguiled 
The  ready  wit  of  my  backsliding  child." 

On  this,  with  lofty  looks,  our  clerk  began 
His  grave  rebuke,  as  he  assumed  the  man — 

"  There  is  no  devil,"  said  the  hopeful  youth, 
"  Nor  prince  of  devils  ;  that  I  know  for  truth  : 
Have  I  not  told  you  how  ray  books  describe 
The  arts  of  priests  and  all  the  canting  tribe? 
Your  Bible  mentions  Egypt,  where  it  seems 
Was    Joseph   found  when  Pharaoh    dream'd    hia 

dreams  : 
Now  in  that  place,  in  some  bewilder'd  head 
(The  learned  write)  religious  dreams  were  bred ; 
Whence    through  the    earth,  with    various   forms 

combined, 
They  came  to  frighten  and  afflict  mankind. 
Prone  (so  I  read)  to  let  a  priest  invade 
Their  souls  with  awe,  and  by  his  craft  be  made 
Slave  to  his  will,  and  profit  to  his  trade : 
So  say  my  books,  and  how  the  rogues  agreed 
To  blind  the  victims,  to  defraud  and  lead  ; 
When  joys  above  to  ready  dupes  were  sold. 
And  hell  was  threaten'd  to  the  shy  and  cold. 

"  Why  so  amazed,  and  so  prepared  to  pray  ? 
As  if  a  Being  heard  a  word  we  say:    * 
This  may  surprise  you  ;  I  myself  began 
To  feel  disturb'd,  and  to  my  Bible  ran  ; 
I  now  am  wiser — yet  agree  in  this. 
The  book  has  things  that  are  not  much  amiss ; 
It  is  a  fine  old  work,  and  I  protest 
I  hate  to -hear  it  treated  as  a  jest: 
The  book  has  wisdom  in  it,  if  you  look 
Wisely  upon  it  as  another  book." — 

"  O  !  wicked  I  wicked  I  my  unhappy  child. 
How  hast  thou  been  by  evil  men  beguiled!" 

"  How  !  wicked,  say  you  ?  you  can  little  guesa 
The  gain  of  that  which  you  call  wickedness: 
Why,  sins  you  think  it  sinful  but  to  name 
Have  gain'd  both  wives  and  widows,  wealth  and 

fame ; 
And  this  because  such  people  never  dread 
Those  threaten'd   pains ;  hell  comes  not  in  theij 

head  : 
Love  is  our  nature,  wealth  we  all  desire, 
And  what  we  wish  'tis  lawful  to  acquire  ; 


154 


CRABBE. 


So  say  my  books — and  what  besides  they  show 
'Tis  time  to  let  this  honest  farmer  know. 
Nay,  look  not  grave ;  am  I  commanded  down 
To  feed  his  cattle  and  become  his  clown  ? 
Is  such  his  purpose  ?  then  he  shall  be  told 
The  vulgar  insult — " 

— "  Hold,  in  mercy  hold — " 
"Father,  O!  father!  throw  the  whip  away  ; 
I  was  but  jesting,  on  my  knees  I  pray — 
There,  hold  his  arm— O  !  leave  us  not  alone  : 
In  pity  cease,  and  I  will  yet  atone 
For  all  my  sin — "    In  vain  ;  stroke  after  stroke. 
On  side  and  shoulder,  quick  as  mill-wheels  broke  ; 
Quick  as  the  patient's  pulse,  who  trembling  cried. 
And  still  the  parent  with  a  stroke  replied  ; 
Till  all  the  medicine  he  prepared  was  dealt, 
And  every  bone  the  precious  influence  felt  ; 
Till  all  the  panting  flesh  was  red  and  raw, 
And  every  thought  was  turn'd  to  fear  and  awe ; 
Till  every  doubt  to  due  respect  gave  place — 
Such   cures    are    done  when   doctors   know  the 
case. 

"  O!  I  shall  die — my  father  !  do  receive 
My  dying  words  ;  indeed  I  do  believe ; 
The  books  are  lying  books,  I  know  it  well, 
There  is  a  devil,  O .'  there  is  a  hell ; 
And  I'm  a  sinner:  spare  me,  I  am  young. 
My  sinful  words  were  only  on  my  tongue ; 
My  heart  consented  not;  'tis  all  a  lie  : 
O!  spare  me  then,  I'm  not  prepared  to  die." 

"  Vain,  worthless,  stupid   wretch !"    the  father 
cried, 
*  Dost  thou  preaura©  to  teach  ?  art  thou  a  guide  ? 


Driveller  and  dog,  it  gave  the  mind  distress 
To  hear  thy  thoughts  in  their  religious  dress; 
Thy  pious  folly  moved  my  strong  disdain, 
Yet  I  forgave  thee  for  thy  want  of  brain : 
But  Job  in  patience  must  the  man  exceed 
Who  could  endure  thee  in  thy  present  creed ; 
Is  it  for  thee,  thou  idiot,  to  pretend 
The  wicked  cause  a  helping  hand  to  lend  ? 
Canst  thou  a  judge  in  any  question  be  ? 
Atheists   themselves  would   scorn    a   friend   libk 
thee. — 

"  Lo !  yonder  blaze  thy  worthies ;  in  one  heap 
Thy  scoundrel  favourites  must  for  ever  sleep: 
Each  yields  his  poison  to  the  flame  in  turn. 
Where  whores  and  infidels  are  doom'd  to  burn ; 
Two  noble  fagots  made  the  flame  you  see. 
Reserving  only  two  fair  twigs  for  thee  ; 
That  in  thy  view  the  instruments  may  stand, 
And  be  in  future  ready  for  my  hand  : 
The  just  mementos  that,  though  silent,  show 
Whence  thy  correction  and  improvements  flow ; 
Beholding  these,  thou  wilt  confess  their  power. 
And  feel  the  shame  of  this  important  hour. 

"  Hadst  thou  been  humble,  I  had  first  designed 
By  care  from  folly  to  have  freed  thy  mind  ; 
And  when  a  clean  foundation  had  been  laid. 
Our  priest,  more  able,  would  have  lent  his  aid  : 
But  thou  art  weak,  and  force  must  folly  guide 
And  thou  art  vain,  and  pain  must  humble  pride : 
Teachers  men  honour,  learners  they  allure  i 
But  learners  teaching,  of  contempt  are  sure ; 
Scorn  is  their  certain  meed,  and  snmrt  their  omy 
cure  . 


THOMAS  CHATTERTON. 


Thomas  Chatterton,  the  posthumous  son  of  a 
ichoolmaster  in  Bristol,  was  born  there  on  the  20th 
of  November,  1752.  At  the  age  of  five  years,  he 
was  placed  at  the  school  which  his  father  had  su- 
perintended ;  but  he  showed  such  little  capacity 
for  learning,  that  he  was  sent  back  to  his  mother 
as  a  dull  boy,  incapable  of  improvement.  Mrs. 
Chatterton,  says  Dr.  Gregory,  in  his  life  of  the  sub- 
ject of  our  memoir,  was  rendered  extremely  un- 
happy by  the  apparently  tardy  understanding  of 
her  son,  till  he  "  fell  in  love,"  as  she  expressed  her- 
self, with  the  illuminated  capitals  of  an  old  musical 
manuscript,  in  French,  which  enabled  her,  by 
taking  advantage  of  the  momentary  passion,  to  ini- 
tiate him  in  the  alphabet.  She  afterwards  taught 
him  to  read  out  of  a  black-letter  Bible  ;  and  this 
circumstance,  in  conjunction  with  the  former,  is 
supposed  to  have  inspired  him  with  that  fondness 
for  antiquities  which  he  subsequently  displayed. 
At  eight  years  of  age,  he  was  removed  to  Colston's 
charity-school,  where  he  remained  for  some  time 
undistinguished,  except  by  a  pensive  gravity  of 
demeanour,  and  a  thirst  for  pre-eminence  over  his 
playmates.  This  he  exhibited,  says  his  sister,  even 
befare  he  was  five  years  old  ;  and  not  long  after- 
ward, her  brother  being  asked  what  device  he 
would  have  painted  on  a  small  present  of  earthen- 
ware about  to  be  made  to  him,  "  Paint  me,"  he  is 
said  to  have  replied,  "  an  angel,  with  wings,  and  a 
trumpet,  to  trumpet  my  name  over  the  world." 

It  was  not,  however,  until  his  tenth  year,  that  he 
acquired  a  taste  for  reading ;  for  which  he  suddenly 
imbibed  such  a  relish,  that  he  devoted  his  little 
pocket-money  to  the  hire  of  books  from  a  library,  and 
borrowed  others  as  he  had  opportunity.  Before 
he  was  twelve  he  had  gone  through  about  seventy 
volumes  in  this  manner,  consisting  chiefly  of  history 
and  divinity  ;  and,  about  the  same  time,  he  appears 
to  have  filled  with  poetry  a  pocket-book,  which 
had  been  presented  to  him  by  his  sister  as  a  new- 
year's  gift.  Among  these  verses,  were  probably 
those  entitled  Apostate  Will,  a  satire  upon  his  in- 
structers  und  school-fellows.  In  1765,  he  was  con- 
firmed by  the  bishop ;  and  his  sister  relates,  that 
he  made  very  sensible  and  serious  remarks  on  the 
awfulness  of  the  ceremony,  and  on  his  own  feelings 
preparatory  to  it.  In  July,  1767,  at  which  time  he 
possessed  a  knowledge  of  drawing  and  music,  in 
addition  to  his  other  acquirements,  he  was  articled 
to  Mr.  Lambert,  an  attorney  at  Bristol,  where  the 
only  fault  his  master  had  to  find  with  him,  for  the 
first  year,  was  the  sending  an  abusive  anonymous 
letter  to  his  late  schoolmaster,  of  which  he  was 
discovered  to  be  the  author,  from  his  inability  to 
disguise  his  own  handwriting  so  successfully  as  he 
did  afterward. 

As  a  preface  to  the  history  of  Chatterton's  literary 


impostures,  which  commenced  about  this  time,  a 
short  sketch  will  be  necessary  of  the  circumstances 
which  gave  rise  to  them.  It  was  well  known  at 
Bristol,  that  in  the  church  of  St.  Mary,  Redcliffe, 
an  old  chest  had  been  opened,  about  1727,  for  the 
purpose  of  searching  for  some  title  deeds,  and  that 
since  that  time,  a  number  of  other  manuscripts, 
being  left  exposed  to  casual  depredation,  had,  at 
various  times,  been  taken  away.  The  uncle  of 
Chatterton's  father  being  sexton  to  the  church,  en^ 
abled  his  nephew  to  enter  it  freely  ;  and,  upon 
these  occasions,  he  removed  baskets  full  of  parch- 
ments, of  which,  however,  he  made  no  other  use 
than  to  cover  books.  A  thread-paper  belonging  to 
his  mother,  which  had  been  formed  out  of  one  of 
these  parchments,  attracted  the  notice  of  young 
Chatterton,  soon  after  the  commencement  of  his 
clerkship  ;  and  his  curiosity  was  so  excited,  that 
he  obtained  a  remaining  hoard  of  them  yet  unused, 
and  ultimately  acquired  possession  of  all  that  re- 
mained in  the  old  chest,  and  in  his  mother's  house. 
His  answer  to  inquiries  on  the  subject  was,  "  that 
he  had  a  treasure,  and  was  so  glad  nothing  could 
be  like  it."  The  parchments,  he  said,  consisted 
of  poetical  and  other  compositions,  by  Mr.  Canynge 
and  Thomas  Rowley,  whom  our  author,  at  first, 
called  a  monk,  and  afterward  a  secular  priest  of 
the  fifteenth  century. 

Thus  prepared  for  carrying  on  his  system  of  lite- 
rary imposture,  he,  on  the  opening  of  the  new  bridge 
at  Bristol,  in  October,  1768,  drew  up  a  paper,  enti- 
tled, A  Description  of  the  Fryars  first  passing  over 
the  Old  Bridge,  taken  from  an  ancient  manuscript. 
It  was  inserted  in  Farley's  Bristol  Journal,  and  the 
authorship  was  traced  to  Chatterton  ;  who,  being 
questioned  in  an  authoritative  tone,  haughtily  re- 
fused to  give  any  account.  Milder  usage  at  length 
induced  him  to  enter  into  an  explanation  ;  and, 
after  some  prevarication,  he  asserted  that  he  had 
received  the  paper  in  question  from  his  fatiier,  who 
had  found  it,  with  several  others,  in  Redcliffe 
Church.  The. report  that  he  was  in  possession  of 
the  poetry  of  Canynge  and  Rowley  was  now  spread 
about ;  and  coming  to  the  ears  of  Mr.  Catcott,  an 
inhabitant  of  Bristol,  of  an  inquiring  turn,  he  pro- 
cured an  introduction  to  Chatterton,  who  furnished 
him,  gratuitously,  with  various  poetical  pieces  under 
the  name  of  Rowley.  These  were  communicated 
to  Mr.  Barrett,  a  surgeon,  then  employed  in  writing 
a  history  of  Bristol,  into  which  he  introduced  seve- 
ral of  the  above  fragments,  by  the  permission  of 
our  author,  who  was,  in  return,  occasionally  sup- 
plied with  money,  and  introduced  into  company 
He  also  studied  surgery,  for  a  short  time,  under  Mr 
Barrett,  and  would  talk,  says  Mr.  Thistlethwayte, 
"  of  Galen,  Hippocrates,  and  Paracelsus,  with  all 
the  confidence  and  familiarity  of  a  modern  empi- 

155 


156 


CHATTERTON. 


ric."  His  favourite  studies,  however,  v\?ere  herald- 
•7  and  English  antiquities ;  and  one  of  his  chief 
occupations  was  in  malting  a  collection  of  old 
English  words  from  the  glossaries  of  Chaucer  and 
others.  During  these  pursuits,  he  employed  his  pen 
in  writing  satirical  essays,  in  prose  and  verse  ;  and, 
about  the  same  period,  gave  way  to  fits  of  poetical 
enthusiasm,  by  wandering  about  RedclifTe  mea- 
dows, talking  of  the  productions  of  Rowley,  and 
■itting  up  at  night  to  compose  poems  at  the  full 
af  the  moon.  "  He  was  always,"  says  Mr.  Smith, 
"  extremely  fond  of  walking  in  the  fields ;  and 
would  sometimes  say  to  me, '  Come,  you  and  I  w  ill 
take  a  walk  in  the  meadow.  I  have  got  the  clever- 
est thing  for  you  imaginable.  It  is  worth  half-a- 
crown  merely  to  have  a  sight  of  it,  and  to  hear 
me  read  it  to  you.'  "  This  he  would  generally 
do  in  one  particular  spot,  within  view  of  the 
church,  before  which  he  would  sometimes  lie 
down,  keeping  his  eyes  fixed  upon  it  in  a  kind 
of  trance. 

In  1769,  he  contributed  several  papers  to  the 
Town  and  Country  Magazine,  among  which  were 
some  extracts  from  the  pretended  Rowley,  entitled 
Saxon  poems,  written  in  the  style  of  Ossian,  and 
subscribed  with  Chatterton's  usual  signature  of 
Dunhelmus  Bristoliensis.  But  his  most  celebrated 
attempt  at  imposture,  in  this  year,  was  an  offer  to 
furnish  Horace  VValpole  with  some  accounts  of  a 
series  of  eminent  painters  who  had  flourished  at 
Bristol,  at  the  same  time  enclosing  two  small  spe- 
cimens of  the  Rowley  poems.  Mr.  Walpole  re- 
turned a  very  polite  reply,  requesting  further  in- 
formation ;  and,  in  answer,  was  informed  of  the 
circumstances  of  Chatterton,  who  hinted  a  wish 
that  the  former  would  free  him  from  an  irksome 
profession,  and  place  him  in  a  situation  where  he 
might  pursue  the  natural  bias  of  his  genius.  In  the 
mean  time,  however,  Gray  and  Mason  having  pro- 
nounced the  poems  sent  to  Walpole  to  be  forgeries, 
the  latter,  who,  nevertheless,  could  not,  as  he  him- 
self confesses,  help  admiring  the  spirit  of  poetry 
displayed  in  them,  wrote  a  cold  monitory  letter  to 
our  author,  advising  him  to  apply  himself  to  his 
profession.  Incensed  at  this,  he  demanded  the  im- 
mediate return  of  his  manuscripts,  which  Walpole 
enclosed  in  a  blank  cover,  after  his  return  from  a 
visit  to  Paris,  when  he  found  another  letter  from 
Chatterton,  peremptorily  requiring  the  papers,  and 
telling  Walpole  "  that  he  would  not  have  dared  to 
use  him  so,  had  he  not  been  acquainted  with  the 
narrowness  of  his  circumstances."  Here  their 
correspondence  ended,  and  on  these'  circumstances 
alone  is  the  charge  founded  against  Mr.  Walpole 
of  barbarously  neglecting,  and  finally  causing  the 
death  of,  Chatterton.  Mr.  Walpole,  observes  Dr. 
Gregory,  afterward  regretted  that  he  had  not  seen 
this  extraordinary  youth,  and  that  he  did  not  pay  a 
more  favourable  attention  to  his  correspondence  ; 
but  to  ascribe  to  Mr.  Wal pole's  neglect  the  dread- 
ful catastrophe  which  happened  at  the  distance  of 
nearly  two  years  after,  would  be  the  highest  de- 
gree of  injustice  and  absurdity. 

Our  author  now  entered  into  politics  ;  and,  in 
March,  1770,  composed  a  satirical  poem  of  one 
thousand  three  hundred  lines,  entitled  Kew  Gar- 
dens, in  which  he  abused  the  Princess-dowager  of 
Wales  and  Lord  Bute,  together  with  the  partisans 


of  ministry  at  Bristol,  not  excepting  Mr.  Catcott,  and 
other  of  his  friends  and  patrons.  His  character, 
also,  in  other  respects,  began  to  develope  itself  in 
an  unfavourable  light;  but  the  assertion  that  he 
plunged  into  profligacy  at  this  period,  is  contra- 
dicted by  unexceptionable  testimony.  The  most 
prominent  feature  in  his  conduct  was  his  continued 
and  open  avowal  of  infidelity,  and  of  his  intention 
to  commit  suicide  as  soon  as  life  should  become 
burdensome  to  him.  He  had  also  grown  thorough- 
ly disgusted  with  his  profession ;  and  purposely,  it 
is  supposed,  leaving  upon  his  desk  a  paper,  entitled 
his  Last  Will,  in  which  he  avowed  his  determina- 
tion to  destroy  himself  on  Easter  Sunday,  he  gladly 
received  liis  dismissal  from  Mr.  Lambert,  into 
whose  hands  the  document  had  fallen.  He  now 
determined  to  repair  to  London ;  and  on  being 
questioned  by  Mr.  Thistlethwayte  concerning  his 
plan  of  life,  returned  this  remarkable  answer  :  "  My 
first  attempt,"  said  he,  "  shall  be  in  the  literary 
way  ;  the  promises  I  have  received  are  sufficient 
to  dispel  doubt;  but  should  I,  contrary  to  expec- 
tation, find  myself  deceived,  I  will,  in  that  case, 
turn  Methodist  preacher.  Credulity  is  as  potent  a 
deity  as  ever,  and  a  new  sect  may  easily  be  de- 
vised. But  if  that,  too,  should  fail  me,  my  last  and 
final  resource  is  a  pistol."  Such  was  the  language 
of  one  not  much  beyond  seventeen  years  of  age  ; 
certainly,  as  Dr.  Aikin  observes,  not  that  of  a  sim- 
ple,ingenuous  youth,  "smitwith  the  love  of  sacred 
song,"  a  Beattie's  minstrel,  as  some  of  Chatterton's 
admirers  have  chosen  to  paint  him. 

At  the  end  of  April,  he  arrived  in  the  metropo' 
lis  ;  and,  on  the  6th  of  May,  writes  to  his  mother 
that  he  is  in  such  a  settlement  as  he  could  desire. 
"  I  get,"  he  adds,  "four  guineas  a  month  by  one 
magazine  ;  shall  engage  to  write  a  lii'^tory  of  Eng 
land,  and  other  pieces,  which  v/iil  more  than 
double  that  sum.  Occasional  essays  for  the  daily 
papers  would  more  than  support  me.  What  a  glo- 
rious prospect !"  His  engagements,  in  fact,  appear 
to  have  been  numerous  and  profitable  ;  but  we  are 
cautioned,  by  Dr.  Gregory,  against  giving  implicit 
credence  to  every  part  of  Chatterton's  letters, 
written  at  this  time,  relative  to  his  literary  and  po- 
litical friends  in  the  metropolis.  It  seems,  how- 
ever, that  he  had  been  introduced  to  Mr.  Beckford, 
then  lord  mayor,  and  had  formed  high  expectations 
of  patronage  from  the  opposition  party,  which  he 
at  first  espoused ;  but  the  death  of  Beckford,  at 
which  he  is  said  to  have  gone  almost  frantic,  and 
the  scarcity  of  money  which  he  found  on  the  op- 
position side,  altered  his  intentions.  He  observed 
to  a  friend,  that  "  he  was  a  poor  author,  who  could 
write  on  both  sides ;"  and  it  appears  that  he  ac- 
tually did  so,  as  two  essays  were  found  after  his 
death,  one  eulogizing,  and  the  other  abusmg,  the 
administration,  for  rejecting  the  city  remonstrance. 
On  the  latter,  addressed  to  Mr.  Beckford,  is  th* 
indorsement : 

Accepted  by  Bingley— set  for,  and  thrown  out  of  the 
North  Britain,  21st  of  June,  on  account  of  the 
lord  mayor's  death. 

Lost  by  his  death  on  this  essay £{  11  6 

jained  in  elegies i^i  2 

in  essays 3  3 

5    5  0 

Am  glad  he  is  dead  by £3  13  6 


CHATTERTON. 


157 


His  hopes  of  obtaining  eminence  as  a  political 
writer  now  became  extravagantly  sanguine,  and 
he  already  seems  to  have  considered  himself  a 
man  of  considerable  public  importance  "  My 
company,"  he  says,  in  a  letter  to  his  sister,  "  is 
courted  everywhere ;  and  could  I  humble  myself 
to  go  into  a  compter,  could  have  had  twenty  places 
before  now  ;  but  I  must  be  among  the  great ;  state 
matters  suit  me  better  than  commercial."  These 
bright  prospects,  about  July,  appear  to  have  been 
suddenly- clouded ;  and,  after  a  short  career  of 
dissipation,  which  kept  pace  with  his  hopes,  he 
found  that  ho  had  nothing  to  expect  from  the  pa- 
tronage of  the  great;  and,  to  escape  the  scene  of 
his  mortification,  made  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to 
obtain  the  post  of  surgeon's-mate  to  the  coast  of 
Africa,  it  is  less  certain  to  what  extent  he  was 
now  employed  by  the  booksellers,  than  that  he 
felt  the  idea  of  dependence  upon  them  insup- 
portable, and  soon  fell  into  such  a  state  of  indi- 
gence as  to  be  reduced  to  the  want  of  necessary 
Ibod.  Such  was  his  pride,  however,  that  when, 
after  c  fast  of  three  days,  his  landlady  invited  him 
to  dinner,  he  refused  the  invitation  as  an  insult, 
assuring  her  he  was  not  hungry.  This  is  the  last 
act  recorded  of  his  life ;  a  few  hours  afterward, 
he  swallowed  a  dose  of  arsenic,  and  was  found 
dead  the  next  morning,  August  the  25th,  1770, 
surrounded  by  fragments  of  numerous  manuscripts, 
which  lie  appeared  to  have  destroyed.  His  sui- 
cide took  place  in  Brook-street,  Holborn,  and  he 
was  interred,  in  a  shell,  in  the  burying-ground 
of  Shoe  lane  workhouse.  This  melancholy  ca- 
tastrophe is  heightened  by  the  fact,  that  Dr.  Fry, 
head  of  St.  John's  College,  Oxford,  had  just  gone  to 
Bristol,  for  the  purpose  of  assisting  Chatterton, 
wlien  he  was  there  informed  of  his  death. 

The  controversy  respecting  the  authenticity  of 
*he  poems  attributed  to  Rowley  is  now  at  an  end  ; 
though  there  are  still  a  few,  perhaps,  who  may 
lide  with  Dean  Milles  and  others,  against  the  host 
of  writers,  including  Gibbon,  Johnson,  and  the  two 
W^artons,  who  ascribe  the  entire  authorship  to 
Chatterton.  The  latter  have,  perhaps,  come  to  a 
conclusion,  which  is  not  likely  to  be  again  dis- 
puted, viz.  that  however  extraordinary  it  was  for 
Chatterton  to  produce  them  in  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury, it  was  impossible  that  Rowley  could  have 
written  them  in  the  fifteenth.  But,  whether 
Chatterton  was  or  was  not  the  author  of  the  poems 
ascribed  to  Rowley,  his  transcendent  genius  must 
ever  be  the  subject  of  wonder  and  admiration. 
The  eulogy  of  his  friends,  and  the  opinions  of  the 
controversialists  respecting  him,  are  certainly  too 
extravagant.  Dean  Milles  prefers  Rowley  to  Ho- 
mer, Virgil,  Spencer,  and  Shakspeare  ;  Mr.  Ma- 
lone  "  believes  Chatterton  to  have  been  the  great- 
est genius  that  England  has  produced  since  the 
iays  of  Shakspeare  ;"  and  Mr.  Croft,  the  author 
>f  Lovo  and  Madness,  asserts,  that  "  no  such  hu- 
man being,  at  any  period  of  life,  has  ever  been 
known,  or  possibly  ever  will  be  known."  This 
enthusiastic  praise  is  not  confined  to  the  critical 
vvriters;  the  British  muse  has  •  paid  some  of  her 
most  beautiful  tributes  to  the  genius  and  memory 
of  Chatterton.  The  poems  of  Rowley,  as  published 
V  Dean  Milles,  consist  of  pieces  of  all  the  prin- 
cipal classes  of   poetical  composition :    tragedies, 


lyric  and  heroic  poems,  pastorals,  epistles,  ballads, 
&c.  Sublimity  and  beauty  pervade  many  of  them  ; 
and  they  display  wonderful  powers  of  imagination 
and  facility  of  composition;  yet,  says  Dr.  Aikin, 
there  is  also  much  of  the  commonplace  flatness 
and  extravagance,  that  might  be  expected  from  a 
juvenile  writer,  whose  fertility  was  greater  than 
his  judgment,  and  who  had  fed  his  mind  upon 
stores  collected  with  more  avidity  than  choice 
The  haste  and  ardour,  with  which  he  pursued  his 
various  literary  designs,  was  in  accordance  with 
his  favourite  maxim,  "  that  God  had  sent  his  crea- 
tures into  the  world  with  arms  long  enough  to 
reach  any  thing,  if  they  would  be  at  the  trouble  of 
extending  them." 

In  1778,  a  miscellaneous  volume  of  the  avowed 
writings  of  Chatterton  was  published  ;  and,  in  1803, 
an  edition  of  his  works  appeared,  in  three  volumes, 
octavo,  with  an  account  of  his  life,  by  Dr.  Gregory, 
from  whom  we  have  before  quoted.  The  general 
character  of  his  productions  has  been  well  appre- 
ciated by  Lord  Orford,  who,  after  expatiating  upon 
his  quick  intuition,  his  humour,  his  vein  of  satire 
the  rapidity  with  which  he  seized  all  the  topics  of 
conversation,  whether  of  politics,  literature,  or 
lashion,  remarks,  "  Nothing  in  Chatterton  can  be 
separated  from  Chatterton.  His  noblest  flight,  his 
sweetest  strain,  his  grossest  ribaldry,  and  his  most 
commonplace  imitations  of  the  productions  of 
magazines,  were  all  the  effervescences  of  the  same 
ungovernable  impulse,  which,  cameleon-like,  im- 
bibed the  colours  of  all  it  looked  on.  It  was  Os- 
sian,  or  a  Saxon  monk,  or  Gray,  or  Smollett,  or 
Junius  ;  and  if  it  failed  most  in  what  it  most  affect- 
ed to  be,  a  poet  of  the  fifteenth  century,  it  was  be- 
cause it  could  not  imitate  what  had  not  existed." 
In  person,  Chatterton  is  said  to  have  been,  like  his 
genius,  premature  ;  he  had,  says  his  biographer,  a 
manliness  and  dignity  beyond  his  years,  and  there 
was  a  something  about  him  uncommonly  prepos- 
sessing. His  most  remarkable  feature  was  his 
eyes,  which,  though  gray,  were  uncommonly  pierc- 
ing ;  when  he  was  warmed  in  argument,  or  other- 
wise, they  sparkled  with  fire  ;  and  one  eye,  it  is 
said,  was  still  more  remarkable  than  the  other. 

The  character  of  Chatterton  has  been  sufficiently 
developed  in  the  course  of  the  preceding  memoir ; 
his  ruling  passion,  we  have  seen,  was  literary  fame ; 
and  it  is  doubtful  whether  his  death  was  not 
rather  occasioned  through  fear  of  losing'the  reputa- 
tion he  had  already  acquired,  than  despair  of  being 
able  to  obtain  a  future  subsistence.  This  is  ren- 
dered at  least  plausible,  by  the  fact  of  his  having 
received  pecuniary  assistance  from  Mr.  Hamilton, 
senior,  the  proprietor  of  the  Critical  Review,  not 
long  before  his  death,  with  a  promise  of  more  ;  that 
he  was  employed  by  his  literary  friends,  almost  to 
the  last  hour  of  his  existence ;  and  that  he  was 
aware  of  the  suspicions  existing  that  himself  and 
Rowley  were  the  same.  Though  he  neither  con- 
fessed nor  denied  this,  it  was  evident  that  his  con- 
duct was  influenced  by  some  mystery,  known  only 
to  himself;  he  grew  wild,  abstracted,  and  incohe- 
rent, and  a  settled  gloominess  at  length  took  pos- 
session of  his  countenance,  which  was  a  presage 
of  his  fatal  resolution.  He  has  been  accused  of 
libertinism,  but  there  are  no  proofs  of  this  during 
his  residence  either  at  London  or  Bristol :  though 


158 


CHATTERTON. 


jaany  of  his  productions  show  a  laxity  of  principle 
which  might  justify  the  supposition.  The  best 
qualities  in  his  character  were  the  negative  ones 
of  temperance  and  affection  for  his  family,  to  whom 
ho  sent  small  presents  out  of  his  first  gains,  and 
always  spoke  of  their  welfare  as  one  of  the  princi- 
pal ends  of  his  exertions.  But  what  deeper  afflic- 
tion could  he  have  brought  upon  them  than  that 


caused  by  the  last  act  of  his  life  ?  His  sister  says, 
that  "  he  was  a  lover  of  truth  from  the  earliest 
dawn  of  reason  j"  yet  his  life  was  one  continued 
career  of  deception.  He  is  to  be  pitied  for  his 
misfortunes,  and  admired  for  his  genius  ;  but,  with 
Kirke  White  in  our  remembrance,  we  could 
wish  to  forget  all  else  that  belonged  to  Chat> 
terton. 


BRISTOWE    TRAGEDIE; 

OR,  THE  DETHE  OF  SYR  CHARLES  BAWDIN. 

The  featherd  songster  chaunticleer 

Han  wound e  hys  bugle  home, 
And  tolde  the  earlie  villager 

The  commynge  of  the  morne : 

Kynge  Edwarde  sawe  the  ruddie  streakes 

Of  lyghte  eclypse  the  greie  ; 
And  herde  the  raven's  crokynge  throte 

Proclayme  the  fated  daie. 

"  Thou'rt  ryght,"  quod  he,  "  for,  by  the  Godde 

That  syttes  enthroned  on  hyghe  ! 
Charles  Bawdin,  and  hys  fellowes  twaine, 

To-daie  shall  surelie  die." 

Thenne  wythe  a  jugge  of  nappy  ale 
Hys  knyghtes  dydd  onne  hymm  waite  ; 

"  Goe  tell  the  traytour,  thatt  to-daie 
Hee  leaves  thys  mortall  state." 

Syr  Canterlone  thenne  bendedd  lowe 

Wythe  harte  brymm-fulle  of  woe  ; 
Hee  journey'd  to  the  castle-gate, 

And  to  Syr  Charles  dydd  goe. 

But  whenne  hee  came,  hys  children  twaine. 

And  eke  hys  lovynge  wyfe, 
Wythe  brinie  tears  dydd  wett  the  floore, 

For  goode  Syr  Charleses  lyfe  . 

'  O  goode  Syr  Charles !"  sayd  Canterlone, 
"  Badde  tydyngs  I  doe  brynge." 
Speke  boldlie,  manne,"  sayd  brave  Syr  Charles, 
"  Whatt^says  the  traytour  kynge  V 

*  I  greeve  to  telle  :  before  yonne  sonne 

Does  fromme  the  welkinn  flye, 
Hee  hath  uppon  hys  honour  sworne 

Thatt  thou  shalt  surelie  die." 

"  We  all  must  die,"  quod  brave  Syr  Charles, 

"  Of  thatte  I'm  not  affearde  ; 
Whatte  bootes  to  lyve  a  little  space  ? 

Thanke  Jesu,  I'm  prepared  : 

Butt  telle  thye  kynge,  for  myne  hee's  not, 
I'de  sooner  die  to-daie, 
Thanne  lyve  hys  slave,  as  manie  are, 
Though  I  shoulde  lyve  for  aie." 

Then  Canterlone  hee  dydd  goe  out, 

To  tell  the  maior  straite 
To  gett  all  thynges  ynne  reddyness 

For  goode  Syr  Charleses  fate. 


Thenne  Maister  Canynge  saughte  the  kynge, 

And  felle  down  onne  hys  knee ; 
"  I'm  come,"  quod  hee,  "  unto  your  grace. 

To  move  your  clemencye." 

"  Thenne,"  quod  the  kynge, "  youre  tale  speke  out, 
You  have  been  much  oure  friende  : 

Whatever  youre  request  may  bee, 
Wee  wylle  to  ytte  attende." 

"  My  nobile  leige !  alle  my  request 

Ys  for  a  nobile  knyghte, 
Who,  though  mayhap  hee  has  donne  wrongo, 

He  thoughte  ytte  etylle  was  ryghte  : 

"  Hee  has  a  spouse  and  children  twaine  ; 

Alle  rewyn'd  are  for  aie, 
YfF  that  you  are  resolved  to  lett 

Charles  Bawdin  die  to-daie." 

"  Speke  not  of  such  a  traytour  vile," 

The  kynge  ynn  furie  sayde, 
"  Before  the  evening  starre  doth  shcene, 

Bawdin  shall  loose  hys  hedde  : 

"  Justice  does  loudlie  for  hym  calle, 

And  hee  shalle  have  hys  meede  : 
Speke,  Maister  Canynge  !  whatte  thyngo  die 

Att  present  doe  you  neede  ?" 

"  My  nobile  leige  !"  goode  Canynge  siaydo, 

"  Leave  justice  to  our  Godde, 
And  laye  the  yronne  rule  asyde  ; 

Be  thyne  the  olyve  rodde. 

'•  Was  Godde  to  serche  our  hertes  and  reines, 

The  best  were  synners  grete  ; 
Christ's  vicarr  only  knowes  ne  synne, 

Ynne  all  thys  mortall  state. 

"  Lett  mercie  rule  thyne  infante  reign^, 
'Twylle  faste  thye  crowne  fulie  sure  ; 

From  race  to  race  thye  familie 
Alle  sovereigns  shall  endure  : 

"  But  yfF  wythe  bloode  and  slaughter  thou 

Beginne  thy  infante  reigne, 
Thy  crowne  upponne  thy  childrennes  browa 

Wylle  never  long  remayne." 

"  Canynge,  awaie  !  thys  traytour  vile 

Has  scorn'd  my  power  and  mee  ; 
Howe  canst  thou  then  for  such  a  manne 

Entreate  my  clemencye  ?" 

"  My  nobile  leige  !  the  trulie  brave 

Wylle  val'rous  actions  prize. 
Respect  a  brave  and  nobile  mynde, 

A  though  ynne  enemies." 


BRISTOWE    TRAGEDIE. 


159 


"  Canvnge,  avvaie  !    By  Godde  ynne  heaven 

Thatt  dydd  mee  being  gyve 
f  wylle  nott  taste  a  bitt  of  breade 

Whilst  thys  Syr  Charles  dothe  lyve. 

"  By  Marie,  and  alle  seinctes  ynne  heaven, 

Thys  sunne  shall  be  hys  lasle." 
Thenne  Canynge  dropp'd  a  brinie  teare. 

And  from  the  presence  paste. 

Wyth  herte  brymm-fulle  of  gnawynge  grief, 

Hee  to  Syr  Charles  dydd  goe, 
And  sat  hyram  downe  iiponne  a  stoole, 

And  teares  beganne  to  flowe. 

'  Wee  all  must  die,"  quod  brave  Syr  Charles : 
"  Whatte  bootes  ytte  howe  or  whenne  ; 

Dethe  ys  the  sure,  the  certaine  fate 
Of  all  wee  mortall  menne. 

"  Say  why,  my  friende,  thie  honest  soul 

Runns  over  att  thyne  eye  ; 
Ys  ytte  for  my  most  welcome  doome 

Thatt  thou  dost  child-lyke  crye  ?" 

Quod  godlie  Canynge,  "  I  doe  weepe, 

Thatt  thou  so  soone  must  die. 
And  leave  thy  sonnes  and  helpless  wyfe ; 

'Tys  thys  thatt  wettes  myne  eye." 

'  Thenne  drie  the  tears  thatt  out  thyne  eye 
From  godlie  fountaines  sprynge  ; 

Dethe  I  despise,  and  alle  the  power 
Of  Edwarde,  tray  tour  kynge. 

**  Whan  through  the  tyrant's  welcome  means 

I  shall  resigne  my  lyfe. 
The  Godde  I  serve  wylle  soone  provyde 

For  bothe  my  sonnes  and  wyfe. 

"  Before  I  sawe  the  lyghtsome  sunne, 

Thys  was  appointed  mee  ; 
Shall  mortall  manne  repyne  or  grudge 

What  Godde  ordeynes  to  bee  ? 

"  Howe  oft  ynne  batJaile  have  I  stoode; 

Whan  thousands  dyed  arounde  ; 
Whan  smokynge  streeraes  of  crimson  bloode 

Imbrew'd  the  fatten'd  grounde  : 

"  Howe  dydd  I  knowe  thatt  every  darte, 

Thatt  cutte  the  airie  wale, 
Myghte  nott  fynde  passage  toe  my  harte, 

And  cl»se  myne  eyes  for  aie  ? 

"  And  shall  I  nowe,  forr  feere  of  dethe, 
Looke  wa^jie  and  bee  dysmayde  ? 

Ne  !  froram  my  herte  flie  childyshe  feere  ; 
Bee  alle  the  manne  display'd. 

"  Ah,  goddelyke  Henry  !  Godde  forefende. 
And  guarde  thee  and  thye  sonne, 

YfF  'tis  hys  wylle  ;  but  yff  'tis  nott, 
Wny  thenne  hys  wylle  bee  donne. 

"  My  honest  friende,  my  faulte  has  beene 
To  serve  Godde  and  rny  prynce  ; 

And  tnalt  I  no  tyme-server  am, 
My  dethe  wylle  soone  convynce. 

*'  Ynne  Londonne  citye  was  I  borne, 

Of  parents  of  grete  note  ; 
My  fad  re  dydd  a  nobile  armes 

Emblazon  onne  hys  cote  : 


"  I  make  no  doubte  butt  hee  ys  gone, 

Where  soone  I  hope  to  goe  ; 
Where  wee  for  ever  shall  bee  blest, 

From  oute  the  reech  of  woe. 

"  Hee  taughte  mee  justice  and  the  laws 

Wyth  pitie  to  unite  ; 
And  eke  hee  taughte  mee  howe  to  knowe 

The  wronge  cause  from  the  ryghte  : 

"  Hee  taughte  mee  wythe  a  prudent  hande 

To  feede  the  hungrie  poore, 
Ne  lett  mye  sarvants  dryve  aw'aie 

The  hungrie  fromm  my  doore  : 

"  And  none  can  saye  but  alle  mye  lyfe 

I  have  hys  wordyes  kept ; 
And  summ'd  the  actyonns  of  the  dale 

Eche  nyj'ite  before  I  slept. 

"  I  have  a  spouse,  goe  aske  of  her 

Yff  I  defyled  her  bedde  ; 
I  have  a  kynge,  and  none  can  laie 

Black  treason  onne  my  hedde. 

"  Ynne  Lent,  and  onne  the  holie  eve, 

Fromm  fleshe  I  dydd  refrayne  ; 
Whie  should  I  thenne  appeare  dismay 'd 

To  leave  thys  worldis  of  payne? 

"Ne,  hapless  Henrie  !  I  rejoyce 

I  shall  ne  see  thye  dethe  ; 
Most  willynglie  ynne  thye  just  cause 

Doe  I  resign  my  brethe. 

"  Oh,  fickle  people  I  rewyn'd  londe  I 
Thou  wylt  kenne  peace  ne  moe  ; 

Whyle  Richard's  sonnes  exalt  themselves, 
Thye  brookes  wythe  bloude  wylle  flowe» 

"  Sale,  were  ye  tyred  of  godlie  peace, 

And  godlie  Henrie's  reigne, 
Thatt  you  dydd  choppe  your  easie  daies 

For  those  of  bloude  and  peyne  ? 

"  Whatte  though  I  onne  a  sledde  be  drawne^ 

And  mangled  by  a  hynde, 
I  doc  defye  the  traytour's  power, 

lies  can  ne  harm  my  raynde  ; 

"  Whatte  though,  uphoisted  onne  a  pole. 
My  lymbes  shall  rotte  ynne  ayre. 

And  r.e  ryche  monument  of  brasse 
Charles  Bawdin's  name  shall  bear ; 

"  Yett  ynne  the  holie  book  above, 
Whyche  tyme  can't  eate  awaie. 

There  wythe  the  sarvants  of  the  Lord 
Mye  name  shall  lyve  for  aie. 

"  Thenne  welcome  dethe !  for  lyfe  eterne 

I  leave  thys  mortall  lyfe  : 
Farewell  vayne  worlde,  and  all  that's  dear* 

Mye  sonnes  and  lovynge  wyfe  ! 

"  Nowe  dethe  as  welcome  to  mee  comes 

As  e'er  the  moneth  of  Male ; 
Nor  woulde  I  even  wyshe  to  lyve, 

Wyth  my  dere  wyfe  to  staie." 

Quod  Canynge,  "  'Tys  a  goodlie  thynge 

To  bee  prepared  to  die  ; 
And  from  thys  worlde  of  peyne  and  grefe 

To  Godde  ynne  heaven  to  flie." 


ioO 


CHATTERTON. 


And  nowe  the  belle  began  to  tolle, 

And  claryonnes  to  sound  ; 
Syr  Charles  hee  herde  the  horses  feete 

A  prauncyng  onne  the  grounde  : 

And  just  before  the  officers 

His  lovynge  wyfe  came  ynne, 
Weepynge  unfeigned  teers  of  woe, 

Wythe  loude  and  dysmalle  dynne. 

"  Sweet  Florence !  nowe  I  praie  forbere, 

Ynn  quiet  lett  mee  die  ; 
Praie  Godde  that  every  Christian  soule 

Maye  looke  onne  dethe  as  I. 

"  Sweet  Florence  !  why  these  brinie  leers  ? 

Theye  washe  my  soule  awaie, 
And  almost  make  mee  wyshe  for  lyfe, 

Wyth  thee,  sweete  dame,  to  stale. 

■•  'Tys  butt  a  journie  I  shalle  goe 

Untoe  the  lahde  of  blysse  ; 
Nowe,  as  a  proofe  of  husbande's  love, 

Receive  thys  holie  kysse." 

Thenne  Florence,  fault'ring  ynne  her  saie, 
Tremblynge  these  wordyes  spoke, 

"  Ah,  cruele  Edwarde  !  bloudie  kynge  .' 
Mye  herte  ys  welle  nyghe  broke  ; 

"  Ah,  sweete  Syr  Charles  !  why  wylt  thou  goe 

VVythoute  thye  lovynge  wyfe  ? 
The  cruelle  axe  thatt  cuttes  thye  necke, 

Ytte  eke  shall  ende  mye  lyfe." 

And  nowe  the  officers  came  ynne 

To  bryngo  Syr  Charles  awaie, 
Who  turnedd  to  hys  lovynge  wyfe, 

And  thus  to  her  dydd  saie  : 

"  I  goe  to  lyfe,  and  nott  to  dethe  ; 

Truste  thou  ynne  Godde  above. 
And  teache  thy  sonnes  to  feare  the  Lorde, 

And  ynne  theyre  hertes  hym  love  : 

"  Teache  them  to  runne  the  nobile  race 

Thatt  I  theyre  fader  runne  ; 
Florence  !  should  dethe  thee  take — adieu  .' 

Yee  officers,  leade  onne. 

Thenne  Florence  raved  as  anie  madde, 

And  dydd  her  tresses  tere  ; 
"  Oh,  staie  mye  husbande,  lorde,  and  lyfe  !" — 
«  Syr  Charles  thenne  dropt  a  teare. 

*Tyll  tyredd  oute  wythe  ravynge  loude, 

Shee  fellen  onne  the  floore  ; 
Syr  Charles  pxerted  alle  hys  myghte. 

And  march'd  fromm  oute  the  dore. 

Uponne  a  sledde  hee  mounted  thenne, 
Wythe  lookes  fulle  brave  and  sweete  , 

Lookes  thatt  enshone  ne  moe  concern 
Thanne  anie  ynne  the  strete. 

Before  hym  went  the  council-menne, 

Ynne  scarlett  robes  and  golde. 
And  tassils  spanglynge  ynne  the  sunne, 

Muche  glorious  to  beholde  : 

The  Freers  of  Seincte  Augustyne  next 

Appeared  to  the  syghte, 
Alle  cladd  ynne  homelie  russett  weedes. 

Of  godlie  monkysh  plyghte  : 


Ynne  diffiraunt  partes  a  godlie  psaume 
Moste  sweetlie  theye  dydd  chaunl  ; 

Behynde  theyre  backes  syx  mynst relies  came. 
Who  tuned  the  strunge  bataunt. 

Thenne  fy  ve-and-twenty  archers  came  ; 

Echone  the  bowe  dydd  bende. 
From  rescue  of  Kynge  Henrie's  friends 

Syr  Charles  forr  to  defend. 

Bolde  as  a  lyon  came  Syr  Charles, 
Drawne  onne  a  cloth-ladye  sledde. 

Bye  two  blacke  stedes  ynne  trappynges  whyte, 
Wyth  plumes  uponne  theyre  hedde  : 

Behynde  hym  fyve-and-twenty  moe 

Of  archers  strong  and  sloute, 
Wyth  bended  bowe  echone  ynne  hande, 

Marched  ynne  goodlie  route  : 

Seincte  Jameses  Freers  marched  next, 

Echone  hys  parte  dydd  chaunt ; 
Behynde  theyre  backes  syx  mynstrelles  came, 

Who  tuned  the  strunge  bataunt : 

Thenne  came  the  maior  and  eldermenne. 

Ynne  clothe  of  scarlett  deck't  ; 
And  theyre  attendyng  menne  echone, 

Lyke  easterne  princes  trick't : 

And  after  them  a  multitude 

Of  citizenns  dydd  thronge  ; 
The  wyndowes  were  alle  fulle  of  heddes 

As  hee  dydd  passe  alonge. 

And  whenne  hee  came  to  the  hyghe  crosse, 

Syr  Charles  dydd  turne  and  saie, 
"  O  Thou  thatt  savest  manne  fromme  synne, 

Washe  mye  soule  clean  thys  dale  !" 

Att  the  grete  mynster  wyndowe  sat 

The  kynge  ynne  myckle  state. 
To  see  Charles  Bawdin  goe  alonge 

To  hys  most  welcom  fate 

Soone  as  the  sledde  drewe  nyghe  enowe, 
Thatt  Edwarde  hee  myghte  heare, 

The  brave  Syr  Charles  hee  dydd  stande  uppe. 
And  thus  hys  wordes  declare  : 

"  Thou  seest  me,  Edwarde!  traytour  vile  I 

Exposed  to  infamie  ; 
Butt  bee  assured,  disloyall  manne  ! 

I'm  greaterr  nowe  thanne  thee. 

"  Bye  foule  proceedyngs,  murdre,  bloude, 
Thou  wearest  nowe  a  crowne  ;        % 

And  hast  appoynted  mee  to  die. 
By  power  nott  thyne  owne. 

"  Thou  thynkest  I  shall  dye  to -dale  ; 

I  have  beene  dede  till  nowe, 
And  soone  shall  lyve  to  weare  a  crowne 

For  aie  uponne  my  browe  : 

"  Whylst  thou,  perhapps,  for  some  few  yeartai, 

Shalt  rule  thys  fickle  lande. 
To  lett  them  knowe  howe  wyde  the  rule 

'Twixt  kynge  and  tyrante  hande : 

"  Thye  power  unjust,  thou  traytour  slave! 

Shall  falle  onne  thye  owne  hedde" — 
Fromm  out  of  hearyng  of  the  kynge 

Departed  thenne  the  sledde. 


MYNSIRELLES    SONGE. 


161 


I 


Kynge  Edwarde's  soule  rush'd  to  hys  face, 

Hee  turn'd  hys  hedde  awaie, 
And  to  hys  broder  Gloucester 

Hee  thus  dydd  speke  and  saie: 

"  To  hym  that  soe-rauch-dreaded  dethe 

Ne  ghastlie  terrors  brynge, 
Beholde  the  manne  I  hee  spake  the  truthe, 

Hee's  greater  thanne  a  kynge  !" 

"  Soe  lett  hym  die  !"  Duke  Richarde  sayde  ; 

"  And  maye  echone  cure  foes 
Bende  downe  theyre  neckes  to  bloudie  axe, 

And  feede  the  carryon  crowes.' 

And  nowe  the  horses  gentlie  drevve 
Syr  Charles  uppe  the  hyghe  hylle  ; 

The  axe  dydd  glysterr  ynne  the  sunne, 
Hys  pretious  bloude  to  spylle. 

Syr  Charles  dydd  uppe  the  scaffold  goe. 

As  uppe  a  gilded  carre 
Of  victorye,  bye  val'rous  chiefs 

Gayn'd  ynne  the  bloudie  warre  : 

And  to  the  people  hee  dyd  saie, 

"  Beholde  you  see  mee  dye, 
For  servynge  loyally  mye  kynge, 

Mye  kynge  most  ryghtfullie. 

'  As  longe  as  Edwarde  rules  thys  lande, 

Ne  quiet  you  wyUe  knowe  : 
Your  sonnes  and  husbandes  shalle  bee  slayne. 

And  brookes  wythe  bloude  shalle  flowe. 

"You  leave  your  goode  and  lawfulle  kynge, 

Whenne  ynne  adversitye  ; 
Lyke  mee,  untoe  the  true  cause  stycke, 

And  for  the  true  cause  dye." 

Thenne  hee,  wyth  preestes,  uponne  hys  knees, 

A  prayer  to  Godde,dyd  make, 
Beseechynge  hym  unto  hymselfe 

Hys  partynge  soule  to  take. 

Thenne  kneelynge  downe,  hee  layde  hys  hedde, 

Most  seemlie  onne  the  blocke  ; 
Whyche  frorarae  hys  bodie  fayre  at  once 

The  able  heddes-raanne  stroke  ; 

And  oute  the  bloude  beganne  to  flowe, 

And  rounde  the  scaffolde  twyne  ; 
And  teares,  enow  to  washe't  awaie, 

Dydd  flowe  fromme  each  man's  eyne. 

The  bloudie  axe  hys  bodie  fayre 

Ynnto  foure  partes  cutte  ; 
And  everye  parte,  and  eke  hys  hedde, 

Uponne  a  pole  was  putte. 

One  parte  dyd  rotte  onne  Kynwulph-hylle, 

One  onne  the  mynster-tower. 
And  one  from  off  the  castle-gate 

The  crowen  dydd  devoure  : 

The  other  onne  Seyncte  Powle's  goode  gate, 

A  dreery  spectacle  ; 
Hys  hedde  was  placed  onne  the  hyghe  crosse, 

Ynne  hyghe  strete  most  nobile. 

Thus  was  the  ende  of  Bawdin's  fate  : 

Godde  prosper  longe  oure  kynge, 
And  grante  hee  maye,  wyth  Bawdin's  soule, 

Ynne  Heaven  Godde's  mercie  synge  ! 

Vol.  III.— 11 


MYNSTRELLES  SONGE. 

O !  synge  untoe  mie  roundelaie, 

0  !  droppe  the  brynie  teare  wythe  mee, 
Daunce  ne  moe  atte  hallie  dale, 
Lycke  a  rennynge  ry  ver  bee  ; 

Mie  love  ys  dedde, 
Gon  to  hys  death-bedde, 
Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

Blacke  hys  cryne  as  the  wyntere  nyghte, 
Whyte  hys  rode  as  the  sommer  snowe, 
Rodde  hys  face  as  the  mornynge  lyghte, 
Cald  he  lyes  ynne  the  grave  belowe  ; 

Mie  love  ys  dedde, 

Gon  to  hys  death-bedde, 

Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

Swote  hys  tongue  as  the  throstles  note, 
Quycke  ynn  daunce  as  thought  canne  bee, 
Defe  hys  taboure,  codgelle  stote, 
O !  hee  lyes  bie  the  wyllowe  tree : 

Mie  love  ys  dedde, 

Gonne  to  hys  death-bedde, 

Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

Harke,  the  ravenne  flappes  hys  wynge, 
Ynne  the  briered  delle  belowe  ; 
Harke  !  the  dethe-owle  loude  dothe  synge. 
To  the  nyghte-mares  as  heie  goe ; 

Mie  love  ys  dedde, 

Gonne  to  hys  death-bedde, 

Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

See !  the  whyte  moone  sheenes  onne  hie , 
Whyterre  ys  mie  true  love's  shroude  ; 
Whyterre  yanne  the  mornynge  skie, 
Whyterre  yanne  the  evenynge  cloude  ; 

Mie  love  ys  dedde, 

Gon  to  hys  death-bedde, 

Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

Heere  uponne  mie  true  love's  grave, 
Schallc  the  baren  fleurs  be  layde, 
Nee  on  hallie  seyncte  to  save 
Al  the  celness  of  a  raayde. 

Mie  love  ys  dedde, 

Gon  to  hys  death-bedde, 

Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

Wythe  mie  hondes  I'll  dente  the  brieres 
Rounde  his  hallie  corse  to  gre, 
Ouphante  fairie,  lyghte  your  fyres, 
Heere  mie  bodie  still  schalle  bee. 

Mie  love  ys  dedde, 

Gon  to  hys  death-bedde, 

Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

Comme,  wythe  acorne-coppe  and  thome, 
Drayne  mie  hartys  blodde  awaie  ; 
Lyfe  and  alle  yts  goode  I  scorne, 
Daunce  bie  nete,  or  feaste  bie  daie. 

Mie  love  ys  dedde, 

Gon  to  hys  death-bedde, 

Al  under  the  wyllowe  tree. 

Waterre  wrytches,  crownede  wythe  reytea 
Bere  mee  to  yer  leathalle  tyde. 

1  die :  1  comme  ;  mie  true  love  waytes.- 
Thos  the  damselle  spake,  and  dyed. 


WILLIAM    GIFFORD 


William  Gifford,  the  son  of  a  plumber  and 
glazier,  who  dissipated  his  property  by  interape- 
Tance  and  extravagance,  was  born  at  Ashburton,  in 
Devonshire,  in  April,  1755.  He  lost  his  father 
whei?  only  twelve  years  of  age,  and  in  about  a 
year  afterward  his  mother  died,  leaving  himself 
and  an  infant  brother,  "  without  a  relation  or  friend 
in  the  world."  The  latter  was  sent  to  the  work- 
house, and  the  subject  of  our  memoir  was  received 
into  the  house  of  his  godfather,  who  put  him  to 
school  for  about  three  months,  but  at  the  end  of 
that  period  took  him  home,  with  the  view  of  em- 
ploying him  as  a  ploughboy.  Being  unfitted, 
however,  for  this  occupation,  by  an  injury  on  his 
breast,  he  was  sent  to  sea  in  a  coasting  vessel,  in 
which  he  remained  for  nearly  a  year.  "  It  will  be 
easily  conceived,"  he  says  in  his  autobiography, 
*'  that  my  life  was  a  life  of  hardship.  I  was  not 
only  'a  ship-boy  on  the  high  and  giddy  ma«t,'  but 
also  in  the  cabin,  where  every  menial  office  fell  to 
my  lot ;  yet,  if  I  was  restless  and  discontented,  I 
can  safeiy  say  it  was  not  so  much  on  account  of 
this,  as  of  my  being  precluded  from  all  possi- 
bility of  reading  ;  as  my  master  did  not  possess,  nor 
do  I  recollect  seeing,  during  the  whole  time  of  my 
abode  with  him,  a  single  book  of  any  description, 
except  the  Coasting  Pilot." 

He  was  at  length  recalled  by  his  godfather,  and 
again  put  to  school,  where  he  made  such  rapid 
progress,  that  in  a  few  months  he  was  qualified  to 
assist  his  master  in  any  extraordinary  emergency  ; 
and,  although  only  in  his  fifteenth  year,  began  to 
think  of  turning  instructer  himself  His  plans 
Tvere,  however,  treated  Avith  contempt  by  his 
guardian,  who  apprenticed  him  to  a  shoemaker,  at 
Ashburton,  to  whom  our  author  went  "  in  sullen- 
ness  and  in  silence,"  and  with  a  perfect  hatred  of 
his  new  occupation.  His  favourite  pursuit  at  this 
time  was  arithmetic,  and  the  manner  in  which  he 
continued  to  extend  his  knowledge  of  that  science 
is  thus  related  by  himself:  "  I  possessed,"  he  ob- 
serves, "  but  one  book  in  the  world  ;  it  was  a  trea- 
tise on  algebra,  given  to  me  by  a  young  woman, 
who  had  found  it  in  a  lodging-house.  I  considered 
it  as  a  treasure,  but  it  was  a  treasure  locked  up  ; 
for  it  supposed  the  reader  to  be  well  acquainted 
with  simple  equations,  and  I  knew  nothing  of  the 
matter.  My  master's  son  had  purchased  Fenning's 
Introduction :  this  was  precisely  what  I  wanted  ; 
but  he  carefully  concealed  it  from  me,  and  I  was 
indebted  to  chance  alone  for  stumbling  on  his 
hiding-place.  I  sat  up  for  the  greatest  part  of 
several  nights  successively ;  and,  before  he  sus- 
pected his  treatise  was  discovered,  had  completely 
mastered  it.  I  could  now  enter  upon  my  own  :  and 
that  carried  me  pretty  far  into  the  science.  This 
WM  not    done  without  difficulty.    I   had    not  a 


farthing  on  earth,  nor  a  friend  to  give  me  one; 
pen,  ink,  and  paper,  therefore,  (in  despite  of  th6 
flippant  remark  of  Lord  Orford,)  were,  for  the  rnosi 
part,  as  completely  out  of  my  reach  as  a  crown  and 
sceptre.  There  was,  indeed,  a  resource  ;  but  the 
utmost  caution  and  secrecy  were  necessary  in  ap- 
plying to  it.  I  beat  out  pieces  of  leather  as  smooth 
as  possible,  and  wrought  my  problems  on  them 
with  a  blunted  awl  ;  for  the  rest,  my  memory  was 
tenacious,  and  I  could  multiply  and  divide  by  it 
to  a  great  extent." 

Under  the  same  unfavourable  circumstances,  he 
composed  and  recited  to  his  associates  small  pieces 
of  poetry,  and,  being  at  last  invited  to  repeat  them 
to  other  circles,  little  collections  were  made  for 
him,  which,  he  says,  sometimes  produced  him  "  as 
much  as  sixpence  in  an  evening."  The  sums 
which  he  thus  obtained,  vie  devoted  to  the  pur- 
chase of  pens,  paper,  &c. ;  Dooks  of  geometry,  and 
of  the  higher  branches  of  algebra  ;  but  his  master, 
finding  that  he  had,  in  some  of  the  verses  before 
mentioned,  satirized  both  himself  and  his  cus- 
tomers, seized  upon  his  books  and  papers,  and  pro- 
hibited him  from  again  repeating  a  line  of  his  com- 
positions. At  length,  in  the  sixth  year  of  his  ap- 
prenticeship, his  lamentable  doggerel,  as  he  termtf 
it,  having  reached  the  ears  of  Mr.  Cookesley,  a 
surgeon,  that  gentleman  set  on  foot  '*  a  subscription 
for  purchasing  the  remainder  of  the  time  of  William 
GifR)rd,  and  for  enabling  him  to  improve  himself  in 
writing  and  English  grammar." 

He  now  quitted  shoemaking,  and  entered  the 
school  of  the  Rev.  Thomas  Smerdon  ;  and  in  two 
years  and  two  months  from  what  he  calls  the  day 
of  his  emancipation,  he  had  made  such  progress, 
that  his  master  declared  him  to  be  fit  for  the  uni- 
versity. He  was  accordingly  sent  by  Mr.  Cookes- 
ley to  Oxford,  where  he  obtained,  by  the  exertions 
of  the  same  gentleman,  the  office  of  Bible  reader 
at  Exeter  College,  of  which  he  was  entered  a 
member.  Here  he  pursued  his  studies  with  unre- 
mitting diligence,  and  had  already  commenced  his 
poetical  translation  of  the  Satires  of  Juvenal,  when 
the  death  of  Mr.  Cookesley  interrupted  the  progress 
of  the  work.  A  fortunate  accident  procured  him 
a  new  patron  in  Earl  Grosvenor,  in  wnose  family 
he  for  some  time  resided,  and  afterward  accom- 
panied to  the  continent  his  son,  Lord  Belgrave. 
On  his  return  to  England,  he  settled  in  London, 
and,  devoting  himself  to  literary  pursuits,  publish- 
ed, in  1791,  and  1794,  successively,  his  poetical 
satires,  the  Baviad,  and  the  Maeviad ;  the  one 
containing  an  attack  on  the  drama,  and  the  othef 
an  invective  against  the  favourite  poets  of  the  day 
In  1800,  he  published  his  Epistle  to  Peter  Pindar, 
in  which  he  charged  the  satirist  with  blasphemy  ; 
and  Wolcot  accused  him  of  obscenifv    This  led  tc 

'f52 


BAVIAD. 


163 


an  assault,  and  Wolcot  would  have  inflicted  severe 
chastisement  on  Gifford,  but  for  the  interference 
of  a  powerful  Frenchman,  who  happened  to  be 
present,  and  who  turned  Wolcot  out  of  the  reading- 
room,  where  the  scene  occurred,  into  the  street, 
throwing  his  wig  and  cane  after  him.  In  1802,  ap- 
peared his  long-promised  version  of  Juvenal,  which 
was  attacked  by  the  Critical  Review,  in  an  erudite 
but  somewhat  personal  article,  that  called  forth 
a  reply  from  our  author,  entitled,  Examination  of 
the  Strictures  of  the  Critical  Review  upon  Juve- 
nal. 

In  1805,  and  1816,  he  published,  successively, 
his  editions  of  Massinger,  and  Ben  Jonson  ;  and  in 
1821,  appeared  his  translation  of  Persius.  He  next 
edited  the  works  of  Ford,  in  two  volumes  ;  and  he 
had  proceeded  with  five  volumes  of  those  of  Shir- 
ley, when  his  labours  were  terminated  by  his  death. 
He  died  at  Pimlico.  on  the  31st  of  December,  1826, 
and  was  interred  in  Westminster  Abbey.  Being  a 
single  man,  he  died  in  opulent  circumstances  ; 
having  enjoyed,  for  some  years,  an  annuity  from 
Lord  Grosvenor,  besides  holding  the  office  of  pay. 
master  of  the  band  of  gentleman  pensioners,  with 
a  salary  of  300Z.  a  year;  and,  for  a  time,  that  of 
comptroller  of  the  lottery,  with  a  salary  of  6001.  a 
year. 

The  fame  of  pifibrd  rests  principally  upon  his 
Juvenal,  which  occupied  the  greater  part  of  his 
life,  and  was  sent  into  the  world  with  every  ad- 
vantage that  could  be  derived  from  the  most  care- 
ful attention  on  the  part  of  the  author,  and  the 
correction  of  his  most  able  friends.  It  still  falls 
short,  however,  of  Mr.  Giffbrd's  attempt  to  give 


Juvenal  entire,  except  in  his  grossness,  and  to  mak« 
him  speak  as  he  would  have  spoken  among  us. 
In  this  |e  has  so  far  failed,  that  whilst  he  omits  ttf 
furnish  the  glowing  imagery,  luxuriant  diction,  and 
impetuous  fluency  of  the  Roman  satirist,  he  has 
retained  many  of  his  worst  and  most  objectionable 
passages.  It  has  been  well  observed,  by  a  writer 
in  the  New  Monthly  Magazine,  that  his  translation 
presents  us  rather  with  the  flail  of  an  infatuated 
rustic,  than  with  the  exterminating  falchion  of  Ju- 
venal. His  Baviad  and  Maeviad  evince  first-rate 
satirical  powers ;  but  in  these,  as  in  most  of  his 
writings,  a  degree  of  coarse  virulence  displays 
itself,  which  shows  that  literary  associations  had 
not  refined  his  mind. 

These  satires  would  not  have  found  a  place  in 
this  collection,  but  for  their  intimate  connexion 
with  English  literary  history,  and  the  influeneo 
they  undoubtedly  exerted  in  reforming  public 
taste,  and  preparing  the  way  for  that  galaxy  of 
illustrious  poets  who  succeeded  him.  Of  late  years 
Giflford  was  principally  known  as  the  editor  of 
the  Quarterly  Review,  a  work  established  by  him- 
self in  1809,  and  of  which  he  continued  to  be  the 
conductor  till  1824.  He  also  for  some  time  edited 
the  Anti-jacobin  newspaper,  in  which  he  displayed 
his  usual  acuteness,  asperity,  and  subservience  to 
the  party  by  which  he  thrived  ;  his  politics  being 
invariably  those  of  his  interest. 

Giflbrd  is  chiefly  known  in  America  by  his  base 
and  venomous  attacks  upon  us  in  the  Quarterly 
Review.  These,  however,  were  probably  neces- 
sary in  order  for  him  to  retain  the  direction  of  that 
periodical.    He  slandered  for  his  bread. 


THE    BAVIAD. 

INTRODUCTION. 

Tota  cohors  tamen  est  inimica,  omnesque  manipli 
Consensu  magno  ofBciunt : — dignum  erit  ergo 
Declamatoris  Mutinensis  corde  Vagelli, 
Cum  duo  crura  habeas,  offendere  tot  caligatos ! 

[n  1785,  a  few  English  of  both  sexes,*  whom 
O  mce  had  jumbled  together  at  Florence,  took  a 
fi  icy  to  while  away  their  time  in  scribbling  high- 
flc  vn  panegyrics  on  themselves,  and  complimentary 
"  canzonettas"  on  two  or  three  Italians,!  who  under- 

*  Among  whom  I  find  the  names  of  Mrs.  Piozzi,  Mr. 
Greathead,  Mr.  Merry,  Mr.  Parsons,  &c. 

t  Mrs.  Piozzi  has  since  published  a  work  on  what  she 
is  pleased  to  call  British  Synonymes :  the  better,  I 
suppose,  to  enable  these  foreign  gentlemen  to  compre- 
hend her  multifarious  erudition. 

Though  "  no  one  belter  knows  his  own  house"  than  1 
the  vanity  of  this  woman,  yet  the  idea  of  her  undertaking 
Buch  a  work  had  never  entered  my  head ;  and  I  was 
thunderstruck  when  I  first  saw  it  announced.  To  exe- 
cute it  with  any  tolerable  degree  of  success,  required  a 
rare  cun'binalion  of  talents,  among  the  least  of  which 
may  be  numbered,  neatness  of  style,  acuteness  of  percejv 
lion,  and  a  more  than  common  accuracy  of  discrimina- 
tion ;  and  Mrs.  Piozzi  brought  to  the  task  a  jargon  long 
since  become  proverbial  for  its  vulgarity,  an  utter  inca- 
pability of  defining  a  single  term  in  the  language,and  just 


stood  too  little  of  the  language  in  which  they  were 
written  to  be  disgusted  with  them.  In  this  there 
was  not  much  harm  ;  nor,  indeed,  much  good  :  but, 
as  folly  is  progressive,  they  soon  wrought  them- 
selves into  an  opinion  that  the  fine  things  were 
really  deserved,  which  they  mutually  said  and  sung 
of  each  other. 

Thus  persuaded,  they  were  unwilling  that  their 
inimitable  productions  should  be  confined  to  the 
little  circle  which  produced  them  ;  they  therefore 
transmitted  them  hither  ;  and,  as  their  friends  were 
strictly  enjoined  not  to  show  them,  they  were  first 
handed  about  the  town  with  great  assiduity,  and 
then  sent  to  the  press. 

A  short  time  before  the  period  of  which  we  speak, 
a  knot  of  fantastic  coxcombs,  headed  by  one  Este, 


as  much  Latin  from  a  child's  Syntax,  as  sufficed  to  expose 
the  ignorance  which  she  so  anxiously  labours  to  conceal. 
"  If  such  a  one  be  fit  to  write  on  Synonymes,  speak." 
PighoUi  himself  laughs  in  his  sleeve;  and  his  countrymen, 
long  since  undeceived,  prize  ihe  lady's  talents  at  their 
true  worth, 

Et  centum  Tales*  curt,o  centusse  licentur.^ 

1  qu»re  Thrales  '.—FrinUr's  Devil. 

2  Thus  translated  by  Mr.  Bulmer's  devil,  (the  young  gentleman  who  fur 
nished  the  conjectural  emendation  above,  which  is  highly  spoken  of  by  th« 
German  critics :) 

And,  for  a  dipt  half-crown,  expose  to  sale 
A  hundred  Synomists  like  Madam  Thra'.«. 


164 


GIFFORD. 


had  set  up  a  daily  paper  called  ihe  World.*  It 
was  perfectly  unintelligible,  and  therefore  much 
read  ;  it  was  equally  lavish  of  praise  ar^  abuse, 
(praise  of  what  appeared  in  its  own  columns,  and 
abuse  of  every  thing  that  appeared  elsewhere  ;) 
and  as  its  conductors  were  at  once  ignorant  and 
conceited,  they  took  upon  themselves  to  direct  the 
taste  of  the  town,  by  prefixing  a  short  panegyric  to 
every  trifle  which  came  before  them. 

It  is  scarcely  necessary  to  observe,  that  Yendas, 
and  Laura  Marias,  and  Tony  Pasquins,  have  long 
claimed  a  prescriptive  right  to  infest  our  periodical 
publications  :  but  as  the  editors  of  them  never  pre- 
tended to  criticise  their  harmless  productions,  they 
were  merely  perused,  laughed  at,  and  forgotten. 
A  paper,  therefore,  which  introduced  their  trash 
with  hyperbolical  encomiums,  and  called  upon  the 
town  to  admire  it,  was  an  acquisition  of  the  utmost 
importance  to  these  poor  people,  and  naturally  be- 
came the  grand  depository  of  their  lucubrations. 

At  this  auspicious  period  the  first  cargo  of  poetry 
arrived  from  Florence,  and  was  given  to  the  public 
through  the  medium  of  this  favoured  paper.  There 
was  a  specious  brilliancy  in  these  exotics  which 
dazzled  the  native  grubs  who  had  never  ventured 
beyond  a  sheep,  and  a  crook,  and  a  rose  tree  grove, 
with  an  ostentatious  display  of  "  blue  hills,"  and 
*  crashing  torrents,"  and  "  petrifying  suns  I"t  From 
admiration  to  imitation  is  but  a  step.  Honest  Yenda 
tried  his  hand  at  a  descriptive  ode,  and  succeeded 
beyond  his  hopes ;  Anna  Matilda  followed  ;  in  a 
word, 

Contagio  labem 

Hanc  dedit  in  plures,  sicut  grex  totus  in  agris 
Uiiius  scabie  cadit,  el  porrigine  porci. 

While  the  epidemic  malady  was  raging  from  fool 
to  fool,  Delia  Crusca  came  over,  and  immediately 
announced  himself  by  a  sonnet  to  Love.  Anna 
Matilda  wrote  an  incomparable  piece  of  nonsense 
in  praise  of  it :  and  the  two  "  great  luminaries  of 
the  age,"  as  Mr.  Bell  properly  calls  them,  fell  despe- 
rately in  lovej  with  each  other.    From  that  period, 


*  In  this  paper  were  given  the  earliest  specimens  of 
those  unqualified  and  audacious  attacks  on  all  private 
character;  which  the  town  first  smiled  at  for  their 
quaintness,  then  tolerated  for  their  absurdity,  and  now— 
that  other  papers,  equally  wicked,  and  more  intelligible, 
have  ventured  to  imitate  it, — will  have  to  lament  to  the 
last  hour  of  British  liberty.  ■ 

t  Here  Mr.  Parsons  is  pleased  to  advance  his  farthing 
rushlight.  "  Crashing  torrents  and  petrifying  suns  are 
extremely  ridiculous,"— /mftes  confitentem !  "  but  they  are 
not  to  be  found  in  the  Florence  Miscellany."  Who  said 
they  were?  But  apropos  of  the  Florence  Miscellany.  Mr. 
Parsons  says  that!  obtained  a  copy  of  it  by  a  breach  of  con- 
fidence; and  seems  to  fancy,  "goodeasy  man!"' thati  de- 
rived some  prodigious  advantage  from  it:  yet  I  had  written 
both  the  poems,  and  all  the  notes  save  one,  before  I  knew 
that  there  was  such  a  treasure  in  existence.  He  might 
have  seen,  if  passion  had  not  rendered  him  as  blind  as 
a  mill  horse,  that  I  constantly  allude  to  poems  published 
Beparately  in  the  periodical  sheets  of  the  day,  and  after- 
ward collected  with  great  parade  by  Bell  and  others.  I 
never  looked  into  the  Florence  Miscellany  but  once  ; 
and  the  only  use  then  made  of  it  was  to  extract  a  sound- 
mg  passage  from  the  odes  of  that  deep-mouthed  Theban, 
Bertie  Greathead,  Esq. 

jThe  termination  of  this  "everlasting"  attachment 
was  curious.  When  the  genuine  enthusiasm  of  the  cor- 
reoyondence  (Preface  to  the  Album)  had  continued  for 


not  a  day  passed  without  an  amatory  epistle  fraught 
with  thunder  and  lightning,  et  quicquid   habent 

telorum  armamentaria  cosli. ^The  fever  turned 

to  a  frenzy  5  Laura  Maria,  Carlos,  Orlando,  Ade- 
laide, and  a  thousand  nameless  names  caught  the 
infection  :  and  from  one  end  of  the  kingdom*  to 
the  otlier,  all  w'as  nonsense  and  Delia  Crusca. 

Even  THEN,  I  waited,  with  a  patience  which  I 
can  better  account  for  than  excuse,  lor  some  one 
(abler  than  myself)  to  step  forth  to  correct  the 
growing  depravity  of  the  public  taste,  and  check 
the  inundation  of  absurdity  now  bursting  upon  us 
from  a  thousand  springs.  As  no  one  appeared,  and 
as  the  evil  grew  every  day  more  alarming,  (for  bed- 
ridden old  women,  and  girls  at  their  samplers  be- 
gan to  rave,)  I  determined,  without  much  confidence 
of  success,  to  try  what  could  be  effected  by  my 
feeble  powers  ,•  and  accordingly  wrote  the  follow- 
ing poem. 

1800. 

Whoever  has  read  the  first  editions  of  the  Baviad 
must  have  perceived,  that  its  satire  was  direct- 
ed against  the  wretched  taste  of  the  followers  of 
the  Cruscan  school,  without  the  slightest  reference 
to  their  other  qualities,  moral  or  political. 

In  this  I  should  have  persevered  to  the  end,  had 
I  not  been  provoked  to  transgress  the  bounds  pre- 
scribed, to  myself,  by  the  diabolical  conduct  of  one 
of  my  heroes,  the  notorious  Anthony  Pasquin- 

This  man,  who  earned  a  miserable  subsistence 
by  working  on  the  fear  or  vanity  of  artists,  actors, 
&c.,  hardened  by  impunity,  flew  at  length  at  higher 


some  time,  Delia  Crusca  became  impatient  for  a  sight 
of  his  beloved,  and  Anna,  in  evil  hour,  consented  to  be- 
come visible.    What  was  the  consequence  ? 

Tacta  places,  audita  places,  si  non  xideare 
Tota  places,  neutro  si  videare  places. 

Mr.  Bell,  however,  tells  the  story  another  way.  Accord- 
ing to  him,  "Chance  alone  procured  the  interview." 
AVhatever  procured  it,  all  the  lovers  of  "  true  poetry," 
with  Mrs.  Piozzi  at  their  head,  expected  wonders  from 
it.  The  flame  that  burned  with  such  ardour  while  the 
lady  was  yet  unseen,  they  hoped  would  blaze  with  unex- 
ampled brightness  at  the  sight  of  the  bewitching  object. 
Such  were  their  hopes.  But  what,  as  Dr.  Johnson 
gravely  asks,  are  the  hojjes  of  man !  or  indeed  of  woman  ; 
—for  this  fatal  meeting  put  an  end  to  the  whole.  With 
the  exception  of  a  marvellous  dithyrambic,  which  Delia 
Crusca  wrote  while  the  impression  was  yet  warm  upon 
him,  and  which  consequently  gave  a  most  accurate  ac- 
count of  it,  nothing  has  since  appeared  to  the  honour  ol 
Anna  Matilda :  and  the  "  tenth  muse,"  the  "  angel,"  the 
"  goddess,"  has  sunk  into  an  old  woman ;  with  the  com- 
foriing  reflection  of  having  mumbled  love  to  an  ungrate- 
fii;  swain. 

Non  hie  est  sermo  pudicus 

In  vetula,  quoties  lascivum  intervenit  illud 
Zcor]  Kai  ^vxv- 

♦  Kingdom.  This  is  a  trifle.  Heaven  itself,  ifwe  may  be 
lieve  Mrs.  Robinson,  took  part  in  the  general  infatuation: 

"  When  midst  ethereal  fire 

Thou  strikest  thy  Della  Cruscan  lyre, 
Round  to  catch  the  hearenly  song, 
Myriads  of  trondering  seraphs  throng  !" 
I  almost  shudder  while  I  quote :  but  so  it  ever  is. 

Fools  rush  in  where  angels  fear  to  tread. 
And  Merry  had  given  an  example  of  impious  temerity 
which  this  wretched  woman  was  but  too  eager  to  imitate 


BAVIAD. 


165 


game,  and  directed  his  attacks  against  an  illustrious 
■tranger. 

Tliese,  which  were  continued,  from  day  to  day, 
in  the  Morning  Post,  with  a  rancour  that  seemed 
indefatigable,  were,  after  some  time,  incorporated 
with  such  additional  falsehoods  as  the  most  savage 
hostility  could  supply,  and  printed  in  a  book,  to 
which  Anthony  thought  fit  to  prefix  his  name. 

It  was  now  that  I  first  found  a  fair  opportunity 
for  dragging  this  pest  belore  the  public,  and  setting 
him  up- to  view  in  his  true  light.  I  was  not  slow 
in  seizing  it,  and  the  immediate  consequence  was, 
that  an  action  was  commenced,  or  threatened 
against  every  publisher  of  the  Baviad. 

If  we  did  not  know  the  horror  which  these  obscure 
reptiles,  who  fatten  on  the  filthy  dregs  of  slander 
and  obscenity,  feel  at  being  forced  into  day,  we 
might  be  justly  surprised  that  a  man  who  lived  by 
violating  the  law  should  have  recourse  to  it  for 
protection  ;  that  a  common  libeller,  who  spared  no 
rank  nor  condition,  should  cry  out  on  the  license 
of  the  times,  and  solicit  pity  and  redress  from  that 
commimity,  almost  every  individual  of  which  he 
had  wantonly  and  wickedly  insulted. 

The  first,  and,  indeed,  the  only  trial  that  came 
on,  was  that  of  Mr.  Faulder,  (a  name  not  often 
coupled  with  that  of  a  dealer  in  libels,)  who  w-as 
not  only  acquitted,  but,  by  a  verdict  of  his  peers, 
declared  to  have  been  unjustly  put  in  a  state  of 
accusation. 

Mr.  Garrow  was  furnished  with  a  number  of  ex- 
tracts from  Anthony's  "multifarious  productions.  I 
lamented  at  first,  that  the  impatient  indignation  of 
the  jury  at  the  plaintift's  baseness,  coinciding  with 
that  of  the  upright  judge  who  presided,  stopped  him 
short,  and  prevented  their  being  read.  But  I  am 
now  satisfiedwith  the  interruption.  It  is  better  that 
such  a  collection  of  slander,  and  obscenity,  and 
treason,  and  impiety,  should  moulder  in  the  obscu- 
rity to  which  its  ineffable  stupidity  has  con- 
demned it,  than  that  it  should  be  brought  forward 
to  the  reprobation  and  abhorrence  of  the  public. 

Mr.  Erskine,  who  did  every  thing  for  his  client 
which  could  be  expected  from  his  integrity  and 
abilities,  applied  in  the  "  next  ensuing  term"  for  a 
new  trial. — I  have  forgotten  the  motives  for  this 
application,  but  it  was  resisted  by  Lord  Kenyon ; 
and  chiefly  on  the  ground  of  the  marked  indignation 
shown  by  the  jury  at  the  plaintiff  's  j^famous  con- 
duct and  character,  and  that,  even  before  Mr. 
Garrow  had  fully  entered  into  them, 

To  finish  Anthony's  history. — His  occupation  was 
now  gone.  As  a  minister  of  malevolence  he  was 
no  longer  worth  hiring  ;  and  as  a  dispenser  of  fame, 
no  longer  worth  feeding.  Thus  abandoned,  with- 
out meat  and  without  money,  he  applied  to  a  chari- 
table institution  for  a  few  guineas,  with  which  he 
shipped  himself  off  for  America, 
Leonum 
A.riJa  nutrix. 
But  he  was  even  here  too  late  ;  that  country  had 
discovered,  some  time  before  Anthony  reached  it, 
that  receiving  into  its  bosom  the  refuse  and  offal 
of  every  dine,  and  seemingly  for  no  other  reason 
but  because  they  were  so,  was  neither  the  way  to 
grow  rich  nor  respectatble.  Anthony  nad,  therefore, 
no  congratulatory  addresses  presented  to  him  on 
his  arrival,  but  was  left,  vith  hundreds  of  his  poor 


persecuted  brethren,  to  shift  for  himself  He  accord- 
ingly engaged  in  a  New  York  paper,  called  "  The 
Federalist,"  but  unfortunately  his  writings  did  not 
happen  to  hit  the  taste  of  his  adopted  countrymen; 
for  after  a  few  numbers  had  appeared,  he  was 
taken  up  for  a  libel,  and  is  now  either  chained  to 
a  wheelbarrow  on  the  Albany  road,  or  rotting  in 
the  provincial  jail. 

I  take  some  little  credit  to  myself  for  having 
driven  this  pernicious  pest  out  of  the  society  upon 
which  he  preyed  :  I  say  some  little — for,  to  be  can- 
did, (though  I  would  not  have  shrunk  from  any 
talents  in  the  contest,)  the  warfare  with  Anthony 
was  finished  ere  well  begun.  Short  and  slight  as 
it  was,  however,  it  furnishes  an  important  lesson. 
Those  general  slanderers,  those  bugbears  of  a  timid 
public,  are  as  sneaking  as  they  are  insolent, as  weak 
as  they  are  wicked. — Resist  them,  and  like  the 
devil,  to  use  a  sacred  expression,  "  Resist  them, 
and  they  will  flee  from  you." 


THE    BAVIAD; 

A    PARAPHRASTIC    IMITATION  OF  THE  FIRST   SATIRE 
OF   PERSIUS. 

Impune  ergo  rnihi  recitaverit  tile  Sonettas, 
Ilic  Elegos. 

P.  Whf.n  I  look  round  on  man,  and  find  how  vain 
His  passions — 

F.  Save  me  from  this  canting  strain ! 
Why,  who  will  read  it  ? 

P.  This,  my  friend,  to  me 
jp.  None,  by  my  life. 

P.  What!  none  ?  Sure,  two  or  three — 
F.  No,  no ;  not  one.     'Tis  sad  ;  but — 

P.  "  Sad,  but  '"—Why  ? 
Pity  is  insult  here.     I  care  not,  I, 
Though  Boswell,*  of  a  song  and  supper  vain. 


*  Cut  non  dictus  Hylas  7  And  who  has  not  heard  of 
James  Boswell,  Esq. 7  All  the  world  knows  (for  all  the 
world  has  it  under  his  own  hand)  that  he  composed  a 
BALLAD  in  honour  of  Mr.  Pitt,  with  very  little  assistance 
from  Dr.  Truster,  and  less  from  Mr.  Dilxlin  ;  which  he 
produced,  to  the  utter  confusion  of  the  Foxites,  and  sang 
at  the  lord  mayor's  table.  This  important "  state  paper,' 
thanks  to  the  scombri,  et quicquid  ineptis  amicitur  chartis, 
I  have  not  been  able  to  procure  ;  but  the  terror  and  dis- 
may which  it  occasioned  among  the  enemy,  with  a 
variety  of  other  circumstances  highly  necessary  to  be 
known,  may  be  gathered  from  the  following  letter ; 

"  To  the  Conductor  of  the  World. 

"  Sir, — The  wasps  of  opposition  have  been  very  busy 
with  my  State  Ballad, '  the  Grocer  of  London,'  and  they 
are  welcome.  Pray  let  them  know  that  I  am  vain  of  a 
hasty  composition  which  has  procured  me  large  draughts 
of  that  popular  applause  in  which  I  delight.  '  Let  me  add, 
that  there  was  certainly  no  servility  on  my  part ;  for  I 
publicly  declared  in  Guildhall,  between  the  encoresy 
'  that  this  same  Grocer  had  treated  iiE  arrogantly  and 
ungratefully;  but  that,from  his  great  merit  as  a  minister, 
I  was  compelled  to  support  hun  !' 

"  The  time  will  come  when  I  shall  have  a  proper  oppor- 
tunity to  show,  that  in  one  instance,  at  least,  the  maa 

has  wanted  wisdom "  JAM.  BOS." 

Atqui  vultus  erat  multa  et  prseclara  minantis ! 

Poor  Bozzy !    But  I  too  threaten.— And  is  there  nee 
of  thy  examole,  then,  to  convince  us  that  on 


166 


GIFFORD. 


And  Bell's  whole  choir,*  (an  ever-jingling  train,) 
[n  splay-foot  madrigals  their  powers  combine, 
To   praise  Miles  Andrews'   verse,  t  and  censmre 
mine — 


Our  quickest  attempts 

The  noiseless  and  inaudible  foot  of  time 
Steals  ere  we  can  effect  them  ? 

*  "  *  Bell's  whole  choir  !'  Quousque  tantum— Yes, 
sir,  I  am  proud  of  the  insinuation  while  I  despise  it. 
The  owl,  they  say,  was  a  baker^s  daughter.  We  know 
what  we  are,  but  we  know  not  what  we  may  be.  There- 
by hangs  a  tale :  and  the  World  shall  have  it— Choice 
BIOGRAPHY  is  the  boast  of  my  paper— Verba  sat— I  have 
friends— so  has  Laura  Maria— She  is  the  Sappho  of  the 
age.  I  wrong  her— The  Monthly  Reviewers  read 
Greek,  and  they  prefer  our  fair  countrywoman.  I  read 
Gi-eek,  too,  but  I  make  no  boast  of  it.  I  sell  Mrs.  Ro- 
binson's works,  and  I  know  their  value — '  It  is  the  bright 
day  that  brings  forth  the  adder.' 

"  Yenda  I  despise ;  Anthony  PAsauiN  I  execrate— 
The  brilliant  effusions  of  fancy,  the  bright  coruscations 
of  genius  only,  illuminate  the  Oracle — and  Arno  and 
C^SARio,  names  dear  to  the  muse  of  glory,  constitute 
t,  proud  distinction  between  the  unfading  leaves  of  the 
Pythian  shrine,  and  the  perishable  records  of  the  day. 

"JOHN  BELL. 

"  P.  S. '  Blockheads  with  reason' — you  know  the  rest. 
I  fear  nothing— yet  I  love  not  everlasting  feuds— Al  a 
word  :  Will  one  of  my  new  commonplace  books  be  ac- 
ceptable ?  "J.  B." 

t  This  gentleman,  who  has  long  been  known  as  an 
industrious  paragraph-monger  in  the  morning  papers, 
took  it  into  his  head,  some  time  since,  to  try  his  hand  at 
a  prologue.  Having  none  of  the  requisites  for  this  busi- 
ness, he  laboured  to  little  purpose  till  Dullness,  whose 
attention  to  her  children  is  truly  maternal,  suggested  to 
him,  that  unmeaning  ribaldry  and  vulgarity  might  possi- 
bly be  substituted  for  harmony,  spirit,  taste,  and  sense. 
— He  caught  at  the  hint,  made  the  experiment,  and  suc- 
ceeded to  a  miracle.  Since  that  period  every  play-wright 
from  O'Keefe  to  Delia  Crusca,  "  a  heavy  declension !" 
has  been  solicitous  to  preface  his  labours  with  a  few 
lines  of  his  manufacturing,  to  excite  and  perpetuate  the 
good-humour  of  his  audience.  As  the  reader  may  pro- 
bably not  dislike  a  short  specimen  of  Mr.  Andrews'  won- 
der-working poetry,  I  have  subjoined  the  following  ex- 
tract from  his  last  and  best  performance,  his  prologue  to 
Lorenzo. 

"  Feg,"  cries  fat  Madam  Dump,  from  Wapping  Wall, 

"  I  don't  love  plays  no  longer  not  at  all ; 

They're  now  so  vulgar,  and  begin  so  soon, 

None  but  low  people  dines  till  afternoon; 

Then  they  mean  summot,  and  the  like  o'  that, 

And  it's  impossible  to  sit  and  chat. 

Give  me  the  uppero,  where  folks  come  so  grand  in, 

And  nobody  need  have  no  understanding. 

Ambizione  !  del  tiranno  ! 

Piu  forte,  plu  piano,  a  che  fin— 

Zounds  !  here's  my  warrant,  and  I  will  come  in. 

Diavolo  ;  who  comes  here  to  so  confound  us  ? 

The  constables,  to  take  you  to  the  round-house 

De  round-house  ! — Mi ! 

Now  comes  the  dance,  the  demi  charactere, 

Chacone,  the  pas  de  deux,  the  here,  the  there 

And  last,  the  chief  high  bounding  on  the  loose  toe, 

Or  poised  lilce  any  Mercury,  O  che  gusto  !" 

And  this  was  heard  with  applause  !  and  this  was  road 
with  delight !    O  shame  !  where  is  thy  blush  1 

-Morantur 

Pauci  ridiculum  effugientem  ex  urbe  pudorem.» 


I  It  is  rightly  observed  by  Solomon,  that  you  may  bray  a  fool  in  a  mortar 
without  making  him  wiser.  Upon  this  principle  I  account  for  the  stationary 
stupidity  of  Mr.  A.;  whose  faculties,  "  God  help  the  while  !"  do  not  seem  a 
▼hit  improved  by  the  dreadful  pounding  which  he  has  received.    Of  him. 


No,  not  a  whit.    Let  the  besotted  town 
Bestow,  as  fashion  prompts,  the  laurel  crown ; 
But  do  not  THOU,  who  makest  a  fair  pretence 
To  that  best  boon  of  heaven,  to  common  sense, 
Resign  thy  judgment  to  the  rout,  and  pay 
Knee-worship  to  the  idol  of  the  day  : 
For  all  are — 

F.  What  ?  speak  freely  ;  let  me  know.  • 

P.  O  might  I !  durst  I !    Then but  let  it  go. 

Yet,  when  I  view  the  follies  that  engage 
The  full-grown  children  of  this  piping  age  ; 
See  snivelling  Jerningham,  at  fifty,  weep 
O'er  love-lorn  oxen  and  deserted  sheep  ; 
See  Cowley*  frisk  it  to  one  ding-dong  chime, 
And  weekly  cuckold  her  poor  spouse  in  rhyme  ; 
See  Thrale's  gray  widow  with  a  satchel  roam, 
And  bring,  in  pomp,  her  labour'd  nothings  home ; 
See  Robinson  forget  her  state,  and  move 
On  crutches  towards  the  grave,  to  "  Light  o'  Love  ;"1 
See  Parsons,]:  while  all  sound  advice  he  scorns, 
Mistake  two  soft  excrescences  for  horns  ; 


*  For  the  poetic  amours  of  this  lady,  see  the  British 
Album,  particularly  the  poem  called  the  Interview. 

t  Light  o'  Love,  that's  a  tune  that  goes  without  aburden. 
— Shakspeare. 

t  In  the  first  editions  of  this  and  the  following  poems  I 
had  overlooked  Mr.  Parsons,  though  an  undoubted  Ba- 
vian.  This  nettled  him.  "  Ha  !"  quoth  he,  "  better  be 
damn'd  than  mention'd  not  at  all."  He  accordingly  ap- 
plied to  me,>  (in  a  circuitous  manner,  I  confess,)  and  af 
a  particular  favour  was  finally  admitted,  in  the  shape  of 
a  motto,  into  the  title-page  of  the  Maeviad.  These  were 
the  lines : 

May  he  who  hates  not  Crusca's  sober  verse. 

Love  Merry's  drunken  prose,  so  smooth  and  terse  ; 

The  same  may  rake  for  sense  in  Parsons'  skull. 

And  shear  his  hogs,  poor  fool !  and  milk  his  bull. 
The  first  distich  contains  what  Mr.  Burke  calls  "  high 
matter  !"  and  can  only  be  understood  by  the  initiated  ; 
the  second,  (would  it  had  never  been  written !)  instead 
of  gratifying  the  ambition  of  Mr.  Parsons,  as  I  fondly  ex- 
pected, and  quieting  him  for  ever,  had  a  most  fatal  effect 
upon  his  poor  head,  and,  from  an  honest,  painstaking 
gentleman,  converted  him,  in  imagination,  into  a  Mino- 
taur: 

Continuo  implevit  falsis  mugitibus  urbem, 
Et  saepe  in  laevi  qutesivit  cornua  fronte. 

The  motto  appeared  on  a  Wednesday ;  and  on  the  Sa- 
turday after,  the  morosoph  Este  (who  appears  to  have 
believed  in  the  reality  of  the  metamorphosis)  published 
the  first  bellowings  of  Mr.  Parsons,  with  the  following  in- 
troduction :— 


therefore,  I  wash  my  hands — but  I  would  fain  ask  Messrs.  Morton  and  Rey- 
nolds, ("  the  worthy  followers  of  O'Keefe,  and  the  present  supporters  of  the 
British  stage,")  whether  it  be  absolutely  necessary  to  introduce  their  piece! 
with  such  ineifable  nonsense  as  this, — 

'  Betty,  it's  come  into  my  head 

Old  maids  grow  cross  because  their  cats  are  dead  ; 
My  governess  hath  been  in  s-_ch  a  fuss 
About  the  death  of  our  old  tabby  pus- 
She  wears  black  stockings— ah  !  ah '.  what  a  pother, 
'Cause  one  old  cat's  in  mourning  for  another  !'a 
If  it  he  not — for  pity's  sake,  gentlemen,  spare  us  the  disgrace  of  it ;  «ad  0 
heavens !  if  it  be — deign  in  mercy  sometimes  to  apply  to  the  bella  esi,  or  th* 
grave-stone  cutter,  that  we  may  stand  a  little  chance  of  having  our  d'^ggrai 
ribaldry  "  with  a  difference." 

1  Parsons  I  know,  and  this  I  heard  him  say, 
Whilst  Gilford's  harmless  page  before  him  lay, 
I  too  can  laugh,  I  was  \he  first  beginner. 

Parsons  of  himself,  Teleg.  Mai'tb  18 
Quam  multi  faciunt  quod  Eros,  sed  lumine  sicco ; 
Pars  major  lachrymas  ridet,  et  intus  habet ! 

See  the  "  Will " — a  Bartholomew-fair  fare*,  by  Mr.  Reynold* 


THE    BAVIAD, 


167 


And  butting  all  he  meets,  with  awkward  pains, 
Lay  bare  his  forehead,  and  expose  his  brains : 

I  scarce  can  rule  my  spleen 

F.  Forbear,  forbear ; 
And  what  the  great  delight  in,  learn  to  spare. 

P.  It  must  not,  cannot  be  ;  for  I  was  born 
To  brand  obtrusive  ignorance  with  scorn ; 
On  bloated  pedantry  to  pour  my  rage, 
And  hiss  preposterous  fustian  from  the  stage. 

Lo,  Della  Crusca  !*  In  his  closet  pent, 
He  toils  to  give  the  crude  conception  vent. 


"  ON  MR.  GIFFORD'S   MOTTO. 

"The  following  spirited  chastisement  of  the  vulgar 
ignorance  and  malignity  in  question  was  sent  on  Thurs- 
day night — but  by  an  accidental  error  in  one  of  our  clerks, 
or  in  the  servant  delivering  the  copy  at  the  office,  it  was 
unfortunately  mislaid !" — 

Why  this  is  as  it  should  be  ;— '  the  gods  take  care  of 
Cato  !'  Who  sees  not  that  they  interfered,  and  by  con- 
veying the  copy  out  of  the  compositor's  way,  procured  the 
author  of  the  Maeviad  two  comfortable  nights !  But  to 
the  'spirited  chastisement.' — 

*  Nor  wool  the  pig,  nor  milk  the  bull  produces.' 

The  profundity  of  the  last  observation,  by- Ihe-by,  proves 
Mr.  Parsons  to  be  an  accurate  observer  of  nature :  and 
if  the  three  Irishmen  who  went  nine  miles  to  suck  a 
bull,  and  came  back  a-dry,  had  fortunately  had  the  honour 
of  his  acquaintance,  we  should  probably  have  heard  no- 
thing of  their  far-famed  expedition — 

'Nor  wool  the  pig,  nor  milk  the  bull  produces, 
Yet  each  has  something  for  far  diflerent  uses  : 
For  boars,  pardie  !  have  tusks,  and  bulls  have  horns.' 
H,  Ncfxccxis  Ss  KaKav  eypaipaTO  (jxiivaV 
For  from  that  hour  scarcely  a  week,  or  indeed  a  day,  has 
elipsed,  in  which  Mr.  Parsons  has  not  made  himself 
ridiculous  by  threatening  me  in  the  Telegraph,  Oracle, 
World,  &c.,  with  those  formidable  nonentities. 

Well  and  wisely  singeth  the  poet,  non  unus  mcntes 
ttgitat  furor :  yet  while  I  give  an  involuntary  smile  lo 
the  oddity  of  Mr.  Parsons'  disease,  I  cannot  but  lament 
that  his  friends,  (and  a  gentleman  who  is  said  to  belong 
to  more  clubs  than  Sir  Watkin  Lewes  must  need  have 
friends,)  I  cannot,  I  say,  but  lament,  that  on  the  first  ap- 
pearance of  these  knobs,  these  *  excrescences,'  as  I  call 
them,  his  friends  did  not  have  him  cut  for  the  simples ! 

*  Lo,  Della  Crusca  ! 
*0  thou,  lo  whom  superior  worth's  allied, 
Thy  country's  honour,  and  the  muses'  pride—' 
So  says  Laiira  Maria- 
El  solem  quis  dicere  falsum 
Audeal) 

Indeed  she  says  a  great  deal  more ;  but  as  I  do  not 
understand  it,  I  forbear  to  lengthen  my  quotation. 

Innumerable  odes,  sonnets,  &c.  published  from  time  lo 
time  in  the  daily  papers,  have  justly  procured  this  gen- 
tleman the  reputation  of  the  first  poet  of  the  age  ;  but  the 
performance  which  called  forth  the  higa-sounding  pane- 
gyric above-mentioned  is  a  philosophical  rhapsody  in 
praise  of  the  French  revolution,  called  the  "  Wreath  of 
Liberly." 

Of  this  poem  no  reader  (provided  he  can  read)  is  at  this 
time  ignorant ;  but  as  there  are  various  opinions  concern- 
ing it,  and  as  I  do  not  choose,  perhaps,  lo  dispute  with  a 
lady  of  Mrs.  Robinson's  critical  abilities,  I  shall  select  a 
few  passages  from  it,  and  leave  the  world  lo  judge  how 
truly  its  author  is  said  lo  be 

'•  Gifted  with  the  sacred  lyre, 

Whose  sounds  can  more  than  mortal  thoughts  inspire." 
This  supernatural  effort  of  genius,  then,  is  chiefly  distin- 
guished by  three  very  prominent  features.— Downright 
nonsense.  Downright  frigidity.  Downright  doggrel.— 
Of  each  of  these  as  the  instances  occur. 
''  Hang  o'er  his  eye  the  gossamery  tear. 
Wreathe  round  'ur  airy  harp  the  timorous  joy. 


Abortive  thoughts,  that  right  and  wrong  confound 
Truth  sacrificed  to  letters,  sense  to  sound, 
False  glare,  incongruous  images,  combine  ; 
And  noise  and  nonsense  clatter  through  the  line. 
'Tis  done.     Her  house  the  generous  Piozzi  lends, 
And  thither  summons  her  blue-stocking  friends; 
The  summons  her  blue-stocking  friends  obey. 
Lured  by  the  love  of  poetry — and  tea. 

The  BARD  steps  forth,  in  birth-day  splendour  drec^ 
His  right  hand  graceful  waving  o'er  his  breast  j 
His  left  extending,  so  that  all  may  see 
A  roll  inscribed  "  The  Wreath  of  Liberty." 
So  forth  he  steps,  and,  with  complacent  air, 
Bows  round  the  circle,  and  assumes  the  chair ; 
With  lemonade  he  gargles  next  his  throat, 
Then  sweetly  preludes  to  the  liquid  note  : 
And  now  'tis  silence  all.    "  Genius  or  Muse"*— 
Thus  while  the  flowery  subject  he  pursues, 

Recumbent  eve  rock  the  reposing  tide. 
A  web-work  of  despair,  a  mass  of  woes. 
And  o'er  my  lids  the  scalding  tumour  roll." 
"  Tumour,  a  morbid  swelling." — Johnson.    An  excel< 
lent  thing  to  roll  over  an  eye,  especially  if  it  happen,  a« 
in  the  present  case,  lo  be  *'  scalding." 

"  Summer  lints  begemm'd  the  scene, 

And  silky  ocean  slept  in  glossy  green." 
"  While  air's  nocturnal  ghost,  in  paly  shroud, 

Glances  with  grisly  glare  from  cloud  lo  cloud," 
"And  gauzy  zephyrs,  fluttering  o'er  the  plain, 

On  twilight's  bosom  drop  their  filmy  rain." 
Unus  inslar  omnium  !  This  couplet  staggered  me.    I 
should  be  loaih  lo  be  found  correcting  a  madman ;  aid 
yet  mere  folly  seems  unequal  to  the  production  of  such 
exquisite  nonsense. 

"  The  explosion  came 

And  burst  the  o'ercharged  culverin  of  shame." 

■ "Days  of  old 

Their  perish'd,  proudest  pageantry  unfold." 

"  Nothing  I  descry. 

But  the  bare  boast  of  barren  heraldry." 

■ "  The  huntress  queen 

Showers  her  shafts  of  silver  o'er  the  scene. 
To  these  add,"  moody  monarchs,  turgid  tyrant, pamper- 
ed popes,  radiant  rivers,  cooling  cataracts,  lazy  Loires, 
(of  which,  by -the  by,  there  are  none,)  gay  Garonnes, 
gloomy  glass,  mingling  murder,  dauntless  day,  lettered 
lightnings,  delicious  dilatings,  sinking  sorrows,  blissful 
blessings,  rich  reasonings,  meliorating  mercies,  vicious 
venalities,  sublunary  suns,  dewy  vapours  damp,  that 
sweep  the  silent  swamp;"  and  a  world  of  others,  to  be 
found  in  the  compass  of  half  a  dozen  pages. 

"  In  phosphor  blaze  of  genealogic  line." 
N.  B.  Written  to  "  the  turning  of  a  brazen  candlestiek." 
"  O  better  were  it  ever  lo  be  lost 

In  blank  negation's  sea,  than  reach  the  coast." 
"  Should  the  zeal  of  Parliament  be  empty  wordB." 

"  Doom  for  a  breath 

A  hundred  reasoning  hecatombs  to  death." 
A  hecatomb  is  a  sacrifice  of  a  hundred  head  of  oiea. 
Where  did  this  gentleman  hear  of  their  reasoning  ? 
"  A  while  I'll  ruminate  on  time  and  fate  ; 

And  the  most  probable  event  of  things" 

EuGE,  MAGNE  POETA  !  Well  may  Laura  Maria  say, 
"  Thai  Genius  glows  in  every  classic  line, 
And  Nature  dictates — every  thing  that's  thine." 
*  "  Genius  or  Muse,  whoe'er  ihou  art,  whose  thrill 
Exalts  the  fancy,  and  inflames  the  will, 
Bids  o'er  the  heart  sublime  sensation  roll, 
And  wakes  ecstatic  fervour  in  the  soul." 
See  the  commencement  of  the  Wreath  of  Liberty,  wnera 
our  great  poet,  with  a  dexterity  peculiar  lo  himself,  hai 
contrived  lo  fill  several  quarto  pages  without  a  single  idea 


168 


GIFFORD. 


A  wild  delirium  round  th'  assembly  flies ; 
Unusual  lustre  shoots  from  Emma's  eyes, 
Luxurious  Arno  drivels  as  he  stands, 
And  Anna  frisks,  and  Laura  claps  her  hands. 

O  wretched  man !   And  dost  thou  toil  to  please, 
At  this  late*  hour,  such  prurient  ears  as  these  ? 
Is  thy  poor  pride  contented  to  receive 
Such  transitory  fame  as  fools  can  give  ? 
Fools,  who,  unconscious  of  the  critics'  laws, 
Rain  in  such  showers  their  indistinct  applause. 
That  THOU,  e'en  thou,  who  livest  upon  renown, 
And,  with  eternal  puflTs,  insult'st  the  town, 
Art  forced,  at  length,  to  check  the  idiot  roar, 
And  cry,  "  For  heaven's  sweet  sake,  no  more,  no 

more  1" 
"  But  why,  (thou  say'st,)  why  am  I  learn 'd,  why 

fraught 
With  all  the  priest  and  all  the  sage  have  taught. 
If  the  huge  mass  within  my  bosom  pent 
Must  struggle  there,  despairing  of  a  vent  ?" 
Thou  learn'd  !    Alas,  for  learning !    She  is  sped. 
And  hast  thou  dimm'd  thy  eyes,  and  rack'd  thy 

head. 
And  broke  thy  rest  for  this,  for  this  alone  ? 
And  is  thy  knowledge  nothing  if  not  known  ? 
O  lost  to  sense ! — But  still,  thou  criest,  'tis  sweet. 
To  hear  "  That's  he  !"  from  every  one  we  meet : 
That's  HE  whom  critic  Bell  declares  divine, 
For  whom  the  fair  diurnal  laurels  twine ; 
Whom  magazines,  reviews,  conspire  to  praise 
And  Greathead  calls  the  Homer  of  our  days. 

F.  And  is  it  nothing,  then,  to  hear  our  name 
Thus  blazon'd  by  the  general  voice  of  fame  ? 
P.  Nay,   it  were   every  thing,  did  that  dis- 
pense 
The  sober  verdict  found  by  taste  and  sense  : 
But  mark  our  jury.    O'er  the  flowing  bowl. 
When  wine  has  drown'd  all  energy  of  soul. 
Ere  Faro  comes,  (a  dreary  interval !) 
For  some  fond  fashionable  lay  they  call 
Here  the  spruce  ensign,  tottering  on  his  chair, 
With  lisping  accent,  and  affected  air. 
Recounts  the  wayward  fatet  of  that  poor  poet, 
Who,  born  for  anguish,  and  disposed  to  show  it, 
Did  yet  so  awkwardly  his  means  employ. 
That  gaping  fiends  mistook  his  grief  for  joy .' 

Lost  in  amaze  at  language  so  divine. 
The   audience   hiccup,   and   exclaim,   "  Damn'd 
fine !" 


*  At  this  late  hour— I  learn  from  Delia  Crusca's  lamen- 
tations, that  he  is  declined  into  the  vale  of  years ;  that 
Ae  women  say  to  hiin,  as  they  formerly  said  to  Anacreon, 
ycpciiv  ei,  and  that  Love,  about  two  years  since, 

"  Tore  his  name  from  his  bright  page, 

And  gave  it  to  approaching  age." 

t  Recounts  the  wayward  fate,  &c.— In  the  Interview, 
Bee  the  British  Album,  the  lover,  finding  his  mistress  in- 
exorable,  comforts  himself,  and  justifies  her,  by  boasting 
how  well  he  can  play  the  fool.  And  never  did  Don  Quix- 
ote exhibit  half  so  many  extravagant  tricks  in  the  Sierra 
Morena,  for  the  beaux  yeux  of  his  dulcinea,  as  our  dis- 
tracted amoroso  threatens  to  perform  for  the  no  less 
beautiful  ones  of  Anna  Matilda. 

"Yes,  I  will  prove  that  I  deserve  my  fate, 
Was  born  for  anguish,  and  was  formed  for  hate ; 
With  such  transcendent  wo  will  breathe  my  sigh, 
That  envying  fiends  shall  think  it  ecstacy,"  &c. 


And  are  not  now  the  author's  ashes  blest  ? 
Lies  not  the  turf  now  lightly  on  his  breast? 
Do  not  sweet  violets  now  around  him  bloom? 

Laurels  now  burst  spontaneous  from  his  tomb  ? 

F.  This  is  mere  mockery :  and  (in  your  ear) 
Reason  is  ill  refuted  by  a  sneer. 
Is  praise  an  evil  ?  Is  there  to  be  found 
One  so  indifferent  to  its  soothing  sound, 
As  not  to  wish  hereafter  to  be  known. 
And  make  a  long  futurity  his  own ; 
Rather  than —  • 

P.  With  'Squire  Jerningham  descend 
To  pastry  cooks  and  moths,  "  and  there  m  end  I" 

0  thou,  who  deign'st  this  homely  scene  to  share, 
Thou  know'st,  wtien  chance  (though  this  indeed  be 

rare)* 
With  random  gleams  of  wit  has  graced  my  lays. 
Thou  know'st  too   well  how  I  have    relish'd 

tcaise. 
Not  mine  the  soul  which  pants  not  after  fame  : — 
Ambitious  of  a  poet's  envied  name, 

1  haunt  the  sacred  fount,  athirst,  to  prove 
The  grateful  influence  of  the  stream  I  love. 

And  yet,  my  friend — though  still,  at  praise  be* 
stow'd, 
Mine    eye    has    glisten'd,  and    my  cheek  has 

glow'd. 
Yet,  when  I  prostitute  the  lyre  to  gam 
The  Euges  which  await  the  modish  strain, 
May  the  sweet  muse  my  grovelling  hopes  with- 
stand. 
And  tear  the  strings  indignant  from  my  hand  I 
Nor  think  that,  while  my  verse  too  much  I  prize, 
Too  much  Ih'  applause  of  fashion  I  despise  ; 
For  mark  to  what  'tis  given,  and  then  declare. 
Mean  though  I  am,  if  it  be  worth  my  care. 
— Is  it  not  given  to  Este's  unmeaning  dash, 
To  Topham's  fustian,  Reynolds'  flippant  trash. 
To  Morton's  catchword,!  Greathead's  idiot  line. 


*  Thou  know'st,  when  chance,  &c. — To  see  how  a 
Cruscan  can  blunder  !    Mr.  Parsons  thus  politely  com- 
ments on  this  unfortunate  hemistich : 
"  Thou  lowest  of  the  imitating  race. 
Thou  imp  of  satire,  and  thou  foul  disgrace ; 
Who  callest  each  coarse  phrase  a  lucky  hit,"  &c. 

Alas  !  no :  But  this  is  of  a  piece  with  his  qui-pro-quo  on 
the  preface  of  the  Mseviad— where,  on  my  saying  that  I 
had  laid  the  poem  aside  for  two  years,  he  exultingly  ex- 
claims, "  Soh !  it  was  two  years  in  hand,  then  !" 

Mr.  Parsons  is  highly  celebrated,  I  am  told,  for  his 
skill  in  driving  a  bargain:  itistobe  presumed  that  he  does 
it  with  his  spectacles  on. — But,  indeed,  he  began  with  a 
blunder :— if  he  had  read  my  motto  carefully,  he  must 
have  seen  that  I  never  taxed  him  with  keeping  a  bull  for 
his  own  milking :  no ;  it  was  the  infatuated  man  who 
looked  for  sense  in  Mr.  Parsons'  skull  that  was  charged 
with  this  solecism  in  economics.  And  yet  the  bare  belief 
of  it  produced  the  metamorphosis  which  I  have  already 
noticed,  and  which  his  friends  have  not  yet  ceased  to 
deplore. 

t  Morton's  catchword.  Wonderful  is  the  profundity 
of  the  bathos  !  I  thought  that  O'Keefe  had  reached  the 
bottom  of  it ;  but,  as  uncle  Bowling  says,  I  thought  a 
d— n'd  lie ;  for  Holcroft, Reynolds,  and  Morton  have  sunk 
beneath  him.    They  have  happily  found 

In  the  lowest  deep  a  lower  still, 

ana  persevere  in  exploring  it  with  an  emulation  which 
does  them  honour. 


THE    BAVIAD. 


160 


And  Holcrolt's  Shug-lane  cant  *  and  Merry's  Moor- 
fields  whine  ?t 

Skill'd  in  one  useful  science,  at  the  least, 
The  great  man  comes  and  spreads  a  sumptuous 

feast  : 
Then,  when  his  guests  behold  the  prize  at  stake. 
And  thirst  and  hunger  only  are  awake, 
My  friends,  he  cries,  what  think  the  galleries,  pray, 
And  what  the  boxes,  of  my  last  new  play? 
Speak  freely ; — tell  me  all ; — come,  be  sincere  ; 
For  truth,  you  know,  is  music  to  ray  ear. 
They  speak  !  alas,  they  cannot.    But  shall  I  ? 
I,  who  receive  no  bribe  ?  who  dare  not  lie  ? 
This,  then  : — "  That  worse  was  never  writ  before, 
Nor  worse  will  be,  till — thou  shaltv^iite  once  more." 

Bless'd  be  "  two-headed  Janus !"  though  inclined. 
No  waggish  stork  can  peck  at  him  behind  ; 
He  no  wry  mouth,  no  lolling  tongue  can  fear. 
Nor  the  brisk  twinkling  of  an  ass's  ear : 
But  you,  ye  St.  Johns,  cursed  with  one  poor  head, 
Alas  !  what  mockeries  have  not  ye  to  dread  ! 

Hear  now  our  guests. — The  critics,  sir !  they  cry — 
Merit  like  yours  the  critics  may  defy  : 
But  this,  indeed,  they  say,  "  Your  varied  rhymes, 
At  once  the  boast  and  envy  of  the  times, 
In  every  page,  song,  sonnet,  what  you  will, 
Show  boundless  genius  and  unrivall'd  skill. 

"  If  comedy  be  yours,  the  searching  strain 
Blends  such  sweet  pleasure  with  corrective  pain. 


*  And  Holcroft's  Shug-lane  cant.  This  is  a  poor  stupid 
wretch,  to  whom  infidelity  and  disloyalty  have  given  a 
momentary  notoriety,  which  has  imposed  upon  the  osci- 
tancy  of  the  managers,  and  opened  the  theatre  to  two  or 
three  of  his  grovelling  and.  senseless  productions. 

Will  future  ages  believe  that  this  facetious  triumvirate 
should  think  nothing  more  to  be  necessary  to  the  con- 
struction of  a  play,  than  an  eternal  repetition  of  some 
contemptible  vulgarity,  such  as  "  That's  your  sort !" 
"  Hey,  damme  !"  "  What's  to  pay  ?"  "  Keep  moving  !"  &c. 
They  will ;  for  they  will  have  blockheads  of  their  own, 
who  will  found  their  claims  to  celebrityon  similar  follies. 
What,  however,  they  will  never  cre\3it  is,  that  these  dri- 
vellings  of  idiolism,  these  catch\v:.-ds,  should  actually 
preserve  their  respective  authors  Vom  being  hooted  off 
the  stage.  No,  they  will  not  believe  Ihat  an  English  au- 
dience could  be  so  besotted,  so  brutified,  as  to  receive 
such  senseless  exclamations  with  bursts  of  laughter, 
withpeals  of  applause.  I  cannot  believe  it  myself,  though 
I  have  witnessed  it.  Haud  credo — if  I  may  reverse  the 
good  father's  position — haud  credo,  quia  possibile  est. 

t  Merry's  Moorfields  whine.— In  a  most  wretched 
rhapsody  of  incomprehensible  nonsense,  addressed  by 
this  gentleman  to  Mrs.  Robinson,  which  she,  in  her  valu- 
able poems,  (page  100,)  calls  a  charming  composition, 
abounding  in  lines  of  exquisite  beauty,  is  the  following 
rant: 

Conjure  up  demons  from  the  main, 
Storms  upon  storms  indignant  heap, 
Bid  ocean  howl,  and  nature  weep, 
Till  the  Creator  blush  to  see 
How  horrible  his  world  ca?i  be  : 
While  I  will  glory  to  blaspheme, 
And  make  the  joys  of  hell  my  theme.^' 
The  reader,perhaps,  wonders  what  dreadful  event  gave 
birth  to  these  fearful  imprecations.    As  far  as  I  can  col- 
lect from  the  poem,  it  was  the  momentary  refusal  of  the 
aforesaid  Mrs.  Robinson— fo  ope7i  her  eyes  !    Surely,  it  is 
most  devoutly  to  be  wished  that  these  poor  creatures 
would  recollect,  amidst  their  frigid  ravings  and  common- 
dace  extravagances,  that  excellent  maxim  of  Pope-- 
"Persist,  by  nature,  reason,  taste  unawed  ; 
But  learn,  ye  dunces,  not  t    scorn  your  God.''' 


That  e'en  the  guilty  at  their  sufferings  smile, 
And   bless    the   lancet,  though   they   bleed   the 

while. 
If  tragedy,  th'  impassion'd  numbers  flow, 
In  all  the  sad  variety  of  wo. 
With  such  a  liquid  lapse,  that  they  betray 
The  breast  un wares,  and  steal  the  soul  away.' 

Thus  fool'd,  the  moon-struck  tribe,  whose  beay 
essays 
Sunk  in  acrostics,  riddles,  roundelays, 
To  loftier  labours  now  pretend  a  call, 
And  bustle  in  heroics,  one  and  all. 
*E'en  Bertie  burns  of  gods  and  chiefs  to  sing — 
Bertie,  who  lately  twitter'd  to  the  string 
His  namby-pamby  madrigals  of  love. 
In  the  dark  dingles  of  a  glittering  grove. 
Where  airy  lays,t  woven  by  the  hand  of  morn. 
Were  hung  to  dry  upon  a  cobweb  thorn  ! 

Happy  the  soil,  where  bards   liJre   mushrooms 
rise, 
And  ask  no  culture  but  what  Byshe  saj: plies. 
Happier  the  bards,  who,  write  whate'er  they  will, 
Find  gentle  readers  to  admire  them  still ! 

Some  love  the  verse  that  like  Maria's  flows, 
No  rubs  to  stagger,  and  no  sense  to  pose ; 
Which  read,  and  read,  you  raise  your  eyes  in  doubt. 
And  gravely  wonder — what  it  is  about. 
These  fancy  "  Bell's  Poetics"  only  sweet. 
And  intercept  his  hawkers  in  the  street ; 
There,  smoking  hot,  inhale  Mit  Yenda'sI  strains, 
And  the  rank  fame  of  Tony  Pasquin's  brains.$ 


*  E'en  Bertie,  &c.— For  Bertie,  (Greathead,  I  think 
they  call  him,)  see  the  Masviad. 

t  Where  airy  lays,  &c. 

"  Was  it  the  shuttle  of  the  morn 
That  hung  upon  the  cobweb'd  thorn 
-    Thy  airy  lay  ?  Or  did  it  rise, 
In  thousand  rich  enamell'd  dyes, 
To  greet  the  noonday  sun  7"  &c. 
— Album,  vol.  ii. 

t  Mix  Yenda.— This  is  Mr.  Tim,  alias  Mr,  Timothy 
Adney,  a  most  pertinacious  gentleman,  who  makes  a 
conspicuous  figure  in  the  daily  papers  under  the  ingenious 
signature  above  cited ;  it  being,  as  the  reader  already 
sees,  his  own  name  read  backward.  "  Gentle  dulness 
ever  loves  a  joke  !" 

Of  his  prodigious  labours  I  have  nothing  by  me  but  the 
following  stanza,  taken  from  what  he  calls  his  Poor 
Man: 

Reward  the  bounty  of  your  generous  hand, 
Your  head  each  night  in  comfort  shail  be  laid, 

And  plenty  smile  throughout  your  fertile  land, 
While  I  do  hasten  to  the  silent  grave.'" 

"  Good  morrow,  my  worthy  masters  and  mistresscc  all, 
and  a  merry  Christmas  to  you !" 

I  have  been  guilty  of  a  misnomer.  Mr.  Adney  has  po- 
litely informed  me,  since  the  above  was  written,  that  his 
Christian  name  is  not  Timothy,  but  Thomas.  The  ana- 
gram in  question,  therefore,  must  be  Mot  Yknda,  omit- 
ting the  H,  euphonia  gratia.  I  am  happy  in  an  opportu- 
nity of  doing  justice  to  so  correct  a  gentleman,  and  I  pray 
him  to  continue  his  valuable  lucubrations. 

§  Tony  Pas^uin.- I  have  too  much  respect  for  my 
reader,  to  affront  him  with  any  specimens  of  this  man's 
poetry,  at  once  licentious  and  dull  beyond  example;  at 
the  same  time  I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  of  present- 
ing him  with  the  fallowing  stanzas,  written  by  a  friend 
of  mine,  and  sufiiciently  illustrative  of  the  character  in 
question: 


170 


GIFFORD. 


Others,  like  Kemble,  on  black-letter  pore, 

And  what  they  do  not  understand,  adore  ; 

Buy  at  vast  sums  the  trash  of  ancient  days, 

And  draw  on  prodigality  for  praise. 

These,  when  some  lucky  hit,  or  lucky  price. 

Has  bless'd  them  with  "  The  Boke  ofgode  Advice," 

For  ekes  and  algates  only  deign  to  seek, 

And  live  upon  a  whilome  for  a  week. 

And   can  we,  when  such  mope-eyed  dolts  are 
placed 
By  thoughtless  fashion  on  the  throne  of  taste — 
Say,  can  we  wonder  whence  such  jargon  flows. 
This  motley  fustian,  neither  verse  nor  prose, 
This  old,  new  language  which  defiles  our  page, 
The  refuse  and  the  scum  of  every  age  ? 

Lo  !  Beaufoy*  tells  of  Afric's  barren  sand. 
In  all  the  flowery  phrase  of  fairy  land  : 


TO  ANTHONY  PASftTJIN,  ESQ.. 

"  Why  dost  thou  tack,  most  simple  Anthony, 
The  name  oi Pasquin  to  thy  ribald  strains'? 
Is  it  a  fetch  of  wit,  to  let  us  see. 

Thou,  like  that  statue,  art  devoid  of  brains  ? 
"But  thou  mistakesl:  for  know,  though  Pasquin's  head 
Be  full  as  hard,  and  near  as  thick  as  thine, 
Yet  has  the  world,  admiring,  on  it  read 
Many  a  keen  gibe,  and  many  a  sportive  line. 
"While  nothing  from  thy  jobbernowl  can  spring 
But  impudence  and  filth ;  for  out,  alas  ! 
Do  what  we  will,  'tis  still  the  same  vile  thing, 
Within,  all  brick-dust— and  without,  all  brass. 
'  Then  blot  the  name  of  Pasquin  from  thy  page : 

Thou  seest  it  will  not  thy  poor  riff-raff  sell. 
Some  other  would'st  thou  take  1    I  dare  engage 

John  Williams,  or  Tom  Fool,  will  do  as  well." 
Tony  has  taken  my  friend's  advice,  and  now  sells,  or 
attempts  to  sell,  his  "  riff-raff"  under  the  name  of  John 
Williams. 

It  has  been  represented  to  me,  that  I  should  do  well  to 
avoid  all  mention  of  this  man,  from  a  consideration,  that 
one  so  lost  to  every  sense  of  decency  and  shame  was  a 
fitter  object  for  the  beadle  than  the  muse.  This  has  in- 
duced me  to  lay  aside  a  second  castigation  which  I  had 
prepared  for  him,  though  I  do  not  think  it  expedient  to 
omit  what  I  had  formerly  written. 

Here  on  the  rack  of  satire  let  him  lie. 
Fit  garbage  for  the  hell-hound  infamy. 
One  word  more.  I  am  told  that  there  are  men  so  weak 
as  to  deprecate  this  miserable  object's  abuse,  and  so  vain, 
so  despicably  vain,  as  to  tolerate  his  praise — for  such  I 
have  nothing  but  pity ; — though  the  fate  of  Hastings,  see 
the  "  Pin-basket  to  the  Children  of  Thespis,"  holds  out  a 
dreadful  lesson  to  the  latter; — ^but  should  there  be  a  man 
or  a  woman,  however  high  in  rank,  base  enough  to  pur- 
chase the  venal  pen  of  this  miscreant  for  the  sake  of  tra- 
ducing innocence  and  virtue,  then 1  was  about  to 

threaten,  but  'tis  not  necessary :  the  profligate  cowards 
who  employ  Anihony  can  know  no  severer  punishment 
than  the  support  of  a  man  whose  acquaintance  is  infamy, 
and  whose  touch  is  poison. 

*  Lo  !  Beaufoy,  &c. — "  The  feet  are  accommodated  with 
«hoes,i  and  the  head  is  protectedhy  a— woollen  night-cap." 
— African  Association,  p.  139. 

"  From  this  scene  of  gladsome  contrast,  i.  e.  from  the 
mountain  of  Zilau,  (p.  288,)  whose  rugged  sides  are  marked 
with  scanty  spots  of  brushwood,  and  enriched  with  stores 


1  Shoes.  By  your  leave,  master  critic,  here  is  a  small  oversight  inyour 
quotation.  The  gentleman  does  not  say  their  feet  are  accommodatea  with 
ihoes,  but  with  slippers.  For  the  rest,  accommodate,  as  I  learn,  is  a 
•cholar-like  word,  and  a  word  of  exceeding  great  propriety,  '•  Accommo- 
date !  it  comes  from  accoinmodo :  that  is,  "vhen  a  man's  feet  are,  as  they  say, 
•ccommodated,  or  when  they  are— being  vhereby  they  may  be  thought  to 
•  accommodated :  which  is  an  excellent  thmg  "'•^Printer'i  Devil. 


There  Fezzan's  thrura-capp'd  tribes,  Turks,  Chria 

tians,  Jews, 
Accommodate,  ye  gods !  their  feet  with  shoes  ; 
There  meager  shrubs  inveterate  mountains  grace, 
And  brushwood  breaks  the  amplitude  of  space. 
Perplex'd  with  terms  so  vague  and  undefined, 
I  blunder  on  ;  till  'wilder'd,  giddy,  blind, 
Where'er  I  turn,  on  clouds  I  seem  to  tread 
And  call  for  Mandeville,  to  ease  my  head. 

O  for  the  good  old  times  I    When  all  was  new. 
And  every  hour  brought  prodigies  to  view, 
Our  sires  in  unaffected  language  told 
Of  streams  of  amber,  and  of  rocks  of  gold  ; 
Full  ef  their  theme,  they  spurn'd  all  idle  art; 
And  the  plain  tale  was  trusted  to  the  heart. 
Now  all  is  changed !  We* fume  and  fret,  poor  elves^ 
Less  to  display  our  subject  than  ourselves. 
Whate'er  we  paint — a  grot,  a  flower,  a  bird. 
Heavens,  how  we  sweat  I  laboriously  absurd  ! 
Words  of  gigantic  bulk,  and  uncouth  sound, 
In  rattling  triads  the  long  sentence  bound  ; 
While  points  with  points,  with  periods  periods  jar, 
And  the  whole  work  seems  one  continued  war  ! 
Is  not  THIS  sad  ?  * 

jP.  "  'Tis  pitiful,  heaven  knows 
'Tis  wondrous  pitiful."    E'en  take  the  prose ; 
But  for  the  poetry — O,  that,  my  friend, 
I  still  aspire — nay,  smile  not — to  defend. 
You  praise  our  sires,  but,  though  they  wrote  with 

force, 
Their  rhymes  were  vicious,  and  their  diction  coarse 
We  want  their  strength:  agreed  ;  but  we  atone 
For  that,  and  more,  by  sweetness  all  our  own. 
For  instance — *"  Hasten  to  the  lawny  vale. 
Where  yellow  morning  breathes  her  saffron  gale, 
And  bathes  the  landscape — " 

P.  Pshaw  ;  I  have  it  here 
"  A  voice  seraphic  grasps  my  listening  ear  ; 
Wondering  I  gaze  ;  when  lo  !  methought  afar, 
More  bright  than  dauntless  day's  imperial  star, 
A  godlike  form  advances." 

F.  You  suppose 
These  lines,  perhaps,  too  turgid  ;  what  of  those 

"  The  mighty  mother " 

P.  Now  'tis  plain  you  sneer 
For  Weston'st  self  could  find  no  semblance  here  : 


of  water,  to  the  long  ascent  of  the  broad  rock  of  GerdoDaa. 
(p.  289,)  from  whose  inflexible  barrenness  little  is  to  be 
got— from  this  scene,  I  say,  of  gladsome  contrast  to  the 
inveterate  mountains  of  Gegogib,  &c. 

"  In  the  long  course  of  a  seven  days'  passage,  the  tra- 
veller is  scarcely  sensible  that  a  few  spots  of  thin  and 
meager  brushwood  slightly  interrupt  the  vast  expanse  of 
sterility,  and  diminish  the  amplitude  of  desolation  !!!" 

*  Hasten,  &c.— This  and  the  following  quotation  are 
taken  from  the  "  Laurel  of  Liberty,"  a  work  on  which  the 
great  author  most  justly  rests  his  claim  to  immortality. 
See  p.  167. 

t  Weston.— This  indefatigable  gentleman  has  been 
long  employed  in  attacking  the  moral  character  of  Pope 
in  the  Gentleman's  Magazine,  with  all  the  virulence  of 
Gildon,  all  the  impudence  of  Smedley,  and  all  the  igno- 
ranee  of  Curl  and  his  associates. 

What  the  views  of  the  bland  Sylvanus  may  be,  in  stand 
ing  cap  in  hand,  and  complacently  holding  open  the  door 
of  the  temple,  for  nearly  two  years,  to  this  "  execrable"* 


1  Such  is  the  epithet  applied  to  Pope  by  the  "  virtuous  indignation"  of  M 
"  amiable"  traducer  of  worth  and  genius ! 


THE   BAVIAD. 


17 


Weston,  who  slunk  from  truth's  imperious  light, 

Swells,  like  a  filthy  toad,  with  secret  spite, 

And,  envying  the  fame  he  cannot  hope. 

Spits  his  black  venom  at  the  dust  of  Pope. 

— Reptile  accursed  I — O  memorable  long, 

If  there  be  force  in  virtue  or  in  song, 

O  injured  bard  !  accept  the  grateful  strain. 

Which  I,  the  humblest  of  the  tuneful  train. 

With  glowing  heart,  yet  trembling  hand,  repay 

For  many  a  pensive,  many  a  sprightly  lay  ! 

So  may  thy  varied  verse,  from  age  to  age. 

Inform  the  simple,  and  delight  the  sage  ; 

While  canker'd  Weston,  and  his  loathsome  rhymes. 

Stink  in  the  nose  of  all  succeeding  times ! 

Enough.    But  where,  (for  these,  you  seem  to  say. 
Are  samples  of  the  high,  heroic  lay,; 
Where  are  the  soft,  the  tender  strains,  which  can 
For  the  moist   eye,  bow'd   head,  and   longihen'd 

drawl  ? 
Lo  !  here — *"  Canst  thou,  Matilda,  urge  my  fate, 
And  bid  me  mourn  thee  ?  yes,  and  mourn  too  late ' 
O  rash,  severe  decree  !  my  maddening  brain 
Cannot  the  ponderous  agony  sustain  ; 
But  forth  I  rush,  from  vale  to  mountain  run. 
And    with   my   mind's  thick   gloom   obscure   the 

sun." 


Erostralus,  I  know  not.  He  cannot  surely  be  weak 
enough  to  suppose  that  an  obscure  scribbler  like  this 
has  any  charges  to  bring  against  our  great  poet,  which 
escaped  the  vigilant  malevolence  of  the  Westons  of  the 
Dimciad.  Or  if  ever,  from  the  "  natural  goodness  of  his 
heart,"  he  cherished  so  laudable  a  supposition,  he  ought 
(whatever  it  may  cost  him)  to  forego  it :  when,  after 
twenty  months'  preparation,  nothing  is  produced  but  an 
exploded  accusation  taken  from  the  most  common  edition 
of  the  Dunciad ! 

It  has  been  suggested  to  me,  that  this  nightman  of  lite- 
rature designs  to  reprint  as  much  as  can  be  collected  of 
the  heroes  of  the  Dunciad.— If  it  be  so,  the  dirty  work  of 
traducing  Pope  may  be  previously  necessary  ;  and  pre- 
judice itself  must  own,  that  he  has  shown  uncommon 
penetration  in  the  selection  of  the  blind  and  outrageous 
mercenary  now  so  laboriously  employed  in  it. 

Whatever  be  the  design,  the  proceedings  are  by  no 
means  inconsistent  with  the  plan  of  a  work  which  may 
not  unaptly  be  styled  the  charnel-house  of  reputation, 
and  which,  from  the  days  of  Lauder  to  the  present,  has 
delighted  to  asperse  every  thing  venerable  among  us— 
which  accused  .Swift  of  lust,  and  Addison  of  drunkenness ! 
which  insulted  the  ashes  of  Toup  while  they  were  yet 
warm,  and  gibbeted  poor  Henderson  alive  :  which  alTect- 
ed  to  idolize  the  great  and  good  Howard,  while  idolatry 
was  painful  to  him  :  and  the  moment  he  fell,  gloriously 
fell,  in  the  exercise  of  the  most  sublime  virtue,  attempted 
to  stigmatize  him  as  a  brute  and  a  monster! 

*  Canst  thou,  Matilda,  &c.  vide  Album,  vol.  ii.— Ma- 
tilda! "  Nay  then,  I'll  never  trust  a  madman  again."  It 
was  but  a  few  minutes  since,  that  Mr.  Merry  died  for  the 
ove  of  Laura  Maria  ;  and  now  is  he  about  to  do  the  same 
thing  for  the  love  of  Anna  Matilda? 

What  the  ladies  may  say  to  such  a  swain,  I  know  not; 
tKit,  certainly  he  is  too  prone  to  run  wild,  die,  &c.  &c. 
Such,  indeed,  is  the  combustible  nature  of  this  gentleman, 
that  h?.  takes  fire  at  every  female  signature  in  the  papers ; 
and  1  remember,  that  when  Olaudo  Equiano,  who,  fjr  a 
elaok,  is  not  ill-featured,  tried  his  hand  at  a  soft  sonnet, 
ami  by  mistake  subscribed  it  Olaucla,  Mr.  Merry  fell  so 
desperately  in  love  with  him,  and  "  yelled  out  such  sylla- 
bles of  dolour"  in  consequence  of  it,  that  the  pitiful-heart- 
ed negro  was  frightened  at  the  mischief  he  had  done,  and 
transmitted  in  all  haste  the  following  correction  to  the 
editor— For  OlaudA,  plaase  to  read  OlaudO,  the  black 
"  ]\UN." 


Heavens  !  if  our  ancient  vigour  were  not  fled, 
Could  VERSE  like  this  be  written  ?  or  be  read  ? 
Verse  I  that's  the  mellow  fruit  of  toil  intense, 
Inspired  by  genius,  and  inibrm'd  by  sense  ; 
This,  the  abortive  progeny  of  pride. 
And  dulness,  gentle  pair,  for  aye  allied  ; 
Begotten  without  thought,  born  without  pains, 
The  ropy  drivel  of  rheumatic  brains. 

F.  So  let  it  be  ;  and  yet,  methinks,  my  friend, 
Silence  were  wise,  where  satire  will  not  mend. 
Why  wound  the  feelings  of  our  noble  youth. 
And  grate  their  tender  ears  with  odious  truth  ? 
They  cherish  Arno*  and  his  flux  of  song. 
And  hate  the  man  who  tells  'em  they  are  wrxiRg. 
Your  fate  already  I  foresee.     My  lord. 
With  cold  respect,  will  freeze  you  from  his  board ; 
And  his  grace  cry, "Hence  with  that  sapient  sneer. 
Hence  !  we  desire  no  currish  critic  here." 

P.  Enough.    Thank  heaven !  my  error  now  I  see, 
And  all  shall  be  divine,  henceforth,  for  me  : 


♦  Of  the  talents  of  this  spes  altera  RomcB,  this  second 
hope  of  the  age,  the  following  stanzas  will  afford  a  suffi- 
cient specimen.    They  are  taken  from  a  ballad  which 
Mr.  Bell,  an  admirable  judge  of  these  matters,  calls  a 
"  very  melliduous  one  ;  easy,  artless,  and  unaffected." 
"  Gently  o'er  the  rising  billows 
Softly  steals  the  bird  of  night. 
Rustling  through  the  beriding  willows  : 
Fluttering  pinions  mark  her  flight. 
"  Whither  now  in  silence  bending, 
Ruthless  winds  deny  thee  rest : 
Chilling  night-dciPS  fast  descending, 
Glisten  on  thy  downy  breast. 
"  Seeking  some  kind  hand  to  guide  thee, 
irit's(;^M/ turns  thy /ear/aZ  eye  ; 
Trembling  as  the  willows  hide  thee. 
Sheltered  from  th'  inclement  sky." 
The  story  of  this  poor  owl,  who  was  atone  and  the  same 
time  at  sea  and  on  land,  silent  and  noisy,  sheltered  and 
exposed,  is  continued  through  a  few  more  of  these  "  melli- 
fluous" stanzas,  which  the  reader,  I  doubt  not,  will  readily 
forgive  me  for  omitting  ;  more  especially  if  he  reads  the 
Oracle,  a  paper  honoured— as  the  grateful  editor  very 
properly  has  it— by  the  effusions  of  this  "  artless"  gentle- 
man above  all  others. 

N.B.  On  looking  again,  I  find  the  owl  to  be  a  night- 
ingale !— N'importe. 

It  was  said  of  Theophilus  Cibber,  (I  think  by  Goldsmith,) 
that  as  he  grew  older,  he  grew  never  the  better.  Much 
the  same  (mutatis  mutandis)  maybe  said  of  the  gentlemen 
of  the  Baviad.  After  an  interval  of  two  years,  I  find  the 
"  mellifluous"  Arno  celebrating  Mrs.  Robinson's  novel 
in  strains  like  these. 

"  For  the  Oracle. 

SONNET    TO   MRS.  ROBINSON, 

Upon  reading  her  Vancenza. 
"  What  never-ceasing  music  !    From  the  throne 
Where  sweetest  Sensibility  enshrined, 
Pours  out  her  tender  triumphs,  all  alone. 
To  every  murmuring  breeze  of  passing  wind' 
"  O,  bless'd  with  all  the  lovely  lapse  of  song, 

That  bathes  with  purest  balm  the  soften'd  breast, 
I  see  thee  urge  thy  fancy's  course  along 
The  solemn  glooms  of  Gothic  piles  unblessed. 
"  Vancenza  rises — o'er  her  time-touch'd  spires 
Guilt  unreveaVd  hovers  with  killing  dew, 
Frustrates  the  fondness  of  the  Virgin's  fires, 

And  bares  the  murderous  casket  to  her  view. 
"  The  thrilling  pulse  creeps  back  upon  each  heart. 

And  horror  lords  it  by  thy  fascinating  art."— .4rno. 
Et  vitula  Tu  dignus,  et  h;ec  !  The  novel  is  worthy  of  tha 
poetry,  the  poetry  of  the  novel. 


172 


GIFFORD. 


Yes,  Andrews'  doggrel,  Greathead's  idiot  line, 
And  Morton's  catchword,  all,  forsooth,  divine  ! 
F.  'Tis  well.    Here   let  th'  indignant  stricture 

cease. 
And  Leeds  at  leir.gth  enjoy  his  fool  in  peace. 
P.  Come   ther.,  around   their  works  a  circle 

draw, 
And  near  it  plant  the  dragons  of  the  law. 
With  labels  writ,  "  Critics,  far  hence  remove. 
Nor  dare  to  censure  what  the  great  approve." 
I  go.    Yet  Hall  could  lash  with  noble  rage 
The  purblind  patron  of  a  former  age  ; 
And  laugh  to  scorn  th'  eternal  sonneteer. 
Who  made  goose  pinions  and  white  rags  so  dear. 
Yet  Oldham,  in  his  rude,  unpolish'd  strain, 
Could  hiss  the  clamorous,  and  deride  the  vain. 
Who  bawl'd  their  rhymes  incessant  through  the 

town. 
Or  bribed  the  hawkers  for  a  day's  renown. 
Whate'er  the  theme,  with  honest  warmth   they 

wrote. 
Nor  cared  what  Mutius  of  their  freedom  thought ; 
Yet  prose  was  venial  in  that  happy  time. 
And  life  had  other  business  than  to  rhyme. 
And  may  not  I — now  this  pernicious  pest, 
This  metromania,  creeps  through  every  breast; 
Now  fools  and  children  void  their  brains  by  loads, 
And  itching  grandams  spawl  lascivious  odes  ; 
Now  lords  and  dukes,  cursed  with  a  sickly  taste. 
While   Burns'  pure  healthful  nurture   runs   to 

waste. 
Lick  up  the  spittle  of  the  bed-rid  muso, 
And  riot  on  the  sweepings  of  the  stews  ; 
Say,  may  not  I  expose — 

F.  No — 'tis  unsafe  ; 
Prudence,  my  friend. 

P.  What !  not  deride  ?  not  laugh  ? 
Well !  thought  at  least  is  free — 

F.  O  yet  forbear. 
P.  Nay,  then,  I'll  dig  a  pit,  and  bury  there 
The  dreadful  truth  which  so  alarms  thy  fears : 
The  town,  the  town,  good  pit,   has  asses' 

EARS  ! 

Thou  think'st,  perhaps,  this  wayward  fancy  strange  ; 
So  think  thou  still :  yet  would  not  I  exchange 
The  secret  humour  of  this  pimple  hit 
For  all  the  Albums  that  were  ever  writ. 
Of  this,  no  more. — O  thou,  (if  yet  there  be 
One  bosom  from  this  vile  infection  free,) 
Thou  who  canst  thrill  with  joy,  or  glow  with  ire, 
As  the  great  masters  of  the  song  inspire. 
Canst  bond  enraptured  o'er  the  magic  page. 
Where  desperate  ladies  desperate  lords  engage. 
Gnomes,  sylphs,  and   gods   the  fierce   contention 

share. 
And  heaven  and  earth  hang  trembling  on  a  hair: 
Canst  quake  with  horror,  while  Emilia's  charms, 
Against  a  brother  point  a  brother's  arms ; 
And  trace  the  fortune  of  the  varying  fray, 
While  hour  on  hour  flits  un perceived  away — 
Approach  :  'twixt  hope  and  fear  I  wait.     O  deign 
To  cast  a  glance  on  this  incondite  strain  : 
Here,  if  thou  find  one  thought  but  well  express'd. 
One  sentence  higher  finish'd  than  the  rest, 
Such  as  may  win  thee  to  proceed  a  while. 
And  smooth  thy  forehead  with  a  gracious  smile 
E  ask  no  more,  but  far  from  me  the  throng 
Who  fancy  fire  in  Laura's  vapid  song  ; 


Who  Anna's  bedlam  rant  for  sense  can  take, 
And  over*  Edwin's  mewlings  keep  awake  ; 


*  Edtciri's  mewlings,  &c. — We  come  now  to  a  character 
of  high  respect,  the  profound  Mr.  T.  Vaughan,  who,  under 
the  alluring  signature  of  Edwin,  favours  us  from  time  to 
time  with  a  melancholy  poem  on  the  death  of  a  bug,  Ihs 
flight  of  an  earwig,  the  miscarriage  of  a  cockchaifer  or 
some  other  event  of  equal  importance. 

His  last  work  was  an  Ettc  raihiov,  (ble ssings  on  his  learn- 
ing !)  which,  I  take  for  granted,  means  an  epitaph,  on  a 
mouse  that  broke  her  heart :  and,  as  it  was  a  matter  of 
great  consequence,  he  very  properly  made  the  introduc- 
tion as  long  as  the  poem  itself.  Hear  how  gravely  he 
prologiseth. 

"  On  a  tame  mouse,  which  belonged  to  a  lady  who  savei 
its  life,  constantly  fed  it,  and  even  wept,  (poor  lady  .') 
at  its  approaching  death.  The  mouse^s  eyes  actually 
dropped  out  of  its  head  (poor  mouse  .')  the  day  before 

IT  DIED." 

En-tra^toj/. 
"  This  feeling  mouse,  whose  heart  was  warm'd 
By  pity's  purest  ray, 
Because  ?ier  mistress  dropt  a  tear, 
Wept  both  her  eyes  away. 
"By  sympathy  deprived  of  light, 
She  one  day  darkness  tried  ; 
TVie  grateful  tear  no  more  could  flow, 
So  liked  it  not,  and  died. 
"  May  we,  when  others  weep  for  us, 
The  debt  with  inieresl  pay — 
And,  when  the  generous  fonts  are  dry, 
Revert  to  native  clay." — Edwin. 

Mr.  T.  Vaughan  has  asserted  that  he  is  not  the  author 
of  this  matchless  E7rtra(/itoi/  with  such  spirit,  and  retort- 
ed upon  one  Baviad  (whom  the  learned  gentleman  takea 
to  be  a  man)  with  such  strength  of  argument  and  elegance 
of  diction,  that  it  would  wrong  both  him  and  the  reader 
to  give  it  in  any  words  but  his  own. 

"  Well  said,  Baviad  the  correct !— And  so  the  profound 
Mr.  T.  Vaughan,  as  you  politely  style  him,  writes  under 
the  alluring  signature  of  Edwin,  does  he  1  and  therefore 
a  very  proper  subject  for  your  satiric  malignity !— But 
suppose  for  a  moment,  as  the  truth  and  the  fact  is,  that 
this  gentleman  never  did  use  that  signature  upon  any 
occasion,  in  whatever  he  may  have  written :  Do  not  you, 
the  identical  Baviad,  in  that  case,  for  your  unprovoked 
abuse  of  him,  immediately  fall  under  your  own  character 
of  that  nightman  of  literature  you  so  liberally  assign 
Weston?  And  like  him,  too,  if  there  is  any  truth  in 
what  you  say  or  write,  do  you  not 

" '  Swell  like  a  filthy  toad  with  secret  spite  V 

"  The  ayes  have  it.  And  should  you  not  be  as  well 
versed  in  your  favourite  author's  fourth  satire,  as  you 
are  in  the  first,  with  your  leave,  I  will  quote  from  it  ttio 
emphatic  lines : 

"  '  Into  themselves  how  few,  how  few  descend. 
And  act,  at  home,  the  free,  impartial  friend ! 
None  see  their  own,  but  all,  with  ready  eye, 
The  pendent  wallet  on  a  neighbour  spy ; 
And  like  a  Baviad  will  recount  his  shame, 
Tacking  hi3  very  errors  to  his  name.^ 

■  "  Oracle,  12th  Jan." 
And  to  whose  name  should  they  be  tacked,  but  the  au- 
thor's 1  Let  not  the  reader,  however,  imagine  the  absurd- 
ity to  proceed  from  Persius,  or  his  ingenious  translator. 
"  The  truth  and  the  fact  is,"  ■  hat  our  learned  brother, 
having  a  small  change  to  make  in  the  last  two  lines, 
blundered  them,  with  his  usual  acuteness,  into  nonsense 
He  is  not  much  more  happy  when  he  accuses  me  of  call 
ing  Weston  "  the  nightman  of  literature."— But  when 
a  gentleman  does  not  know  what  he  writes,  it  is  a  little 
hard  to  expect  him  to  know  what  he  reads.  After  all, 
Edwin  or  not,  our  egregious  friend  is  still  the  profoumb 
Mr.  T.  Vaughan. 


THE    MiEVIAD. 


173 


Yes,  far  from  me,  whate'er  their  birth  or  place, 
These  long-ear'd  judges  of  the  Phrygian  race  ; 
Their  censure  and  their  praise  alike  I  scorn. 
And  hate  the  laurel  by  their  followers  worn ! 
Let  such  (a  task  congenial  to  their  powers) 
At  sales  and  auctions  waste  the  morning  hours, 
While  the  dull  noon  away  in  Rumford's  fane, 
And  snore  the  evening  out  at  Drury-lane. 


•    THE    MiF.VlAD. 
Qui  Bavium  non  odit,  amet  tua  carmina,  M^vi. 

INTRODUCTION. 

In  the  INTRODUCTION  to  the  preceding  pages,  a 
brief  account  is  given  of  the  rise  and  progress  of 
that  spurious  species  of  poetry  which  lately  infest- 
ed this  metropolis,  and  gave  occasion  to  the  Baviad. 

1  was  not  ignorant  of  what  I  exposed  myself  to 
by  the  publication  of  that  work.  If  abuse  could 
have  affected  me,  I  should  not  probably  have  made 
a  set  of  people  my  enemies,  habituated  to  ill  lan- 
guage, and  possessed  of  such  convenient  vehicles* 
for  its  dissemination.  But  I  never  regarded  it  from 
such  hands,  and,  indeed,  deprecated  nothing  but 
their  praise.  I  respect,  in  common  with  every  man 
of  sense,  the  censure  of  the  wise  and  good  ;  but  the 
angry  ebullitions  of  lolly  unmasked,  and  vanity 
mortified,  pass  by  me  "  like  the  idle  wind,"  or,  if 
noticed,  serve  merely  to  grace  succeeding  editions 
of  the  Baviad. 

I  confess,  however,  that  the  work  was  received 
more  favourably  than  I  expected.  Bell,  indeed, 
and  a  few  others,  whose  craft  was  touched,  vented 
their  indignation  in  prose  and  verse ;  but,  on  the 
whole,  the  clamour  against  me  was  not  loud,  and 
was  lost  by  insensible  degrees  in  the  applauses  of 
euch  as  I  was  truly  ambitious  to  please. 

Thus  supported,  the  good  effects  of  the  satire  (glo- 
riose  loquor)  were  not  long  in  manifesting  thera- 
selves.  Delia  Crusca  appeared  no  more  in  the  Ora- 
cle, and,  if  any  of  his  followers  ventured  to  treat 
the  town  with  a  soft  sonnet,  it  was  not,  as  before, 
introduced  by  a  pompous  preface.  Pope  and  Mil- 
ton resumed  their  superiority ;  and  Este  and  his 
coadjutors  silently  acquiesced  in  the  growing  opi- 
nion of  their  incompetency,  and  showed  some  sense 
of  shame. 

With  this  I  was  satisfied.  I  had  taken  up  my  pen 
for  no  other  end,  and  was  quietly  retiring,  with  the 
idea  that  I  had  "  done  the  state  some  service,"  and 
purposing  to  abandon  for  ever  the  caestus,  which  a 
respectable  critic  fancies  I  wielded  "  with  too  much 
severity,"  when  I  was  once  more  called  into  the 

*  Most  of  these  fashionable  writers  were  connected 
with  the  public  prints.  Delia  Crusca  was  a  worthy  co- 
adjutor of  the  mad  and  malignant  idiot  who  conducted 
the  World.  Arno  and  Lorenzo  were  either  proprietors 
or  editors  of  another  paper.  Edwin  and  Anna  Matilda 
were  favoured  contributors  to  several ;  and  Laura  Maria, 
from  the  sums  squandered  on  puffs,  could  command  a 
corner  in  all.  This  wretched  woman,  indeed,  in  the 
wane  of  her  beauty,  fell  into  merited  poverty,  exchanged 
poetry  for  politics,  and  wrote  abusive  trash  against  the 
government,  at  the  rate  of  two  guineas  a  week,  for  the 
Morning  Post. 


lists*  by  the  reappearance  of  some  of  the  scattered 
enemy. 

It  was  not  enough  that  the  stream  of  folly  flowed 
more  sparingly  in  the  Oracle  than  before ;  I  was 
determined 

"  To  have  the  current  in  that  place  damm'd  up;*' 
and  accordingly  began  the  present  poem — for  which, 
indeed,  I  had  by  this  time  other  reasons.  I  had 
been  told  that  there  were  still  a  few  admirers  of 
the  Cruscan  school,  who  thought  the  contempt  ex- 
pressed for  it  was  not  sufficiently  justified  by  the 
few  passages  produced  in  the  Baviad.  I  thought 
it  best,  therefore,  to  exhibit  the  tribe  of  Bell  once 
more  ;  and,  as  they  passed  in  review  before  me,  to 
make  such  additional  extracts!  from  their  works, 
as  should  put  their  demerits  beyond  the  power  of 
future  question. 

I  remembered  that  this  great  critic,  in  his  excel- 
lent remarks  on  the  Baviad,  had  charged  the  author 
with  "  bespattering  nearly  all  the  poetical  eminence 
of  the  day."  Anxious,  therefore,  to  do  impartial 
justice,  I  ran  for  the  Album,  to  discover  who  had 
been  spared.  Here  I  read,  "In  this  collection  are 
names  whom  genius  will  ever  look  upon  as  its  best 
supporters  !  Sheridan" — what,  is  '  Saul  also  among 
the  prophets  I' — "  Sheridan,  Merry,  Parsons,  Cowley, 
Andrews,  Jerningham,  Greathead,  Topham,  Robin- 
son," &c. 

Thus  furnished  with  "  all  the  poetical  eminenci 
of  the  day,"  I  proceeded,  as  Mr.  Bell  says,  to  be 
spatter  it ;  taking,  for  the  vehicle  of  my  design,  a 
satire  of  Horace — to  which  I  was  led  by  its  supply- 
ing me  (amid  many  happy  allusions)  with  an  op 
portunity  of  briefly  noticing  the  wretched  state  of 
dramatic  poetry  among  us.t 


*  I  hope  no  one  will  do  me  the  injustice  to  suppose  that 
I  imagine  myself  another  Hercules  contending  with  hy- 
dras, &c.  Far  from  it.  My  enemies  cannot  well  have 
an  humbler  opinion  of  me  than  I  have  of  myself;  and  yet, 
"  if  I  am  not  ashamed  of  them,  I  am  a  soused  gurnet." 
Mere  pecora  inertia !  The  contest  is  without  danger, 
and  the  victory  without  glory.  At  the  same  time,  I  de- 
clareagainst  any  undue  advantage  being  taken  of  these 
concessions.  Though  I  knew  the  impotence  of  these 
literary  Askaparts,  the  town  did  not ;  and  many  a  man, 
who  now  affects  to  pity  me  for  wasting  my  strength  upon 
imresisting  imbecility,  would,  not  long  since,  have  heard 
their  poems  with  applause,  and  their  praises  with  delight. 

t  It  will  now  be  said  tha^  I  have  done  it  usque  ad  naw' 
seam.  I  confess  it;  and  for  the  reason  given  above. 
And  yet  I  can  honestly  assure  the  reader,  that  most,  if 
not  all,  of  the  trash  here  quoted,  passed  with  the  authors 
for  superlative  beauties,  every  second  word  being  printed 
either  in  italics  or  capitals. 

1 1  know  not  if  the  stage  has  been  so  low,  since  the  days 
of  Gammer  Gurton,  as  at  this  hour.  It  seems  as  if  all  the 
blockheads  in  the  kingdom  had  started  up,  and  exclaimed, 
with  one  voice.  Come  !  let  us  write  for  the  theatres.  In 
this  there  is  nothing, perhaps,  altogether  new;  the  strik- 
ing and  peculiar  novelty  of  the  tynes  seems  to  be,  that 
ALLi  they  write  is  received.  Of  the  three  parties  con- 
cerned in  this  business,  the  writers  and  the  managers 
seem  the  least  culpable.  If  the  town  will  feed  on  husks, 
extraordinary  pains  need  not  be  taken  to  find  them  any 
thing  more  palatable.  But  what  shall  we  say  oi  the 
people  1  The  lower  orders  are  so  brutified  by  'Cacs  lamenta- 


1  I  recollect  but  two  exceptions.  Merry's  idiotical  opera,  and  Mrs.  Ro- 
binson's more  idiotical  farce.  To  have  failed  where  Miles  Andrews  suc- 
ceeded, argues  a  degree  of  stupidity  scarcely  credible.  Surely  "  ignoranc* 
itself  is  a  planet"  over  the  heroes  and  heroines  of  the  Baviad. 


174 


GIFFORD. 


When  the  MiEViAD,  so  I  call  tbe  present  lioem, 
was  nearly  brought  to  a  conclusion,  1  :uui  n  awde. 
The  times  seemed  unfavourable  to  <iuoh  pruduc- 
tions.  Events  of  real  importance  were  momofnta- 
jily  claiming  the  attention  of  the  uuuwc  anu  the 
0till  voice  of  the  muses  was  not  liRe.v  to  ue  .latened 
•0  amid  the  din  of  arms.  After  an  jnicrvn^  ol  two 
fears,  however,  circumstances,  whicti  it  is  not 
Material  to  mention,  have  induced  me  to  llr-.ish,  and 
trust  it,  without  more  preface,  to  the  caudour  to 
Which  I  am  already  so  highly  indebted  lot  the  kind 
reception  of  the  Baviad. 


Yes,  I  DID  say  that  Crusca's*  "  true  sublime" 
Lack'd  taste,  and  sense,  and  every  thing  but  rhyme  ; 


ble  follies  of  O'Keefe,  and  Cobbe,  and  Pilon,  and  I  know 
not  who — Sardi  venales,  each  worse  than  the  other — 
that  they  have  lost  all  relish  for  simplicity  and  genuine 
humour;  nay,  ignorance  itself,  unless  it  be  gross  and 
glaring,  cannot  hope  for  "their  most  sweet  voices." 
And  the  higher  ranks  are  so  mawkishly  mild,  that  they 
take  with  a  placid  simper  whatever  comes  before  them ; 
or,  if  they  now  and  then  experience  a  slight  fit  of  disgust, 
have  not  resolution  enough  to  express  it,  but  sit  yavming 
and  gaping  in  each  other's  faces  for  a  little  encourage- 
ment in  their  culpable  forbearance. 

When  this  was  written,!  thought  the  town  had  "  sound- 
ed," as  Shakspeare  says,  "  the  very  bass  string  of  humi- 
lity ;"  but  it  has  since  appeared,  that  the  lowest  pchit  cf 
degradation  had  not  then  been  reached.  The  fores  of 
English  folly,  indeed,  could  go  no  farther,  and  so  f«r  i 
was  right ;  but  the  auxiliary  supplies  of  Germany  were 
at  hand,  and  the  taste,  vitiated  by  the  lively  nonsense  of 
O'Keefe  and  Co.,  was  destined  to  be  utterly  destroyed  by 
successive  importations  of  the  heavy,  lumbering,  mono- 
tonous stupidity  of  Kotzebue  and  Schiller. 

The  object  of  these  writers  has  been  detailed  with  such 
force  and  precision  in  the  introduction  to  "  The  Rovers," 
that  nothing  remains  to  be  said  on  that  head— indeed  the 
simple  perusal  of  "  The  Rovers^'  would  supersede  the 
necessity  of  any  critique  on  the  merits  of  the  German 
drama  in  general ;  since  there  is  not  a  folly,  however 
gross,  an  absurdity,  however  monstrous,  to  be  found  in 
that  charming  jeu  d'esprit,  that  I  would  not  undertake  to 
parallel  from  one  or  other  of  the  most  admired  works  of 
the  German  Shakspeares.*  Why  it  has  not  been  produced 
on  the  stage  is  to  me  a  matter  of  astonishment,  since  it 
unites  the  beauties  of  "  The  Stranger"  and  "Pizarro;" 
and,  though  perfectly  German  in  its  sentiments,  is  Eng- 
lish in  its  language— intelligible  English ;  which  is  infi- 
nitely more  than  can  be  said  of  the  translation  from 
Kotzebue,  so  maliciously  attributed  to  Mr.  Sheridan. 

In  a  word,  if  you  take  from  the  German  dramas  their 
horrid  blasphemies,  their  wanton  invocations  of  the  sa- 
cred Name,  and  their  minute  and  ridiculous  stage  direc- 
tions, which  seem  calculated  to  turn  the  whole  into  a 
pantomime,  nothing  will  remain  but  a  caput  mortuum,  a 
vapid  and  gloomy  mass  of  matter,  unenlightened  by  a 
single  ray  of  genius  or  nature.  If  you  leave  them  their 
blasphemies,  &c.,  you  have  then  a  nameless  something, 
insipid  though  immoral,  tedious  though  impious,  and  stu- 
pid though  extravagant !— so  much  so,  that,  as  a  judicious 
writer  well  observes, "  it  becomes  a  doubt  which  are  the 
greatest  objects  of  contempt  and  scorn,  those  who  con- 
ceived and  wrote  them,  or  those  who  have  the  effrontery 
to  praise  them."  Yet "  these  be  thy  gods,  O  Israel !"  and 
to  these  are  sacrificed  our  taste,  our  sense,  and  our  na- 
tional honour. 

*  Crusca's  "  true  sublime."  The  words  between  in- 
verted commas  in  this  and  the  following  verses,  are  Mr. 
Bell's.  They  contain,  as  the  reader  sees,  a  short  cha- 
racter of  the  works  to  which  they  are  respectivel)'  affixed. 
Though  I  have  the  misfortune  to  differ  from  thia  gentle- 

1  So  Kotzebue  and  Schiller  are  styled  by  the  critical  reviewers. 


That  Arno's  "  easy  strains"  were  coarse  and  rough, 

And  Edwin's  "  matchless  numbers"  woful  stuff. 

And  who — forgive,  O  gentle  Bell,  the  word. 

For  it  must  out — who,  prithee,  so  absurd. 

So  mulishly  absurd,  as  not  to  join 

In  this  with  me,  save  always  thee  and  thine  ? 

Yet  still,  the  soui^  of  candour !  I  allow'd 

Their  jingling  elegies  amused  the  crowd  ; 

That  lords  hung  blubbering  o'er  each  woful  line, 

That  lady-critics  wept,  and  cried,  "  divine  !" 

That  iove-lorn  priests  reclined  the  pensive  head, 

And  sentimental  ensigns,  as  they  read^ 

Wiped  the  sad  drops  of  pity  from  their  eye, 

And  burst  between  a  hiccup  and  a  sigh. 

Yet,  not  content,  like  horse-leeches  they  come, 

And  split  my  head  with  one  eternal  hum 

For  "  more !  mcit  I  more !"  Away !  for  should  I  grant 

The  full,  the  unreserved  applause  ye  want, 

St.  John*  might  then  my  partial  voice  accuse, 

And  claim  my  suffrage  for  his  tragic  muse  ; 

And  Greathead.t  rising  from  his  short  disgrace. 

Fling  the  forgotten  "  Regent"  in  my  face. 


man  in  the  present  instances,  yet  I  observe  such  acute* 
ness  of  perception  in  his  general  criticism,  that  I  should 
have  styled  him  the  "  profound"  instead  of  the  "gentle" 
Boll,  if  I  had  not  previously  applied  the  epithet  to  a  still 
greater  man,  (absit  invidia  dicto,)  to— Mr.  T.  Vaughan. 
I  truiit  that  this  incidental  preference  will  create  no 
jealousy— for  though,  as  Virgil  properly  remarks,  "an 
oaken  staff  each  merits,"  yet  I  need  not  inform  a  gentle- 
man, who,  lika  Mr.  Bell,  reads  Shakspeare  every  day 
after  dinner,  that  "  if  two  men  ride  upon  a  horse,  one  of 
them  must  ride  behind." 

*  St.  John,  &c.  Having  already  observed  in  the  Intro- 
duction, that  the  Mseviad  was  nearly  finished  two  years 
since,  and  consequently  before  the  death  of  this  gentle. 
man,  I  have  only  to  add  here,  that  though  I  should  not 
have  introduced  any  of  the  heroes  of  the  Baviad,  quorum 
Flaminia  tegitur  cinis,  atque  Lalina,  yet  I  scarcely  think 
it  necessary  to  make  any  changes  for  the  sake  of  omit- 
ting  such  as  have  passed  ad  plures,  in  the  interval  between 
writing  ai\d  publishing. 

The  reader  will  find,  p.  181,  another  instance  of  my 
small  pretensions  to  prophecy,  and  probably  regret  it 
more  than  the  present. 

t  Greathead's  Regent.— Of  this  tragedy,  which  was 
"  recommended  to  the  world"  by  the  monthly  reviewers 
and  others,  as  "  the  work  of  a  scholar,"  I  want  words  to 
express  my  just  contempt.  The  plot  of  it  is  childish,  iie 
conduct  absurd,  the  language  unintelligible,  the  thoughts 
false  and  unnatural,  the  metaphors  incongruous,  the 
general  style  grovelling  and  base  ;  and,  to  sum  up  all  in 
a  word,  the  whole  piece  the  most  execrable  abortion  of 
stupidity  that  ever  disgraced  the  stage.  ^ 

It  is  to  be  wished  that  critics  by  profession,  sensible  of 
the  influence  which  their  opinions  necessarily  have  on 
the  public  taste,  would  divest  themselves  of  their  partial- 
ities when  they  sit  down  to  the  execution  of,  what  I  hope 
they  consider  as,  a  solemn  duty.  We  should  not  then 
find  them,  as  in  the  present  instance,  prostituting  their 
applause  on  works  that  call  for  universal  reprobation. 

It  is  but  fair,  however,  to  observe,  that  Mr.  Parsons  ha« 
added  his  all-sufficient  suffrage  to  that  of  the  reviewers, 
in  favour  of  Mr.  Greathead. 

"  O  bard  !  to  whom  belongs 

Each  purest  fount  of  poesy  ! 

AVho  old  Ilyssus'  hallow'd  dews 

In  his  own  Avon  dare  infuse. 

O  favour'd  clime  !  O  happy  age  ! 

That  boasts,  to  save  a  sinking  stage, 

A  Greathead  ! !  V'—Gent.  Mag. 
When  I  first  read  these,  and  other  high  sounding  praise* 
scattered  over  reviews,  magazines,  newspapers,  and  ' 


THE    MiEVIAD. 


175 


Bid  me  my  censure,  as  I  may,  deplore, 
And,  like  my  brother  critics,  cry  "  Encore  !" 
Alas !  my  learned  friends,  for  such  ye  are, 
As  Bell  will  say,  or,  if  ye  ask  it,  swear  ; 
'Tis  not  enough,  though  this  be  somewhat  too, 
And  more,  perhaps,*  than  Jerningham  can  do, — 

know  not  what,  I. was  naturally  led  to  con'^lude  that  Mr 
G.  had  succeeded  better  in  his  smaller  pieces  than  in  his 
tragedy,  and  thus  justified  in  some  degree  the  cry  of  his 
"  learning,"  &c.  &c.    But  no— all  was  a  blank ! 

Here  are  a  few  samples  of  the  "  Ilyssean  dews  infused 
oy  Mr.  Greathead  into  his  own  Avon"— muddied,  I  sup- 
pose, and  debased  by  the  home-bred  streamlet  of  one 
Shakspeare. 

"  In  fuller  presence  we  descry, 
'Mid  mountain  rocks— a  deity 
Than  eye  of  man  shall  e'er  behold 
In  living  grace  of  sculptured  gold."* 
More  matter  for  a  May  morning ! 

"  ODE    ON   APATHY. 

"  Accursed  be  dull  lethargic  Apathy, 
Whether  at  eve  she  listless  ride 
In  sluggish  car  by  tortoise  drawn— 
'^ilh  mimic  air  of  senseless  pride, 
She  feebly  throws  on  all  her  withering  sight, 
While  too  observant  of  her  sway, 
Unmark'd  her  droning  subjects  lie, 
Alike  to  her  who  murmur  or  obey." 
f  hope  the  reader  understands  it. 

"  ODE    TO   DUEL. 

"  Never  didst  thou  appear 

While  Tiber's  sons  gave  law  to  all  the  world  ; 

Yet  much  they  loved  to  desolate  and  slaughter. 

Carthage  !  attest  my  words. 

To  glut  their  sanguinary  rage. 

Not  citizens  but  gladiators  till. 

Slavery  and  vassalage. 

And  savage  broils  'twixt  nobles  are  no  more. 

Vanish  thou  likewise" 

And  these  are  odes,  good  heavens !  "  After  the  manner 
of  Pindar,"  I  take  for  granted. 

Enough  of  Mr.  Greathead.  I  have  only  to  add,  that  I 
am  actuated  by  no  personal  dislike  ;  for  I  can  say  with 
truth,  (what,  indeed,  I  can  of  all  the  heroes  of  the  Mseviad,) 
that  I  have  not  the  slightest  knowledge  of  him.  But  the 
daws  have  strutted  too  long :  it  is  more  than  time  to  strip 
them  of  their  adventitious  plumage  ;  and  if,  in  doing  it,  I 
should  pluck  off  any  feathers  which  originally  belonged 
to  them,  they  have  only  to  thank  their  own  vanity,  or  the 
forwardness  of  their  injudicious  friends. 

*  And  more,  perhaps,  than  Jerningham  can  do.  No  ; 
Mr.  Jerningham  has  lately  written  a  tragedy  and  a  farce  ; 
both  extremely  well  spoken  of  by  the  reyiewers,  and  both 
—gone  to  the  "  pastry-cooks." 

I  once  thought  that  I  understood  something  of  faces, 
but  I  must  read  my  Lavater  again,  I  find.  That  a  gentle- 
man with  the  "  physiognomie  d'un  mouton  qui  rfeve"  should 
suddenly  start  forth  a  new  Tyrtceus,  and  pour  a  dreadful 
note  through  a  cracked  war-trump,  amazes  me.— Well, 
Fronti  nulla  fides  shall  henceforth  be  my  motto. 

In  the  pride  of  his  heart  Mr.  Jerningham  has  taken  the 
instrument  from  his  mouth,  and  given  me  a  smart  stroke 
on  the  head  with  it :  this  is  fair, 

"  Csedimus-,  inque  vicem  prabemus  crura  sagittis." 
He  has  also  levelled  a  deadly  blow  at  a  gentleman  who, 
most  assuredly,  never  dreamed  of  having  our  Drav/cansir 
for  an  antagonist:  this,  though  not  quite  so  fair,  is  not 
altogether  unprecedented ; 

"  An  eagle,  towering  in  his  pride  of  place. 
Was  by  a  mousing  owl  hawked  at !" 


1  "  These  lines  (Mr.  Parsons  says)  are  not  Greathead's."  But  they  are 
published  with  his  name  in  the  Album ;  which,  exclusive  of  their  stupidity, 
is  sufficient  authority  for  me.  If  our  doughty  critic  chooses  to  take  them  to 
himself,  I  can  have  no  objection ;  for,  after  all,  pugna  est  de  paupere  regno  ; 


'Tis  not  enough  to  dole  out  Ahs  !  and  Ohs  ! 
Through  Kemble's   thorax,  or  through  Benslev'a 

nose, 
To  crowd  our  stage  with  scaffolds,  or  to  fright 
Our  wives  with  rapes,  repeated  thrice  a  night; 

Judges Not  such  as,  self-created,  sit 

On  that  TREMENDOUS  BENCH*  which  skirts  the  pit 
Where  idle  Thespis  nods,  while  Arnot  dreams 
Of  Nereids  "  purling  in  ambrosial  streams  ;" 
Where  Este  in  rapture  cons  fantastic  airs, 
"Old  Pistol  new  revived"  in  Topham  stares, 
And  Boswell,  aping,  w  ith  preposterous  pride, 
Johnson's  worst  frailties,  rolls  from  side  to  side 
His  heavy  head  from  hour  to  hour  erects, 
Affects  the  fool,  and  is  what  he  affects.| — 
Judges  of  truth  and  sense,  yet  more  demand 
That  art  to  nature  lend  a  helping  hand  ! 
That  fables  well  devised  be  simply  told. 
Correct  if  new,  and  probable  if  old. 

When  Mason  leads  Elfrida  forth  to  view, 
Adorn'd  with  virtues  which  she  never  knew, 
I  feel  for  every  tear  ;  while,  borne  along 
By  the  full  tide  of  unresisted  sorlg, 
I  stop  not  to  inquire  if  all  be  just, 
But  take  her  goodness,  as  her  grief,  on  trust, 
Till  calm  reflection  checks  me,  and  I  see 
The  heroine  as  she  was,  and  ought  to  be  ; 
A  bold,  bad  woman,  wading  to  the  throne 
Through  seas  of  blood,  and  crimes  till  then  un 

known : 
Then,  then  I  hate  the  magic  that  deceived. 
And  blush  to  think  how  fondly  I  believed.$ 


There  is  a  trait  of  scholarship  in  Mr.  Jerningham's  last 
poem,  which  should  not  be  overlooked ;  more  especially 
as  it  is  the  only  one.  Having  occasion  to  mention  "  Agave 
and  her  infant,"^  he  subjoins  the  following  explanation 
"Alluding  to  Agave,  who  in  a  delirium  slew  her  child. 
See  Ovid."  No,  I'll  take  Mr.  Jerningham's  word  for  it, 
though  I  had  twenty  Ovids  before  me. 

*  When  this  was  written,  which  was  while  the  Opera 
House  was  used  for  plays,  the  "  learned  justices"  here 
enumerated,  together  with  the  others  7wt  yet  taken,  were 
accustomed  to  flock  nightly  to  this  bench,  from  which 
the  unlettered  vulgar  were  always  scornfully  repelled 
with  an  ovieii  ayovaog. 

I  have  notheard  whether  the  New  Theatre  be  possessed 
of  such  a  one  ;  I  think  not ;  for  critics  are  no  more  gre- 
garious than  spiders.  Like  them,  they  viight  do  great 
things  in  concert ;  but,  like  them  too,  they  usually  end 
with  devouring  one  another. 

t  Arno.— The  dreams  of  this  gentleman,  which  continue 
to  make  their  appearance  in  the  Oracle,  under  the  namo 
of  Thespis,  are  not  always  of  Nereids.  He  dreamed  one, 
night  that  Mr.  Pope  played  Posthumus  with  less  spirit 
than  usual,  and  it  was  Mr.  Johnston  singing  Gramma- 
chree!  Another  night,  that  the  Mourning  Bride  might 
have  been  better  cast,  and  lo !  it  was  the  Comedy  of 
Errors  that  was  played. 

This  was  rather  unfortunate  ;  but  the  reader  must  have 
already  reflected,  from  the  strange  occupations  of  these 
4' self-created  judges,"  (here  faithfully  described,)  that 
sleeping  or  waking,  they  were  attentive  to  every  thing 
but  what  passed  before  their  eyes. 

t  Pauper  videri  cotta  vult,  et  est  pauper  ! 

§  Mr.  Parsons'  note  on  this  passage  is— "Did  you  bbs- 
LiEVE  1  could  you  possibly  be  so  ignorant  ?"— Even  go. 
But  I  humbly  conceive  that  Mr.  Mason,  who  seduced 
my  unsuspecting  youth,  is  equally  culpable  with  myself 


See  his  "  Peace,  Ignominy,  and  Destruction,"  p.  15. 


176 


GIFFO^JD. 


Not  so,  when  Edgar  *  made,  in  some  strange  plot, 

The  hero  of  a  day  that  knew  him  not, 

Struts  from  the  field  his  enemy  had  won, 

On  stately  stilts,  exulting  and  undone  ! 

Here  I  can  only  pity,  only  smile  ; 

Where  not  one  grace,  one  elegance  of  style. 

Redeems  th'  audacious  folly  of  the  rest. 

Truth  sacrificed,  and  history  made  a  jest. 

Let  this,  ye  Cruscans,t  if  your  heads  be  made 
"  Of  penetrable  stuff)"  let  this  persuade 
Your  husky  tribes  their  wanderings  to  restrain. 
Nor  hope  what  taste  and  Mason  fail'd  to  gain. 

Then  let  your  style  be  brief,  your  meaning  clear, 
Nor,  like  Lorenzo,|  lire  the  labouring  ear 
With  a  wild  waste  of  words  ;  sound  without  sense, 
And  all  the  florid  glare  of  impotence. 
Still  with  your  characters  your  language  change, 
From  grave  to  gay,  as  nature  dictates,  range  ; 
Now  droop  in  all  the  plaintiveness  of  wo. 
Now  in  glad  numbers  light  and  airy  flow ; 
Now  shake  the  stage  with  guilt's  alarming  tone. 
And  make  the  aching  bosom  all  your  own  ; 

Now But  I^ing  in  vain  ;  from  first  to  last 

Tour  joy  is  fustian,  and  your  grief  bombast  : 
Rhetoric  has  banish'd  reason  ;  kings  and  queens 
Vent  in  hyberboles  their  royal  spleens  ; 
Guardsmen  in  metaphors  express  their  hopes. 
And  "  maidens  in  white  linen,"  howl  in  tropes. 

Reverent  I  greet  the  bards  of  other  days  : 
Blest  be  your  names,  and  lasting  be  your  praise ! 
From  nature's  varied  face  ye  widely  drew. 
And  following  ages  own'd  the  copies  true. 

0  I  had  our  sots,  who  rhyme  with  headlong  haste, 
And  think  reflection  still  a  foe  to  taste. 

But  brains  your  pregnant  scenes  to  understand, 
And  give  us  truth,  though  but  at  second  hand, 
'Twere  something  yet !    But  no,  they  never  look — 
Shall  souls  of  fire,  they  cry,  a  tutor  brook  ? 

There  is  also  one  William  Shakspeare,  who,  I  am  ready 
to  take  my  oath,  is  a  notorious  offender  in  this  way ; 
having  led  not  only  me,  but  divers  others,  into  the  most 
gross  and  ridiculous  errors ;  making  us  laugh,  cry,  &c., 
for  persons  whom  we  ought  to  have  known  to  be  mere 
nonentities. 

But  Mr.  Parsons  has  happily  obtained  an  obdurate  and 
impassable  head  :  let  him,  therefore,  "  give  God  thanks, 
and  make  no  boast  of  it."  He  is  a  wise  and  a  wary 
reader,  and  follows  the  most  judicious  Bottom,  who  having, 
like  himself,  too  much  sagacity  to  be  imposed  upon  by  a 
feigned  character,  was  laudably  anxious  to  undeceive 
the  tworld.  "  No,"  quoth  he,  "  let  him  thrust  his  face 
through  the  lion's  neck,  and  say,  if  you  think  I  come  hither 
as  a  lion,  it  were  pity  of  my  life no,  I  am  no  such  thing : 

1  am  a  man,  as  other  men  are ;— and  then,  indeed,  let 
him  name  his  name,  and  tell  them  plainly  he  is  Snug 
the  joiner." 

*  Edgar  Alheling.— See  the  "  Battle  of  Hastings,"  a 
tragedy  by  Mr.  Cumberland, 
t  Ye  Cruscans ! 

O  voi,  che  della  Crusca  vi  chiamate, 
Come  quei  che  farina  non  avendo 
Di  quella  a  lutto  pasto  vi  saziate  ! 

t  Lorenzo. "  A  lamentable  tragedy  by  Delia  Crusca, 

mixed  full  of  pleasant  mirth."  The  house  laughed  a-good 
at  it,  but  Mr.  Harris  cried  sadly.  Here  is  another  instance 
if  it  were  wanted,  of  the  bad  effects  of  prostitute  applause. 
Could  Mr.  Harris,  if  his  mind  had  not  been  previously 
warped  by  the  eternal  puffs  of  Bell  and  hij  .followers, 
have  supposed,  for  a  moment,  that  a  knack  of  stringing 
together  "  hoar  hills,"  and  "  rippling  rills,"  and  "  red  skies 
glare,"  and  "  thin,  thin  air,"  qualified  a  man  for  writing 
tragedy '? 


Forbid  it,  inspiration  !    Thus  your  pain 
Is  void,  and  ye  have  lived,  for  them,  in  vain ; 
In  vain  for  Crusca  and  his  skipping  school, 
Cobbe,  Reynolds,  Andrews,  and  that  nobler  fool : 
Who  naught  but  Laura's*  tinkling  trash  admire, 
And  the  mad  jangle  of  Matilda's*  lyre. 


*  Laura's  tinkling  trash,  &c.— I  had  amassed  a  world 
of  this  "  tinkling  trash"  for  the  behoof  of  the  reader,  but 
having,  fortunately  for  him,  mislaid  it,  and  not  being 
disposed  to  undertake  again  the  drudgery  of  wading 
through  Mr.  Bell's  collections,  I  can  only  offer  the  little 
which  occurs  to  my  memory.    Of  this  little,  the  merit? 
must  be  principally  shared  among  Mrs.  Robinson,  Mrs. 
Cowley,  and  Mr.  Merry ; 
"  Et  vos,  O  Lauri,  carpam,  et  te,  proxima  Myrte, 
Sic  positCB  quoniam  suaves  niiscetis  odores." 
"—0  let  me  fly 

Where  Greenland  darkness  drinks  the  beamy  sky ;" 
"  But  0  !  beware  how  thou  dost  fling 

Thy  hot  pulse  o'er  the  quivering  string  !" 
"  Pluck  from  their  dark  and  rocky  bed 

The  yelling  demons  of  the  deep. 
Who,  soaring  o'er  the  comet's  head, 
The  bosom  of  the  welkin  sweep." 
"  And  when  the  jolly  full  moon  laughs, 
In  her  clear  zenith  to  behold 
The  envious  stars  withdraw  their  gleams  of  gold, 
'Tis  to  thy  health  she  stooping  quaffs 
The  sapphire  cup  that  fairy  zephyrs  bring  !" 
On  considering  these  and  the  preceding  lines,  I  was 
templed  to  indulge  a  wish  that  the  Blue  Stocking  club 
would  issue  an  immediate  order  to  Mr.  Bell  to  examine 
the  cells  of  Bedlam.    Certainly,  if  an  accurate  transcript 
were  made  from  the  "  darkened  walls"  once  or  tvvice  a 
quarter,  an  Album  might  be  presented  to  the  fashionable 
world,  more  poetical,  and  far  more  rational,  than  any 
which  they  have  lately  honoured  with  their  applause. 
"  Why  does  thy  stream  oi  sweetest  song 
Foam  on  the  mountain's  murmuring  side, 
Or  through  the  vocal  coven  glide  ? 
"  I  heard  a  tuneful  phantom  in  the  wind, 
I  saw  it  watch  the  rising  moon  afar. 
Wet  with  the  weeping  of  the  twilight  star.—* 
"  The  pilgrim  who  with  tearful  eye  shall  view 
The  moon's  wan  lustre  in  the  midnight  dew, 

Soothed  by  her  light " 

This  is  an  admirable  reason  for  his  crying !— but  what 
Un  sot  trouve  toujours  un  plus  sot  qui  I'admire.  Mr 
Bell  is  in  raptures  with  it,  and  very  properly  recommenda 
it  to  the  admiration  of  Delia  Crusca,  as  being  the  produc- 
tion of  "  a  congenial  soul."  There  is  also  another  judi- 
cious critic,  one  Dr.  Tasker,  (should  it  not  be  Dr.  Trus- 
ler  ?)  who  has  given  a  decided  opinion,  it  seems,  ii\  favour 
of  the  writer's  abilities;  which  may  console  her  for  the 
sneers  of  fifty  such  envious  scribblers  as  the  author  of 
the  Baviad. 
And  first  you  shall  hear  what  Mrs.  Robinson  says  of 

Dr.  Tasker. "  The  learned  and  ingenious  Dr.  Tasker, 

in  the  third  volume  of  his  elegant  and  critical  works, 
has  PRONOUNCED  some  of  Mrs.  Robinson's  poems  superior 
to  those  of  Milton  on  the  same  subject,  particularly  her 
Address  to  the  Nightingale.  The  praises  of  so  competent 
and  disinterested  a  judge,  stamps  celebrity  that  neither 
time  nor  envy  can  obliterate."— OracZc,  Dec.  10. 

Next  you  shall  hear  what  Dr.  Tasker  says  of  Mrs.  Ro- 
binson. 

"  In  ancient  Greece  by  two  fair  forms  were  seen 
Wisdom's  stern  goddess,  and  Love's  smiling  queen; 
Pallas  presided  over  arms  and  arts, 
And  Venus  over  gentle  virgins'  hearts  ; 
But  now  both  powers  in  one  fair  form  combine, 
And  in  famed  Robinson  united  shine." 
"  This  lady,equally  celebrated  in  the  polite  and  literary 
circles,  has  honoured  Mr." Lo  I  the  Dr.  has  dwindled 


THE    MiEVlAD. 


177 


But  Crusca  still  has  merit,  and  may  claim 
No  humble  station  in  the  ranks  of  fame  ; 
He  tauglit  us  first  the  language  to  refine, 
To  crowd  with  beauties  every  sparkling  line. 
Old  phrases  with  new  meanings  to  dispense, 
Amuse  the  fancy, — and  confound  the  sense ! 
0,  void  of  reason  !  Is  it  thus  you  praise 
A  linsey-woolsey  song,  framed  with  such  ease, 
Such  vacancy  of  thought,  that  every  line 
Might  tempt  e'en  Vaughan  to  whisper,  "  This  is 
mine !" 

Vaughan !  well  remember'd.      He,  good  man, 
complains 
That  I  affix'd  his  name  to  Edwin's*  strains : 

into  plain  Mr. "has  honoured  IMr.  Tasker's  poetical 

and  other  productions  with  high  and  distinguished  marks 
of  her  approbation."— Gazc?/ecr,  Jan.  16. 
Why  this  is  the  very  song  of  Prodlcus,  fi  x^'P  rriv  %£(- 

pa  Ki/i^ei for  the  rest,  I  trust  my  readers  will  readily 

subscribe  to  the  praises  which  these  most  "  competent 
anddisinterestedjudges"have  reciprocally  lavished  upon 
each  other. 
But  allons ! 

" My  hand,  al  night's  fell  noon, 

Plucks  from  the  tresses  of  the  moon 
A  sparkling  crown  of  silvery  hue, 
Besprent  with  studs  of  frozen  dew !" 
"  On  the  dizzy  height  inclined, 
I  listen  to  the  passing  tcind, 
That  loves  my  mournful  song  to  seize, 
And  bears  it  to  the  mountain  breeze." 
Here  we  find  that  listening  to  the  wind,  and  singing  to  it, 
are  one  and  the  same  thing ;  and  that— but  I  can  make 
nothing  of  the  rest. 

"  When  in  black  obtrusive  clouds 
The  chilly  moon  her  pale  cheek  shrouds, 
I  mark  the  twinkling  starry  train 
Exulting  glitter  in  her  wane. 
And  proudly  gleam  their  borrow'd  light 
To  gem  the  sombre  dome  of  night." 
Whatan  admirable  observer  of  nature  is  this  great  poetess ! 
The  stars  tmnkling  in  a  cloudy  night,  and  gleaming 
their  borroiced  lustre,  is  superlatively  good.   I  had  almost 
forgot  to  observe  that  these  and  the  preceding  lines  are 
taken  from  the  Ode  to  the  Nightingale,  so  superior,  in  the 
reverend  judgment  of  Dr.  Tasker,  to  one  of  a  Mr.  John 
Milton  on  the  same  subject. 

" The  lightning's  rays 

Leap  through  the  night's  scarce  perviou*  gloom, 

Attracted  by" (what !  for  a^ucat  ■) 

"  Attracted  by  the  rose's  bloom !" 
"  Let  but  thy  lyre  impatient  seize 
Departing  twilight's  filmy  breeze. 
That  winds  th'  enchanting  chords  among 

In  lingering  labyrinths  of  song." 

"  See  in  the  clouds  its  mast  the  proud  bark  laves. 
Scorning  the  aid  of  ocean's  humble  waves !" 
Frc-m  this  it  appears,  that  Mrs.  Cowley  imagines  proud 
barks  to  float  on  their  masts.    It  is  proper  to  mention 
that  the  vessel  takes  such  extraordinary  state  on  herself, 
because  she  carries  Delia  Crusca  1 

" From  a  young  grove's  shade, 

Whose  infant  boughs  but  mock  th'  expecting  glade  ! 
Sweet  sounds  stole  forth,  upborne  upon  the  gale, 
Press'd  through  the  air,  and  broke  upon  the  vale  ; 
Then  silent  walk'd  the  breezes  of  the  plain, 
Or  soar'd  aloft,  and  seized  the  hovering  strain."— 
Delia  Crusca. 
The  force  of  folly  can  no  farther  go ! 
*  Edwin's  strains— If  the  reader  will  turn  to  the  con- 
•.lusion  of  the  Bavi&d,  he  will  find  a  delicious  'Eirtradiov 
in  a  tame  movty.,  Ty  this  gentleman.    As  it  seemed  to 
give  universal  f?:»f  faction,  I  embrace  the  opi)ortunityof 

Vol.  III.— 12 


'Tis  just — for  what  three  kindred  souls  have  done. 
Is  most  unfairly  charged,  I  ween,  on  one. 
Pardon,  my  learned  friend  !  With  watery  eyes. 
Thy  growing  fame  to  truth  I  sacrifice  ; 
To  many  a  sonnet  call  thy  claims  in  doubt, 
And,  "  at  one  entrance,  shut  thy  glory  out." 
Yet  meicl  thou  still.     Shall  my  lord's  dormouse  die. 
And  low  in  dust  without  a  requiem  lie  ? 
No,  mewl  thou  still :  and,  while  thy  d — s  join 
Their  melancholy  symphonies  to  thine. 
My  righteous  verse  shall  labour  to  restore 
The  well  earned  fame  it  robb'd  them  of  before  : 
Edwin,  whatever  elegies  of  wo 
Drop  from  the  gentle  mouths  of  Vaughan  ana  Co., 
To  this  or  that,  henceforth  no  more  confined. 
Shall,  like  a  surname,  take  in  all  the  kind. 

Right !   cry  the  brethren.     When  the  heaven- 
born- muse 
Shames  her  descent,  and,  for  low,  earthly  views, 
Hums  o'er  a  beetle's  bier  the  doleful  stave. 
Or  sits  chief  mourner  at  a  May-bug's  grave. 
Satire  should  scourge  her  from  the  vile  emploj'", 
And  bring  her  back  to  friendship,  love,  and  joy. 
But  spare  Cesario,*  Carlos,t  Adelaide,:^ 
The  truest  poetess  !  the  truest  maid ! 


laying  before  the  public  another  effusion  of  the  same  ex- 
quisite pen. 

It  will  be  found,  I  flatter  myself,  not  less  beautiful 
than  the  former  ;  and  fully  prove  that  the  author,  though 
ostensibly  devoted  to  elegy,  can,  on  a  proper  occasion, 
assume  an  air  of  gayety,  and  be  "  profound"  with  ease, 
and  instructive  with  elegance. 

ESoviv  irpoXoyi^et. 
"  On  the  circumstance  of  a  mastiff's  running  furiously 
isad  dog .')  totcard  two  young  ladies,  and,  upon  coming 
up  to  them,  becoming  iiistantly  gentle  (good  dog  /)  and 
tractable." 

Tantura  ad  narrandum  argumentum  est  benignitas! 
"  When  Orpheus  took  hi«  lyre  to  hell, 
To  fetch  his  rib  away, 
On  that  same  thing  he  pleased  so  well, 
That  devils  learn'd  to  play. 
"  Besides,  in  books  it  may  be  read, 
That  whilst  he  swept  the  lute. 
Grim  Cerberus  hung  his  savage  head, 
And  lay  astoundly  mute. 
"  But  here  we  can  with  justice  say, 
That  nature  rivals  art ; 
He  sang  a  mastiff's  rage  away, 
You  look'd  one  through  the  heart." 

Fecit  Edwin. 
*  Cesario.  In  the  Baviad  are  a  few  stanzas  of  a  most 
delectable  ode  to  an  owl.  They  were  ascribed  to  Arno ; 
nor  was  I  conscious  of  any  mistake,  till  I  received  a  polite 
note  from  that  gentleman,  assuring  me  that  he  was  not 
only  not  the  author  of  them,  but  (horresco  referens)  that 
he  thought  them  "  execrable."  Mr.  Bell,  on  the  other 
hand,  affirms  them  to  be  "  admirable." 

"  Who  shall  decide  when  doctors  disagree  1" 
Be  this  as  it  may,  I  am  happy  to  say  that  I  have  difco 
vered  the  true  author.  They  were  written  by  Cesario  ; 
and  as  I  rather  incline  to  Mr.  Bell,  pace  Arno  dixerim, 
I  shall  make  no  scruple  of  laying  the  remainder  of  this 
"mellifluous  piece"  before  the  reader. 

''  Slighted  love  the  soul  subduing, 
Silent  sorrow  chills  the  heart, 
Treacherous  fancy  still  pursuing, 
Still  repels  the  poisoned  dart. 

t  See  note  t,  1st  col.  p.  178.         t  See  note  t,  ih 


178 


GIFFORD. 


Lorenzoj^  Reuben,|  spare  :  far  be  the  thought 
Of  interest,  far  from  them.     Unhribed,  unbought. 


"  Soothing  those  fond  dreams  of  pleasure, 
Pictured  in  the  glowing  breast, 
Lavish  of  her  sweetest  treasure, 

Anxious  /ear  is  charmed  to  rest. 

"  Fearless  o'er  the  whiten'd  billows, 
Proudly  rise,  sweet  bird  of  night, 
Safely  through  the  bending  willows, 
Gently  wing  thy  aery  flight." — Cesario. 
Though  I  flatter  myself  that  I  have  good  sense  and  taste 
enough  to  see  and  admire  the  peculiar  beauties  of  this 
ode,  yet  a  regard  for  truth  obliges  me  to  declare  that  they 
are  not  original.    They  are  taken  (with  improvements, 
I  confess)  from  a  most  beautiful  "  Song  by  a  person  of 
quality,"  in  Pope's  Miscellanies.    This,  though  it  de- 
tracts a  little  from  Cesario's  inventive  powers,  still 
leaves  him  the  praise  (no  mean  one)  of  having  gone 
Deyond  that  great  poet,  in  what  he  probably  considered 
as  the  ne  plus  ultra  of  ingenuity. 

Venimus  ad  summum  fortunae  !  Mr.  Greathead  equals 
e?hakspeare,  Mrs.  Robinson  surpasses  Milton,  and  Cesa- 
rio outdoes  Pope  in  that  very  performance  which  he 
vainly  imagined  so  complete  as  to  take  away  all  desire 
of  imitating,  all  possibility  of  excelling  it ! 

"O  favour'd  clime  !  O  happy  age  !" 
t  Carlos.— I  have  nothing  of  this  gentleman  (a  most 
pertinacious  scribbler  in  the  Oracle)  but  the  following 
'  sonnet ;"  luckily,  however,  it  is  so  ineffably  stupid,  that 
'l  will  more  than  satisfy  any  readers  but  Mr.  Bell's. 

"  ON   A   lady's  portrait. 

"  Oft  hath  the  poet  hail'd  the  breath  of  morn. 
That  wakens  nature  with  the  voice  of  spring, 

And  oft,  when  purple  summer  feeds  the  lawn. 
Hath  fancy  touch'd  him  with  her  procreant  wing; 

Full  frequent  has  he  bless'd  the  golden  beam 
Which  yellow  autumn  glowing  spreads  around, 

And  though  pale  winter  press'd  a  paly  gleam. 
Fresh  in  his  breast  was  young  description  found." 
f  can  copy  no  more— Job  himself  would  lose  all  patience 
here.  Instead,  therefore,  of  the  remainder  of  this  incom- 
prehensible trash,  I  will  give  the  reader  a  string  of  judi- 
cious observations  by  Mr.  T.  Vaughan :  "  Bruyere  says, 
he  will  allow  that  good  writers  are  scarce  enough,  but 
adds,  and  justly,  that  good  critics  are  equally  so :  which 
reminds  our  correspondent  also  of  what  the  Abb6  Trublet 
writes,  speaking  of  professed  critics,  where  he  says,  if 

they  were  obliged  to  examine  authors  impartially 

there  would  be  fewer  writers  in  this  way.  Was  this  to 
be  the  liberal  practice  adopted  by  our  modern  critics, 
we  should  not  see  a  Bar lod— falling  upon  men  and  things 
that  are  much  above  his  capacity,  and  seemingly  for  no 
other  reason  than  because  they  are  so." 

A  Daniel  come  to  judgment,  yea,  a  Daniel !  This  is  In 
truth  the  reason  ;  and  when  Mr.  Vaughan  and  his  coad- 
jutors condescend  to  humble  themselves  to  my  under- 
standing, I  will  endeavour  to  profit  by  their  eloquent 
strictures. 

t  Adelaide.— And  who  is  Adelaide  ?  O  seri  studiorum  ! 
"  Not  to  know  her,  argues  yourselves  unknown."  Hear 
Mr.  Bell,  the  Longinus  of  newspaper  writers. 

"  ADELAIDE, 

"  He  who  is  here  addressed  by  the  first  lyric  writer  in 
,he  kingdom,  must  himself  endeavour  to  repay  a  debt  so 
•"lighly  honourable,  if  it  can  be  done  by  verse  !  This  lady 
shall  have  the  praise  which  ought  to  be  given  by  the 
country,  that  of  first  discovering  and  drawing  out  the 
fine  powers  of  Arno  and  Delia  Crusca." 

"  O  thou,  whom  late  I  watch'd,  while  o'er  thee  hung 
The  orb  whose  glories  I  so  oft  have  sung, 
Beheld  thee  while  a  shoicer  of  beam 
Made  night  a  lovelier  morning  seem,"  &c 
We  might  here  dismiss  this  "  first  lyric  writer  of  the 


§  See  note  §,  next  col. 


See  note  \\,  ib. 


They  pourt "  from  their  big  breast's  prolific  zone 
A  proud,  poetic  fervour,  only  known 

age,"  who,  from  her  flippant  nonsense,  appears  to  be 
Mrs.  Piozzi,  were  it  not  for  the  sake  of  remarking,  that, 
whatever  be  the  merit  of  "  drawing  out  the  fine  power« 
of  Arno,"  (which,  it  seems,  this  ungrateful  country  has 
not  yet  rewarded  with  a  statue,)  she  must  be  content  to 
share  it  with  Julia.  Hear  her  invocation— but  first  heai 
Mr.  Bell.  "  A  most  elegant  compliment,  which  for  gene- 
rous esteem  has  been  seldom  equalled,  any  more  than 
the  muse  which  inspired  it." 

"  JCLIA  TO  ARNO. 

"Arno  !  where  steals  thy  dulcet  lay. 
Soft  as  the  evening's  minstrel  note, 
Say,  does  it  deck  the  rising  day. 
Or  on  the  noontide  breezes  float  1" 
Mrs.  Robinson  (for  we  may  as  well  drop  the  name  of 
Julia)  has  been  guilty  of  a  trifling  larceny  here  ;  having 
taken  from  the  Baviad,  without  any  acknowledgment, 
a  delicious  couplet,  which  I  flattered  myself  would  never 
have  been  seen  out  of  that  poem;  but  so  it  is,  that,  like 
Pope, 

" Write  whate'er  I  will. 

Some  rising  genius  sins  up  to  it  still." 
This  has  nettled  me  a  little,  and  possibly  injured  the 
great  poetess  in  my  opinion  •;  for  I  have  been  robbed  so 
often  of  late,  that  I  l^egin  to  tliink  with  the  old  economist 
OvTOs  aoi6o)v  XwoTos  hs  s^  Cfxev  oicrerai  ovSeu. 
For  the  rest,  this  "  elegaiit  invocation"  called  forth  a 
specimenof  Arno's  fine  powers  in  the  following  dulcet 
lays. 

"  ARNO    TO   JULIA. 

"  Sure  some  dire  star  inimical  to  man. 
Guides  to  his  heart  the  desolating  fire, 
Fills  with  contention  only  his  brief  span. 
And  rouses  him  to  murderous  desire. 
"  There  are  who  sagely  scan  the  tortured  world, 
And  tell  us  war  is  but  necessity. 
That  millions  by  the  Great  Dispenser  hurl'd, 
Must  suffer  by  the  scourge,  and  cease  to  be." 
Euge,  Poeta ! 
§  Lorenzo. 

Kai  TTWf  £yo)  HOeve'Xov  <i>ayoi]x  av  prina  n, 
Etf  o^os  eytfiairroiitvov,  n  XevKovs  aXas — 
Says  a  hungry  wight  in  an  old  comedy.    But  I  know  of 
no  seasoning  whatever,  capable  of  making  the  insipia 
garbage  of  this  modern  Sthenelus  palatable ;   I  shall 
therefore  spare  myself  the  disgust  of  producing  it. 

II  Reuben,  whom  I  take  to  be  Mr.  Greathead  in  disguise, 
(it  being  this  gentleman's  fate,  like  Hercules  of  old,  to 
assume  the  merit  of  all  unappropriated  prodigies,)  intro- 
duced  himself  to  the  World  by  the  following 

"  ADDRESS    TO   ANNA   MATILDA. 

«  To  thee  a  stranger  dares  address  his  theme, 
To  thee,  proud  mistress  of  Apollo's  lyre, 
One  ray  emitted  from  thy  golden  gleam. 
Prompted  by  love,  would  set  the  world  on  fire  f 
"Adorn  then  love  in  fancy-tinctured  vest, 
Chameleon  like,  anon  of  various  hue. 
By  Penseroj^  and  Allegro  dress'd, 
Such  genius  ciaim'd  when  she  Idalia  drew."— 
Anna  Matilda,  what  could  she  less  !  found 
•'This  resuscitating  praise 
Breathe  life  upon  her  dying  lays," 
like  "the  daisy  which  spreads  her  bloom  to  the  moii* 
evening!"  and  accordingly  produced  a  matchless  "adorn 
ment  of  love,"  to  the  great  contentment  of  the  gen».l 
Reuben. 

"  But,  bard  polite,  how  hard  the  task 
Which  with  such  elegance  you  ask !" 
Who  would  have  imagined  that  these  lines,  the  simpl 
IT  See  note  IT,  1st  col.  p.  179. 


I 


THE    MiEVIx\D. 


179 


To  souls  like  theirs  ;"  as  Anna's  youth  inspires, 
A.S  Laura's  graces  kindle  fierce  desires, 

As  Henriet For  heaven's  sake,  not  so  fast. 

I  too,  my  masters,  ere  my  teeth  were  cast, 
Had  learn'd,  by  rote,  to  rave  of  Delia's  charms, 
To  die  of  transports  found  in  Chloe's  arms. 
Coy  Daphne  with  obstreperous  plaints  to  woo. 
And  curse  the  cruelty  of — God  knows  who. 
When  rhoebus,  (not  the  power  that  bade  thee  write, 
For  he,  dear  Dapper  !  was  a  lying  sprite,) 
One  morn,  when  dreams  are  true,  approach'd  my  side. 
And,  frowning  on  my  tuneful  lumber,  cried, 
"  Lo  !  every  corner  with  soft  sonnets  cramm'd, 
And  high-born  odes,  '  works  damn'd,  or  to   be 

damn'd  !' 
And  is  thy  active  folly  adding  more 
To  this  most  worthless,  most  superfluous  store  ? 
0  impotence  of  toil !  thou  mightst  as  well 
Give  sense  to  Este,  or  modesty  to  Bell. 
Forbear,  forbear: — What  though  thou  canst  not 

claim 
The  sacred  honours  of  a  poet's  name. 
Due  to  the  few  alone,  whom  I  inspire 
With  lofty  rapture,  with  ethereal  fire  ! 
Yet  mayst  thou  arrogate  the  humble  praise 
Of  reason's  bard,  if,  in  thy  future  lays. 
Plain  sense  and  truth,  and  surelj'  these  are  thine, 
Correct  thy  wanderings,  and  thy  flights  confine." 
Here  ceased  the  god  and  vanish'd.     Forth  I  sprang. 
While  in  my  ear  the  voice  divine  yet  rang. 
Seized  every  rag  and  scrap,  approach'd  the  fire, 
And  saw  whole  Albums  in  the  blaze  expire. 

Then  shame  ensued,  and  vain  regret,  t'  have  spent 
So  many  hours  (hours  which  I  yet  lament) 
In  thriftless  industry  ;  and  year  on  year 
Inglorious  roll'd,  while  diffidence  and  fear 
Repress'd  my  voice — unheard  till  Anna  came. 
What !  throbb'st  thou  yet,  my  bosom,  at  the  name  ? 


tribute  of  gratitude  to  genius,  should  nearly  occasion  "  a 
perdition  of  souls  1"    Yet  so  it  was.    They  unfortunately 
roused  the  jealousy  of  Delia  Crusca  "on  the  sportive 
banks  of  the  Rhone."    One  luckless  evening 
"  When  twilight  on  the  western  edge 
Had  Joined  his  hoary  hair  with  sabling  sedge," 
as  he  was  "weeping"  (for,  like  Master  Stephen,  these 
good  creatures  think  it  necessary  to  be  always  melan- 
^.holy)  at  the  tomb  of  Laura,  he  started,  as  well  he  might, 
at  the  accursed  name  of  Reuben. 
"  Hark !  (quoth  he,) 
What  cruel  sounds  are  these 
Which  float  upon  the  languid  breeze, 
Which  fill  my  soul  with  jealous  fear  ? 
Ha !  Reuben  is  the  name  I  hear. 
For  him  my  faithless  Anna,"  &c. 
it  pams  me  to  add,  that  the  cold-blooded  Bell  has  de- 
stroyed this  beautiful  fancy-scene  with  one  stroke  of  his 
clownish  pen.    In  a  note  on  the  above  verses,  Album, 
p.  131,  he  officiously  informs  us  that  Delia  Crusca  knew 
"  nothing  of  his  rival,  till  he  read"— detested  word  !— "his 
sonnet  in  the  Oracle."    O  Bell !  Bell !  is  it  thus  thou 
humblest  the  strains  of  the  sublime  1  Surely  we  may  say 
of  thee,  what  was  not  ill  said  of  one  of  tliy  sisters, 
Sed  tu  insulsa  male  et  molesta  vives. 
Per  quam  non  licet  esse  negligentem. 

H  They  pour,  &c. 

" 1  love  so  well 

Thy  soul's  deep  tone,  thy  thought's  high  swell, 

Thy  proud,  poetic  fervour,  known 

But  in  thy  breast's  prolific  zone."— Delia  Crusca. 


And  chased  the  oppressive  doubts  which  round  me 

clung, 
And  fired  my  breast,  and  loosen'd  all  my  tongue. 
E'en  then  (admire,  John  Bell !  my  simple  ways) 
No  heaven  and  hell  danced  madly  through  my  lay* 
No  oaths,  no  execrations  ;  all  was  plain  : 
Yet,  trust  me,  while  thy  "  ever-jingling  train" 
Chime  their  sonorous  woes  with  frigid  art. 
And  shock  the  reason,  and  revolt  the  heart, 
My  hopes  and  fears,  in  nature's  language  dress 'd. 
Awaken 'd  love  in  many  a  gentle  breast. 

How  oft,  O  Dart !  what  time  the  faithful  pair 
Walk'd  forth,  the  fragrant  hour  of  eve  to  share, 
On  thy  romantic  banks  have  my  wild  strains,* 
Not  yet  forgot  amid  my  native  plains. 


*  Mr.  Parsons  is  extremely  angry  at  my  "  ostentatious 
intrusion"  of  the  "Otium  Dives"  into  the  notee  on  this 
poem.  What  could  I  do  ?  I  ever  disliked  publijjr  ing  my 
little  modicums  on  loose  pages— but  I  shall  grow  wiser  by 
his  example  !  and,  indeed,  am  even  now  composing  "  one 
riddle,  two  rebusses,  and  one  acrostic  to  a  babe  at 
nurse,"!  which  will  be  set  forth  with  all  convenient 
speed.  Meanwhile  I  am  tempted  to  offend  once  more, 
and  subjoin  the  only  three  of  my  "  wild  strains"  that  now 
live  in  my  recollection.  I  can  assure  Mr.  Parsons  that 
they  were  written  on  the  occasions  they  profess  to  be— 
and  the  last  of  them  at  a  time  when  I  had  no  idea  of 
surviving  to  provoke  his  indignation : 

" -Sed  Cynarae  breves 

Annos  fata  dederunt,  me 
Servatura  diu. 

TO   A   TUFT   OF   EARLY   VIOLETS. 

Sweet  flowers !  that,  from  your  humble  beds, 

Thus  prematurely  dare  to  rise. 
And  trust  your  unprotected  heads 

To  cold  Aquarius'  watery  skies  ; 
Retire,  retire  !   These  tepid  airs 

Are  not  the  genial  brood  of  May ; 
That  sun  with  light  malignant  glares, 

And  flatters  only  to  betray. 
Stern  winter's  reign  is  not  yet  past 

Lo !  while  your  buds  prepare  to  blow, 
On  icy  pinions  comes  the  blast, 

And  nips  your  root,  and  lays  you  low. 
Alas,  for  such  ungentle  doom ! 

But  I  will  shield  you ;  and  supply 
A  kindlier  soil  on  which  to  bloom, 

A  nobler  bed  on  which  to  die. 
Come  then— ere  yet  the  morning  ray 

Has  drunk  the  dew  that  gems  your  crest, 
And  drawn  your  balmiest  sweets  away ; 

O  come,  and  grace  my  Anna's  breast. 
Ye  droop,  fond  flowers  !  but,  did  ye  know 

What  worth,  what  goodness  there  reside, 
Your  cups  with  liveliest  tints  would  glow, 

And  spread  their  leaves  with  conscious  pride. 
For  there  has  liberal  nature  join'd 

Her  riches  to  the  stores  of  art, 
And  added  to  the  vigorous  mind 

The  soft,  the  sympathizing  heart. 
Come  then— ere  yet  the  morning  ray 

Has  drunk  the  dew  that  gems  your  crest 
And  drawn  your  balmiest  sweets  away ; 

O  come,  and  grace  my  Anna's  breast. 
O  !  I  should  think,— that  fragrant  bed 

Might  I  but  hope  with  you  to  share,— 
Years  of  anxiety  repaid. 

By  one  short  hour  of  transport  there. 

»  See  "  0716  epigram,  two  sonnets,  and  one  ode  to  a  boy  at  school,  by  W. 
Parsons,  Esq."  The  "  one  ode"  was  expressly  written  to  show  the  folly  and 
absurdity  of  Gray's  ode  to  Eton  College,  whicli  the  "  boy  at  school"  wm 
very  properly  called  to  attest.  What  the  "  one  epigram"  and  the  "  two  mb> 
nets"  were  written  for  nobody  knows. 


180 


GIFFORD. 


While  THOU  hast  sweetly  gurgled  down  the  vale, 
Fill'd  up  the  pause  of  love's  delightful  tale  ! 
While,  ever  as  she  read,  the  conscious  maid, 
By  faltering  voice  and  downcast  looks  betray'd, 
Would  blushing  on  her  lover's  neck  recline. 
And  with  her  finger— point  the  tenderest  line. 
But  these  are  past :  and,  mark  me,  Laura  !   time. 
Which  made  what  then  was  venial,  now  a  crime. 
To  more  befitting  cares  my  thoughts  confined, 
And  drove,  with  youth,  its  follies  from  my  mind. 


More  bless'd  than  me,  thus  shall  ye  live 

Your  little  day ;  and,  when  ye  die, 
Sweet  flowers  !  the  grateful  muse  shall  give 

A  verse ;  the  sorrowing  maid,  a  sigh. 

While  I,  alas  !  no  distant  date, 
Mix  with  the  dust  from  whence  I  came, 

Without  a  friend  to  weep  my  fate, 
Without  a  stone  to  tell  my  name. 

GREENWICH    HILL.  j^y^^  ^j- j^j^y^ 

Though  clouds  obscured  the  morning  hour, 
And  keen  and  eager  blew  the  blast, 

And  drizzling  fell  the  cheerless  shower, 
As,  doubtful,  to  the  skiff  we  pass'd ; 

All  soon,  propitious  to  our  prayer, 

Gave  promise  of  a  brighter  day : 
The  clouds  dispersed  in  purer  air, 

The  blast  in  zephyrs  died  away. 

So  have  we,  love,  a  day  enjoy'd, 

On  which  we  both,— and  yet,  who  knows  1— 
May  dwell  with  pleasure  unalloy'd 

And  dread  no  thorn  beneath  the  rose. 
How  pleasant,  from  that  dome-crown'd  hill 

To  view  the  varied  scene  below. 
Woods,  ships,  and  spires,  and,  lovelier  still, 

The  circling  Thames'  majestic  flow  ! 
How  sweet,  as  indolently  laid. 

We  overhung  that  long-drawn  dale. 
To  watch  the  checker'd  light  and  shade 

That  glanced  upon  the  shifting  sail ! 
And  when  the  shadow's  rapid  growth 

Proclaim'd  the  noontide  hour  expired. 
And,  though  unwearied,  'nothing  loath,' 

We  to  our  simple  meal  retired ; 
The  sportive  wile,  the  blameless  jest, 

The  careless  mind's  spontaneous  flow, 
Gave  to  that  simple  meal  a  zest 

Which  richer  tables  may  not  know.— 
The  babe  that,  on  the  mother's  breast, 

Has  toy'd  and  wanton'd  for  a  while, 
And,  sinking  to  unconscious  rest. 

Looks  up  to  catch  a  parting  smile. 
Feels  less  assured  than  thou,  dear  maid 

When,  ere  thy  ruby  lips  could  part, 
(As  close  to  mine  thy  cheek  was  laid,) 

Thine  eyes  had  open'd  all  thy  heart. 
Then,  then  I  mark'd  the  chasten'd  joy 

That  lightly  o'er  thy  features  stole, 
From  vows  repaid,  (my  sweet  employ,) 

From  truth,  from  innocence  of  soul : 
_  While  every  word  dropp'd  on  my  ear, 

So  soft,  (and  yet  it  seems  to  thrill,) 
So  sweet,  that  'twas  a  heaven  to  hear, 

And  e'en  thy  pause  had  music  still.— 
And  O !  how  like  a  fairy  dream. 

To  gaze  in  silence  on  the  tide. 
While  soft  and  warm  the  sunny  gleam 

Slept  on  the  glassy  surface  wide  ! 
And  many  a  thought  of  fancy  bred. 
Wild,  soothing,  tender,  undefined, 
Play'd  lightly  round  the  heart,  and  shed 
Delicious  languor  o'er  the  mind. 


Since  this,  while  Merry  and  his  nurslings  die, 
Thrill'd  by  the  liquid  peril  of  an  eye  ;* 
Gasp  at  a  recollection,  and  drop  down 
At  the  long  streamy  lightning  of  a  frown  ; 
I  soothe,  as  humour  prompts,  my  idle  vein, 
In  frolic  verse,  that  cannot  hope  to  gain 
Admission  to  the  i^lbum,  or  be  seen 

In  L 's  Review,  or  Urban's  Magazine. 

0,  for  thy  spirit,  Pope  !  Yet  whj'-,  my  lays. 
Which  wake  no  envy,  and  invite  no  praise. 


So  hours  like  moments  wing'd  their  flight, 
Till  now  the  boatman,  on  the  shore, 

Impatient  of  the  waning  light, 
Recall'd  us  by  the  dashing  oar. 

Well,  Anna,— many  days  like  this 

I  cannot,  must  not  hope  to  share  ; 
For  I  have  found  an  hour  of  blias  , 

Still  follow'd  by  an  age  of  care 

Yet  oft,  when  memory  intervenes 

But  you,  dear  maid,  be  happy  still, 

Nor  e'er  regret,  'mid  fairer  scenes. 
The  day  we  pass'd  on  Greenwich  Hill. 

THE   GRAVE   OP  ANNA. 

I  wish  I  was  where  Anna  lies. 

For  I  am  sick  of  lingering  here  ; 
And  every  hour  affection  cries, 

Go,  and  partake  her  humble  bier. 

I  wish  I  could  !    For  when  she  died, 
I  lost  my  all ;  and  life  has  proved, 

Since  that  sad  hour,  a  dreary  void, 
A  waste  unlovely  and  unloved.— 

But  who,  when  I  am  turn'd  to  clay. 

Shall  duly  to  her  grave  repair. 
And  pluck  the  ragged  moss  away 

And  weeds  that  have  '  no  business  there  V 

And  who,  with  pious  hand,  shall  bring 
The  flowers  she  cherish'd,  snow-drops  coldi 

And  violets  that  unheeded  spring. 
To  scatter  o'er  her  hallow'd  mould  ? 

And  who,  while  memory  loves  to  dwell 

Upon  her  name  for  ever  dear. 
Shall  feel  his  heart  with  passion  swell, 

And  pour  the  bitter,  bitter  tear  1 
I  did  it :  and,  would  fate  allow. 

Should  visit  still,  should  still  deplore- 
But  health  and  strength  have  left  me  now. 

And  I,  alas  !  can  weep  no  more. 
Take  then,  sweet  maid,  this  simple  strain, 

The  las<  I  offer  at  thy  shrine  ; 
Thy  grave  must  then  undeck'd  remain, 

And  all  thy  memory  fade  with  mine. 
And  can  thy  soft,  persuasive  look, 

Thy  voice,  that  might  with  music  vie, 
Thy  air,  that  every  gazer  took. 

Thy  matchless  eloquence  of  eye  ; 
Thy  spirits,  frolicsome  as  good. 

Thy  courage,  by  no  ills  dismay'd, 
Thy  patience,  by  no  wrongs  subdued. 

Thy  gay  good-humour — Can  they  '  fade  V 
Perhaps— but  sorrow  dims  my  eye : 

Cold  turf,  which  I  no  more  must  view. 
Dear  name,  which  I  no  more  must  sigh, 

A  long,  a  last,  a  sad  adieu  ! 

*  Thrill'd,  &c. 

"Bid  the  streamy  lightnings  fly 

In  liquid  peril  from  thy  eye."— Bella  Cruaca. 
"  Ne'er  shall  thou  know  to  sigh, 

Or  on  a  soft  idea  die, 

Ne'er  on  a  recollection  grasp 

Thy  arms."-Ohe  !  jam  satis  esL—Anna  Matildtk 


THE   MiEVIAD. 


181 


Half  creeping  and  half  flying,  yet  suffice 
To  stagger  impudence  and  ruffle  vice. 
An  hour  may  come,  so  I  delight  to  dream. 
When  slowly  wandering  by  the  sacred  stream, 
Majestic  Thames  !  I  leave  the  world  behind, 
And  give  to  fancy  all  th'  enraptured  mind  : 
An  hour  may  come,  when  I  shall  strike  the  lyre 
To  nobler  themes  ;  then,  then  the  chords  inspire 
With  thy  own  harmony,  most  sweet,  most  strong. 
And  guide  my  hand  through  all  the  maze  of  song  ! 
Till  then,  enough  for  me,  in  such  rude  strains 
As  mother-wit  can  give,  and  those  small  pains 
A  vacant  hour  allows,  to  range  the  town, 
And  hunt  the  clamorous  brood  of  folly  down  ; 
Force  every  head,  in  Este's  despite,  to  wear 
The  cap  and  bells  by  nature  planted  there  ; 
Muffle  the  rattle,  seize  the  slavering  sholes. 
And  drive  them,  scourged  and  whimpering,  to  their 
holes. 

Burgoyne,*  perhaps,  unchill'd  by  creeping  age. 
May  yet  arise  and  vindicate  the  stage  ; 
The  reign  of  nature  and  of  sense  restore. 
And  be — whatever  Terence  was  before. 
And  you,  too,  whole  Menander  If  who  combine 
With  his  pure  language,  and  his  flowing  line, 
The  SOUL  of  comedy,  may  steal  an  hour 
From  the  foul  chase  of  still  escaping  pov-er  ; 
The  poet  and  the  sage  again  unite, 
And  sweetly  blend  instruction  with  delight. 

And  yet  Elfrida's  bard,  though  time  has  shed 
The  snow  of  age  too  deeply  round  his  head, 
Feels  the  kinl  warmth,  the  fervour  which  inspired 
His  youthful  breast,  still  glow  uncheck'd,  untired : 
And  yet  though,  like  the  bird  of  eve,  his  song 
"  Fit  audience  finds  not"  in  the  giddy  throng, 
The  notes,  though  artful,  wild,  though  numerous, 

chaste, 
Fill  with  delight  the  sober  ear  of  taste. 

But  these,  and  more,  I  could  with  honour  name. 
Too  proud  to  stoop,  like  me,  to  vulgar  game. 
Subjects  more  worthy  of  their  daring  choose, 
And  leave  at  large  th'  abortions  of  the  muse. 
Proud  of  their  privilege,  the  innumerous  spawn, 
From  bogs  and  fens,  the  mire  of  Pindus,  draAvn, 
New  vigour  feel,  new  confidence  assume,     , 
And  swarm,  like  Pharaoh's  frogs,  in  every  room. 

Sick  of  th'  eternal  croaks,  which,  ever  near, 
Beat  like  the  death-watch  on  my  tortured  ear  ; 
And  sure,  too  sure,  that  many  a  genuine  child 
Of  truth  and  nature  check'd  his  wood-notes  wild,^: 

*  Burgoyne.— See  note  ♦,  2d  col.  p.  174. 

t  And  you,  too,  whole  Menander,  &c.— O  spem  fallacem ! 
Our  Menander  has  since  "  stolen  an  hour"  (it  would  be 
injustice  to  suppose  it  more)  from  public  pursuits,  and 
prostituted  it  to  the  reproduction  of  a  German  sooterkin. 

$  Check'd  his  wood-notes  wild.— Si  ct)T>7(7a»'rwj' ^oXo  J  coi/, 
acrovrai  kvkvoi.  But  this  is  better  illusTHted  in  a  most 
elegant  fable  of  Lessing,  to  which  I  despair  of  doing  jus- 
tice in  a  translation. 

"  Du  ziirnest,  Liebling  der  Musen,"  &c.  Ice. 

Thou  art  troubled,  darling  of  the  Muses,  thou  art 
troubled  at  the  clamorous  swarms  of  insects  which  infest 
Parnassus.  O  hear  from  me  what  once  the  nightingale 
heard  from  the  shepherd. 

Sing  then,  said  he  to  the  silent  songstress,  one  lovely 
evening  in  the  spring,  sing  then,  sweet  niglningale  !  Alas ! 
said  the  nightingale,  the  frogs  croak  so  loud,  that  I  have 
oBtall  desire  to  sing:  doat  thou  not  hear  them  1  I  do, 


(Dear  to  the  feeling  heart,)  in  doubt  to  win 
The  vacant  wanderer  'mid  the  unceasing  din 
Of  this  hoarse  rout ;  I  seized  at  length  the  wand  ; 
Resolved,  though  small  my  skill,  though  weak  my 

hand. 
The  mischief,  in  its  progress,  to  arrest, 
And  exorcise  the  soil  of  such  a  pest. 

Hence  !  in  the  name— I  scarce  had  spoke,  when 

lo! 
Reams  of  outrageous  sonnets,*  thick  as  snow, 


indeed,  replied  the  shepherd ;  but  thy  silence  alone  is  tha 
cause  of  it. 

"  Tliere's  comfort  yet !" 

♦  Reams  of  outrageous  sonnets.— Of  these  I  have  col- 
lected a  very  reasonable  quantity,  which  I  purpose  tc 
prefix  to  some  future  edition  of  the  Maeviad,  under  the 
classic  head  of 

INSIGNIUM  VIRORUM 

ALiaUOT   TESTIMONIA 

Q,UI 

BAV:    ET   MMV:    INCLYTISS:    AUCT0RI3 

MEMINERUNT. 

Meanwhile  1  shall  present  the  reader  with  the  first  two 
which  occur,  as  a  specimen  of  the  collection. 

SONNET  I. 

"  To  the  anonymous  author  of  the  Baviad,  occasioned  by 
his  scurrilous  and  most  unmerited  attack  on  Mr.  WeS' 
ton. 
"  Demon  of  darkness  !  whosoe'er  thou  art. 

That  darest  assume  the  brighter  angel's  form, 
And  o'er  the  peaceful  vale  impel  the  storm, 

With  many  a  sigh  to  rend  the  honest  heart. 
Force  from  th'  unconscious  eye  the  tear  to  start. 

And  with  ixisi  pride  th'  indignant  bosom  warm ; 
Avaunt !  to  where  unnumber'd  spirits  swarm, 

Foul  and  malignant  as  thyself,  depart. 
Genius  of  Pope,  descend,  ye  servile  crew 

Of  imitators  vile,  intrude  not ! ! !    I  appeal 
To  thee,  and  thee  alone,  from  outrage  base  ; 

Tell  me,  though  fair  the  forms  his  fancy  drew, 
Shouldst  thou  the  secrets  of  his  heart  reveal. 
Would  fame  his  memory  crown,  or  cover  with  dis 
grace  7  J.  M.—Gent.  Mag.  Aug.  1792. 

This  poor  driveller,  who  is  stupid  enough  to  be  Weston's 
admirer,  and  malignant  enough  to  be  his  friend,  I  take 
to  be  one  Morley  ;i  whom  I  now  and  then  observe,  in  the 


1 1  was  right  Mr.  Morley,  who,  I  understand,  is  a  clergyman,  and  who, 
like  Mr.  Parsons,  exults  in  the  idea  of  having  first  attacked  me,  has  since 
published  a  "  Tale,''  the  wit,  or  rather  dulness  of  which,  if  I  recollect  right, 
consists  in  my  being  disappointed  of  a  living. 

Here  follow  a  few  of  the  introductory  lines,  which  for  poetry  and  plea- 
santry can  only  be  exceeded  by  those  of  Mr.  Pjirsons. 
"  What  if  a  little  once  I  did  abuse  thee  ? 
Worse  than  thou  hadst  deserved  I  could  not  use  thee  : 
For  when  I  spied  thy  satyr's  cloven  foot, 
Ti*  very  true  I  took  thee  for  a  brute ; 
And,  marking  more  attentively  thy  manners, 
I  since  have  wish'd  thy  hide  were  at  the  tanner's. 
But  if  a  man  thou  art,  as  some  suppose, 
O :  how  my  fingers  itch  to  pull  thy  nose  ! 
As  pleased  as  Punch,  I'd  hold  it  in  my  gripe, 
Till  Parkinson  had  stuff'd  thee  for  a  snipe ! ! !" 
It  is  rather  singular  that  this  still-born  lump  of  insipidity  should  be  intro- 
duced to  the  bookseller  under  the  auspices  of  Dr.  Parr.    If  that  respectable 
name  was  not  abused  on  the  occasion,  I  can  only  say  that  politics,  like  misery, 
"  bring  a  man  acquainted  with  strange  bedfellows  !" 

For  the  rest,  I  will  present  Mr.  Morley  with  a  couple  of  lines,  which, 
if  he  will  get  them  construed,  and  seriously  reflect  upon,  before  he  next  puts 
pen  to  paper,  may  be  of  more  service  to  him  than  all  the  instruction,  and  all 
the  encouragement  the  Doctor,  apparently,  ever  gave  him. 
Cur  ego  !at)orem  notus  esse  tarn  prave, 
Cum  stare  gratis  cum  silentio  possim  ! 
I  find,  from  a  letter  which  my  publisher  has  received  from  Dr.  Parr,  thai 
this  note  (which  I  have  left  in  its  original  state)  has  given  him  some  slight 
degree  of  uneasiness. 

It  is  satisfactory  to  me  to  reflect  that  this  uneasiness  is  founded  on  i  mis- 
apprehension.   When  I  remarked  on  the  "  singularity  of  Mr.  Morley'i  ^Talf 


182 


GIFFORD. 


Flew  round  my  head  ;  yet,  in  my  cause  secure, 
'  Pour  on,"  I  cried,  «  pour  on,  I  will  endure." 

What !  shall  I  shrink,  because  the  noble  train. 
Whose  judgment  I  impugn,  whose  taste  arraign. 
Alive,  and  trembling  for  their  favourite's  fate. 
Pursue  my  verse  with  unrelenting  hate  ? 
No  :  save  me  from  their  praise,  and  I  can  sit 
Calm,  unconcern'd,  the  butt  of  Andrews'  wit 
And  Topham's  sense  ;  perversely  gay  can  smile, 
While  Este,  the  zany,  in  his  motley  style. 
Calls  barbarous  names ;  while  Bell  and  Boaden  rave, 
And  Vaughan,  a  brother  blockhead's  verse  to  save, 
Toils  day  by  day  my  character  to  draw, 
And  heaps  upon  me  every  thing — ^but  law. 

But  do  I  then  (abjuring  every  aim) 
All  censure  slight,  and  all  applause  disclaim  i 
Not  so  :  where  judgment  holds  the  rod,  I  bow 
My  humbled  neck,  awed  by  her  angry  brow ; 


Gent.  Mag.,  ushering  his  great  prototype's  doggrel  into 
notice,  with  an  importance  truly  worthy  of  it. 

SONNET  II. 

"  To  the  execrable  Baviad. 
*■'  Monster  of  turpitude  !  who  seem'st  inclined 

Through  me  to  pierce  with  thy  impregnate  dart, 
The  fine-spun  nerve  of  each  full-bosom'' d  mind,» 

And  rock  in  apatht/~ihe  sensive  heart, 
Tremble  !  for  lo !  my  Oracle— so  famed— 

Shall  ring  each  morn  in  thy  accursed  ear 
A  griding  pang  !   So— when  the  Grecian  Mare^ 

Enter'd  the  town,o\d  Pyramus  exclaim'd, 
I  see  !  I  see  !— and  hurl'd  his  lightning  spear, 

While  Capaneus  drew  back  his  lieaJ— for  fear, 
And  godlike'^  Alexander— gazing  round, 

Unconscious  of  his  victories— /o  come, 
Approach'd  the  monarch,  and  with  sobs  profound, 

Explain'd  th'  impending  wrath  o'er  Ilium's  royal 
dome."  J.  Bell. 


being  introduced  under  the  auspices  of  Dr.  Parr,"  I  merely  alluded  to  a  con- 
VCTsation  which  Mr.  Morley  himself  was  said  to  have  had  with  his  bookseller ; 
—and  I  then  suspected  (what  I  now  find,  from  the  Doctor's  letter,  to  be  the 
lase)  that  this  respecable  name  (Dr.  Parr's)  was  abused,  i.  e.  introduced 
upon  the  occasion  "  without  his  consent,  or  ever,  knowledge." 

If  my  words  conveyed  the  idea  (which  I  now  apprehend  they  may)  that 
Dr.  Parr  hi.niself  had  recon.j-ended  the  "  Tale,"  it  was  far  from  my  inten- 
tion, and  I  am  sorry  for  it.  Inaetil,  I  am  sorry  that  his  name  was  mentioned  at 
all  in  the  Maeviad.  It  is  totally  out  of  its  place ;  and  I  can  only  regret,  that 
a  juster  estimition  both  of  Doctor  Parr  and  of  Mr.  Morley  had  not  changed 
my  "  suspicion"  of  the  latter  into  certainty,  and  induced  me  to  attribute  his 
recommendatory  story  to  vanity,  and  something  else  not  altogether  so  venial. 

In  conclusion :  though  Dr.  Parr  gives  up  Mr.  Mnrley's  poetry,  yet  he 
teems  to  think  I  have  undervalued  his  other  attainments—"  his  Latin,  Greek, 
and  Hebrew,  and  his  vigorous  and  elegant  prose." — Of  all  these  I  knevr 
nothing.  When  "  there  is  no  occasion  for  such  vanity,  I  doubt  not  but  Mr. 
Morley  will  take  care  to  let  them  appear ;"  meanwhile,  I  must  be  content  to 
judge  him  from  what  I  know— his  sonnets  and  his  tale.  It  is  but  fair  to  add, 
however,  that  the  sound  and  salutary  advice  which  Dr.  Parr  gave  this  poor 
addle-headed  man  (to  say  nothing  of  the  tenderness  with  which  he  speaks  of 
him)  does  no  less  honour  to  his  friendship,  than  the  reprobation  of  his  poetry 
does  to  his  taste. 

1  Quere,  full-bottomed.— PrinteT-'i  Devil. 

2  Grecian  Mare. — This  has  been  hitherto,  inaccurately  enough,  nameJ  the 
Trojan  horse  ;  and,  indeed,  I  myself  had  nearly  fallen  into  the  unscholarlike 
error,  when  my  learned  friend  Greathead  convinced  me  (from  Pope's  eme»- 
dations  of  Virgil,  under  the  fantastic  name  of  Scriblerius)  that  the  animal  in 
question  was  a  mare— She  being  there  said  to  be  fceta  armis,  armed  with  a 
fcetus.    Let  us  hear  no  more,  therefore,  of  the  Trojan  horse. 

The  patronymic  Trojan  is  still  more  absurd.  Homer  expressly  declares 
Sie  mare  to  have  been  produced  by  Pallas— Palladis  arte :  now  Pallas  was 
a  Grecian  goddess,  as  is  sufficiently  manifest  from  her  name,  which  is  de- 
rived from  TraAXu),  vibro.— /.  Btll. 

3  Godlike  ;  that  is  BtotidrjS  from  Bto,  God,  and  tif i)j,  like.  Vide  Horn. 
Translators  in  general  (I  except  a  late  one)  are  too  inattentive  to  the  com- 
pound epithets  of  this  great  poet.  But  why  does  Homer  call  Alexander  god- 
like, when  he  appears,  from  Curtius  Quintius's  tedious  gazette  in  verse,  to 
have  had  one  shoulder  higher  than  the  other  ?  My  friend  Vaughan  thinks 
It  was  purely  to  pay  his  court  to  him,  in  hopes  of  getting  into  his  will,  or 
rather  into  his  mistresses.  It  may  be  so  j  but  'tis  strange  the  absurdity  was 
sever  noticed  before. — J,  JklU 


Where  taste  and  sense  approve,  I  feel  a  joy 
Dear  to  my  heart,  and  mix'd  with  no  alloy. 

I  write  not  to  the  modish  herd  :  my  days. 
Spent  in  the  tranquil  shades  of  letter'd  ease, 
Ask  no  admiring  stare  from  these  I  meet. 
No  loud  "  that's  he  !"  to  make  th-air  passage  sweet , 
Pleased  to  steal  softly  by,  unmark'd,  unknown,      ', 
I  leave  the  world  to  Holcroft,  Pratt,*  and  Vaughanj 

Of  these  enough.    Yet  may  the  few  I  love 
(For  who  would  sing  in  vain  ?)  my  verse  approve  { 
Chief  THOU,  my  friend  !  who  from  my  earliest  years, 
Hast  shared  my  joys,  and  more  than  shared  my  cares 

Sure,  if  our  fates  hang  on  some  hidden  power, 
And  take  their  colour  from  the  natal  hour. 
Then,  Ireland  !t  the  same  planet  on  us  rose, 
Such  the  strong  sympathies  our  lives  disclose  ! 


*  Pratt.  This  gentleman  lately  put  in  practice  a  very 
notable  scheme.  Having  scribbled  himself  fairly  out  of 
notice,  he  found  it  expedient  to  retire  to  the  continent  for 
a  few  months— to  provoke  the  inquiries  of  Mr.  Lane's 
indefatigable  readers. 

Mark  the  ingratitude  of  the  creatures  !  No  inquiries 
were  made,  and  Mr.  Pratt  was  forgotten  before  he  had 
crossed  the  channel.  Ibi  omnis  effusus  labor.— But  what ! 
"  The  mouse  that  is  content  with  one  poor  hole 
Can  never  be  a  mouse  of  any  soul." 
Baffled  in  this  expedient,  he  had  recourse  to  another,  and, 
while  we  were  dreaming  of  nothing  less,  came  before  us 
in  the  following  paragrapii : 

"A  few  days  since  died,  at  Basle  in  Switzerland,  the 
ingenious  Mr.  Pratt.  His  loss  will  be  severely  felt  by  the 
literary  world,  as  he  joined  to  the  accomplishments  of 
the  gentleman  the  erudition  of  the  scholar." 

This  was  inserted  in  the  London  papers  for  severa 
days  successively.  The  country  papers,  too, "  yelled  out 
like  syllables  of  dolour."  At  length,  while  our  eyes  were 
yet  wet  for  the  irreparable  loss  we  had  sustained,  came 
a  second  paragraph : 

"As  no  event  of  late  has  caused  a  more  general  sorrow 
than  the  supposed  death  of  the  ingenious  Mr.  Pratt,  we 
are  happy  to  liave  it  in  our  power  to  assure  his  numerous 
admirers,  that  he  is  as  well  as  they  can  wish,  and  (what 
they  will  be  delighted  to  hear)  busied  in  preparing  his 
Travels  for  the  press." 

"  Laud  we  the  gods  !" 

t  Here,  on  account  of  its  connexion  with  the  person 
mentioned  in  the  text,  I  shall  take  the  liberty— extremum 
hunc  mihi  concede — of  inserting  the  following  "imita- 
tion," addressed  to  him  several  yearp  since.  It  was  never 
printed,  nor,  as  far  as  I  know,  seen  by  any  one  but  him« 
self;  and  I  transcribe  it  for  the  press  with  mingled  sen. 
sations  of  gratitude  and  delight,  at  the  favourable  change 
of  circumstances  which  we  have  both  experienced  siuca 
it  was  written. 

TO   THE 

REV.  JOHN  IRELAND.t 

IMITATION  OF  HORACE.     LIB.  II.  ODE  16. 

Otium  Divas  rogat,  Sfc. 
When  howling  winds,  and  lowering  skiee^ 
The  light,  untimber'd  bark  surprise 

Near  O*"!*  aey's  boisterous  seas  ; 
The  trembling  crew  forget  to  swear, 
And  bend  the  knees  unused  to  prayer. 

To  ask  a  little  ease. 
For  ease  the  Turk,  ferocious,  f  Tays, 
For  ease  the  barbarous  Russe for  ease. 

Which  Palk  could  ne'er  obtain  ; 
Which  Bedford  lack'd  amid  his  store. 
And  liberal  Clive,  with  mines  of  ore, 

Oft  bade  for— but  in  vain. 


1  Now  prebendary  of  Westminster, 


THE    MiEVIAD. 


183 


Thou  know'st  how  soon  we  felt  this  influence 
bland, 
And  sought  the  brook  and  coppice,,  hand  in  nand. 
And  shaped  rude  bows,  and  uncouth  whistles  blew, 
And  paper  kites  (a  last,  great  effort)  flew  ; 
And,  when  the  day  was  done,  retired  to  rest, 
Sleep  on  our  eyes,  and  sunshine  in  our  breast. 


For  not  the  liveried  tribes  which  wait 
Around  the  mansions  of  the  great, 

Can  keep,  my  friend,  aloof, 
Fear,  that  attacks  the  mind  by  fite, 
And  care  that,  like  a  raven,  flits 

Around  the  lordly  roof. 

'  O  well  is  he  !"  to  whom  kind  heaven 
A  decent  competence  has  given ! 

Rich  is  the  blessing  sent ; 
He  grasps  not  anxiously  at  more, 
Dreads  not  to  use  his  little  store, 

And  fattens  on  content. 

'  O  well  is  he  !"  for  life  is  lost 
Amid  a  world  of  passions  toss'd  ; 

Then  why,  dear  Jack,  should  man, 
Magnanimous  ephemera !  stretclt 
His  eager  views  beyond  the  reach 
Of  his  contracted  span  1 

Why  should  he  from  his  countrj  run, 
In  hopes  beneath  a  foreign  sun 

Serener  hours  to  find  ) 
Was  never  one  in  this  wild  chase, 
Who  changed  his  nature  with  his  place. 

And  left  himself  behind. 

Lo  !  wing'd  with  all  the  lightning's  speed, 
Care  climbs  the  bark,  care  mounts  the  steed. 

An  inmate  of  the  breast : 
Nor  Barca's  heat,  nor  Zembla's  cold, 
Can  drive  from  that  pernicious  hold 

The  too  tenacious  guest. 

He  whom  no  anxious  thoughts  annoys, 
Grateful,  the  present  hour  enjoys, 

Nor  seeks  the  next  to  know ; 
To  lighten  every  ill  he  strives. 
Nor  ere  misfortune's  hand  arrives, 

Anticipates  the  blow. 
Something  must  ever  be  amiss : 
Man  has  his  joys ;  but— perfect  bliss— 

A  phantom  of  the  brain  ! 
We  cannot  all  have  all  we  want 
And  Chance,  unask'd,  to  this  may  grant 

What  that  has  begg'd  in  vain. 
Wolfe  rush'd  on  death  in  manhood's  bloom; 
Paulet  crept  slowly  to  the  tomb ; 

Ijere  breath,  there  fame  was  given; 
And  that  wise  power,  who  weighs  our  lives, 
By  coiitras  and  by  pros  contrives 

To  keep  the  balance  even. 
To  thee  she  gave  two  piercing  eyes, 
A  body just  of  Tydeus'  size, 

A  judgment  sound  and  clear ; 
A  mind  with  various  science  fraught, 
A  liberal  Soul,  a  threadbare  coat. 

And  forty  pounds  a  year. 
To  vie,  one  eye  not  over  good, 
Two  sides  that,  to  their  cost,  have  stood 

A  ten  years'  hectic  cough  ; 
Aches,  stitches,  all  the  numerous  ills 
Wliich  swell  the  devilish  doctor's  bills, 

And  sweep  poor  mortals  off: 
A  coat  more  bare  than  thine,  i  soul 
That  spurns  the  crowd's  malign  control, 

A  fix'd  contempt  of  wrong ; 
Spirits  above  affliction's  power, 
And  skill  to  charm  the  lonely  hour 

With  no  inglorious  »onsr. 


In  riper  years,  again  together  thrown, 
Our  studies,  as  our  sports  before,  were  one. 
Tu-^ether  we  explored  the  stoic  page 
Of  the  Ligurian,  stern  though  beardless  sage  . 
Or  traced  th'  Aquinian  through  the  Latine  road, 
And  trembled  at  the  lashes  he  bestow'd. 
Together,  too,  when  Greece  unlock'd  her  stores, 
We  roved,  in  thought,  o'er  Troy's  devoted  shorei, 
Or  follow 'd,  while  he  sought  his  native  soil, 
«  That  old  man  eloquent,"  from  toil  to  toil ; 
Lingering,  with  good  Alciniius,  o'er  the  tale, 
Till  the  east  redden'd,  and  the  stars  grew  pale. 

So  pass'd  our  life,  till  fate,  st^'erely  kind. 
Tore  us  apart,  and  land  and  sea  (isjoin'd. 
For  many  a  year  :  Now  met,  to  part  no  more, 
Th'  ascendant  power,  confess'd  so  strong  of  yore, 
Stronger  by  absence,  every  thought  controls, 
And  knits,  in  perfect  unity,  our  souls. 

0,  Ireland  !  if  the  verse,  which  thus  essays 
To  trace  our  lives  "  e'en  from  our  boyish  days," 
Delight  thy  ear,  the  world  besides  may  rail — 
I  care  not— at  th'  uninteresting  tale  ; 
I  only  seek,  in  language  void  of  art, 
To  ope  my  breast,  and  pour  out  all  my  heart ; 
And,  boastful  of  thy  various  worth,  to  tell 
Ilow  long  we  loved,  and,  thou  canst  add,  how  well 

Thou  too,  MY  HoppNER  !*  if  my  wish  avail'd, 
Shouldst  praise  the  strain  that  but  for  thee  had  fail'd 

*  Since  this  edition  was  prepared  for  the  press,  the 
country  has  been  deprived  of  this  distinguished  and  en- 
lightened artist,  whose  hard  destiny  it  was  to  struggle 
with  many  difficulties  through  the  intermediate  stages  of 
an  arduous  profession,  and  to  be  snatched  from  the  world 
at  the  moment  when  his  "greatness  was  a  ripening," 
and  the  full  reward  of  his  labours  and  his  genius  securely 
within  his  grasp.  His  art,  by  his  untimely  fate,  has  sus- 
tained a  loss  which  will  not  easily  be  repaired ;  for  he 
was,  in  all  respects,  a  very  eminent  man,  and,  while  he 
lived,  most  vigorously  supported  by  his  precept,  as  well 
as  by  the  example  of  his  own  productions,  those  genuine 
principles  of  taste  and  nature  which  the  genius  of  Rey 
nolds  first  implanted  among  us.  But  though  Mr.  Hopp- 
ner  well  knew  how  to  appreciate  that  extraordinary  per- 
son, and  entertained  the  highest  veneration  for  his  pro- 
fessional powers,  he  was  very  far  from  his  copyist; 
occasionally,  indeed,  he  imitated  his  manner,  and  formed 
his  pictures  on  similar  principles ;  but  what  he  thus 
borrowed  he  made  his  own  with  such  playful  ingenuity 
and  adorned  and  concealed  his  plagiarism  with  so  many 
winning  and  original  graces,  that  his  pardon  was  sealed 
ere  his  sentence  could  be  pronounced.  The  prevailing 
fashion  of  the  times,  together  with  his  own  narrow  cir- 
cumstances in  early  life,  necessarily  uirected  his  atten- 
tion, almost  exclusively,  to  the  study  of  portrait-painting; 
in  a  different  situation,  the  natural  bent  of  his  genius,  no 
less  than  his  inclinations,  would  probably  have  led  him 
to  landscape,  and  the  rural  and  familiar  walks  of  life  ; 
for  when  he  exercised  his  talents  upon  subjects  of  this 
nature,  he  did  it  with  so  much  ease  and  pleasure  to  him- 
self, and  was  always  so  eminently  successful,  that  it 
furnishes  matter  for  regret,  that  the  severe  and  harassing 
duties  of  his  principal  occupation  did  not  allow  him  more 
frequent  opportunities  of  indulging  his  fancy  in  the  pur- 
suit of  objects  so  congenial  with  his  feelings  and  disposi- 
tion. Of  his  exquisite  taste  in  landscape,  the  backgrounds 
which  he  occasionally  introduced  in  his  portraits  will 
alone  afford  sufficient  evidence,  without  considering  tha 
beautiful  sketches  in  chalk,  with  which  he  was  accus- 
tomed to  amuse  his  leisure  hours.  These  are  executed 
with  a  vigour  and  felicity  peculiar  to  himself,  and  discover 
a  knowledge  and  comprehension  of  landscape  which 
would  do  honour  to  a  Gainsborough.    Indeed,  in  several 


184 


GIFFORD. 


Thou  know'st,  when  indolence  possess'd  me  all, 
How  oft  I  roused  at  thy  inspiring  call ; 
Burst  from  the  siren's  fascinating  power, 
And  gave  the  muse  thou  lovest  one  studious  hour. 

Proud  of  thy  friendship,  while  the  voice  of  fame 
Pursues  thy  merits  with  a  loud  acclaim, 
I  share  the  triumph  ;  not  unpleased  to  see 
Our  kindred  destinies : — for  thou,  like  me, 
Wast  thrown  too  soon  on  the  world's  dangerous 

tide, 
To  sink  or  swim,  as  chance  might  best  decide. 


respects,  there  appear  to  have  been  many  points  of  simi- 
larity between  these  extraordinary  men,  not  only  in 
particular  parts  of  their  art,  but  also  in  their  conversa- 
tion, disposition,  and  chai'acter. 

In  portrait,  however,  Mr.  Hoppner  was  decidedly  su- 
perior, and  so  far  outstripped  Gainsborough  in  this  de- 
partment of  art,  that  it  would  be  the  highest  injustice  to 
attempt  a  comparison  of  their  powers.  The  distinguish- 
ing characteristic  of  Mr.  Hoppner's  style  is  an  easy  and 
unaffected  elegance,  which  reigns  throughout  all  his 
works :  his  naturally  refined  taste  appeared  to  have  given 
him  almost  intuitively  an  aversion  from  every  thing 
which  bordered  on  affectation  and  vulgarity  ;  and  enabled 
him  to  stamp  an  air  of  gentility  and  fashion  on  the  most 
inveterate  awkwardness  and  deformity.  Few  men  ever 
sacrificed  to  the  graces  more  liberally  or  with  greater 
success :  at  his  transforming  touch,  harshness  and  aspe- 
rity dimpled  into  smiles,  age  lost  its  furrows  and  its 
pallid  hues,  and  swelled  on  the  sight  in  all  the  splendour 
of  youthful  exuberance.  This  power  of  improving  what 
was  placed  before  him,  without  annihilating  resemblance, 
obtained  him  a  decided  preference  to  all  the  artists  of 
his  day  among  the  fairer  part  of  fashionable  society,  with 
whom,  it  is  probable,  even  Sir  Joshua  himself  was  never 
BO  great  a  favourite.  Reynolds  was  too  apt  to  be  guilty 
of  the  sin  of  painting  all  he  saw,  and  now  and  then  would 
maliciously  exaggerate  any  little  defect,  if  he  could  there- 
by increase  the  strength  of  the  character  which  he  was 
depicting.  Mr.  Hoppner  pursued  a  different  plan:  he 
painted  his  beauties  not  always  exactly  as  they  appeared, 
but  as  they  wished  to  appear ;  and  to  tliose  v^hose  charms 
were  "  falling  into  the  sear,  the  yellov/^  leaf,"  his  pictures 
were  the  most  agreeable,  and  consequently  the  truest  of 
all  mirrors.  The  same  qualities  which  rendered  him  so 
highly  successful  in  his  portraits  of  women,  did  not,  per- 
haps, afford  him  equal  advantages  in  those  of  the  other 
sex,  in  which  strength  and  character  ought  to  take  the 
lead  of  almost  every  other  consideration ;  his  portraits 
of  men  were  generally,  if  the  expression  be  allowable, 
too  civilized  and  genteel  to  be  very  striking  and  forcible  ; 
and  in  his  constant  wish  to  represent  the  gentleman,  he 
sometimes  failed  to  delineate  the  man.  To  this  observa- 
tion, however,  it  must  be  acknowledged,  that  many  of 
his  best  works  form  very  splendid  exceptions ;  and  those 
who  have  viewed  and  attentively  examined  his  admirable 
portraits  of  the  Archbishop  of  York,  Lord  Spencer,  Dr. 
Pitcairn,  Mr.  Pitt,  &c.,  may  rather  feel  inclined  to  regret 
that  the  prevailing  fashion  of  the  day  should,  in  this 
instance,  have  produced  a  misapplication  of  his  powers, 
than  to  lament  their  natural  deficiency. 

In  his  portraits  of  children  he  was  peculiarly  fortunate : 
he  entered  completely  into  the  infantine  character,  and 
arranged  his  compositions  of  this  species  with  that  unaf 
fected  ease  and  playful  grace  which  so  pleasingly  mark 
the  early  periods  of  human  life.  One  great  charm  of  his 
pictures  arises  from  the  air  of  negligence  and  facility 
which  pervades  them ;  their  production  appears  to  have 
cost  no  effort,  and  the  careless  boldness  of  his  handling, 
equally  removed  from  insipidity  and  handicraft,  stamps 
Ihe  hand  of  a  master  upon  the  most  trifling  of  his  per- 
formances. His  colouring  is  natural,  chaste,  and  power- 
ful, and  his  tones,  for  the  most  part,  mellow  and  deep  ; 
Ihe  texture  of  his  flesh  is  uniformly  excellent,  and  his 
penciling  rich  and  full ;  his  carnations  transparent, fresh. 


Me,  all  too  weak  to  gain  the  distant  land. 

The  waves  had  whelm'd,  but  that  an  outstretch*^ 

hand 
Kindly  upheld,  when  now  with  fear  unnerved. 
And  still  protects  the  life  it  then  preserved. 
Thee,  powers  untried,  perhaps  unfelt  before, 
Enabled,  though  with  pain,  to  reach  the  shore. 
While  West  stood  by,  the  doubtful  strife  to  view. 
Nor  lent  a  friendly  arm  to  help  thee  through. 
Nor  ceased  the  struggle  there  ;  hate,  ill-suppress'd, 
Her  vantage  took  of  thy  ingenuous  breast. 


and  distinct,  yet  so  artfully  and  judiciously  broken,  that 
it  requires  an  experienced  eye  to  detect  the  delicate  pro- 
cess by  which  the  effect  is  accomplished.  In  the  flesh  ol 
his  best  female  portraits,  in  particular,  there  is  a  union 
of  airiness  with  substance,  of  lustre  with  refined  softness, 
which  has  rarely  been  surpassed,  except  by  that  great 
original  hand,  which,  in  the  formation  of  its  "  last,  best 
work,"  rendered  all  chance  of  rivalship  hopeless. 

The  absorbing  quality  of  his  principal  pursuit  seldom 
allowed  Mr.  Hoppner  to  turn  his  attention  practically  ta 
the  more  elevated  departments  of  art,  yet  he  had  a  sin- 
cere respect  for  the  noble  productions  of  the  Italian 
schools,  and  the  writer  of  these  pages  still  remembers 
with  pleasure  the  enthusiastic  delight  which  he  evinced 
upon  first  entering  the  Louvre,  and  viewing  the  wonders 
of  that  magnificent  collection.— Taste  in  the  arts  and  ele- 
gances of  life  he  possessed  in  a  very  uncommon  degree. 
It  formed  the  distinguishing  feature  of  his  character,  and 
shone  alike  conspicuously,  whether  his  talents  were 
exercised  upon  music  or  painting,  in  writing  or  conver- 
sation. His  colloquial  powers,  indeed,  have  not  often 
been  excelled  ;  for,  in  his  happiest  moments,  there  was 
a  novelty  of  thought,  a  playful  brilliancy,  and  a  boundless 
fertility  of  invention,  which  aflixed  to  all  he  uttered  thf 
stamp  of  originality  and  genius,  and  delighted  everj 
hearer.— Sometimes,  indeed,  he  indulged  in  a  severity  of 
sarcasm,  which,  to  such  as  are  unaccustomed  to  make 
allowances  for  the  quick  perceptions  and  irritable  feel- 
ings of  genius,  appeared  to  partake  somewhat  too  much 
of  bitterness  and  asperity ;  possibly,  when  engaged  in 
mixed  society^this  notion  might  not  be  altogether  void 
of  foundation  ;  but  they  who  were  accustomed  to  enjoy 
his  company  under  different  circumstances,  amid  the 
tranquil  scenes  of  rural  retirement,  when  his  mind  was 
free  from  the  little  cares  and  fretting  incidents  of  the 
world,  and  his  character  and  feelings  were  allowed  their 
full  scope,  will  ever  remember,  with  a  sensation  of  min- 
gled sorrow  and  delight,  the  fancy,  the  enthusiasm,  and 
the  sentimental  tenderness,  which,  on  such  occasions, 
breathed  throughout  his  discourse.  His  education  had 
been  neglected :  such,  however,  was  the  energy  and  acti- 
vity of  his  mind,  that  this  original  defect  was  visible  only 
to  the  few  who  were  in  habits  of  the  closest  intimacy 
with  him.  He  read  much,  and  with  discrimination  and 
judgment :  the  best  English  authors  were  familiar  to  him ; 
and  there  was  scarcely  a  topic  of  con  versation  into  which 
he  could  not  enter  with  advantage,  or  a  subject,  however 
remote  from  his  ordinary  pursuits,  which  his  taste  could 
not  embellish,  and  his  knowledge  illustrate. 

He  died  on  the  23d  of  January,  ISIO,  of  a  lingering  and 
doubtful  disease,  at  the  age  of  fifty-one '  years.  In  the 
early  progress  of  his  complaint,  he  did  not  appear  to 
entertain  the  slightest  idea  of  its  fatal  termination  ;  but 
a  few  months  previously  to  his  death,  it  is  evident,  from 
the  following  affecting  incident,  that  he  was  fully  sensi- 
ble of  his  approaching  dissolution.  Toward  the  close 
of  autumn,  as  he  was  walking  on  the  sunny  side  of  St 
James's-square,  which,  from  its  warm  and  sheltered  situa- 
tion, he  was  in  the  habit  of  frequenting,  he  was  met  by  a 
near  relation  of  the  writer,  who,  after  accompanying  him 
for  a  short  distance,  prepared  to  quit  him.  "  No  ;  don't 
go  yet,"  said  he,  "  my  good  fellow ;  stay  and  take  another 
turn  or  two  with  me.  I  like  to  walk  in  the  decline  of  tho 
last  summer's  sun  which  I  shall  ever  live  to  enjoy." 


THE    MiEVIAD. 


185 


Where  saving  wisdom  yet  had  placed  no  screen, 
And  every  word,  and  every  thought  was  seen. 

To  darken  all  thy  life. 'Tis  past :  more  bright, 

Through  the  disparting  gloom,  thou  strikest  the 

sight ; 
While  baffled  malice  hastes  thy  powers  to  own. 
And  wonders  at  the  worth  so  long  unknown  ! 

I  too,  whose  voice  no  claims  but  truth's  e'er  moved, 
Who  long  have  seen  thy  merits,  long  have  loved. 
Yet  loved  in  silence,  lest  the  rout  should  say. 
Too  partial  friendship  tuned  th'  applausive  lay, 
Now,  now  that  all  conspire  thy  name  to  raise. 
May  join  the  shout  of  unsuspected  praise. 

Go  then,  snice  the  long  struggle  now  is  o'er. 
And  envy  can  obstruct  thy  fame  no  more. 
With  ardent  hand  thy  magic  toil  pursue, 
And  pour  fresh  wonders  on  the  raptured  view. —  • 
One  SUN  is  set,  one  glorious  sun,  whose  rays 
Long  gladden'd  Britain  with  no  common  blaze : 
0  mayst  thou  soon  (for  clouds  begin  to  rise) 
Assert  his  station  in  the  eastern  skies. 
Glow  with  his  fires,  and  give  the  world  to  see 
Another  Reynolds  risen,  my  friend,  in  thee  ! 

But  whither  roves  the  muse  ?    I  but  design'd 
To  note  the  few  whose  praise  delights  my  mind  ; 
But  friendship's  power  has  drawn  the  verse  astray, 
Wide  from  its  aim,  a  long  but  flowery  way. 
Yet  ( ne  remains,  one  itame  for  ever  dear, 
Witi.  whom,  conversing  many  a  happy  year, 


I  mark'd  with  secret  joy  the  opening  bloom 
Of  virtue,  prescient  of  the  fruits  to  come. 
Truth,  honour,  rectitude.— —O  !  while  thy  breast. 
My  Belgrave  !  of  its  every  wish  possess 'd, 
Swells  with  its  recent  transports,  recent  fears, 
And  tenderest  titles  strike  yet  charm  thy  ears, 
Say,  wilt  thou  from  thy  feelings  pause  a  while. 
To  View  my  humble  labours  with  a  smile  ? 
Thou  wilt :  for  still  'tis  thy  delight  to  praise. 
And  still  thy  fond  applause  has  crown'd  my  lays. 

Here  then  I  rest ;  soothed  with  the  hope  to  prove 
The  approbation  of  "  the  few  I  love," 
Join'd  (for  ambitious  thoughts  will  sometimes 

rise) 
To  the  kind  sufferance  of  the  good  and  wise. 
Thus  happy, — I  can  leave,  with  tranquil  breast. 
Fashion's  loud  praise  to  Laura  and  the  rest. 
Who  rhyme  and  rattle,  innocent  of  thought. 
Nor  know  that  nothing  can  proceed  from  naught. 
Thus  happy, — I  can  view,  unruffled,  Miles 
Twist  into  solay-foot  doggrel  all  St.  Giles, 
Edwin  spi_  paragraphs  with  Vaughan's  whole 

skill 
Este,  rapt  in   nonsense,  gnaw  his    gray  goose 

quill. 
Merry  in  dithyrambics  rave  his  wrongs. 
And  Weston,  foaming  from  Pope's  odious  songSj 
"  Much  injured  Weston,"  vent  in  odes  his  grief. 
And  fly  to  Urban  for  a  short  relief. 


ROBERT  BURNS 


Robert  Burns,  the  son  of  William  Burnes,  or 
Burness,  was  born  on  the  25th  of  January,  1759,  in 
a  clay-built  cottage,  about  two  miles  to  the  south 
of  the  town  of  Ayr,  in  Scotland.  His  father,  who 
was  a  gardener  and  small  farmer,  appears  to  have 
been  a  man  highly  and  deservedly  respected,  and 
Burns'  description  of  him  as  "  the  saint,  the  father, 
and  the  husband,"  of  the  Cotter's  Saturday  Night, 
attests  the  affectionate  reverence  with  which  he 
regarded  him.  At  the  age  of  six  years,  Robert  was 
sent  to  a  small  school  at  Alloway  Miln,  then  super- 
intended by  a  teacher  named  Campbell ;  but  who, 
retiring  shortly  after,  was  succeeded  by  a  Mr.  John 
Murdoch.  Under  the  tuition  of  this  gentleman,  the 
subject  of  our  memoir  made  rapid  progress  in  read- 
ing, spelling,  and  writing  ;  and  though,  to  use  his 
own  words, "  it  cost  the  schoolmaster  some  thrash- 
ings," he  soon  became  an  excellent  English  scholar. 
A  love  of  reading  and  a  thirst  for  general  knowledge 
were  observable  at  an  early  age  ;  and  before  he  had 
attained  his  seventeenth  year,  he  had  read  Salmon's 
and  Guthrie's  Geographical  Grammars,  the  Lives  of 
Hannibal  and  Wallace,  The  Spectator, Pope's  Works, 
some  of  Shakspeare's  Plays,  Tull  and  Dickson  on 
Agriculture,  Tooke's  Pantheon,  Locke's  Essay  on 
the  Understanding,  Stackhouse's  History  of  the  Bible, 
The  British  Gardener's  Directory,  Boyle's  Lectures, 
Allan  Ramsay's  Works,  Taylor's  Scripture  Doctrine 
of  Original  Sin,  Hervey 's  Meditations,  and  a  Collec- 
tion of  Songs.  These  works  formed  the  whole  of 
his  collection,  as  mentioned  by  himself  in  a  letter 
to  Dr.  Moore  ;  but  his  brother  Gilbert  adds  to  this 
list  Derham's  Physico  and  Astro-Theology,  and  a 
few  other  works.  Of  this  varied  assortment,  "  the 
Collection  of  Songs,"  says  the  poet  himself,  "  was 
my  vade-mecum.  I  pored  over  them,  driving  my 
cart,  or  walking  to  labour,  song  by  song,  verse  by 
verse  ;  carefully  noticing  the  true  tender  and  sub- 
lime, from  affectation  or  fustian ;  and  I  am  con- 
vinced I  owe  to  this  practice  much  of  my  critic- 
craft,  such  as  it  is." 

With  Mr.  Murdoch,  Burns  remained  for  about 
two  years,  during  the  last  few  weeks  of  Avhich  the 
oreceptor  himself  took  lessons  in  the  French  lan- 
ifuage,  and  communicated  the  instructions  he  re- 
leived  to  his  pupil,  who,  in  a  short  time,  obtained 
a  sufficient  knowledge  of  French  to  enable  him  to 
lead  and  understand  any  prose  author  in  that  lan- 
^age.  The  facility  with  which  he  acquired  the 
French  induced  him  to  commence  the  rudiments  of 
Latin,  but  whether  from  want  of  diligence  or  of 
time,  or  that  he  found  the  task  more  irksome  than 
he  anticipated,  he  soon  abar  doned  his  design  of  ac- 
quiring a  knowjedge  of  the  language  of  the  Romans. 


Mr.  Murdoch  having  been  compelled  to  leave  Ayr, 
in  consequence  of  some  inadvertent  expressions 
directed  against  Dr.  Dalrymple,  the  elder  Burns 
himself  undertook,  for  a  time,  the  tuition  of  his 
family.  When  Robert,  however,  was  about  fourteen 
years  of  age,  his  father  sent  him  and  Gilbert, "  week 
about,  during  the  summer  quarter,"  to  a  parish 
school,  by  which  means  they  alternately  improved 
themselves  in  writing,  and  assisted  their  parents 
in  the  labours  of  a  small  farm.  According  to  oui 
poet's  own  account,  he,  as  he  says,  first  committed 
the  sin  of  rhyme  a  little  before  he  had  attained  his 
sixteenth  year.  The  inspirer  of  his  muse  was  love, 
the  object  of  which  he  describes  as  a  "  bonnie,  sweet, 
sonsie  lass,"  whose  charms  he  was  anxious  to  cele- 
brate in  verse.  "  I  was  not  so  presumptuous,"  he 
says,  "  as  to  imagine  that  I  could  make  verses  like 
printed  ones,  composed  by  men  who  had  Greek  and 
Latin  ;  but  my  girl  sung  a  song  which  was  said  to 
be  composed  by  a  small  country  laird's  son,  on  one 
of  his  father's  maids,  with  whom  he  was  in  love  ; 
and  I  saw  no  reason  why  I  might  not  rhyme  as  well 
as  he :  for,  excepting  that  he  could  shear  sheep,  and 
cast  peats,  his  father  living  in  the  moorlands,  he  had 
no  more  scholar-craft  than  myself.  Thus  with  me 
began  love  and  poetry." 

The  production  alluded  to  is  the  little  ballad 
commencing — 

O !  once  I  loved  a  bonnie  lass, 
which  Bums  himself  characterized  as  "  a  very  pue- 
rile and  silly  performance  ;"  yet,  adds  Mr.  Lockhart, 
it  contains,  here  and  there,  lines  of  which  he  need 
hardly  have  been  ashamed  at  any  period  of  his  life. 
"  In  my  seventeenth  year,"  says  Burns,  "  to  give 
my  manners  a  brush,  I  went  to  a  country  dancing- 
school.  My  fathor  had  an  unaccountable  antipathy 
against  these  meetings,  and  my  going  was,  what  to 
this  moment  I  repent,  in  opposition  to  his  wishes." 
Then,  referring  to  his  views  in  life,  he  continues— 
"  The  great  misfortune  of  my  life  was  to  want  an 
aim.  I  had  felt  early  some  stirrings  of  ambition, 
but  they  were  the  blind  gropings  of  Plomer's  Cy- 
clops round  the  walls  of  his  cave.  The  only  two 
openings  by  which  I  could  enter  the  temple  of  for- 
tune, were  the  gate  of  niggardly  economy,  or  the 
path  of  little  chicaning  bargain-making.  The  first 
is  so  contracted  an  aperture,  I  never  could  squeeze 
myself  into  it :  the  last  I  always  hated — there  was 
contamination  in  the  very  entrance.  Thus  aban- 
doned to  no  view  or  aim  in  life,  with  a  strong  appe- 
tite for  sociability,  as  well  from  native  hilarity  as 
from  a  pride  of  observation  and  remark  ;  a  consti« 
tutional  melancholy,  or  hypocondriacism,  that  made 
me  fly  from  solitude ;  add  to  these  incentives  to 

186 


BURNS. 


187 


social  life,  my  reputation  for  bookish  knowledge,  a 
certain  wild  logical  talent,  and  a  strength  of  thought 
Bomethmg  like  the  rudiments  of  good  sense  ;  and  it 
will  not  seem  surprising  that  I  was  generally  a 
welcome  guest  where  I  visited,  or  any  great  wonder 
that  always,  where  two  or  three  met  together,  there 
was  I  among  them."  In  this  state  of  mind  he 
entered  recklessly  upon  a  dissipated  career,  giving 
loose  to  his  passions,  and  indulging  his  taste  for 
literature  with  as  much  irregularity  and  skill  as  he 
applied  himself  to  the  plough,  the  scythe,  and  the 
reaping-hook.  To  use  his  own  expression,  "  Vive 
I'amour,  et  vive  la  bagatelle,"  were  his  sole  prin- 
ciples of  action.  In  his  nineteenth  year,  he  passed 
some  time  at  a  school,  where  he  learnt  mensuration, 
siirveying,  &c.,  and  also  improved  himself  in  other 
respects,  particularly  in  composition  ;  which  he 
attributes  chiefly  to  a  perusal  of  a  collection  of  letters, 
by  the  wits  of  Queen  Anne's  reign. 

In  his  twenty-third  year,  partly,  as  he  says, 
through  whim,  and  partly  that  he  wished  to  set 
about  doing  somethiag  in  life,  he  entered  the  service 
of  a  flax-dresser,  at  Irvine,  for  the  purpose  of  learn- 
ing his  trade  ;  but  an  accidental  fire,  which  burnt 
down  the  shop,  put  an  end  to  his  speculations.  After 
his  father's  death,  which  occurred  in  February,  1784, 
he  took  the  farm  of  Mossgiel,  in  conjunction  with 
his  brother  Gilbert.  "  I  entered  on  it,"  says  Burns, 
"with  a  firm  resolution, '  Come,  go  to,  I  will  be 
wise  !'  I  read  farming  books  ;  I  calculated  crops  ; 
I  attended  markets  ;  and,  in  short,  in  spite  of  *  the 
devil,  the  world,  and  the  flesh,'  I  believe  I  should 
have  been  a  wise  man  ;  but,  the  first  year,  from 
unfortunately  buying  bad  seed, — the  second,  from 
a  late  harvest,  we  lost  half  our  crops.  This  overset 
all  my  wisdom,  and  I  returned  '  like  the  dog  to  his 
vomit,  and  the  sow  that  was  washed  to  her  wal- 
lowing in  the  mire.'  "  In  other  words,  he  resigned 
the  share  of  the  farm  to  his  brother,  and  returned 
to  habits  of  intemperance  and  irregularity.  It  was 
during  his  occupation  of  the  farm  of  Mossgiel,  that 
Burns  first  became  acquainted  with  Jane  Armour, 
his  future  wife.  This  lady  was  the  daughter  of  a  re- 
spectable mason,  in  the  village  of  Mouchline,  where 
she  was  at  the  time  the  reigning  toast.  The  con- 
sequence of  this  acquaintance,  which  quickly  ri- 
peaed  into  mutual  love,  was  soon  such  that  the 
connexion  could  no  longer  be  concealed ;  and,  though 
the  details  of  this  story  are,  perhaps,  as  yet  but 
imperfectly  known,  it  seems,  at  least,  certain,  that 
Burns  was  anxious  to  shield  the  partner  of  his  im- 
prudence to  the  utmost  in  his  power.  It  was,  there- 
fore, agreed  between  them,  that  he  should  give  her 
a  written  acknowledgment  of  marriage,  and  then 
immediately  sail  for  Jamaica,  and  push  his  fortune 
there,  and  that  she  should  remain  with  her  father 
until  her  plighted  husband  had  the  means  of  support- 
ing a  famil3\  This  arrangement,  however,  did  not 
satisfy  the  lady's  father ;  who,  having  but  a  very 
indifferent  opinion  of  Burns 's  general  character,  was 
not  to  be  appeased,  and  prt;  vailed  on  his  daughter 
to  destroy  the  document,  which  was  the  only  evi- 
dence of  her  marriage.  Under  these  circumstances. 
Jane  Armour  became  the  mother  of  twins,  and  the 
poet  was  summoned  by  the  parish  officers  to  find 
security  for  the  maintenance  of  children  which  he 


had  thus  been  prevented  from  legitimatizing  accord- 
ing to  the  Scottish  law. 

In  a  state  of  mind  bordering  closely  on  insanity 
Bums  now  resolved  to  fly  the  country  ;  and,  after 
some  trouble,  he  agreed  with  Dr.  Douglas,  who  had 
an  estate  in  Jamaica,  to  go  thither  as  overseer. 
Before  sailing,  however,  he  was  advised,  by  his 
friends,  to  publish  his  poems  by  subscription,  in 
order  to  provide  him  with  necessaries  for  the  voyage, 
and  he  consented  to  this  expedient,  as  an  experi- 
ment which  could  not  injure,  and  might  essentially 
benefit  him.  Subscribers'  names  were  obtained  for 
about  three  hundred  and  fifty  copies,  and  six  hun- 
dred were  printed.  The  collection  was  very  favour- 
ably received  by  the  public,  and  the  author  realized, 
all  expenses  deducted,  a  profit  of  about  twenty 
pounds.  "  This  sum,"  says  he, "  came  very  season- 
ably ;  as  I  was  thinking  of  indenting  myself,  for 
want  of  money  to  procure  my  passage.  As  soon  as 
I  was  master  of  nine  guineas,  the  price  that  was 
to  waft  me  to  tlie  torrid  zone,  I  took  a  steerage  pas- 
sage in  the  first  ship  that  was  to  sail  from  the  Clyde  j 
for 

" '  Hungry  ruin  had  me  in  the  wind.' 

"  I  had  been  some  days  skulking  from  covert  to 
covert,  under  all  the  terrors  of  a  jail ;  as  some  ill- 
advised  people  had  uncoupled  the  merciless  pack  of 
the  law  at  my  heels.  I  had  taken  the  last  farewell 
of  my  few  friends  ;  my  chest  was  on  the  road  to 
Greenock  ;  I  had  composed  the  last  song  I  should 
ever  measure  in  Caledonia — The  Gloomy  Night  is 
Gathering  Fast ;  when  a  letter  from  Dr.  Blacklock 
to  a  friend  of  mine  overthrew  all  my  schemes,  by 
opening  new  prospects  to  my  poetic  ambition." 
This  was  a  recommendation  to  rim  to  proceed  to 
Edinburgh,  to  superintend  the  publication  of  a  se- 
cond edition  of  his  poems  ;  and  he  accordingly  turned 
his  course  to  the  Scotch  metropolis,  which  he  reached 
in  September,  1786.  He  had  already  been  noticed 
with  much  kindness  by  the  Earl  of  Glencairn,  the 
celebrated  Professor  Stewart  and  his  lady.  Dr.  Hugh 
Blair,  and  others  ;  and  his  personal  appearance  and 
demeanour  exceeding  the  expectation  that  had  been 
foiTOed  of  them,  he  soon  became  an  object  of  gene- 
ral curiosity  and  interest,  and  was  an  acceptable 
guest  in  the  gayest  and  highest  circles.  He  also 
received,  from  the  literati  of  the  day,  every  tribute 
of  praise  which  the  most  sanguine  author  could 
desire. 

Edinburgh,  says  Dr.  Currie,  contained,  at  this 
period,  many  men  of  considerable  talents,  who  were 
not  the  most  conspicuous  for  temperance  and  regu- 
larity. Burns  entered  into  several  parties  of  this 
description  with  the  usual  vehemence  of  his  cha- 
racter. His  generous  affection,  and  brilliant  ima- 
gination, fitted  him  to  be  the  idol  of  such  associa- 
tions ;  and,  by  indulging  himself  in  these  festive 
recreations,  he  gradually  lost  a  great  portion  of 
his  relish  for  the  purer  pleasures  to  be  fuind  in  the 
circles  of  taste,  elegance,  and  literaturt  He  saw 
his  danger,  and, at  times,  formed  resolutions  to  guard 
against  it ;  but  he  had  embarked  on  the  tide  of  dis* 
sipation,  and  was  borne  along  its  stream. 

After  having  sojourned  for  nearly  a  year  in  the 
Scottish  metropolis,  and  acquired  a  sum  of  money 


188 


BURNS. 


more  than  sufficient  for  his  present  demands,  he  de- 
termined to  gratify  a  desire  he  had  long  entertained 
of  visiting  some  of  the  most  interesting  districts  of 
his  native  country.  For  this  purpose  he  left  Edin- 
burgh on  the  6th  of  May,  1787  ;  and  after  visiting 
various  places  celebrated  in  the  rural  songs  of  Scot- 
land, he  returned  to  his  family  in  Mossgiel,  where 
he  arrived  about  the  8th  of  July.  The  reception 
he  met  with  at  home  was  enthusiastic  ;  and  among 
those  who  were  now  willing  to  renew  his  acquaint- 
ance, was  the  family  of  Jane  Armour,  with  whom 
Burns  was  speedily  reconciled.  After  remaining 
for  a  few  days  only  at  Mossgiel,  he  made  a  short 
tour  to  Inverary,  and  afterward  to  the  highlands, 
whence  he  returned  to  Edinburgh,  and  remained 
there  during  the  greater  part  of  the  winter  of  1787-8, 
again  entering  freely  into  society  and  dissipation. 
Having  settled  with  his  publisher,  in  February,  1788, 
he  was  delighted  to  find  there  was  a  balance  due 
to  him,  as  the  actual  profit  of  his  poems,  of  nearly 
5001.  At  this  juncture,  he  was  confined  to  the  house 
"  with  a  bruised  limb,  extended  on  a  cushion  ;"  but 
as  soon  as  he  was  able  to  bear  the  journey,  he  rode 
to  Mossgiel,  advanced  his  brother  Gilbert  (who  was 
struggling  with  many  difficulties)  the  sum  of  200?,, 
married  Jane  Armour,  and,  with  the  remainder  of 
his  capital,  took  the  farm  of  Elliesland,  on  the  banks 
of  the  Nith,  six  miles  above  Dumfries. 

A  short  time  previously  to  this,  it  should  be  men- 
tioned, that  Burns  had  obtained,  through  a  friend, 
an  appointment  in  the  excise  ;  but  with  no  inten- 
tion of  making  use  of  his  commission  except  on 
some  reverse  of  fortune.  He  now  took  possession 
of  his  farm  ;  but  as  the  house  required  rebuilding, 
Mrs.  Burns  could  not,  for  some  time,  remove  thither, 
a  circumstance  peculiarly  unfortunate,  as  it  caused 
him  to  lead  a  very  irregular  and  unsettled  life. 
The  determination,  which  he  had  formed,  of  aban- 
doning his  dissipated  pursuits  was  broken  in  upon, 
and  his  industry  was  frequently  interrupted  by  vi- 
siting his  family  in  Ayrshire.  As  the  distance  was 
too  great  for  a  single  day's  journey,  he  generally 
spent  a  night  at  an  inn  on  the  road,  and  on  such  occa- 
sions, falling  into  company,  all  his  resolutions  were 
forgotten.  Temptation  also  awaited  him  nearer 
home  :  he  was  received  at  the  tables  of  the  neigh- 
bouring gentry  with  kindness  and  respect,  and  these 
social  parties  too  often  seduced  him  from  the  labours 
of  his  farm,  and  his  domestic  duties,  in  which  the 
happiness  and  welfare  of  his  family  were  now  in- 
volved. Mrs.  Burns  joined  her  husband  at  Ellies- 
land, in  November,  1788  ;  and  as  she  had,  during 
the  autumn,  lain-in  of  twins,  they  had  now  five 
children — four  boys  and  a  girl.  On  this  occasion. 
Burns  resumed,  at  times,  the  occupation  of  a  labour- 
er, and  found  neither  his  strength  nor  his  skill  im- 
paired. Sentiments  of  independence  cheered  his 
mind, — pictures  of  domestic  content  and  peace  rose 
on  his  imagination, — and  a  few  "golden  days" 
passed  away, — the  happiest,  perhaps,  which  he  had 
ever  experienced.  But  these  were  not  long  to  last : 
the  farming  speculation  was  soon  looked  on  with 
despondence,  and  neglected ;  and  the  excise  became 
the  only  resource.  In  this  capacity,  in  reference 
to  which  beggarly  provision  for  their  bard,  Mr. 
Ooleridge  indignantly  calls  upon  his  friend  Lamb, 


to  gather  a  wreath  of  '« henbane-nettles  and  nights 
shade," 

" To  twine 

The  illustrious  brow  of  Scotch  nobility," 

poor  Burns  was  necessarily  brought  into  contact 
with  low  associates,  and  intemperance  soon  became 
his  tyrant.  Unable  to  reconcile  the  two  occupations 
his  farm  was  in  a  great  measure  abandoned  to  his 
servants,  and  agriculture  but  seldom  occupied  his 
thoughts.  Meantime,  there  were  seldom  wantmg 
persons  to  lead  him  to  a  tavern ;  to  applaud  the 
sallies  of  his  wit ;  and  to  witness  at  once  the  strength 
and  degradation  of  his  genius.  The  consequences 
may  be  easily  imagined  :  at  the  expiration  of  about 
three  years,  he  was  compelled  to  relinquish  his  lease,, 
and  to  rely  upon  his  income  of  70Z.  per  annum,  as 
an  exciseman,  till  he  should  obtain  promotion.  With 
this  intention,  he  removed  to  a  small  house  in  Dum- 
fries, about  the  end  of  the  year  1791.  In  1792,  he 
contributed  to  Thomson's  collection  of  Scottish 
songs  ;  and,  about  the  same  time,  formed  a  sort  of 
book  society  in  his  neighbourhood.  In  the  mean 
time,  he  appears  to  have  given  offence  to  the  board 
of  excise,  by  some  intemperate  conduct  and  expres- 
sions relative  to  the  French  revolution,  particularly 
in  attempting  to  send  a  captured  smuggler  as  a 
present  to  the  French  convention  ;  and  an  inquiry 
was  in  consequence  instituted  into  his  conduct. 
The  result  was,  upon  the  whole,  favourable  ;  but 
an  impression,  injurious  to  Burns,  was  still  left  upon 
the  minds  of  the  commissioners,  and  he  was  told 
that  his  promotion,  which  was  deferred,  must  depend 
on  his  future  behaviour.  This  seems  to  have  mor- 
tified him  keenly,  and  to  have  made  him  feel  his 
dependent  situation  as  a  degradation  to  his  future 
fame.  "  Often,"  he  says,  in  a  letter  to  a  gentleman, 
giving  an  account  of  the  above  circumstances,  "  in 
blasting  anticipation,  have  I  listened  to  some  future 
hackney  scribbler,  with  heavy  malice  of  savage 
stupidity,  exultingly  asserting  that  Burns,  notwith- 
standing tlie  fanfaronade  of  independence  to  be  found 
in  his  works,  and  after  having  been  held  up  to  public 
view  and  to  public  estimation  as  a  man  of  some 
genius,  yet  quite  destitute  of  resources  within  him-- 
self  to  support  his  borrowed  dignity,  dwindled  into 
a  paltry  exciseman  ;  and  slunk  out  the  rest  of  his 
insignificant  existence  in  the  meanest  of  pursuits, 
and  among  the  lowest  of  mankind." 

It  seems,  however,  that  the  board  of  excise  did 
not  altogether  neglect  Burns,  who  was,  the  year 
previous  to  his  death,  permitted  to  act  as  a  super- 
visor. From  October,  1795,  to  the  January  follow- 
ing, illness  confined  him  to  his  house  ;  but,  going 
out  a  few  days  after,  he  imprudently  dined  at  a 
tavern,  and  returned  home  about  three  o'clock  in 
a  very  cold  morning,  benumbed  and  intoxicated. 
This  occasioned  a  severe  relapse,  and  he  soon  him- 
self became  sensible  that  his  constitution  was  sink- 
ing, and  his  death  approaching.  He,  however,  re- 
paired to  Brow,  in  Annandale,  to  try  the  effects  of 
sea-bathing ;  which,  though  it  relieved  hi§  rheuma- 
tic pains,  was  succeeded  by  a  fresh  accession  of 
fever,  and  he  was  brought  back  to  his  own  house 
in  Dumfries,  on  the  18th  of  July,  1796.  He  remained 
for  three  days  in  a  state  of  feebleness,  accompanied 
by  occasional  delirium,  and  expired  on  the  21st  of 


BURNS. 


189 


July,  in  the  thirty-eighth  year  of  his  age.  He  was 
interred,  with  military  honours,  by  the  Dumfries 
volunteers,  to  which  body  he  belonged,  and  his -re- 
mains were  followed  to  the  grave  by  nearly  ten 
thousand  spectators.  He  left  a  widow  and  four  sons, 
for  whom  the  inhabitants  of  Dumfries  opened  a 
subscription,  which,  in  itself  considerable,  was  aug- 
mented by  the  profits  of  the  edition  of  his  works, 
in  four  volumes,  octavo,  published  in  1800,  by  Dr. 
Currie,  with  a  life  of  the  poet. 

Burns  was  within  two  inches  of  six  feet  in  height, 
with  a  robust,  yet  agile  frame  ;  a  finely  formed  face, 
and  an  uncommonly  interesting  countenance.  His 
well-raised  forehead  indicated  great  intellect,  and 
his  eyes  are  described  as  having  been  large,  dark, 
and  full  of  ardour  and  animation.  His  conversation 
was  rich  in  wit  and  humour,  and  occasionally  dis- 
played profound  thought,  and  reflections  equally 
serious  and  sensible  ;  for  no  one  possessed  a  finer 
discrimination  between  right  and  wrong.  Though 
his  moral  aberrations,  for  which  he  felt  the  keenest 
icniorse,  have  been  exaggerated,  the^atter  years  of 
his  life  were  undoubtedly  disgraceful,  both  to  the 
man  and  to  the  poet ;  yet,  amid  his  career  of  intem- 
perance, he  preserved  a  warmth  and  generosity  of 
heart,  and  an  independence  of  mind  not  less  surpris- 
ing or  peculiar  than  his  genius. 

Mr.  Lockhart,  in  his  life  of  Burns,  gives  several 
instances,  which  show  that "  he  shrunk  with  horror 
and  loathing  from  all  sense  of  pecuniary  obligation, 
no  matter  to  whom."  In  answer  to  a  letter  from 
Mr.  Thomson,  enclosing  him  51.  for  some  of  his  songs, 
he  says,  "  I  assure  you,  my  dear  sir,  that  you  truly 
hurt  me  with  your  pecuniary  parcel.  It  degrades 
me  in  my  own  eyes.  However,  to  return  it  would 
savour  of  affectation  ;  but,  as  to  any  more  traflSc  of 
that  debtor  and  creditor  kind,  I  swear,  by  that  honour 
which  crowns  the  upright  statue  of  Robert  Burns's 
integrity— -on  the  least  motion  of  it,  I  will  indig- 
nantly spurn  the  by-past  transaction,  and  from  that 
moment  commence  entire  stranger  to  you." — The 
following  anecdote  is  told  of  him  in  his  character  of 
exciseman,  by  a  writer  in  the  Edinburgh  Literary 
Journal,  who  saw  him  at  Thornhill  fair.  "  An  in- 
formation," he  says, "  had  been  lodged  against  a  poor 
widow  woman,  of  the  name  of  Kate  Wilson,  who 
had  ventured  to  serve  a  few  of  her  old  country  friends 
with  a  draught  of  unlicensed  ale,  and  a  lacing  of 
whisky,  on  this  village  jubilee.  I  saw  him  enter 
her  door,  and  anticipated  nothing  short  of  an  imme- 
diate seizure  of  a  certain  gray  beard  and  barrel, 
which,  to  my  personal  knowledge,  contained  the 
contraband  commodities  our  bard  was  in  quest  of. 


A  nod,  accompanied  by  a  significant  movement  of 
the  forefinger,  brought  Kate  to  the  doorway  or  trance, 
and  I  was  near  enough  to  hear  the  following  words 
distinctly  uttered  : — '  Kate,  are  ye  mad  ?  D'ye  no 
ken  that  the  supervisor  and  me  will  be  in  upon  you 
in  the  course  of  forty  minutes  ?  Guid-by  to  ye  at 
present.'  Burns  was  in  the  street,  and  in  the  midst 
of  the  crowd  in  an  instant ;  and  I  had  reason  to 
know  that  his  friendly  hint  was  not  neglected.  It 
saved  a  poor  widow  woman  from  a  fine  of  several 
pounds." — Though  totally  free  frorn  presumption, 
in  the  presence  of  the  superior  circles  of  society  to 
which  he  was  admitted,  he  did  not  hesitate  to  ex- 
press his  opinions  strongly  and  boldly.  A  certain 
well-known  provincial  bore,  as  Mr.  Lockhart  de- 
scribes him,  having  left  a  tavern-party,  of  which 
Burns  was  one,  he,  the  bard,  immediately  dcK?anded 
a  bumper,  and,  addressing  himself  to  the  chair,  said, 
"  I  give  you  the  health,  gentlemen  all,  of  the  waiter 

that  called  my  Lord out  of  the  room."    He 

was  no  mean  extemporizer ;  and  the  following  verse 
is  said  to  have  been  introduced  by  him,  in  a  song, 
in  allusion  to  one  of  the  company  who  had  been 
boasting,  somewhat  preposterously,  of  his  aristo- 
cratic acquaintances : 

"  Of  lordly  acquaintance  you  boast, 

And  the  dukes  that  you  dined  \vi'  yestreen, 
Yet  an  insect's  an  insect  at  most, 
Though  it  crawl  on  the  curl  of  a  queen." 

The  poetry  of  Burns,  who  has  acquired  almost  equal 
fame  by  his  prose,  is  now  too  universally  acknow- 
ledged and  appreciated,  to  require  further  analysis 
or  criticism.  "  Fight,  who  will,  about  words  and 
forms,"  says  Byron,  "  Burns's  rank  is  in  the  first 
class  of  his  art ;"  but,  as  Mr.  Lockhart  observes, 
"  to  accumulate  all  that  has  been  said  of  Burns, 
even  by  men  like  himself,  of  the  first  order,  would 
fill  a  volume."  We  shall  conclude,  therefore,  with 
an  observation  of  Mr.  Campbell,  that  "  viewing 
him  merely  as  a  poet,  there  is  scarcely  another 
regret  connected  with  his  name,  than  that  his  pro- 
ductions, with  all  their  merit,  fall  short  of  the  talents 
which  he  possessed." 

Burns's  character  is,  upon  the  whole,  honestly- 
drawn  by  his  own  pen,  in  the  serio-comic  epitaph, 
written  on  himself,  concluding  with  the  following 
verse  : — 

"  Reader,  attend— whether  thy  soul 
Soars  fancy's  flights  beyond  the  pole, 
Or  darkling  grubs  this  earthly  hole, 

In  low  pursuit ; 
Know,  prudent,  cautious  self-control, 
li  wisdom's  root" 


190 


BURNS. 


THE  TWA  DOGS, 


'TwAS  in  that  place  o'  Scotland's  isle, 
That  bears  the  name  o'  Auld  King  coil, 
Upon  a  bonnie  day  in  June, 
"W^en  wearing  through  the  afternoon, 
Twa  dogs  that  were  na  thrang  at  hame, 
Forgather'd  ance  upon  a  time. 

The  first  I'll  name,  they  ca'd  him  Caesar, 
Was  keepit  for  his  honour's  pleasure  : 
His  hair,  his  size,  his  mouth,  his  lugs, 
Show'd  he  was  nane  o'  Scotland's  dogs ; 
But  whalpit  some  place  far  abroad. 
Where  sailors  gang  to  fish  for  cod. 

His  locked,  letter'd,  braw  brass  collar, 
Show'd  him  the  gentleman  and  scholar  j 
But  though  he  was  o'  high  degree. 
The  fient  a  pride,  na  pride  had  he ; 
But  wad  hae  spent  an  hour  caressin,    • 
E'en  wi'  a  tinkler-gypsey's  messin. 
At  kirk  or  market,  mill  or  smiddie, 
Nae  tawted  tyke,  though  e'er  sae  duddie. 
But  he  wad  stawn't,  as  glad  to  see  him. 
And  stroan't  on  stanes  an'  hillocks  wi'  him. 

The  tither  was  a  ploughman's  collie, 
A  rhyming,  ranting,  raving  billie, 
Wha  for  his  friend  an'  comrade  had  him, 
And  in  his  freaks  had  Luath  ca'd  him. 
After  some  dog  in  Highland  sang,* 
Was  made  lang  syne — Lord  knows  how  lang. 

He  was  a  gash  an'  faithfu'  tyke. 
As  ever  lap  a  sheugh  or  dyke. 
His  honest,  sonsie,  baws'nt  face. 
Aye  gat  him  friends  in  ilka  place. 
His  breast  was  white,  his  towzie  back 
Weel  clad  wi'  coat  o'  glossy  black  j 
His  gawcie  tail,  wi'  upward  curl. 
Hung  o'er  his  hurdles  wi'  a  swurl. 

Nae  doubt  but  they  were  fain  o'  ither, 
An'  unco  pack  an'  thick  thegither ; 
Wi'  social  nose  whyles  snufPd  and  snowkit, 
Whyles  mice  an'  moudieworts  they  howkit ; 
Whyles  scour'd  awa'  in  lang  excursion, 
An'  worry'd  ither  in  diversion  ; 
Until  wi'  dafiin  weary  grown. 
Upon  a  knowe  they  sat  them  down. 
And  there  began  a  lang  digression 
About  the  lords  o'  the  creation. 


I've  aften  wonder 'd,  honest  Luath 
What  sort  o'  life  poor  dogs  like  you  have ; 
An'  when  the  gentry's  life  I  saw 
What  way  poor  bodies  liv'd  ava. 

Our  laird  gets  in  his  racked  rents, 
His  coals,  his  kain,  and  a'  his  stents : 


*  Cuchullin's  dog  in  Ossian's  Fingal. 


He  rises  when  he  likes  himsel ; 

His  flunkies  answer  at  the  bell ; 

He  ca's  his  coach,  he  ca's  his  horse ; 

He  draws  a  bonnie  silken  purse 

As  lang's  my  tail,  whare,  through  the  steeks, 

The  yellow  letter'd  Geordie  keeks. 

Frae  morn  to  e'en  it's  naught  but  toiling. 
At  baking,  roasting,  frying,  boiling ; 
An'  though  the  gentry  first  are  stechin. 
Yet  e'en  the  ha'  folk  fill  their  pechan 
Wi'  sauce,  ragouts,  and  sicklike  trashtrie. 
That's  little  short  o'  downright  wastrie. 
Our  whipper-in,  wee  blastit  wonner, 
Poor  worthless  elf,  it  eats  a  dinner, 
Better  than  ony  tenant  man 
His  honour  has  in  a'  the  Ian'  : 
An'  what  poor  cot-folk  pit  their  painch  in^ 
I  own  it's  past  my  comprehension. 


Trowth,  Cffisar,  whyles  they're  iash't  eneu^  j 
A  cottar  howSin  in  a  sheugh, 
Wi'  dirty  stanes  biggin  a  dyke. 
Baring  a  quarrj',  and  sic  like. 
Himself,  a  wife,  he  thus  sustains, 
A  smytrie  o'  wee  duddie  weans. 
An'  naught  but  his  han'  darg,  to  keep 
Them  right  and  tight  in  thack  an'  rape. 

An'  when  they  meet  wi'  sair  disastera, 
Like  loss  o'  health,  or  want  o'  masters. 
Ye  maist  wad  think,  a  wee  touch  langer, 
An'  they  maun  starve  o'  cauld  an'  hunger  j 
But,  liow  it  comes,  I  never  kenn'd  yet. 
They're  maistly  wonderfu'  contented  ; 
An'  buirdly  chiels,  an'  clever  hizzies, 
Are  bred  in  sic  a  way  as  this  is. 


But  then  to  see  how  ye're  negleckit. 
How  hufPd,  and  cufPd,  and  disrespeckit ! 
L— d,  man,  our  gentry  care  as  little 
For  delvers,  ditchers,  an'  sic  cattle ; 
They  gang  as  saucy  by  poor  fo'k. 
As  I  wad  by  a  stinking  brock. 

I've  noticed  on  our  laird's  court-day, 
An'  mony  a  time  my  heart's  been  wae. 
Poor  tenant  bodies  scant  o'  cash. 
How  they  maun  thole  a  factor's  snash  : 
He'll  stamp  an'  threaten,  curse  an'  swear. 
He'll  apprehend  them,  poind  their  gear  ; 
While  they  maun  staun',  wi'  aspect  humble, 
An'  hear  it  a',  an'  fear  an'  tremble. 

I  see  how  folk  live  that  hae  riches  ; 
But  surely  poor  folk  maun  be  wretches  ? 


They're  nae  sae  wretched's  ane  wad  think  j 
Though  constantly  on  poortith's  brink : 
They're  sae  accustom'd  wi'  the  sight. 
The  view  o't  gies  them  little  fright. 

Then  chance  an'  fortune  are  sae  guided. 
They're  aye  in  less  or  mair  provided ; 
An'  though  fatigued  wi'  close  employment, 
A  blink  o'  rest's  a  sweet  enjoyment. 


I 


THE    TWA    DOGS. 


191 


The  dearest  comfort  o'  their  lives, 
Their  grushie  weans  an'  faithfu'  wives  ; 
The  prattling  things  are  just  their  pride, 
That  sweetens  a'  their  fire  side. 

An'  whyles  twalpennie  worth  o'  nappy- 
Can  mak  the  bodies  unco  happy ; 
They  lay  aside  their  private  cares, 
.  To  mend  the  kirk  and'state  affairs  ; 
They'll  talk  o'  patronage  and  priests, 
Wi'  kindling  fury  in  their  breasts, 
Or  tell  what  new  taxation's  coming, 
An'  ferlie  at  the  folk  in  Lon'on. 

As  bleak-faced  Hallowmass  returns, 
They  get  the  jovial,  ranting  kirns, 
When  rural  life,  o'  ev'ry  station. 
Unite  in  common  recreation  ; 
Love  blinks.  Wit  slaps,  an'  social  Mirth, 
Forgets  there's  care  upo'  the  earth. 

That  merry  day  the  year  begins, 
They  bar  the  door  on  frosty  winds  ; 
The  nappy  reeks  wi'  mantling  ream. 
An'  sheds  a  heart-inspiring  steam ; 
The  luntin  pipe,  an'  snceshin  mill, 
Are  handed  round' wi'  richt  guid  will ; 
The  cantie  auld  folks  crackin  crouse, 
The  young  anes  rantin  through  the  house,- 
My  heart  has  been  sae  fain  to  see  them, 
That  I  for  joy  hae  barkit  wi'  them. 

Still  it's  owre  true  that  ye  hae  said. 
Sic  game  is  now  owre  aften  play'd. 
There's  monie  a  creditable  stock, 
0*  decent,  honest,  fawsont  fo'k. 
Are  riven  out  baith  root  and  branch. 
Some  rascal's  pridefu'  greed  to  quench, 
Wha  thinks  to  knit  himsel  the  faster 
In  favour  wi'  some  gentle  master, 
Wha,  aiblins,  thrang  a-parliamentin. 
For  Britain's  guid  his  saul  indentin— 


Haith,  lad,  ye  little  ken  about  it ; 
For  Britain's  guid  !  guid  faith  !  I  doubt  it. 
Say  rather,  gaun  as  premiers  lead  him. 
An'  saying  ay  or  no's  they  bid  him. 
At  operas  an'  plays  parading, 
Mortgaging,  gambling,  masquerading ; 
Or  may  be,  in  a  frolic  daft, 
To  Hague  or  Calais  takes  a  waft. 
To  make  a  tour,  an'  tak  a  whirl. 
To  learn  hon  ton,  an'  see  the  warP. 

There,  at  Vienna  or  Versailles 
He  rives  his  father's  auld  entails ; 
Or  by  Madrid  he  takes  the  rout. 
To  thrum  guitars,  and  fecht  wi'  nowt ; 
Or  down  Italian  vista  startles, 
Wh-re-hunting  among  groves  o'  myrtles  ; 
Then  bouses  drumly  German  water. 
To  mak  himsel  look  fair  and  fatter, 
An'  clear  the  consequential  sorrows. 
Love-gifts  of  carnival  signoras. 
For  Britain's  guid  !  for  her  destruction  ! 
Wi'  dissipation,  feud,  an'  faction. 


LUATH. 

Hech  man  !  dear  sirs .'  is  that  the  gate 
They  waste  sae  mony  a  braw  estate  ! 
Are  we  sae  foughten  an'  harass'd 
For  gear  to  gang  that  gate  at  last ! 

0  would  they  stay  aback  frae  courts. 
An'  please  themsels  wi'  kintra  sports. 
It  wa'd  for  every  ane  be  better. 
The  laird,  the  tenant,  and  the  cotter  ! 
For  thae  frank,  rantin,  ramblin  billies, 
Fient  haet  o'  them's  ill-hearted  fellows ; 
Except  for  breakin  o'  their  timmer, 
Or  speakin  lightly  o'  their  limmer. 
Or  shootin  o'  a  hare  or  moor-cock. 
The  ne'er  a  bit  they're  ill  to  poor  fo'k. 

But  will  ye  tell  me.  Master  Cassar, 
Sure  great  folk's  life's  a  life  o'  pleasure  ? 
Nae  cauld  nor  hunger  e'er  can  steer  them. 
The  vera  thought  o't  need  na  fear  them. 


L — d,  man,  were  ye  but  whyles  where  I  am^ 
The  gentles  ye  wad  ne'er  envy  'em. 

It's  true  they  need  na  starve  or  sweat, 
Through  winter's  cauld,  or  simmer's  heat ; 
They've  nae  sair  wark  to  craze  their  banes. 
An'  fill  auld  age  wi'  gripes  an'  granes : 
But  hirnian  bodies  are  sic  fools, 
For  a'  their  colleges  and  schools. 
That  when  nae  real  ills  perplex  them. 
They  make  enow  themselves  to  vex  them  j 
An'  aye  the  less  they  hae  to  sturt  them. 
In  like  proportion  less  will  hurt  them. 
A  country  fellow  at  the  pleugh, 
His  acres  till'd,  he's  right  eneugh ; 
A  kintra  lassie  at  her  wheel. 
Her  dizzens  done,  she's  unco  weel: 
But  gentlemen,  an'  ladies  warst, 
Wi'  ev'ndown  want  o'  wark  are  curst. 
They  loiter,  lounging,  lank,  an'  lazy ; 
Though  deil  haet  ails  them,  yet  uneasy ; 
Their  days,  insipid,  dull,  an'  tasteless ; 
Their  nights  unquiet,  lang,  an'  restless  ; 
An'  e'en  their  sports,  their  balls  an'  races, 
Their  galloping  through  public  places. 
There's  sic  parade,  sic  pomp,  an'  art. 
The  joy  can  scarcely  reach  the  heart. 
The  men  cast  out  in  party  matches. 
Then  sowther  a'  in  deep  debauches  ; 
Ae  night  they're  mad  wi'  drink  an'  wh-riiig, 
Niest  day  their  life  is  past  enduring. 
The  ladies  arm-in-arm  in  clusters, 
As  great  and  gracious  a'  as  sisters  ; 
But  hear  their  absent  thoughts  o'  ither. 
They're  a'  run  deils  an' jads  thegither. 
Whyles  o'er  the  wee  bit  cup  an'  platie, 
They  sip  the  scandal  portion  pretty  : 
Or  lee-lang  nights,  wi'  crabbit  leuks 
Pore  owre  the  devil's  pictured  beuks ; 
Stake  on  a  chance  a  farmer's  stackyard. 
An'  cheat  like  onie  unhang'd  blackguard. 

There's  some  exception,  man  an'  woman  | 
But  this  is  gentry's  life  in  common. 


192 


BURNS. 


By  this,  the  sun  was  out  o'  sight, 
An*  darker  gloaming  brought  the  night ! 
The  hum-clock  humm'd  wi'  lazy  dxone  j 
The  kye  stood  rowtin  i'  the  loan  ; 
When  up  they  gat,  and  shook  their  lugs, 
Rejoiced  they  were  na  men  but  dogs  j 
An*  each  took  aff  his  several  way, 
Resolved  to  meet  some  ither  day. 


DEATH  AND  DR.  HORNBOOK. 

A   TRUE   STORY. 

Some  books  are  lies  frae  end  to  end, 
And  some  great  lies  were  never  penn'd. 
E'en  ministers,  they  hae  been  kenn'd 

In  holy  rapture, 
A  rousing  whid,  at  times  to  vend, 

And  nail't  wi'  Scripture. 

But  this  that  I  am  gaun  to  tell, 
Which  lately  on  a  night  befell, 
Js  just  as  true's  the  deil's  in  h-li 

Or  Dublin  c\*j : 
That  e'er  he  nearer  comes  oursel 

'S  a  muckle  pity. 
The  Clachan  yill  had  made  me  canty, 
I  was  na  fou,  but  just  had  plenty ; 
I  stacher'd  whyles,  but  yet  took  tent  aye 

To  free  the  ditches ; 
An'  hillocks,  stanes,  an'  bushes,  kenn'd  aye 

Frae  ghaists  an'  witches. 

The  rising  moon  began  to  glow'r 
The  distant  Cumnock  hills  out-owre : 
To  count  her  horns,  wi'  a'  my  power, 

I  set  mysel ; 
But  whether  she  had  three  or  four, 

I  cou'd  na  tell. 

I  was  come  round  about  the  hill. 
And  toddlin  down  on  Willie's  mill. 
Setting  my  staflf  wi'  a'  my  skill, 

To  keep  me  sicker  s 
Though  leeward  whyles,  against  my  will, 

I  took  a  bicker. 

I  there  wi'  something  did  forgather. 
That  put  me  in  an  eerie  swither ; 
An  awfu'  sithe,  out-owre  ae  showther, 

Clear-dangling,  hang ; 
A  three-tae'd  leister  on  the  ither 

Lay,  large  an'  lang. 

Its  stature  seem'd  lang  Scotch  ells  twa, 
The  queerest  shape  that  e'er  I  saw. 
For  fient  a  Wame  it  had  ava  I 

And  then,  its  shanks, 
They  wer§  as  thin,  as  sharp  an'  sma' 

As  cheeks  o'  branks. 

«  Guid-e'en,"  quo'  I ;  "  Friend  !  hae  ye  been  mawin. 
When  ither  folk  are  busy  sawin  ?"* 
It  seem'd  to  mak  a  kind  o'  stan', 

But  naething  spak ; 
At  length,  says  I,  "  Friend,  whare  ye  gaun. 

Will  ye  go  back  ?" 

♦  This  rencounter  happened  in  seed-time,  1785. 


It  spak  right  howe, — ^"  My  name  is  Death, 
But  be  na  fley'd."— Quo+h  I,  «  Guid  faith. 
Ye 're  may  be  come  to  stap  my  breath ; 

But  tent  me,  billie : 
I  red  ye  weel,  tak  care  o'  skaith. 

See,  there's  a  gully !" 

«  Guidman,"  quo'  he,  «  put  up  your  whittle, 
I'm  no  design'd  to  try  its  mettle ; 
But  if  I  did,  I  wad  be  kittle 

To  be  mislear'd, 
I  wad  na  mind  it,  no,  that  spittle 

Out-owre  my  beard." 

"  Well,  weel !"  says  I,  «  a  bargain  be't ; 
Come,  gies  your  hand,  an'  sae  we're  gree't ; 
We'll  ease  our  shanks  ;  an'  tak  a  seat, 

Come,  gies  your  news ; 
This  while*  ye  hae  been  monie  a  gate 

At  monie  a  house.' 

"  Ay,  ay  !"  quo'  he,*  an'  shook  his  head, 
"  It's  e'en  a  lang,  lang  time  indeed 
Sin'  I  began  to  nick  the  thread. 

An'  choke  the  breath: 
Folk  maun  do  something  for  their  bread. 

An'  sae  maun  Death. 

"  Sax  thousand  years  are  near  hand  fled 

Sin'  I  was  to  the  hutching  bred, 

An'  monie  a  scheme  in  vain's  been  laid. 

To  stap  or  scar  me  ; 
Till  ane  Hornbook'sf  ta'en  up  the  trade,     • 

An'  faith,  he'll  waur  mOb 

"  Ye  ken  Jock  Hornbook  i'  the  Clachan, 
Deil  mak  his  king's-hood  in  a  spleuchan  ! 
He's  grown  sae  well  acquaint  wi'  Buchan:^ 

An'  ither  chaps. 
That  weans  baud  out  tlieir  fingers  laughin 

And  pouk  my  hips. 

"  See,  here's  a  sithe,  and  there's  a  dart. 
They  hae  pierced  mony  a  gallant  heart ; 
But  Doctor  Hornbook,  wi'  his  art. 

And  cursed  skill. 
Has  made  them  baith  not  worth  a  f — t, 

Damn'd  haet  they'll  kill. 

"  'Twas  but  yestreen,  nae  further  gaen, 

I  threw  a  noble  throw  at  ane ; 

Wi'  less,  I'm  sure,  I've  hundreds  slain ; 

But  deil-ma-care. 
It  just  play'd  dirl  on  the  bane, 

But  did  nae  mair. 

"Hornbook  was  by,  wi'  ready  art. 
And  had  sae  fortified  the  part. 
That  when  I  looked  to  my  dart. 

It  was  sae  blunt, 
Fient  haet  o't  wad  hae  pierced  the  heart 

Of  a  kail-runt. 


*  An  epidemical  fever  was  then  rag;ng  in  that  countiy. 

t  This  gentleman,  Dr.  Hornbook,  is  professionally,  & 
brother  of  the  sovereign  order  of  the  ferula;  but,  by 
intuition  and  inspiration,  is  at  once  an  apothecary,  sur- 
geon, and  physician. 

t  Buchan's  Domestic  Medicine. 


THE    BRIGS   OF   AIR. 


193 


*  I  drew  my  sithe  in  sic  a  fury, 
I  nearhand  cowpit  wi'  my  hurry; 
But  yet  the  bauld  apothecary 

Withstood  the  shock ; 
I  might  as  weel  hae  try'd  a  quarry 

0'  hard  whin  rock. 

"  E'en  them  he  canna  get  attended, 
Alto'  their  face  he  ne'er  had  kend  it, 
Just in  a  kail-blade,  and  send  it. 

As  soon  he  smells't, 
Baith  their  disease,  and  what  will  mend  it 

At  once  he  tells't. 

"  And  then  a'  doctors'  saws  and  whittles, 
Of  a'  dimensions,  shapes,  an'  mettles, 
A*  kinds  o'  boxes,  mugs,  an'  bottles, 

He's  sure  to  hae  ; 
Their  Latin  names  as  fast  he  rattles 

As  A  B  C. 

**  Calces  o'  fossils,  earth,  and  trees  ; 
True  Sal-marinum  o'  the  seas  ; 
The  Farina  of  beans  and  pease. 

He  has't  in  plenty ; 
Aqua-fortis,  what  you  please. 

He  can  content  ye. 

**  Forbye  some  new,  uncommon  weapon§, 

Urinus  Spiritus  of  capons  ; 

Or  mite-horn  shavings,  filings,  scrapings, 

Distill'd  pel-  se  ; 
Sal-alkali  o'  midge-tail-clippings, 

And  monie  mae." 

"  Waes  me  for  Johnny  Ged's  Hole*  now," 

Quo'  I,  « if  that  the  news  be  true  ! 

His  braw  calf-ward  whare  gowans  grew, 

Sae  white  and  bonnie, 
Nae  doubt  they'll  rive  it  wi'  the  plew ; 

They'll  ruin  Johnie !" 

The  creature  grain 'd  an  eldrich  laugh. 
And  says,  "  Ye  need  na  yoke  the  pleugh, 
Kirkyards  will  soon  be  till'd  eneugh, 

Tak  ye  nae  fear : 
They'll  a'  be  trench'd  wi'  monie  a  sheugh 
In  twa-thrce  year. 

«  Whare  I  killed  ane  a  fair  strae-death, 
By  loss  o'  blood  or  want  o'  breath, 
This  night  I'm  free  to  tak  my  aith. 

That  Hornbook's  skill 
Has  clad  a  score  i'  their  last  claith. 

By  drap  an'  pill. 
**  An  honest  wabster  to  his  trade, 
Whase  wife's  twa  nieves  were  scarce  wee  bred, 
Gat  tippence-worth  to  mend  her  head 

When  it  was  sair ; 
The  wife  slade  cannie  to  her  bed. 

But  ne'er  spak  raair. 
"  A  kintra  laird  had  ta'en  the  batts. 
Or  some  curmurring  in  his  guts. 
His  only  son  for  Hornbook  sets, 

An'  pays  him  well. 
The  lad,  for  twa  guid  gimmer  pets, 

Was  laird  himsel. 


*  The  grave-digger. 

Vol.  III.— 13 


"  A  bonnie  lass,  ye  kend  her  name, 

Some  ill-brewn  drink  had  hoved  her  wame  : 

She  trusts  hersel,  to  hide  the  shame. 

In  Hornbook's  care ; 
Horn  sent  her  aiF,  to  her  lang  hame. 

To  hide  it  there. 

«  That's  just  a  swatch  o'  Hornbook's  way ; 
Thus  goes  he  on  from  day  to  day. 
Thus  does  he  poison,  kill,  an'  slay, 

An's  weel  paid  for't ; 
Yet  stops  me  o'  my  lawfu'  prey, 

Wi'  his  d-mn'd  dirt : 

«  But,  hark  !  I'll  tell  you  of  a  plot. 
Though  dinna  ye  be  speaking  o't ; 
I'll  nail  the  self-conceited  Scot 

As  dead's  a  herrin  : 
Niest  time  we  meet,  I'll  wad  a  groat. 

He  gets  his  fairin  !" 

But  just  as  he  began  to  tell. 

The  auld  kirk  hammer  strak  the  bell 

Some  wee  short  hour  ayont  the  twal. 

Which  raised  us  baith : 
I  took  the  way  that  pleased  mysel, 

And  sae  did  Death. 


THE  BRIGS  OF  AYR, 
POEM. 

INSCRIBED  TC   J.  b*********,  ESQ.,  AYR. 


The  simple  bard,  rough  at  the  rustic  plough. 
Learning  his  tuneful  trade  from  every  boughj 
The  chanting  linnet,  or  the  mellow  thrush. 
Hailing  the  setting  sun,  sweet,  in  the  green  thons 

bush  ; 
The  soaring  lark,  the  perching  red-breast  shrill, 
Or  deep-toned  plovers  gray,  wild-whistling  o'er 

the  hill ; 
Shall  he,  nurst  in  the  peasant's  lowly  shed. 
To  hardy  independence  bravely  bred. 
By  early  poverty  to  hardship  steel'd. 
And  train'd  to  arms  in  stern  misfortune's  field, 
Shall  he  be  guilty  of  their  hireling  crimes. 
The  servile,  mercenary  Swiss  of  rhymes  .? 
Or  labour  hard  the  panegyric  close. 
With  all  the  venal  soul  of  dedica:ting  prose  .? 
No  !  though  his  artless  strains  he  rudely  sings, 
And  throws  his  hand  uncouthly  o'er  the  strings, 
He  glows  with  all  the  spirit  of  the  bard. 
Fame,  honest  fame,  his  great,  his  dear  reward. 
Still,  if  some  patron's  generous  care  he  trace, 
Skill'd  in  the  secret,  to  bestow  with  grace  ; 
When  B*********  befriends  his  humble  name. 
And  hands  the  i-ustic  stranger  up  to  fame. 
With  heartfelt  throes  his  grateful  bosom  swells. 
The  godlike  bliss,  to  give,  alone  excels. 
«««•■« 

'Twas  when  the  stacks  get  on  their  wintei-Iiai% 
And  thack  and  rape  secure  the  toil-won  crap  ; 
Potato-bings  are  snugged  up  frae  skaith 
Of  coming  winter's  biting,  frosty  breath  j 


194 


BURNS. 


The  bees,  rejoicing  o'er  their  summer  toils, 
Unnumber'd  buds'  an'  flowers'  delicious  spoils, 
Seal'd  up  with  frugal  care  in  massive  waxen  piles 
Are  doom'd  by  man,  that  tyrant  o'er  the  weak. 
The  death  o'  devils  smoor'd  wi'  brimstone  reek  : 
The  thundering  guns  are  heard  on  every  side. 
The  wounded  coveys,  reeling,  scatter  wide ; 
The  feather 'd  field-mates,  bound  by  nature's  tie. 
Sires,  mothers,  children,  in  one  carnage  lie : 
(What  warm,  poetic  heart,  but  inly  bleeds, 
And  execrates  man's  savage,  ruthless  deeds  !) 
Nae  mair  the  flower  in  field  or  meadow  springs  ; 
Nae  mair  the  grove  with  airy  concert  rings. 
Except,  perhaps,  the  robin's  whistling  glee. 
Proud  o'  the  height  o'  some  bit  half-lang  tree  : 
The  hoary  morns  precede  the  sunny  days. 
Mild,  calm,  serene,  wide   spreads   the  noontide 

blaze. 
While  thick  the  gossamer  waves  v/anton  in  the  rays. 
'Twas  in  that  season,  when  a  simple  bard, 
Unknown  and  poor,  simplicity's  reward  : 
Ae  niglit,  within  the  ancient  brugh  of  Ayr, 
By  whim  inspired,  or  haply  prest  wi'  care  ; 
He  left  his  bed,  and  took  his  wayward  route. 
And  down  by  Simpson's*  wheel'd  the  left  about : 
(Whether  impell'd  by  all-directing  fate. 
To  witness  what  I  after  shall  narrate  ; 
Or  whether,  rapt  in  meditation  high, 
He  wander'd  out,  he  knew  not  where  nor  why ;) 
The  drowsy  dungeon-clockf  had  number'd  two, 
And  Wallace  towerf  had  sworn  the  fact  was  true : 
The  tide-swoln  Firth  with  sullen  sounding  roar. 
Through  the  still  night  dash'd  hoarse  along  the  shore : 
All  else  was  hush'd  as  nature's  closed  e'e  ; 
The  silent  moon  shone  high  o'er  tower  and  tree  : 
The  chilly  frost,  beneath  the  silver  beam. 
Crept,  gently  crusting,  o'er  the  glittering  stream.— 

When,  lo  !  on  either  hand  the  listening  bard. 
The  clanging  sugh  of  whistling.wings  is  heard  ; 
Two  dusky  forms  dart  through  the  midnight  air, 
Swift  as  the  gos:|:  drives  on  the  wheeling  hare ; 
Ane  on  th'  auld  brig  his  airy  shape  uprears. 
The  ither  flutters  o'er  the  rising  piers  : 
Our  warlock  rhymer  instantly  descried 
The  sprites  that  owre  the  brigs  of  Ayr  preside. 
(That  bards  are  second-sighted  is  nae  joke. 
And  ken  the  lingo  of  the  spiritual  fo'k  ; 
Fays,  spunkies,  kelpies,  a',  they  can  explain  them, 
And  e'en  the  very  deils  they  brawly  ken  them.) 
Auld  Brig  appear'd  of  ancient  Pictish  race. 
The  vera  wrinkles  Gothic  in  his  face  : 
He  seem'd  as  he  wi'  time  had  warstled  lang. 
Yet  teughly  doure,  he  bade  an  unco  bang. 
New  Brig  was  buskit  in  a  braw  new  coat. 
That  he,  at  Lon'on,  frae  ane  Adams  got : 
In's  hand  five  taper  staves  as  smooth's  a  bead, 
Wi'  virls  and  whirlygigums  at  the  head. 
The  Goth  was  stalking  round  with  anxious  search, 
Spying  the  time-worn  flaws  in  every  arch ; 
It  chanced  his  new-come  neebor  took  his  e'e, 
And  e'en  a  vex'd  and  angry  heart  had  he  ! 
Wi'  thieveless  sneer  to  see  his  modish  mien. 
He,  down  the  water,  gies  him  this  guideen  : — 


AULD   BHIG. 

I  doubt  na,  frien',  ye'll  think  ye're  nae  sheep  shank 
Ance  ye  were  streekit  o'er  frae  bank  to  bank  ; 
But  gin  ye  be  a  brig  as  auld  as  me. 
Though  faith  thgit  day,  I  doubt,  ye'll  never  see. 
There'll  be,  if  that  date  come,  I'll  wad  a  boddle. 
Some  fewer  whigmeleeries  in  your  noddle. 


Auld  Vandal,  ye  but  show  your  little  mense, 
Just  much  about  it  wi'  your  scanty  sense  ; 
Will  your  poor,  narrow  footpath  of  a  street, 
Where  twa  wheelbarrows  tremble  when  they  meel^ 
Your  ruin'd,  formless  bulk  o'  stane  an'  lime. 
Compare  wi'  bonnie  brigs  o'  modern  time  ? 
There's  men  o'  taste  would  tak  the  Ducat-stream,* 
Though  they  should  cast  the  very  sark  an'  swim. 
Ere  they  would  grate  their  feelings  wi'  the  view 
Of  sic  an  ugly  Gothic  hulk  as  you. 

AULD  BRIG. 

Conceited  gowk  I  pufPd  up  wi'  windy  pride  ! 
This  monie  a  year  I've  stood  the  flood  an'  tide  ; 
And  though  wi'  crazy  eild  I'm  sair  forfairn, 
I'll  be  a  brig  when  ye're  a  shapeless  cairn  !  ' 
As  yet  ye  little  ken  about  the  matter. 
But  twa-three  winters  will  inform  you  better. 
When  heavy,  dark,  continued,  a'-day  rains, 
Wi'  deepening  deluges  o'erflow  the  plains  ; 
When  from  the  hills  where  springs  the  brawling  Coil, 
Or  stately  Lugar's  mossy  fountains  boil. 
Or  where  the  Greenock  winds  his  moorland  course, 
Or  haunted  Garpalf  draws  his  feeble  source. 
Aroused  by  blustering  winds  an'  spotting  thowes. 
In  mony  a  torrent  down  his  sna-broo  rowes  ; 
While  crashing  ice,  borne  on  the  roaring  speat. 
Sweeps  dams,  an'  mills,  an'  brigs,  a'  to  the  gate  ; 
And  from  Glenbuck,:j:  down  to  the  Rotton-key,§ 
Auld  Ayr  is  just  one  lengthen'd,  tumbling  sea  ; 
Then  down  ye  hurl,  deil  nor  ye  never  rise  ! 
And  dash  the  gumlie  jaups  up  to  the  pouring  skies 
A  lesson  sadly  teaching,  to  your  cost. 
That  architecture's  noble  art  is  lost ! 

NEW  BRIG. 

Fine  architecture !  trowth,  I  needs  must  say't  o't, 
The  L — d  be  thankit  that  we've  tint  the  gate  o't .' 
Gaunt,  ghastly,  ghaist-alluring  edifices. 
Hanging  with  threatening  jut,  like  precipices, 
O'er  arching,  mouldy,  gloom-inspiring  coves. 
Supporting  roofs  fantastic,  stony  groves  : 
Windows  and  doors,  in  nameless  sculpture  drest. 
With  order,  symmetry,  or  taste  unblest ; 
Forms  like  some  bedlam  statuary's  dream. 
The  crazed  creations  of  misguided  whim  ; 
Forms  might  be  worshipp'd  on  the  bended  knee. 
And  itiii  the  second  dread  command  be  free  ; 
Their  likeness  is  not  found  on  earth,  in  air,  or  sea 


*  A  noted  tavern  at  the  auld  brig  end. 

♦  The  two  steeples.         t  The  gos-hawk,  or  falcon. 


*  A  noted  ford,  just  above  the  auld  brig. 

t  The  banks  of  Garpal  Water  is  one  of  the  few  places 
In  the  west  of  Scotland,  where  those  fancy-scAring  beings, 
known  by  the  name  of  ghaists,  still  continue  pertina 
ciously  to  inhabit. 

t  The  source  of  the  river  Ayr. 

§  A  small  landing  place  above  the  large  kev. 


DEATH    OF    POOR    MAILIE. 


195 


Mansions  that  would  disgrace  the  building  taste 
Of  any  mason,  reptile,  bird,  or  beast ; 
Fit  only  for  a  doited  monkish  race, 
Or  frosty  maids  forsworn  the  dear  embrace. 
Or  cuifs  of  later  times,  wha  held  the  notion 
That  sullen  gloom  was  sterling,  true  devotion ; 
Fancies  that  our  guid  brugh  denies  protection, 
And  soon  may  they  expire,  unblest  with  resurrec- 
tion ! 

AULD  BRIG. 

O  ye,  my  dear-remember'd,  ancient  yealings. 
Were  ye  but  here  to  share  my  wounded  feelings  ! 
Ye  worthy  proveses,  an'  mony  a  bailie, 
Wha  in  the  paths  o'  righteousness  did  toil  aye ; 
Ye  dainty  deacons,  and  ye  douce  conveners. 
To  whom  our  moderns  are  but  causey-cleaners  ; 
Ye  godly  councils  wha  hae  blest  this  town, 
Ye  godly  brethren  of  the  sacred  gown, 
Wha  meekly  gie  your  hurdles  to  the  smiters  ; 
And  (what  would  now  be  strange)  ye  godly  writers : 
A'  ye  douce  folk  I've  borne  aboon  the  broo. 
Were  ye  but  here,  what  would  ye  say  or  do  ? 
How  would  your  spirits  groan  in  deep  vexation, 
To  see  each  melancholy  alteration  ; 
And,  agonizing,  curse  the  time  and  place 
When  ye  begat  the  base,  degenerate  race ! 
Nae  langer  reverend  men,  their  country's  glory, 
In  plain  braid  Scots  hold  forth  a  plain  braid  story ; 
Nae  langer  thrifty  citizens,  an'  douce. 
Meet  owre  a  pint,  or  in  the  council-house  ; 
But  staumrel,  corky-headed,  graceless  gentry, 
The  herryment  and  ruin  of  the  country  ; 
Men,  three  parts  made  by  tailors  and  by  barbers, 
Wha  waste  your  well-hain'd  gear  on  d — d  new 
brigs  and  harbours  ! 

NEW  BRIG. 

Now  haud  you  there  !  for  faith  ye've  said  enough, 
And  muckle  mair  than  ye  can  mak  to  through ; 
As  for  3'our  priesthood,  I  shall  say  but  little. 
Corbies  and  clergy  are  a  shot  right  kittle  : 
But  under  favour  o'  youT  langer  beard. 
Abuse  o'  magistrates  might  weel  be  spared  : 
To  liken  them  unto  your  auld-warld  squad, 
I  must  needs  say,  comparisons  are  odd. 
In  Ayr,  wag-wits  nae  mair  can  hae  a  handle 
To  mouth  "  a  citizen"  a  term  o'  scandal : 
Nae  mair  the  council  waddles  down  the  street, 
In  all  the  pomp  of  ignorant  conceit ; 
Men  wha  grew  wise  priggin  owre  hops  an'  raisins, 
Or  gather'd  liberal  views  in  bonds  and  seisins. 
If  haply  knowledge,  on  a  random  tramp. 
Had  shored  them  with  a  g-'Timer  of  his  lamp, 
And  would  to  common  sense  for  once  betray 'd  them, 
Plain,  dull  stupidity^stept  kindly  in  to  aid  them. 

What  farther  clishmaclaver  might  been  said. 
What  bloody  wars,  if  sprites  had  blood  to  shed. 
No  man  can  tell :  but,  all  before  their  sight, 
A  fairy  train  appear'd  in  order  bright : 
Adown  the  glittering  stream  they  featly  danced, 
Briglit  to  the  moon  their  various  dresses  glanced  ; 
They  footed  o'er  the  watery  glass  so  neat, 
The  infant  ice  scarce  bent  beneath  their  feet : 
While  arts  of  minstrelsy  among  them  rung. 
And  soul-ennobling  bards  heroic  ditties  sung. 


0  had  M'Lauchlan,*  thairm-inspiring  sage. 
Been  there  to  hear  this  heavenly  band  engage. 
When  through  his  dear  strathspeys  they  bore  with 

highland  rage ; 
Or  when  they  struck  old  Scotia's  melting  airs, 
The  lover's  raptured  joys  or  bleeding  cares  ; 
How  would  his  highland  lug  been  nobler  fired. 
And  e'en  his  matchless  hand  with  Laer  touch  in- 
spired ! 
No  guess  could  tell  what  instrument  appear'd. 
But  all  the  soul  of  music's  self  was  heard  ; 
Harmonious  concert  rung  in  every  part, 
While  simple  melody  pour'd  moving  on  the  heart. 

The  genius  of  the  stream  in  front  appears, 
A  venerable  chief  advanced  in  years  ; 
His  hoary  head  with  water-lilies  crown'd, 
His  manly  leg  with  garter  tangle  bound. 
Next  came  the  loveliest  pair  in  all  the  ring. 
Sweet  female  beauty  hand  in  hand  with  spring  ; 
Then,  crown'd  with  flowery  hay,  came  rural  joy. 
And  summer,  with  his  fervid-beaming  eye  : 
All-cheering  plenty,  with  her  flowing  horn. 
Led  yellow  autumn  wreathed  with  nodding  com  ; 
Then  winter's  time-bleach'd  locks  did  hoary  show, 
By  hospitality  with  cloudless  brow. 
Next  follow'd  courage  with  his  martial  stride. 
From  where  the  feal  wild- woody  coverts  hide  ; 
Benevolence,  with  mild,  benignant  air, 
A  female  form,  came  from  the  towers  of  Stair : 
Learning  and  worth  in  equal  measures  trode 
From  simple  Catrine,  their  long-loved  abode  : 
Last,  white-robed  peace,  crown'd  with  a  hazel 

wreath. 
To  rustic  agriculture  did  bequeath 
The  broken  iron  instruments  of  death. 
At  sight  of  whom  our  sprites  forgat  their  kindling 

wrath. 


THE  DEATH  AND  DYING  WORDS  OF  POOR 
MAILIE, 

THE  AUTHOR'S  ONLY  PET  YO^VE. 

AN    UNCO   MOURNFU'   TALE. 

As  Mailie  an*  her  lambs  thegither 
Were  ae  day  nibbling  on  the  tether. 
Upon  her  cloot  she  coost  a  hitch. 
An'  owre  she  warsl'd  in  the  ditch. 
There,  groaning,  dying,  she  did  lie, 
When  Hughoct  he  cam  doytin  by. 

Wi'  glowrin  een,  and  lifted  hans. 
Poor  Hughoc  like  a  statue  stans  ; 
He  saw  her  days  were  near-hand  ended, 
But,  waes  my  heart !  he  could  na  mend  it ! 
He  gaped  wide,  but  naething  spak  ! 
At  length  poor  Mailie  silence  brak. 

"  O  thou,  whase  lamentable  face 
Appears  to  mourn  my  woefu'  case  I  ^ 

My  dying  words  attentive  hear, 
An'  bear  them  to  my  master  dear. 


*  A  well  known  performer  of  Scottish  music  on  tMm 
violin. 

t  A  neebor  herd-callan. 


196 


BURNS. 


«  Tell  him,  if  e'er  again  he  keep, 
As  muckle  gear  as  buy  a  sheejS, 
0,  bid  him  never  tie  them  mair 
Wi'  wicked  strings  o'  hemp  or  hair ! 
But  ca'  them  out  to  park  or  hill, 
An'  let  them  wander  at  their  will  5 
So  may  his  flock  increase,  an'  grow 
To  scores  0'  lambs,  an'  packs  0'  woo' ! 

"  Tell  him,  he  was  a  master  kin', 
An'  aye  was  guid  to  me  and  mine ; 
An'  now  my  dying  charge  I  gie  hiin, 
My  helpless  lambs  I  trust  them  wi'  him. 

"  0,  bid  him  save  their  harmless  lives 
Frae  dogs,  an'  tods,  an'  butchers'  knives ! 
But  gie  them  guid  cow-milk  their  fill, 
Till  they  be  fit  to  fend  themsel : 
An'  tent  them  duly,  e'en  an'  mom, 
Wi'  teats  0'  hay  an'  rips  0'  com. 

**  An'  may  they  never  learn  the  gaets 
Of  ither  vile  wanrestfu'  pets  ! 
To  slink  through  slaps,  an'  reave  an'  steal. 
At  stacks  o'  pease,  or  stocks  0'  kail. 
So  may  they,  like  their  great  forbears, 
For  monie  a  year  come  through  the  sheers ; 
So  wives  will  gie  them  bits  0'  bread, 
An'  bairns  greet  for  them  when  they're  dead. 

"  My  poor  toop-lamb,  my  son  an'  heir, 
0,  bid  him  breed  him  up  wi'  care ! 
An',  if  he  live  to  be  a  beast, 
To  pit  some  bavins  in  his  breast ! 
An'  warn  him,  what  I  winna  name, 
To  stay  content  wi'  yowes  at  hame ; 
An'  no  to  rin  an'  wear  his  cloots. 
Like  ither  menseless,  graceless  brutes. 

"  An,  niest  my  yowie,  silly  thing, 
Gude  keep  thee  frae  a  tether  string  I 
0,  may  thou  ne'er  forgather  up 
Wi'  only  blastit,  moorland  toop  ; 
But  aye  keep  mind  to  moop  an'  mell, 
Wi'  sheep  o'  credit  like  thysel ! 

«  And  now,  my  bairns,  wi'  my  last  breath, 
I  lea'e  my  blessin  wi'  you  baith : 
An'  when  you  think  upo'  your  mither, 
Mind  to  be  kin'  to  ane  anither. 

"  Now,  honest  Hughoc,  dinna  fail 
To  tell  my  master  a'  my  tale  ; 
An'  bid  him  burn  this  cursed  tether, 
An',  for  thy  pains,  thou'se  get  my  blather." 

This  said,  poor  Mailie  turn'd  her  head, 
An'  closed  her  e'en  amang  the  dead. 


POOR  MAILIE'S  ELEGY. 

Lament  in  rhyme,  lament  in  prose, 
Wi'  saut  tesyrs  trickling  down  your  nose; 
Our  bardie's  fate  is  at  a  close, 

Past  a'  remead ; 
The  last  sad  cape-stane  of  his  woes ; 

Poor  Mailie's  dead ! 


It's  no  the  loss  0'  warl's  gear, 
That  could  sae  bitter  draw  the  tear 
Or  mak  our  bardie,  dowie,  wear 

The  mourning  weed: 
He's  lost  a  friend  and  neebor  dear. 

In  Mailie  dead. 

Through  a'  the  town  she  trotted  by  him  j 
A  lang  half-mile  she  could  descry  him ; 
Wi'  kindly  bleat,  when  she  did  spy  him. 

She  ran  wi'  speed : 
A  friend  mair  faithful  ne'er  cam  nigh  him. 

Than  Mailie  dead. 

I  wat  she  was  a  sheep  o'  sense. 
And  could  behave  hersel  wi'  mense :    ' 
I'll  say't,  she  never  brak  a  fence. 

Through  thievish  greed. 
Our  bardie,  lanely,  keeps  the  spense 

Sin'  Mailie's  dead. 

Or,  if  he  wanders  up  the  howe, 
Her  living  image  in  her  yowe, 
Comes  bleating  to  him,  owre  the  knowe. 

For  bits  0'  bread ; 
An'  down  the  briny  pearls  rowe 

For  Mailie  dead. 

She  was  nae  get  0'  moorland  tips, 
Wi'  tawted  ket,  an  hairy  hips ; 
For  her  forbears  were  brought  in  ships 

Frae  yont  the  Tweed , 
A  bonnier  fleesh  ne'er  cross'd  the  clips 

Than  Mailie  dead. 

Wae  worth  the  man  wha  first  did  shape 
That  vile,  wanchancie  thing — a  rape  ! 
It  maks  guid  fellows  girn  an'  gape, 

Wi'  chokin  dread ; 
An'  Robin's  bonnet  wave  wi'  crape. 

For  Mailie  dead. 

O,  a'  ye  bards  on  bonnie  Doon  ! 
An'  wha  on  Ayr  your  chanters  tune  .' 
Come,  join  the  melancholious  croon 

O'  Robin's  reed ! 
His  heart  will  never  get  aboon  ! 

His  Mailie  dead. 


TO  J.  S****. 


Friendship !  mysterious  cement  of  the  soul! 

Sweetener  of  life,  and  solder  of  society  i 

I  owe  thee  much. Blai*. 

Dear  S****,  the  sleest,  paukie  thief. 
That  e'er  attempted  stealth  or  rief. 
Ye  surely  hae  some  warlock-breef 

Owre  human  hearts ; 
For  ne'er  a  bosom  yet  was  prief 

Against  your  arts. 

For  me,  I  swear  by  sun  an'  moon. 
And  every  star  that  blinks  aboon, 
Ye've  cost  me  twenty  pair  0'  shoon 

Just  gaun  to  see  you ; 
And  every  ither  pair  that's  done 

Mair  ta'en  I'm  wi'  you. 


TO    J.  S****. 


197 


That  auld,  capricious  cailin,  Nature, 
To  mak  amends  for  scrimpit  stature, 
She's  turn'd  you  aff,  a  human  creatme 

On  her  first  plan, 
And  m  her  freaks,  on  every  feature. 

She's  wrote,  the  Man. 

Just  now  I've  ta'en  the  fit  o'  rhyme, 
My  harmie  noddle's  working  prime. 
My  fancy  yerkit  up  sublime 

Wi'  hasty  summon  : 
Hae  ye  a  leisure-moment's  time 

To  hear  what's  comin  ? 

Some  rhyme,  a  neebor's  name  to  lash ; 
Some  rhyme  (vain  thought  !)  for  needfu'  cash: 
Some  rhyme  to  court  the  kintra  clash. 

An'  raise  a  din  ; 
For  me,  an  aim  I  never  fash ; 

I  rhyme  for  fun. 

The  star  that  rules  my  luckless  lot, 
Has  fated  me  the  russet  coat. 
An'  damn'd  my  fortune  to  the  groat ; 

But  in  requit. 

Has  bless'd  me  wi'  a  random  shot 

0'  kintra  wit. 

This  while  my  notion's  ta'en  a  sklent. 
To  try  my  fate  in  guid  black  prent ; 
But  still  the  mair  I'm  that  way  bent, 

Something  cries,  "  Hoolie  !' 
I  red  you,  honest  man,  tak  tent ! 

Ye'll  shaw  your  folly. 

"  There's  ither  poets,  much  your  betters. 
Far  seen  in  Greek,  deep  men  o'  letters, 
Hae  thought  they  had  ensured  their  debtors, 

A'  future  ages ; 
Now  moths  deform  in  shapeless  tetters, 

Their  unknown  pages." 

Then  fareweel  hopes  o'  laurel-boughs, 
To  garland  my  poetic  brows  ! 
Henceforth  I'll  rove  where  busy  ploughs 

Are  whistling  thrang. 
An'  teach  the  lanely  heights  an'  howes 

My  rustic  sang. 

I'll  wander  on,  with  tentless  heed 
How  never-halting  moments  speed. 
Till  fate  shall  snap  the  brittle  thread. 

Then,  all  unknown, 
I'll  lay  me  with  the  inglorious  dead. 
Forgot  and  gone ! 

But  why  o'  death  begin  a  tale  ? 
Just  now  we're  living  sound  and  hale, 
Then  top  and  maintop  crowd  the  sail. 

Heave  care  o'er  side  ! 
And  large,  before  enjoyment's  gale. 

Let's  tak  the  tide. 

This  life,  sae  far's  I  understand, 
Is  a'  enchanted,  fairy  Ijind, 
Where  pleasure  is  the  magic  wand, 

That  wielded  right, 
Maks  hoijs,  like  minutes,  hand  in  hand. 

Dance  by  fu'  light. 


The  magic-wand  then  let  us  wield ; 
For  ance  that  five-an '-forty's  speel'd. 
See  crazy,  weary,  joyless  eild, 

vVi'  wrinkled  face, 
Comes  hostin,  hirplm  owre  the  field, 
Wi'  crepin  pace. 

When  ance  life's  day  draws  near  the  gloamin 
Then  fareweel  vacant  careless  roamin  ; 
An'  fareweel  cheerfu'  tankards  foamin, 

An'  social  noise ; 
An'  fareweel,  dear,  deluding  woman. 

The  joy  of  joys  ! 

0  life  !  how  pleasant  in  thy  morning, 
Young  fancy's  rays  the  hills  adorning  ! 
Cold-pausing  caution's  lesson  scorning, 

We  frisk  away. 
Like  school-boys,  at  th*  expected  warning. 

To  joy  and  play. 

We  wander  there,  we  wander  here. 
We  eye  the  rose  upon  the  brier. 
Unmindful  that  the  thom  is  near, 

Among  the  leaves ; 
And  though  the  puny  wound  appear, 

Short  while  it  grieves 

Some,  lucky,  find  a  flowery  spot, 
For  which  they  never  toil'd  nor  swat ; 
They  drink  the  sweet,  and  eat  the  fat, 

But  care  or  pain ; 
And,  haply,  eye  the  barren  hut 

With  high  disdain. 

With  steady  aim,  some  fortune  chase ; 
Keen  hope  does  every  sinew  brace  ; 
Through  fair,  through  foul,  they  urge  the  race, 

And  seize  the  prey : 
Then  cannie,  in  some  cozie  place. 

They  close  the  day. 

And  others,  like  your  hiunble  servan'. 
Poor  wights  !  nae  rules  nor  roads  observin ; 
To  right  or  left,  eternal  swervin. 

They  zig-zag  on ; 
Till  curst  with  age,  obscure  an'  starvin. 

They  aften  groan. 

Alas  !  what  bitter  toil  an'  straining^^ 
But  truce  with  peevish,  poor  complaining ! 
Is  fortune's  fickle  Luna  waning  ? 

E'en  let  her  gang ! 
Beneath  what  light  she  has  remaining, 

Let's  sing  our  sang. 

My  pen  I  here  fling  to  the  door. 
And  kneel,  "  Ye  Powers  !"  and  warm  implore^ 
"  Though  I  should  wander  terra  o'er. 

In  all  her  climes. 
Grant  me  but  this,  I  ask  no  more. 

Aye  rowth  o'  rhymes. 

«  Gie  dreeping  roasts  to  kintra  lairds, 
Till  icicles  hing  frae  their  beards ; 
Gie  fine  braw  claes  to  fine  life-guards. 

And  maids  of  honour 
And  yill  an'  whisky  gie  to  cairds. 

Until  they  sconner. 


196                                                         BURNS. 

«  A  title,  Dempster  merits  it ; 

My  hardship  here,  at  your  levee. 

A  garter  gie  to  Willie  Pitt; 

On  sic  a  day  as  this  is. 

Gie  wealth  to  some  be-ledger'd  cit. 

Is  sure  an  uncouth  sight  to  see, 

In  cent,  per  cent. 

Amang  the  birth-day  dresses 

But  gie  me  real,  sterling  wit. 

Sae  fine  this  day. 

And  I'm  content. 

II. 

"  While  ye  are  pleased  to  keep  me  hale 
I'll  sit  down  o'er  my  scanty  meal, 

I  see  ye're  complimented  thrang, 
By  monie  a  lord  and  lady  ; 

Be't  water-hrose,  or  muslin-kail, 

Wi'  cheerful  face. 

«  God  save  the  king !"  's  a  cuckoo  sang 
That's  unco  easy  said  aye  ; 

As  lang's  the  muses  dinna  fail 

The  poets,  too,  a  venal  gang, 

To  say  the  grace." 

Wi'  rhymes  weel  turn'd  and  ready, 

An  anxious  e'e  I  never  throws 

Wad  gar  you  trow  ye  ne'er  do  wrang, 

Behint  my  lug,  or  by  my  nose  ; 

But  aye  unerring  steady. 

I  jouk  beneath  misfortune's  blows 

On  sic  a  day. 

As  weel's  I  may ; 

III. 

Sworn  foe  to  sorrow,  care,  and  prose. 

I  rhyme  away. 

For  me,  before  a  monarch's  face. 

,            E'en  there  I  winna  flatter  ; 

0  ye  douce  folk,  that  live  by  rule, 

For  neither  pension,  post,  nor  plj^ce, 

Grave,  tideless-blooded,  calm  and  cool. 

Am  I  your  hiunble  debtor : 

Compared  wi'  you — 0  fool !  fool !  fool ! 

So,  nae  reflection  on  your  grace, 

How  much  unlike ! 

Your  kingship  to  bespatter  ; 

Your  hearts  are  just  a  standing  pool. 

•  There's  monie  waur  been  o'  the  race. 

Your  lives,  a  dyke ! 

And  aiblins  ane  been  better 

Hae  hair-brain 'd,  sentimental  traces 
In  your  unletter'd,  nameless  faces  ! 
In  arioso  trills  and  graces 

Ye  never  stray. 
But,  gravissimo,  solemn  basses 

Ye  hum  away. 

Ye  are  sae  grave,  nae  doubt  ye're  wise ; 
Nae  ferly  though  ye  do  despise 
The  hairum-scarum,  ram-stam  boys, 

The  rattlin  squad : 
I  see  you  upward  cast  your  eyes— 

— Ye  ken  the  road. 

Whilst  I — ^but  I  shall  baud  me  there — 
Wi'  you  I'll  scarce  gang  onywhere — 
Then,  Jamie,  I  shall  say  nae  mair. 

But  quat  my  san^ 
Content  wi'  you  to  mak  a  pair, 

Whare'er  I  gang 


A  DREAM. 


Thoughts,  words,  and  deeds,  the  statute  blames  with 

reason ; 
But  surely  dreams  were  ne'er  indicted  treason. 


fOn  reading,  in  the  public  papers,  the  Laureat's  Ode,  with 
the  other  parade  of  June  4, 1786,  the  author  was  no  sooner 
dropped  asleep,  than  he  imagined  himself  to  the  birth- 
day levee  ;  and  in  his  dreaming  fancy  made  the  follow- 
ing address.] 

I. 

Guiu-MORNiNO  to  your  majesty  ! 

May  heaven  augment  your  blisses. 
On  every  new  birth-day  ye  see. 

An  humble  poet  wishes  ! 


Than  you  this  day. 

IV. 

'Tis  very  true,  my  sovereign  king. 

My  skill  may  weel  be  doubted : 

'But  facts  are  chiels  that  winna  ding. 

An'  downa  be  disputed  : 
Your  royal  nest,  beneath  your  wing. 

Is  e'en  right  left  an'  clouted. 
And  now  the  third  part  of  the  string, 
An'  less,  will  gang  about  it 

Than  did  ae  day. 

V. 

Far  be't  frae  me  that  I  aspire 

To  blame  your  legislation. 
Or  say,  ye  wisdom  want,  or  fire. 

To  rule  this  mighty  nation  ! 
But,  faith,  I  muckle  doubt,  my  sire, 

Ye've  trusted  ministration 
To  chaps  w  ha  in  a  barn  or  byre 

Wad  better  fill  their  station 

Than  courts  yon  day. 

VI. 

And  now  ye've  gien  auld  Britain  peace. 

Her  broken  shins  to  plaster. 
Your  sair  taxation  does  her  fleece, 

Till  she  has  scarce  a  tester ; 
For  me,  thank  God,  my  life's  a  lease, 

Nae  bargain  wearing  faster. 
Or,  faith  !  I  fear,  that  wi'  the  geese, 

I  shortly  boost  to  pasture 

I'  the  craft  some  day* 

VII. 
I'm  no  mistrusting  Willie  Pitt, 

When  taxes  he  enlarges, 
(An'  Will's  a  true  guid  fallow's  ge^ 

A  name  not  envy  spairges,) 


>  >  ^e 

>   »»   J. 

*  as  9 

5    Dl    ,> 

3>,3 

»  D    >  O    J 
3  f    O  1 

THE    TISIOM 


THE    VISION                                                    195 

That  he  intends  to  pay  your  debt, 

XIII 

An'  lessen  a'  your  charges  ; 

But,  GJ-d-sake  !  let  nae  saving-fit 

Young,  royal  tarry  breeks,  I  learn, 

Abridge  your  bonnie  barges 

Ye've  lately  come  athwart  her ; 

An'  boats  this  day. 

A  glorious  galley,*  stem  an'  stern. 

Well  rigg'd  for  Venus'  barter  ; 

VIII. 

But  first  hang  out,  that  she'll  discern 

Your  hymeneal  charter, 

Adieu,  my  liege  !  may  freedom  geek 

Then  heave  aboard  your  grapple  airn, 

Beneath  your  high  protection  ; 

An',  large  upo'  her  quarter. 

An'  may  ye  rax  corruption's  neck, 

Come  full  that  day. 

And  gie  her  for  dissection  ! 

But  since  I'm  here,  I'll  no  neglect, 

XIV. 

In  loyal,  true  affection. 
To  pay  your  queen,  with  due  respect, 
My  fealty  an'  subjection 

This  great  birth-day. 

Ye,  lastly,  bonnie  blossoms  a*. 

Ye  royal  lasses  dainty. 
Heaven  make  you  guid  as  weel  as  braw. 

An'  gie  you  lads  a-plenty  : 

IX. 

But  sneer  nae  British  boys  awa', 

• 

For  kings  are  unco  scant  aye ; 

Hail,  majesty  most  excellent ! 

An'  German  gentles  are  but  sma', 

While  nobles  strive  to  please  ye,  . 

They're  better  just  than  want  aye, 

Will  ye  accept  a  compliment 

On  onie  day. 

A  simple  poet  gies  ye  ? 

Thae  bonnie  bairntime,  heaven  has  lent, 

XV. 

Still  higher  may  they  heeze  ye 
In  bliss,  till  fate  some  day  is  sent, 

God  bless  you  a'!  consider  now, 

For  ever  to  release  ye 

Frae  care  that  day. 

Ye're  unco  muckle  dautet ; 

But,  ere  the  course  o'  life  be  through. 

It  may  be  bitter  sautet  : 

X. 

An'  I  hae  seen  their  coggie  fou, 

That  yet  hae  tarrow't  at  it ; 

For  you,  young  potentate  o'  w****, 

But  or  the  day  was  done,  I  trow. 

I  tell  your  highness  fairly, 

The  laggen  they  hae  clautet 

Down  pleasure's  stream,  wi'  swelling  sails. 

Fu'  clean  that  day. 

I'm  tauld  ye 're  driving  rarely  ; 

But  some  day  ye  may  gnaw  your  nails, 

^ 

An'  curse  your  folly  sairly, 

That  e'er  ye  brak  Diana's  pales. 

THE    VISION. 

Or  rattled  dice  wi'  Charlie, 

By  night  or  day. 

DUAN   FIRST.t 

XI. 

The  sun  had  closed  the  winter  day. 

Yet  aft  a  ragged  cowte's  been  known 

The  curlers  quat  their  roaring  play. 

To  make  a  noble  aiver  ; 

An'  hunger'd  maukin  ta'en  her  way 

So  ye  may  doucely  fill  a  throne. 

To  kail-yards  green, 

For  a'  their  clishmaclaver : 

While  faithless  snaws  ilk  step  betray 

There,  him*  at  Agincourt  wha  shone. 

Whare  she  has  been. 

Few  better  were  or  braver  ; 

And  yet,  wi'  funny,  queer  Sir  John,t 

The  thresher's  weary  flingin-tree. 
The  lee-lang  day  had  tired  me  ; 

He  was  an  unco  shaver 

For  monie  a  day. 

And  when  the  day  had  closed  his  e'e. 
Far  i'  the  west, 

XII. 

Ben  i'  the  spence,  right  pensivelie. 

I  gaed  to  rest. 

For  you,  right  reverend  o*******. 

Nane  sets  the  lawn-sleeve  sweeter, 

There,  lanely,  by  the  ingle  cheek, 

Although  a  riband  at  your  lug 

I  sat  and  eyed  the  spewing  reek, 

Wad  been  a  dress  completer : 

That  fill'd,  wi'  hoast-provoking  smeek, 

As  ye  disown  yon  paughty  dog 

The  auld  clay  biggin ; 

That  bears  the  keys  of  Peter, 

An*  heard  the  restless  rattons  squeak 

Then,  swith  !  an'  get  a  wife  to  hug, 

About  the  riggin. 

Or,  trouth  !  ye '11  stain  the  mitre 

Some  luckless  day. 

♦  Alluding  to  the  newspaper  account  of  a  certain  royal 

sailor's  amour. 

t  Duan,  a  term  of  Ossian's  for  the  different  divisions 

*  King  Henry  V. 

of  a  digressive   poem.    See  his  Cath-Loda,  vol.  ii.  ©r 

t  Sir  John  Falstaff :  vide  Shakspeare. 

M'Pherson's  translation. 

200 


BURNS. 


All  in  this  mottie,  misty  clime, 
1  backward  mused  on  wasted  time. 
How  I  had  spent  my  youthfu'  time, 

And  done  naething, 
But  stringin  blethers  up  in  rhyme, 

For  fools  to  sing. 

Had  I  to  gaid  advice  but  harkit, 
I  might,  by  this,  hae  led  a  market, 
Or  strutted  in  a  bank  an'  clarkit 

My  cash  account : 
While  here,  half  mad,  half  fed,  half  sarkit, 
Is  a'  th'  amount. 

I  started,  muttering,  blockhead !  coof ! 
And  heaved  on  high  my  waukit  loof. 
To  swear  by  a'  yon  starry  roof. 

Or  some  rash  aith, 
That  I,  henceforth,  would  be  rhyme-proof 

Till  my  last  breath — 

When  click !  the  strink  the  snick  did  draw  j 
And  jee  !  the  door  gaed  to  the  wa' ; 
An'  by  my  ingle-lowe  I  saw. 

Now  bleezin  bright, 
A  tight,  outlandish  hizzie,  braw, 

Come  full  in  sight. 

Ye  need  na  doubt,  I  held  my  whisht ; 
The  infant  aith,  half-form'd,  was  crusht  j 
I  glowr'd  as  eerie 's  I'd  been  dusht 

In  some  wild  glen ; 
When  sweet,  like  modest  worth,  slie  blusht. 

And  stepped  ben. 

Green,  slender,  leaf-clad  holly-boughs 
Were  twisted,  gracefu',  round  her  brows ; 
I  took  her  for  some  Scottish  muse. 

By  that  same  token ; 
An'  come  to  stop  those  reckless  vows, 

Wou'd  soon  been  broken. 

A  "  hair-brain 'd,  sentimental  trace," 
Was  strongly  marked  in  her  face ; 
A  wildly-witty,  rustic  grace 

Shone  full  upon  her ; 
Her  eye,  e'en  turn'd  on  empty  space, 

Beam'd  keen  with  honour. 

Down  flow'd  her  robe,  a  tartan  sheen ; 
Till  half  a  leg  was  scrimply  seen  ; 
And  such  a  leg !  my  bonnie  Jean 

Could  only  peer  it ; 
Sae  straught,  sae  taper,  tight,  and  clean, 

Nane  else  came  near  it. 

Her  mantle  large,  of  greenish  hue. 
My  gazing  v/onder  chiefly  drew  5 
Deep  lights  and  shades,  bold-mingling  threw, 

A  lustre  grand ; 
And  seem'd,  to  my  astonish'd  view, 

A  well  known  land. 

Here,  rivers  in  the  sea  were  lost ; 
There,  mountains  to  the  skies  were  tost : 
Here,  tumbling  billows  mark'd  the  coast, 

With  surging  foam ; 
There,  distant  shone  art's  lofty  boast, 

The  lordly  dome. 


Here,  Doon  pour'd  down  his  far-fetch'd  flood»| 
There,  well-fed  Irwine  stately  thuds  : 
Auld  hermit  Ayr  staw  through  his  woods, 

On  to  the  shore  ; 
And  many  a  lesser  torrent  scuds, 

AVith  seeming  roar. 

Low,  in  a  sandy  valley  spread, 
An  ancient  borough  rear'd  her  head  ; 
Still,  as  in  Scottish  story  read, 

She  boasts  a  race, 
To  every  nobler  virtue  bred, 

And  polish'd  grace. 

By  stawily  tower  or  palace  fair. 
Or  ruins  pendent  in  the  air. 
Bold  stems  of  heroes,  here  and  there, 

I  could  discern ; 
Some  seem'd  to  muse,  some  seem'd  to  dare. 

With  feature  stern. 

My  heart  did  glowing  transport  feel. 
To  see  a  race*  heroic  wheel. 
And  brandish  round  the  deep-dyed  steel 

In  sturdy  blows ; 
While  back-recoiling  seem'd  to  reel 

Their  stubborn  foes. 

His  country's  saviour,t  mark  him  well ! 
Bold  Richardton'sij:  heroic  swell ; 
The  chief  on  Sark§  who  glorious  fell. 
In  high  command ; 
■    And  he  whom  ruthless  fates  expel 
His  native  land. 

There,  where  a  sceptred  Pictish  shade,| 
Stalk'd  round  his  ashes  lowly  laid, 

I  mark'd  a  martial  race,  portray'd 

In  colours  strong ; 
Bold,  soldier-featur'd,  undismay'd 

They  strode  along. 

Through  many  a  wild,  romantic  grove,^ 
Near  many  a  hermit-fancy'd  cove, 
(Fit  haunts  for  friendship  or  for  love. 

In  musing  mood. 
An  aged  judge,  I  saw  him  rove. 

Dispensing  good. 

With  deep-struck  reverential  awe** 
The  learned  sire  and  son  I  saw, 
•    To  Nature's  God  and  Nature's  law 

They  gave  their  lore, 
This,  all  its  source  and  end  to  draw,  > 

That,  to  adore. 

*  The  Wallaces.  t  William  Wallace. 

t  Adam  Wallace,  of  Richardton,  cousin  to  the 
immortal  preserver  of  Scottish  independence. 

§  Wallace,  Laird  of  Craigie,  who  was  second  in  com- 
mand, under  Douglas  Earl  of  Ormond,  at  the  famoufl 
battle  on  the  banks  of  Sark,  fought  anno  1448.  That 
glorious  victory  was  principally  owing  to  the  judicious 
conduct,  and  intrepid  valour  of  the  gallant  Laird  of 
Craigie,  who  died  of  his  wounds  after  the  action. 

II  Coilus,  King  of  the  Picts,  from  whom  the  district  of 
Kyle  is  said  to  take  its  name,  lies  buried,  as  tradition 
says,  near  the  family-seat  of  the  Montgomeries  of  Coil's-, 
field,  where  his  burial-place  is  still  shown, 

TI  Barskimming  the  seat  of  the  Lord  Justice  Clerk. 
**  Catrine,  the  seat  of  the  late  Doctor  and  present  Pro- 
fessor Stewart. 


THE   VISION. 


201 


Biydoiie's  brave  ward*  I  well  could  spy, 

Beneath  old  Scotia's  smiling  eye  ; 

Who  call'd  on  fame,  low  standing  by, 

To  hand  him  on, 

Where  many  a  patriot  name  on  high, 

/  And  hero  shone. 

DUAN   SECOND. 

With  musing-deep,  astonish'd  stare, 
I  view'd  the  heavendy-seeming  fair ; 
A  whispering  throb  did  witness  bear. 

Of  kindred  sweet, 
When  with  an  elder  sister's  air 

She  did  me  greet. 
"  All  hail !  my  own  inspired  bard  ! 
In  me  thy  native  muse  regard  ! 
Nor  longer  mourn  thy  fate  is  hard, 

Thus  poorly  low ! 
I  come  to  give  thee  such  reward 

As  we  bestow. 

"  Know  the  great  genius  of  this  land 
Has  many  a  light  aerial  band, 
Who,  all  beneath  his  high  command, 

Harmoniously, 
As  arts  or  arms  they  understand, 

Their  labours  ply. 

"  They  Scotia's  race  among  them  share  ; 
Some  fire  the  soldier  on  to  dare ; 
Some  rouse  the  patriot  up  to  bare 

Corruption's  heart ; 
Some  teach  the  bard,  a  darling  care. 
The  tuneful  art. 

«  'Mong  swelling  floods  of  recking  gore. 
They,  ardent,  kindling  spirits  pour ; 
Or,  'mid  the  venal  senate's  roar, 

They,  sightless,  stand. 
To  mend  the  honest  patriot  lore. 

And  grace  the  hand. 
"  And  when  the  bard,  or  hoary  sage, 
Charm  or  instruct  *ije  future  age. 
They  bind  the  wild  poetic  rage 

In  energy. 
Or  point  the  inconclusive  page 

Full  on  the  eye. 
*'  Hence  Fullarton,  the  brave  and  young ; 
Hence  Dempster's  zeal-inspired  tongue ; 
Hence  sweet  harmonious  Beattie  sung 

His  '  Minstrel  lays  ;' 
Or  tore,  with  noble  ardour  stung, 

The  skeptic's  bays. 
«  To  lower  orders  are  assign'd 
The  humbler  ranks  of  human-kind, 
The  rustic  bard,  the  labouring  hind. 

The  artisan ; 
All  choose,  as  various  they're  inclined. 

The  various  man. 
♦*  When  yellow  waves  the  heavy  grain. 
The  threatening  storm  some  strongly  rein. 
Some  teach  to  meiiorate  the  plain 

With  tillage-skill ; 
^.nd  seme  instruct  the  shepherd  train, 

BIythe  o'er  the  hill. 

♦  Colonel  Fullarton. 


"  Some  hint  the  lover's  harmless  wile  j 
Some  grace  the  maiden's  artless  smile ; 
Some  soothe  the  labourer's  weary  toil, 

For  humble  gams, 
And  make  his  cottage  scenes  beguile 

His  cares  and  pains, 

"  Some,  bounded  to  a  district  space, 
Explore  at  large  man's  infant  race, 
To  mark  the  embryotic  trace 

Of  rustic  bard ; 
And  careful  no.e  each  opening  grace, 

A  guide  and  guard. 

"  Of  these  am  I — Coila  my  name  ; 
And  this  district  as  mine  I  claim, 
Where  once  the  Campbells,  chiefs  of  fame, 

Held  ruling  power : 
I  mark'd  thy  embryo  tuneful  flame. 

Thy  natal  hour. 

«  With  future  hope,  I  oft  would  gaze 
Fond,  on  thy  little  early  ways. 
Thy  ludely  caroll'd  chiming  phrase. 

In  uncouth  rhymes. 
Fired  at  the  simple,  artless  lays 

Of  other  times. 

« I  saw  thee  seek  the  sounding  shore. 
Delighted  with  the  dashing  roar  ; 
Or  when  the  north  his  fleecy  store 

Drove  through  the  sky 
I  saw  grim  nature's  visage  hoar 

Struck  thy  young  eye. 

"  Or,  when  the  deep  green-mantled  earth 
Warm  cherish'd  every  floweret's  birth. 
And  joy  and  music  pouring  forth 

In  every  grove, 
I  saw  thee  eye  the  general  mirth  ' 

With  boundless  love. 

"  When  ripen'd  fields,  and  azure  skies, 
Call'd  forth  the  reapers'  rustling  noise, 
I  saw  thee  leave  their  evening  joys, 

And  lonely  stalk. 
To  vent  thy  bosom's  swelling  rise 

In  pensive  walk. 

"  When  youthful  love,  warm-blushing,  stiong 
Keen-shivering  shot  thy  nerves  along. 
Those  accents,  grateful  to  thy  tongue, 

Th'  adored  name, 
I  taught  thee  how  to  pour  in  song, 

To  soothe  thy  flame. 

"  I  saw  thy  pulse's  maddening  plaj'. 
Wild  send  thee  pleasure's  devious  way. 
Misled  by  fancy's  meteor  ray, 

By  passion  driven  j 
But  yet  the  light  that  led  astray 

Was  light  from  heaveiu 

"  I  taught  thy  manners-painting  strains. 
The  loves,  the  ways  of  simple  swains, 
Till  now,  o'er  all  my  wide  domains 

Thy  fame  extends : 
And  some,  the  pride  of  Coila's  plains. 

Become  my  friends. 


203 


BURNS. 


"  Thou  canst  not  learn,  nor  can  I  show, 
To  paint  with  Thomson's  landscape  glow  ; 
Or  wake  the  bosom-melting  throe. 

With  Shenslone's  art ; 
Or  pour,  with  Gray,  the  moving  flow 

Warm  on  the  heart. 

«  Yet  all  beneath  th'  unrivall'd  rose, 
The  lowly  daisy  sweetly  blows  ; 
Though  large  the  forest's  monarch  throws 

His  army  shade, 
Yet  green  the  juicy  hawthorn  grows, 
Adown  the  glade. 

*'  Then  never  murmur  nor  repine  ; 
Strive  in  thy  humble  sphere  to  shine : 
And,  tru?t  me,  not  Potosi's  mine, 

Nor  kings'  regard, 
Can  give  a  bliss  o'ermatching  thine, 

A  rustic  bard. 

*'  To  give  my  counsels  all  in  one. 
Thy  tuneful  flame  still  careful  fan  ; 
Preserve  the  dignity  of  man 

With  soul  erect ; 
And  trust,  the  universal  plan 

Will  all  protect 

"  And  icear  thou  this" — she  solemn  said. 
And  bound  the  holly  round  my  head : 
The  polish'd  leaves,  and  berries  red 

Did  rustling  play ; 
And,  like  a  passing  thought,  she  fled 

In  light  away. 


ADDRESS  TO  THE  UNCO   GUID ;   OR,  THE 
RIGIDLY  RIGHTEOUS. 

My  son,  these  maxims  make  a  rule, 

And  lump  them  aye  thegither ; 
The  rigid  righteous  is  a  fool, 

The  rigid  wise  aniiher : 
The  cleanest  corn  that  e'er  was  dight, 

May  hae  some  pyles  o'  caff  in ; 
So  ne'er  a  fellow  creature  slight, 

For  random  fits  o'  daffin. 

Solomon.— Eccles.  ch.  vii.  ver.  16. 

I. 

O  YE  wha  are  sae  guid  yoursel, 

Sae  pious  and  sae  holy, 
Ye've  naught  to  do  but  mark  and  tell 

Your  neebor's  faults  and  folly  ! 
Whase  life  is  like  a  weel-gaun  mill. 

Supplied  wi'  store  o'  water. 
The  heapet  happer's  ebbing  still. 

And  still  the  clap  plays  clatter. 

II. 

Hear  me,  ye  venerable  core, 

As  counsel  for  poor  mortals, 
That  frequent  pass  douce  wisdom's  door 

For  glaikit  folly's  portals  ; 


I,  for  their  thoughtless,  careless  sakes, 
Would  here  propone  defences. 

Their  donsie  tricks,  their  black  mistakes. 
Their  failings  and  mischances. 

III. 

Ye  see  your  state  wi'  theirs  compared, 

And  shudder  at  the  niffer ; 
But  cast  a  moment's  fair  regard. 

What  maks  the  mighty  differ  ? 
Discount  what  scant  occasion  gave. 

That  purity  ye  pride  in. 
And  (what's  aft  mair  than  a'  the  lave) 

Your  better  art  o'  hiding. 

IV. 

Think,  when  your  castigated  pulse 

Gies  now  and  then  a  wallop. 
What  ragings  must  his  veins  convulse, 

That  still  eternal  gallop ; 
Wi'  wind  and  tide  fair  i'  your  tail, 

Right  on  ye  scud  your  sea-way ; 
But  in  the  teeth  o'  baith  to  sail. 

It  maks  an  unco  leeway. 


See  social  life  and  glee  sit  down. 

All  joyous  and  unthinking, 
Til],  quite  transmugrify'd,  they're  grown 

Debauchery  and  drinking : 
0,  would  they  stay  to  calculate 

Th'  eternal  consequences ; 
Or  your  more  dreaded  hell  to  taste, 

D-mnation  of  expenses  ! 

VI.      ^ 

Ye  high,  exalted,  virtuous  dames, 

Tied  up  in  godly  laces. 
Before  ye  gie  poor  frailty  names, 

Suppose  a  change  o'  cases  ; 
A  dear  loved  lad,  convenience  snug, 

A  treacherous  inclination — 
But,  let  me  whisper  i'  your  lug, 

Ye're  aiblins  nae  temptation. 

VII. 

Then  gently  scan  your  brother  man. 

Still  gentler  sister  woman  ; 
Though  they  may  gang  a  kennin  wrang. 

To  step  aside  is  human  : 
One  point  must  still  be  greatly  dark. 

The  moving  why  they  do  it: 
And  just  as  lamely  can  ye  mark. 

How  far  perhaps  they  rue  it. 

VIII. 

Who  made  the  heart,  'tis  He  alone 

Decidedly  can  try  us, 
He  knows  each  chord — its  various  tone 

Each  spring,  its  various  bias  : 
Then  at  the  balance  let's  be  mute ; 

We  never  can  adjust  it ; 
What's  done  we  partly  may  compute. 

But  not  know  what's  resisted. 


TAM    SAMSON'S   ELEGY. 


2oa 


TAM  SAMSON'S  ELEGY.* 

An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God. 
Pope. 

Has  auld  k*********  seen  the  deil  ? 
Or  great  M'*******t  thrawn  his  heel  ? 
Or  R*******  again  grown  weel,| 

To  preach  an'  read. 
<*  Na,  waur  than  a'l"  cries  ilka  chiel, 

Tam  Samson's  dead  ! 

K*********  lang  may  grunt  an'  grane, 
An'  sigh,  an'  sab,  an'  greet  her  lane, 
An'  deed  her  bairns,  man,  wife,  an'  wean^ 

In  mourning  weed  5 
To  death  she's  dearly  paid  the  kane, 

Tam  Samson's  dead ! 

The  brethren  of  the  mystic  level 
May  hing  their  head  in  woefu'  bevel. 
While  by  their  nose  the  tears  will  revel, 

Like  ony  bead  ; 
Death's  gien  the  lodge  an  unco  devei : 

Tam  Samson's  dead ! 

When  winter  muffles  up  his  cloak, 
And  binds  the  mire  like  a  rock  ; 
When  to  the  loughs  the  curlers  flock, 

Wi'  gleesome  speed, 
Wha  will  they  station  at  the  cock  ? 

Tam  Samson's  dead  ! 

He  was  the  king  0'  a'  the  core, 
To  guard,  or  draw,  or  wick  a  bore. 
Or  up  the  rink  like  Jehu  roar 

In  time  of  need ; 
But  now  he  lags  on  death's  hog-score, 

Tam  Samson's  dead ! 

Now  safe  the  stately  sawmont  sail, 
And  trouts  bedropp'd  wi'  crimson  hail. 
And  eels  weel  kcnn'd  for  souple  tail. 

And  geds  for  greed, 

Since  dark  in  death's  fish-creel  we  wail 

Tam  Samson  dead .' 

Rejoice,  ye  birring  paitricks  a'; 
Ye  cootie  moorcocks,  crousely  craw  ; 
Ye  maukins,  cock  your  fud  fu'  braw, 

Withouten  dread ; 
Your  mortal  fae  is  now  awa', 

Tam  Samson's  dead  ! 

That  woefu'  morn  be  ever  mourn'd, 
Saw  him  in  shootin  graith  adorn 'd. 
While  pointers  round  impatient  burn'd, 

Frae  couples  freed  ; 
But,  och  !  he  gaed  and  ne'er  return'd  ! 

Tam  Samson's  dead  ! 


*  When  this  worthy  old  sportsman  went  out  lastmuir- 
t«»wl  season,  he  supposed  it  was  to  be,  in  Ossian's  phrase, 
"the  Itiit  of  his  fields ;"  and  expressed  an  ardent  wish  to 

le  and  be  buried  in  the  muirs.  On  this  hint  the  author 
composed  his  elegy  and  epitaph. 

t  A  certain  preacher,  a  great  favourite  with  the  million. 
Vide  the  Ordination,  stanza  ii. 

t  Another  preacher,  an  equal  favourite  with  the  few, 
who  was  at  that  lime  ailing.  For  him,  see  also  the  Ordi- 
nation, stanza  ix. 


In  vain  auld  age  his  body  batters  ; 
In  vain  the  gout  his  ankles  fetters ; 
In  vain  the  burns  came  down  like  waiers. 

An  acre  braid  ! 
Now  every  auld  wife,  greetin,  clatters, 

Tam  Samson's  dead  ! 

Owre  many  a  weary  hag  he  limpit, 
An'  aye  the  tither  shot  he  thumpit. 
Till  coward  death  behind  him  jumpit, 

Wi'  deadly  feide ; 
Now  he  proclaims,  wi'  tout  0'  trumpet, 

Tam  Samson's  dead ! 

When  at  his  heart  he  felt  the  dagger, 
He  reel'd  his  wonted  bottle  swagger. 
But  yet  he  drew  the  mortal  trigger 

Wi'  weel  aim'd  heed  ; 
"  L — d,  five  !"  he  cried,  and  owre  did  stagger; 

Tam  Samson's  dead ! 

Ilk  hoary  hunter  mourn'd  a  brither  ; 
Ilk  sportsman  youth  bemoan'd  a  father  ; 
Yon  auld  gray  stane,  amang  the  heather, 

Marks  out  his  head, 
Whare  Burns  ha^^  wrote,  in  rhyming  blether 

Tam  Samson's  dead  ! 

There  low  he  lies,  in  lasting  rest ; 
Perhaps  upon  his  mouldering  breast 
Some  spitefu'  muirfowl  bigs  her  nest. 

To  hatch  an'  breed  ; 
Alas  !  nae  mair  he'll  them  molest ! 

Tam  Samson's  dead  ! 

When  August  winds  the  heather  wave. 
And  sportsmen  wander  by  yon  grave. 
Three  volleys  let  his  memory  crave, 

0'  pouther  an'  lead. 
Till  echo  answer  frac  her  cave, 

Tam  Samson's  dead  ! 

Heaven  rest  his  saul,  whare'er  he  be  I 
Is  th'  wish  0'  monie  mae  than  me  ; 
He  had  twa  faults,  or  may  be  three, 

Yet  what  remead  ? 
Ae  social,  honest  man  want  we  : 

Tam  Samson's  dead ! 


THE   EPITAPH. 
Tam  Samson's  weel-worn  clay  here  lies. 

Ye  canting  zealots,  spare  him  ! 
If  honest  worth  in  heaven  rise, 

Ye'll  mend  or  ye  win  near  him. 


PER  CONTRA. 

Go,  fame,  and  canter  like  a  filly. 
Through  a'  the  streets  an'  neuks  0'  Killie,* 
Tell  every  social,  honest  billie 

To  cease  his  grievin. 
For  yet,  unskaith'd  by  death's  gleg  gullie, 
Tam  Samson^s  livin. 


*  Killie  is  a  phrase  the  country  folks  sometimes 
for  Kilmarnock. 


«U4 


BURNS. 


HALLOWEEN.* 


The  following  poem  will,  by  many  readers,  be  well  enough 
understood ;  but  for  the  sake  of  those  who  are  unac- 
quainted with  the  manners  and  traditions  of  the  country 
where  the  scene  is  cast,  notes  are  added,  to  give  some 
account  of  the  principal  charms  and  spells  of  that  night, 
so  big  with  prophecy  to  the  peasantry  in  the  west  of 
Scotland.  The  passion  of  prying  into  futurity  makes  a 
striking  part  of  the  h'story  of  human  nature  in  its  rude 
Btate,  in  all  ages  and  nations :  and  it  may  be  some  en- 
tertainment to  a  philosophic  mind,  if  any  such  should 
honour  the  author  with  a  perusal,  to  see  the  remains 
of  it  among  the  more  unenlightened  in  our  own. 


Y"es !  let  the  rich  deride,  the  proud  disdain, 
The  simple  pleasures  of  the  lowly  train ; 
To  me  more  dear,  congenial  to  my  heart. 
One  native  charm,  than  all  the  gloss  of  art 

Goldsmith. 

L 
Upon  that  night,  when  fairies  light, 

On  Cassilis  Downansf  dance, 
Or  owre  the  lays,  in  splendid  blaze, 

On  sprightly  coursers  prance ; 
Or  for  Colean  the  route  is  ta'en. 

Beneath  the  moon's  rale  beams  ; 
There,  up  the  cove,:|:  to  .  "ray  an'  rove 

Amang  the  rocks  and  streams, 

To  sport  that  night. 

n. 

Amang  the  bonnie  winding  banks, 

Where  Doon  rins,  wimpling  clear, 
Where  Bruce§  ance  ruled  the  martial  ranks, 

An'  shook  his  Carrick  spear. 
Some  merry,  friendly  countra  folks, 

Together  did  convene. 
To  burn  their  nits,  an'  pou  their  stocks. 

An'  haud  their  Halloween 

Fu'  blythe  that  night. 

in. 

The  lasses  feat,  an'  cleanly  neat, 

Mair  braw  than  when  they're  fine ; 
Their  faces  blythe,  fu'  sweetly  kythe. 

Hearts  leal,  an'  warm,  an'  kin' : 
The  lads  sae  trig,  wi'  wooer-babs, 

Weel  knotted  on  their  garten. 
Some  unco  blate,  an'  some  wi'  gabs. 

Gar  lasses  hearts  gang  startin 

Whyles  fast  at  night. 


*  Is  thought  to  be  a  night  when  witches,  devils,  and 
other  mischief-making  beings,  are  all  abroad  on  their 
baneful,  midnight  errands;  particularly  those  aerial 
people  the  fairies,  are  said  on  that  night  to  hold  a  grand 
anniversary. 

t  Certain  little,  romantic,  rocky,  green  hills,  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  ancient  seat  of  the  Earls  of  Cas- 
silis, 

t  A  noted  cavern  near  Colean  house,  called  the  Cove 
of  Colean :  which,  as  Cassilis  Downans,  is  famed  in 
country  story  for  being  a  favourite  haunt  of  fairies. 

§  The  famous  family  of  that  name,  the  ancestors  of 
Robert,  the  great  deliverer  of  his  country,  were  Earls  of 
Carrick-. 


IV. 

Then  first  and  foremost,  through  the  kail, 

Their  stocks*  maun  a'  be  sought  ance  ; 
They  steek  their  e'en,  an'  graip  an'  walo. 

For  muckle  anes  an'  straught  anes. 
Poor  hav'rel  Will  fell  afFthe  drift, 

An'  wander'd  through  the  boio-kail, 
An  pow't  for  want  o'  better  shift, 

A  runt  was  like  a  sow-tail, 

Sae  bow't  that  night, 

V. 
Then,  straught  or  crooked,  yird  or  nane. 

They  roar  and  cry  a'  throu'thcr 
The  vera  wee  things,  todlin,  rin, 

Wi'  stocks  out-owre  their  shouther  ; 
An'  gif  the  custoc^s  sweet  or  sour, 

Wi'  joctelegs  they  taste  them  ; 
Syne  coziely,  aboon  the  door, 

Wi'  cannie  care  they  place  them 
To  lie  that  night 

VL 

The  la,sses  staw  frae  'mang  them  a'. 

To  pou  their  stalks  o'  corn  ;t 
But  Rab  slips  out,  an'  jinks  about, 

Behint  the  muckle  thorn  : 
He  grippet  Nelly  hard  an'  last ; 

Loud  skirl'd  a'  the  lasses  ; 
But  her  tap-pickle  maist  was  lost, 

When  kiuttlin  in  the  fause-house:}: 
Wi'  him  that  night. 

VII. 

Tlie  auld  guidwife's  weel  hoordet  nit5§ 

Are  round  an'  round  divided. 
An'  monie  lads'  an'  lasses'  fates  ^ 

Are  there  that  night  decided  : 
Some  kindle,  couthie,  side  by  side 

An'  burn  thegither  trimly  ; 

*  The  first  ceremony  of  Halloween  is,  pulling  each 
stock,  or  plant  of  kail.  They  must  go  out,  hand  in  hand 
with  eyes  shut,  and  pull  the  first  they  meet  with :  its  bein 
big  or  little,  straight  or  crooked,  is  prophetie  of  the  size  aai 
shape  of  the  grand  object  of  all  their  spells— the  husbani 
or  wife.  If  any  yird,  or  earth,  stick  to  the  root,  that  i 
tocher,  or  fortune  ;  and  the  taste  of  the  custoc,  that  is,  th 
heart  of  the  stem,  is  indicative  of  the  natural  temper  am 
disposition.  Lastly,  the  stems,  or,  to  give  them  thei 
ordinary  appellation,  the  runts,  are  placed  somewhen 
above  the  head  of  the  door:  and  the  Christian  names  ol 
the  people  whom  chance  brings  into  the  house,  are,  accord 
ing  to  ^he  priority  of  placing  the  runts,  the  names  ir 
question. 

t  They  go  to  the  barn-yard  and  pull  each,  at  three  seve 
ral  times,  a  stalk  of  oats.  If  the  third  stalk  wants  th( 
top-pickle,  that  is,  the  grain  at  the  top  of  the  stalk,  th( 
party  in  question  will  come  to  the  marriage  bed  any  thinj 
but  a  maid. 

t  When  the  corn  is  in  a  doubtful  state,  by  being  toe 
green,  or  wet,  the  stack-builder,  by  means  of  old  timber 
&c.,  makes  a  large  apartment  in  his  stack,  with  an  open 
ing  in  the  side  which  is  fairest  exposed  to  the  wind :  thii 
he  calls  a.  fause-hnuse. 

§  Burning  the  nuts  is  a  famous  charm.  They  name  the 
lad  and  lass  to  each  particular  nut,  as  they  lay  them  in 
the  fire,  and  accordingly  as  they  burn  quietly  together, 
or  start  from  beside  one  another,  the  course  and  issue  ol 
the  courtship  will  te. 


HALLOWEEN. 


205 


Some  start  awa  wi'  saucie  pride, 
And  jump  out-owre  the  chimlie 

Fu'  high  that  night. 

VIII. 

Jean  slips  in  twa,  wi'  tentie  e'e  | 

Wha  'twas  she  wadna  tell ; 
But  this  is  Jock,  an'  this  is  me, 

She  says  in  to  hersel : 
He  bleezed  owre  her,  an'  she  owre  him. 

As  they  wad  never  mair  part ; 
Till  fuff !  he  started  up  the  lum, 

And  Jean  had  e'en  a  sair  heart 

To  see't  that  night. 

IX. 
Poor  Willie,  wi'  his  how-kail  runty 

Was  brunt  wi'  primsie  Mallie  ; 
An'  Mallie,  nae  doubt,  took  the  drunt. 

To  be  compared  to  Willie : 
Mall's  nit  lap  out  wi'  pridefu'  fling. 

An'  her  ain  fit  it  burnt  it ; 
While  Willie  lap,  and  swoor  by  jing, 

'Twas  just  the  way  he  wanted 
To  be  that  night. 

X. 

Nell  had  the  fause-house  in  her  min', 

She  pits  hersel  an'  Rob  in  ; 
In  loving  bleeze  they  sweetly  join, 

Till  white  in  ase  they're  sobbin  : 
Nell's  heart  was  dancin  at  the  view, 

She  whisper'd  Rob  to  look  for't  : 
Rob,  stowlins,  prie'd  her  bonnie  mou, 

Fu'  cozie  in  the  neuk  for't. 

Unseen  that  night. 

XI. 

But  Merran  sat  behint  their  backs. 

Her  thoughts  on  Andrew  Bell ; 
She  lea'es  them  gashin  at  their  cracks, 

And  slips  out  by  hersel  : 
She  through  the  yard  the  nearest  taks, 

An'  to  the  kiln  she  goes  then. 
An'  darklins  grapit  for  the  banks. 

And  in  the  blue-clue*  throws  then, 

Right  fear't  that  night. 

XII. 
An'  aye  she  wint,  an'  aye  she  swat, 

I  wat  she  made  nae  jaukin  ; 
Till  something  held  within  the  pat, 

Guid  L — d  !  but  she  was  quakin  ! 
But  whether  'twas  the  deil  himsel, 

Or  whether  'twas  a  bauken. 
Or  whether  it  was  Andrew  Bell, 

She  did  na  wait  on  talkin 

To  spier  that  night. 


*  "Whoever  would,  with  success,  try  this  spell,  must 
strictly  observe  these  directions :  Steal  out,  all  alone,  to 
the  kiln,  and,  darkling,  throw  into  the  pot  a  clue  of  blue 
yarn ;  wind  it  in  a  new  clue  off  the  old  one ;  and,  towards 
the  latter  end,  something  will  hold  the  thread;  demand 
wha  hands  ?  i.  e.  who  holds'?  an  answer  will  be  returned 
from  the  kiln-pot,  by  naming  the  Christian  and  surname 
of  Vf^u-  tut  are  spouse, 


XIII. 
Wee  Jenny  to  her  grannie  says, 

"  Will  ye  go  wi'  me,  grannie  ? 
I'll  eat  the  apple*  at  the  glass, 

I  gat  frae  uncle  Johnie  ;" 
She  fuflPt  her  pipe  wi'  sic  a  lunt, 

In  wrath  she  was  sae  vap'rin. 
She  noticed  na,  tn  azle  brunt 

Her  braw  ne'*  worset  apron 

Out  through  that  night. 

xiv: 

"  Ye  little  skelpie-limmer's  face  ! 

How  daur  you  try  sic  sportin. 
As  seek  the  foul  thief  ony  place. 

For  him  to  spae  your  fortune  ? 
Nae  doubt  but  ye  may  get  a  sight ! 

Great  cause  ye  hae  to  fear  it ; 
For  monie  a  ane  has  gotten  a  fright. 

An'  lived  an'  died  deleerit 

On  sic  a  night. 

XV. 
"  Ae  hairst  afore  the  Sherra-moor, 

I  mind't  as  weel'  yestreen, 
I  was  a  gilpey  then,  I'm  sure 

I  was  na  past  fyfteen  : 
The  simmer  had  been  cauld  an'  wat. 

An'  stuff  was  unco  green  ; 
An'  aye  a  rantm  kirn  we  gat, 

An' just  on  Halloween 

It  fell  that  night. 

XVI. 
"  Our  stibble-rig  was  Rab  M'Graen, 

A  clever,  sturdy  fallow ; 
He's  sin  got  Eppie  Sim  wi'  wean, 

That  lived  in  Achmacalla  : 
He  gat  hemp-seedjt  I  mind  it  weel. 

An'  he  made  unco  light  o't ; 
But  monie  a  day  was  by  himsel. 

He  was  sae  sairly  frighted 

That  vera  night." 

XVII. 

Then  up  gat  fefchtin  Jamie  Fleck, 

An'  he  swoor  by  his  conscience. 
That  he  could  saw  hemp-seed  a  peck  j 

For  it  was  a'  but  nonsense  ; 
The  auld  guidman  raught  down  the  pock, 

An'  out  a  handful  gied  him  ; 
Syne  bad  him  slip  frae  'mang  the  folk, 

Sometimes  when  nae  ane  seed  him : 
An'  try't  that  night. 


*  Take  a  candle,  and  go  alone  to  a  looking-glass ;  eat 
an  apple  before  it,  and  some  traditions  say,  you  should 
comb  your  hair,  all  the  time  ;  the  face  of  your  conjugal 
companion,  to  be,  will  be  seen  in  the  glass,  as  if  peeping 
over  your  shoulder. 

t  Steal  out  unperceived,  and  sow  a  handful  of  hemp- 
seed  ;  harrowing  it  with  any  thing  you  can  conveniently 
draw  after  you.  Repeat  now  and  then,  "  Hem{>seed,  I 
saw  thee,  hemp-seed,  I  saw  thee  ;  and  him  (or  her)  that 
is  to  be  my  true  love,  come  after  me  and  pou  thee."  LooK 
over  your  left  shoulder,  and  you  will  see  the  appearance 
of  the  person  invoked,  in  the  attitude  of  pulling  hemp. 
Some  traditions  say,  "  come  after  me,  and  shaw  thee," 
that  is,  show  thyself:  in  which  case  it  simply  appears 
Others  omit  the  harrowing,  and  say, "  come  after  me',  and 
harrow  thee." 


206 


BURNS. 


XVIII. 
He  marches  through  amang  the  stacks, 

Though  he  was  something  sturtin ; 
The  graip  he  for  a  harrow  taks. 

An*  haurls  at  his  curpin  t 
An'  every  now  an'  then  he  says, 

"  Hemp-seed,  I  saw  thee, 
An'  her  that  is  to  be  my  lass. 

Come  after  me  and  draw  thee. 

As  fast  this  night.'* 

XIX. 

He  whistled  up  Lord  Lenox'  march 

To  keep  his  courage  cheerie  ; 
Although  his  hair  began  to  arch. 

He  was  sae  fley'd  an'  eerie  : 
Till  presently  he  hears  a  squeak. 

An'  then  a  grane  an'  gruntle  ; 
He  by  his  shouther  gae  a  keek, 

An'  tumbled  wi'  a  wintle 

Out-owre  that  night. 

XX. 

He  roar'd  a  horrid  murder-shout. 

In  dreadfu'  desperation  ! 
An'  young  an'  auld  came  rinnin  out. 

To  hear  the  sad  narration  : 
He  swoor  'twas  hilchin  Jean  M'Craw, 

Or  crouchie  Morran  Humphie, 
Till  stop  !  she  trotted  through  them  a' ; 

An'  wha  was  it  but  Grumphie 

Asteer  that  night! 

XXL 

Meg  fain  wad  to  the  barn  gaen. 

To  win  three  wechts  o'  naething  ;* 
But  lor  to  meet  the  deil  her  lane, 

She  pat  but  little  faith  in  : 
She  gies  the  herd  a  pickle  nits. 

An'  twa  red  cheekit  apples. 
To  watch,  while  for  the  barn  she  sets, 

In  hopes  to  see  Tam  Kipples 

That  vera  night. 

XXIL 

She  turns  the  key  wi'  cannie  thraw 

An'  owre  the  threshold  ventures 
But  first  on  Sawnie  gies  a  ca'. 

Syne  bauldly  in  she  enters  ; 
A  ratton  rattled  up  the  wa'. 

An'  she  cried  L — d  preserve  her. 
An'  ran  through  midden-hole  an'  a'. 

An'  pray'd  wi'  zeal  an'  fervour, 

Fu'  fast  that  night. 


*  This  charm  must  likewise  be  performed  unpcrceived, 
and  alone.  You  go  to  the  barn,  and  open  both  doors, 
taking  them  off  the  hinges,  if  possible;  for  there  is  danger 
that  the  being,  about  to  appear,  may  shut  the  doors,  and 
do  you  some  mischief.  Then  take  that  instrument  used 
in  winnowing  the  corn,  which,  in  our  country  dialect, 
we  call  a  wecht ;  and  go  through  all  the  attitudes  of  letting 
down  corn  against  the  wind.  Repeat  it  three  times ;  and 
:he  third  time  an  apparition  will  pass  through  the  barn, 
in  at  the  windy  door,  and  out  at  the  other,  having  both 
'Jie  figure  in  question,  and  the  appearance  or  retinue, 
-narking  the  employment  or  station  in  life. 


XXIII. 

They  hoy't  out  Will,  wi'  sair  advice  : 

They  hecht  him  some  fine  braw  ane ; 
It  chanced  the  stack  he  faddom'd  thrice,* 

Was  timmer  propt  for  thrawia: 
He  taks  a  swirlie,  auld  moss-oak, 

For  some  black,  grousome  carlin  ; 
An'  loot  a  winze,  an'  drew  a  stroke. 

Till  skin  in  blypes  came  haurlin 

AfF's  nieves  that  night. 

XXIV. 

A  wanton  widow  Leezie  was, 

As  canty  as  a  kittlen  ; 
But  och  !  that  night,  amang  the  shaws, 

She  got  a  fearfu'  settlin  ! 
She  through  the  whins,  an'  by  the  cairn, 

An'  owre  the  hill  gaed  scrievin, 
Whare  three  lairds'  lands  met  at  a  bumf 

To  dip  her  left  sark  sleeve  in, 

Was  bent  that  night. 

XXV. 

Whyles  owre  a  linn  the  burnie  plays. 

As  through  the  glen  it  wimplet : 
Whyles  round  a  rocky  scar  it  strays  ; 

Whyles  iij  a  wiel  it  dimplet ; 
Whyles  glitter'd  to  the  nightly  rays, 

Wi'  bickering,  dancing  dazzle  ; 
Whyles  cookit  underneath  the  braes, 

Below  the  spreading  hazel. 

Unseen  that  night. 

XXVL 

Amang  the  brachens,  on  the  brae. 

Between  her  an'  the  moon. 
The  deil,  or  else  an  outler  quey, 

Gat  up  an'  gae  a  croon  : 
Poor  Leezie's  heart  mais  lap  the  hool ; 

Neer  lav 'rock  height  she  jumpit. 
But  mist  a  fit,  an'  in  the  pool 

Out-owre  the  lugs  she  plumpit, 

Wi*  a  plunge  that  night. 

XXVII. 

In  order,  on  the  clean  hearth-stane. 
The  luggies  three|  are  ranged. 


*  Take  an  opportunity  of  going,  unnoticed,  to  a  Beai 
stack,  and  fathom  it  three  times  round.  The  last  fathom 
of  the  last  time,  you  will  catch  in  your  arms  the  appear 
ance  of  your  future  conjugal  yoke-fellow. 

t  You  go  out,  one  or  more,  for  this  is  a  social  spell,  to 
a  south  running  spring  or  rivulet,  where  "three  lairds' 
lands  meet,"  and  dip  your  left  shirt  sleeve.  Go  to  bed 
in  sight  of  a  fire,  and  hang  your  wet  sleeve  before  it  to 
dry.  Lie  awake  ;  and  some  time  near  midnight,  an  appa- 
rition, having  the  exact  figure  of  the  grand  object  in  ques- 
tion, will  come  and  turn  the  sleeve,  as  if  to  dry  the  other 
side  of  it. 

t  Take  three  dishes;  put  clean  water  in  one,  foul 
water  in  another,  leave  the  third  empty:  blindfold  a 
person,  and  lead  him  to  the  hearth  where  the  dishes  ar.» 
ranged:  he  (or  she)  dips  the  left  hand:  if  by  chance  i/> 
the  clean  water,  the  future  husband  or  wife  will  come  to 
the  bar  of  matrimony  a  maid  ;  if  in  the  foul,  a  widow ;  if 
in  the  empty  dish,  it  foretells,  with  equal  certainty,  no 
marriage  at  all.  It  is  repeated  three  times,  and  tv^^ry 
time  the  arrangement  of  the  dishes  is  altered 


NEW-YEAR   MORNING    SALUTATION. 


207 


And  every  time  great  care  is  ta'en, 

To  see  them  duly  changed : 
Auld  uncle  John,  wha  wedlock's  joys 

Sin  Mar's  year  did  desire, 
Because  he  gat  the  toom-dish  thrice. 

He  heaved  them  on  the  fire 

In  wrath  that  night. 

XXVIII. 
Wi*  merry  sangs,  and  friendly  cracks, 

I  wat  they  dinna  weary ; 
An'  unco  tales,  an'  funnie  jokes, 

Their  sports  were  cheap  an'  cheery, 
Till  butter'd  so'ns,*  wi'  fragrant  lunt, 

Set  a'  their  gabs  a-steerin  ; 
Syne,  wi'  a  social  glass  o'  strunt, 

They  parted  aff'  careerin 

Fu'  blythe  that  night. 


T:iE  AULD  FARMER'S  NEW-YEAR  MORN- 
ING SALUTATION  TO  HIS  AULD  MARE 
MAGGIE, 

ON    GIVING    HER   ACCUSTOMED    RIPP   OF    CORN    TO 
HANSEL  IN  THE  NEW-YEAR. 

A  GUiD  new-year  I  wish  thee,  Maggie  ! 
Hae,  there's  a  rip  to  thy  auld  baggie  : 
Though  thou's  howe-backit,  now,  an'  knaggie, 

I've  seen  the  day, 
Thou  could  hae  gaen  like  ony  staggic 

Out-owre  the  lay. 

Though  now  thou's  dowie,  stiiF,  an'  crazy, 
An'  thy  auld  hide's  as  white's  a  daisy, 
I've  seen  thee  dappl't,  sleek,  and  glaizie, 

A  bonnie  gray : 
He  should  been  tight  that  daur't  to  raize  thee, 

Ance  in  a  day. 

Thou  ance  was  i'  the  foremost  rank, 
A  filly  buirdly,  steeve,  an'  swank. 
An'  set  weel  down  a  shapely  shank. 

As  e'er  tread  yird ; 
An'  could  hae  flown  out-owrc  a  stank. 

Like  ony  bird. 

It's  now  some  nine  an'  twenty  year. 
Sin'  thou  was  my  good  father's  meere ; 
He  gied  me  thee,  o'  tocher  clear. 

An'  fifty  mark ; 
Though  it  was  sma',  'twas  weel-won  gear. 

An'  thou  was  stark. 

When  first  I  gaed  to  woo  my  Jenny, 
Ye  then  was  trottin  wi'  your  minnie : 
Though  ye  was  trickle,  slee,  an'  funnie, 

Ye  ne'er  was  donsie ; 
But  hamely,  tawie,  quiet,  an'  cannie. 

An'  unco  sonsie. 
That  day,  ye  pranced  wi'  muckle  pride, 
When  ye  bure  hame  my  bonnie  bride ; 
An'  sweet,  an'  gracefu'  slie  did  ride, 

Wi'  maiden  air ! 
Kyle  Stewart  I  could  bragged  wide, 

For  sic  a  pair. 


♦  Sowens,  with  butter  instead  of  milk  to  them,  is  al- 
waye  ths  Halloween  supper. 


Though  now  ye  dow  but  hoyte  an'  hobble 
An'  wintle  like  a  saumont-coble. 
That  day  ye  was  a  jinker  noble 

For  heels  an'  win' ! 
An'  ran  them  till  they  a'  did  wauble. 

Far,  far  behin'. 

When  thou  an'  I  were  young  an'  skeigh. 
An'  stable-meals  at  fairs  were  dreigh. 
How  thou  wad  prance,  an'  snore,  an'  skreigh, 

An'  tak  the  road  ! 
Town's  bodies  ran,  and  stood  abeigh. 

An'  ca't  thee  mad. 

When  thou  was  corn't,  an'  I  was  mellow, 
We  took  the  road  aye  like  a  swallow : 
At  brooses  thou  had  ne'er  a  fellow, 

For  pith  an'  speed : 
But  every  tail  thou  pay't  them  hollow. 
Where'er  thou  gaed. 

The  sma',  droop-rumpl't,  hunter  cattle, 
Might  aiblins  waur't  thee  for  a  brattle  ; 
But  sax  Scotch  miles  thou  try't  their  mettle. 

An'  gar't  them  whaizle : 
Nae  whip  nor  spur,  but  just  a  wattle 

O'  saugh  or  hazel. 

Thou  was  a  noble  fittie-lan  , 
As  e'er  in  tug  or  tow  was  drawn  ! 
Aft  thee  an'  I,  in  aught  hours  gaun. 

On  guid  March  weather, 
Hae  turn'd  sax  rood  beside  our  han'. 

For  days  thegither. 

Thou  never  braindg't,  an'  fetch't,  an'  fliskit. 
But  thy  auld  tail  thou  wad  hae  whiskit, 
An'  spread  abreed  thy  weel-fill'd  brisket, 

Wi'  pith,  an'  pow'r. 
Till  spritty  knowes  wad  rair't  and  risket. 

An'  slypet  owre. 

When  frosts  lay  lang,  an'  snows  were  deep. 
An'  threaten 'd  labour  back  to  keep,  ^ 

I  gied  thy  cog  a  wee-bit  heap 

Aboon  the  timmer ; 
I  kenn'd  my  Maggie  wad  na  sleep 

For  that,  or  simmer. 

The  cart  or  car  thou  never  restit ; 
The  steyest  brae  thou  wad  hae  fac't  it : 
Thou  never  lap,  and  sten't,  and  breastit, 
Then  stood  to  blaw ; 
But  just  thy  step  a  wee  thing  hastit. 

Thou  snoov't  awa. 

My  pleugh  is  now  thy  bairn-time  a'  i 
Four  gallant  brutes  as  e'er  did  draw : 
Forbye  sax  mae,  I've  sell't  awa. 

That  thou  hast  nurst : 
They  drew  me  thretteen  pund  an'  twa. 
The  vera  warst. 

Monie  a  sair  daurk  we  twa  hae  wrougnt 
An'  wi'  the  weary  warl'  fought ! 
And  monie  an  anxious  day,  I  thought  • 

We  wad  be  beat ! 
Yet  here  to  crazy  age  we're  brought, 

Wi'  something  yet. 


208 


BURNS. 


And  think  na,  my  auld  trusty  servan', 
That  now  perhaps  thou's  less  deservin, 
An'  thy  auld  days  may  end  in  starvin. 

For  my  last  fou, 
A  heapit  stimpart,  I'll  reserve  ane 

Laid  by  for  you. 

We've  worn  to  crazy  years  thegither ; 
We'll  toyte  ahout  wi'  ane  anither : 
Wi'  tentie  care,  I'll  fit  thy  tether, 

To  some  hain'd  rig. 
Where  ye  may  nobly  rax  your  leather, 

Wi'  sma'  fatigue. 


TO  A  MOUSE. 

>W    TURNING    HER    UP    IN    HER    NEST    WITH    THE 
PLOUGH,  NOVEMBER,  1785. 

Wee,  sleekit,  cow'rin,  timorous  beastie, 
0,  what  a  panic's  in  thy  breastie  ! 
Thou  need  na  start  awa  sae  hasty, 

Wi'  bickering  brattle ! 
I  wad  be  laith  to  rin  an'  chase  thee, 

Wi'  murdering  pattle .' 

I'm  truly  sorry  man's  dominion 
Has  broken  nature's  social  union, 
An'  justifies  that  ill  opinion. 

Which  maks  thee  startle 
At  me,  thy  poor  earth-born  companion, 

An'  fellow  mortal. 

I  doubt  na,  whyles,  but  thou  may  thieve  ; 
What  then  ?  poor  beastie,  thou  maun  live  ! 
A  daimen-icker  in  a  thrave 

'Sa  sma  request ; 
I'll  get  a  blessin  wi'  the  lave. 

And  never  miss't ! 

Thy  wee  bit  housie,  too,  in  ruin  ! 
Its  silly  wa's  the  winds  are  strewin  ! 
An'  naething,  now,  to  big  a  new  ane, 

0'  foggage  green  ! 
An'  bleak  December's  winds  ensuin, 

Baith  snell  and  keen  ! 

Thou  saw  the  fields  laid  bare  an'  waste. 
An'  weary  winier  comin'  fast, 
An'  cozie  here,  beneath  the  blast. 

Thou  thought  to  dwell. 
Till  crash !  the  cruel  coulter  past 

Out  through  thy  cell. 

That  wee  bit  heap  o'  leaves  an'  stibble, 
Has  cost  thee  monie  a  weary  nibble ! 
Now  thou's  turn'd  out,  for  a'  thy  trouble, 

But  house  or  hald. 
To  thole  the  winter's  sleety  dribble. 

An'  cranreuch  cauld ! 

But,  mousie,  thou  art  no  thy  lane. 
In  proving  foresight  may  be  vain : 
1^  The  best  laid  schemes  o'  mice  an'  men. 
Gang  aft  a-gley. 
An'  lea'e  us  naught  but  grief  an'  pain. 
For  promised  joy. 


Still  thou  art  blest,  compared  wi'  me  ! 
The  present  only  toucheth  thee  : 
But,  och !  I  backward  cast  my  e'e, 

On  prospects  drear ; 
An'  forward,  though  I  canna  see, 

I  guess  an'  fear. 


A  WINTER'S  NIGHT 

Poor,  naked  wretches,  wheresoe'er  you  are, 
That  bide  the  pelting  of  this  pitiless  storm ! 
How  shall  your  houseless  heads,  and  unfed  sides. 
Your  loop'd  and  window'd  raggedness,  defend  you 

From  seasons  such  as  these  7 

Shakspearb 

When  biting  Boreas,  fell  and  doure. 
Sharp  shivers  through  the  leafless  bower ; 
When  Phoebus  gies  a  short-lived  glower 

Far  south  the  lift. 
Dim-darkening  through  the  flaky  shower, 

Or  whirling  drift : 

Ae  night  the  storm  the  steeples  rock'd. 
Poor  labpur  sweet  in  sleep  was  lock'd. 
While  burns,  wi'  snawy  wreeths  up-chock'd, 

Wild-eddying  swirl. 
Or  through  the  mining  outlet  bock'd, 

Down  headlong  hurl. 

Listening,  the  doors  an'  winnocks  rattle, 
I  thought  mo  on  the  ourie  cattle, 
Or  silly  sheep,  wha  bide  this  brattle 
0'  winter  war. 
And  through  the  drift,  deep-lairing  sprattle. 
Beneath  a  scar. 

Ilk  happing  bird,  wee,  helpless  thing. 
That,  in  the  merry  months  o'  spring, 
Delighted  me  to  hear  thee  sing, 

What  comes  o'  thee  ? 
Whare  wilt  thou  cower  thy  chittering  wing, 

An'  close  thy  e'e  ? 

E'en  you  on  murdering  errands  toil'd. 
Lone  from  your  savage  homes  exiled, 
The  blood-stain'd  roost,  and  sheep-cote  spoil'd. 

My  heart  forgets. 
While  pitiless  the  tempest  wild 

Sore  on  you  beats. 

Now  Phoebe,  in  her  midnight  reign 
Dark  muffled,  view'd  the  dreary  plain  ; 
Still  crowding  thoughts,  a  pensive  train. 

Rose  in  my  soul. 
When  on  my  ear  this  plaintive  strain, 

Slow,  solemn,  stole— 

"  Blow,  blow,  ye  winds,  with  heavier  gust  I 
And  freeze,  thou  bitter-biting  frost ! 
Descend,  ye  chilly,  smothering  snows  ! 
Not  all  your  rage,  as  now  united,  shows 
More  hard  unkindness,  unrelenting. 
Vengeful  malice,  unrepenting, 
Than  heaven  illumined  man  on  brothei  man  bo* 
stows ! 


DESPONDENCY.                                                20! 

See  stern  oppression's  iron  grip, 

0  life  !  thou  art  a  galling  load, 

Or  mad  ambition's  gory  hand, 

Along  a  rougli,  a  weary  road. 

Sending,  like  blood-hounds  from  the  slip. 

To  wretches  such  as  I ! 

Wo,  want,  and  murder,  o'er  a  land ! 

Dim  backward  as  I  cast  my  view. 

E'en  in  the  peaceful,  rural  vale. 

What  sickening  scenes  appear ! 

Truths  weeping,  tells  the  mournful  tale. 

What  sorrows  yet  may  pierce  me  through, 

How  pamper'd  luxury,  flattery  by  her  side. 

Too  justly  I  may  fear  ! 

The  parasite  empoisoning  her  ear. 

Still  caring,  despairing. 

With  all  the  servile  wretches  in  the  rear, 

Must  be  my  bitter  doom ; 

Looks  o'er  proud  property,  extended  wide  ; 

My  woes  here  shall  close  ne'er, 

And  eyes  the  simple  rustic  hind. 

But  with  the  closing  tomb  ! 

Whose  toil  upholds  the  glittering  show. 

II. 

A  creature  of  another  kind. 

Some  coarser  substance,  unrefined, 

Happy »  ye  sons  of  busy  life. 

Placed  for  her  lordly  use,  thus  far,  thus  vile,  below ; 

Who,  equal  to  the  bustling  strife. 

Where,  where  is  love's  fond,  tender  throe. 

No  ether  view  regard ! 

With  lordly  honour's  lofty  brow. 

E'en  when  the  wished  end's  denied, 

The  powers  you  proudly  own  ? 

Yet  while  the  busy  means  are  plied. 

Is  there  beneath  love's  noble  name. 

They  bring  their  own  reward  : 

Can  harbour,  dark,  the  selfish  aim. 

Whilst  I,  a  hope-abandon 'd  wight, 

To  bless  himself  alone  ? 

Unfitted  with  an  aim. 

Mark  maiden  innocence  a  prey 

Meet  every  sad  returning  night. 

To  love-pretending  snares, 

And  joyless  morn  the  same  ; 

This  boasted  honour  turns  away. 

You,  bustling,  and  justling. 

Shunning  soft  pity's  rising  swaj', 

Forget  each  grief  and  pain : 

Regardless  of  the  tears,  and  unavailing  prayers .' 

I,  listless,  yet  restless. 

Perhaps,  this  hour,  in  misery's  squalid  nest. 

Find  every  prospect  vain 

She  strains  your  infant  to  her  joyless  breast. 

ITT. 

And  with  a  mother's  fears  shrinks  at  the  rocking 
blast ! 

How  blest  the  solitary's  lot. 

Who,  all-forgetting,  all-forgot. 

«  0  ye  !  who,  sunk  in  beds  of  down. 

Within  his  humble  cell, 

Feel  not  a  want  but  what  yourselves  create. 

The  cavern  wild  with  tangling  roots. 

Think,  for  a  moment,  on  his  wretched  fate. 

Sits  o'er  his  newly-gather'd  fruits. 

Whom  friends  and  fortune  quite  disown  ! 

Beside  his  crystal  well ! 

Ill  satisfied  keen  nature's  clamorous  call, 

Or,  haply,  to  his  evening  thought. 

Stretch'd  on  his  straw  he  lays  himself  to  sleep. 

By  unfrequented  stream. 

While  through  the  ragged  roof  and  chinky  wall. 

The  ways  of  men  are  distant  brought,      • 

Chill  o'er  his  slumbers  piles  the  drifty  heap  ! 

A  faint  collected  dream : 

Think  on  the  dungeon's  grim  confine, 

While  praising  and  raising 

Where  guilt  and  poor  misfortune  pine  ! 

His  thoughts  to  heaven  on  high. 

Guilt,  erring  man,  relenting  view  J 

As  wandering,  meandering, 

But  shall  thy  legal  rage  pursue 

He  views  the  solemn  sky. 

The  wretch,  already  crushed  low 

By  cruel  fortune's  undeserved  blow  ? 

IV. 

Affliction's  sons  are  brothers  in  distress, 

Than  I,  no  lonely  hermit  placed 

A  brother  to  relieve,  how  exquisite  the  bliss !" 

Where  never  human  footstep  traced, 

Less  fit  to  play  the  part ; 

I  heard  nae  mair,  for  chanticleer 

The  lucky  moment  to  improve. 

Shook  oft"  the  pouthery  snaw. 

And  just  to  stop,  and  just  to  move, 

And  hail'd  the  morning  with  a  cheer, 

With  self-respecting  art : 

A  cottage-rousing  craw. 

But  ah  !  those  pleasures,  loves,  and  joj» 

But  deep  this  truth  impressed  my  mind- 

Which  I  too  keenly  taste. 

Through  all  his  works  abroad, 

^     The  solitary  can  despise, 

The  heart  benevolent  and  kind 

Can  want,  and  yet  be  blest ! 

The  most  resembles  God. 

He  needs  not,  he  heeds  not, 

Or  human  love  or  hate. 

♦ 

Whilst  I  here  must  cry  here, 

At  perfidy  ingrate ! 

DESPONDENCY. 

V. 

AN   ODE. 

0  !  enviable,  early  days, 

I. 

When  dancing  thoughtless  pleasure's  mazv 

To  care,  to  guilt  unknown  ! 

Opprcss'd  with  grief,  oppress'd  with  care, 

How  ill  exchanged  for  riper  times, 

A  burden  more  than  I  can  bear. 

To  feel  the  follies,  or  the  crimes, 

I  •it  me  down  and  sigh : 

Of  others,  or  my  own  ! 

Vol.  Ill  — U 

210 


BURNS. 


Ye  tiny  elves  that  guiltless  sport, 

Like  linnets  in  the  hush, 
Ye  little  know  the  ills  ye  court, 
When  manhood  is  your  wish. 
The  losses,  the  crosses. 

That  active  man  engage  ! 
The  fears  all,  the  tears  all. 
Of  dim-declining  age. 


WINTER. 

A   DIRGE, 
I. 

The  wintry  west  extends  his  hlast. 

And  hail  and  rain  does  blaw ; 
Or,  the  stormy  north  sends  driving  forth 

The  blinding  sleet  and  snaw : 
While  tumbling  brown,  the  burn  comes  down, 

And  roars  frae  bank  to  brae ; 
And  bird  and  beast  in  covert  rest. 

And  pass  the  heartless  day. 

11. 

«  The  sweeping  blast,  the  sky  o'ercast,"* 

The  joyless  winter  day, 
Let  others  fear,  to  me  more  dear 

Than  all  the  pride  of  May : 
The  tempest's  howl,  it  soothes  my  soul. 

My  griefs  it  seems  to  join. 
The  leafless  trees  my  fancy  please, 

Their  fate  resembles  mine. 

III. 
Thou  Power  Supreme,  whose  mighty  scheme 

These  woes  of  mine  fulfil, 
Ifcre,  firm,  I  rest,  they  must  be  best. 

Because  they  are  thy  will ! 
Then  all  I  want,  (0,  do  thou  grant 

This  one  request  of  mine  !) 
Since  to  enjoy  thou  dost  deny, 

Assist  me  to  resign. 


THE  COTTER'S   SATURDAY  NIGHT. 


INSCRIBED   TO   R.  A' 


ESQ. 


Let  not  ambition  mock  their  useful  toil, 
Their  homely  joys,  and  destiny  obscure  ; 

Nor  grandeur  hear,  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
The  short  but  simple  annals  of  the  poor. 

Gray. 

I. 

My  loved,  my  honour'd,  much  respected  friend ! 

No  mercenary  bard  his  homage  pays  ; 
With  honest  pride  I  scorn  each  selfish  end ; 

My  dearest  meed  a  friend's  esteem  and  praise ; 
To  you  I  sing,  in  simple  Scottish  lays. 

The  lowly  train  in  life's  sequester'd  scene ; 
The  native  feelings  strong,  the  guileless  ways: 

What  A****  in  a  cottage  would  have  been  ; 
Ml !  though  his  worth  unknown,  far  happier  there, 
I  ween. 

♦  Dr.  Young. 


II. 

November  chill  blaws  loud  wi'  angry  sugh ; 

The  shortening  winter  day  is  near  a  close ; 
The  miry  beasts  retreating  frae  the  pleugh. 

The  blackening  trains  o'  craws  to  their  repose 
The  toil-worn  cotter  frae  his  labour  goes. 

This  night  his  weekly  moil  is  at  an  end. 
Collects  his  spades,  his  mattocks,  and  his  hoes, 

Hoping  the  morn  in  ease  and  rest  to  spend. 
And  weary,  o'er  the  moor,  his  course  does  hamewafd 
bend. 

III. 
At  length  his  lonely  cot  appears  in  view. 

Beneath  the  shelter  of  an  aged  tree  ; 
Th'  expectant  wee  things,  toddlin,  stacher  through 

To  meet  their  dad,  wi'  flichterin  noise  an'  glee. 
His  wee  bit  ingle,  blinkin  bonnily. 

His  clean  hearth-stane,  his  thrifty  wifie's  smile, 
The  lisping  infant  prattling  on  his  knee. 

Does  a'  his  weary,  carking  cares  beguile. 
An'  makes  him  quite  forget  his  labour  an'  his  toiL 

IV. 
Belyve  the  elder  bairns  come  drapping  m. 

At  service  out,  amang  the  farmers  roun': 
Some  ca'  the  pleugh,  some  herd,  some  tentie  rin 

A  cannie  errand  to  a  neebor  town  : 
Their  eldest  hope,  their  Jenny,  woman  grown. 

In  youthfu'  bloom,  love  sparkling  in  her  e'e. 
Comes  hame,  perhaps,  to  show  a  braw  new  gown, 

Or  deposit  her  sair-won  penny-fee. 
To  help  her  parents  dear,  if  they  in  hardship  be. 

V. 

Wi'  joy  unfeign'd,  brothers  and  sisters  meet. 

An'  each  for  others'  wcelfare  kindly  spiers : 
The  social  hours,  swift-wing'd,  unnoticed  fleet ; 

Each  tells  the  uncos  that  he  sees  or  hears  ; 
The  parents,  partial,  eye  their  hopeful  years ; 

Anticipation  forward  points  the  view. 
The  mother,  wi'  her  needle  an'  her  sheers. 
Gars  auld  claes  look  amaist  as  weel's  the  new 
The  father  mixes  a'  wi'  admonition  due. 
VI. 
Their  master's  an'  their  mistress's  command, 

The  younkers  a'  are  warned  to  obey ; 
"  An'  mind  their  labours  wi'  an  eydent  hand, 

An'  ne'er,  though  out  o'  sight,  to  jauk  or  play  i 
An'  O  !  be  sure  to  fear  the  Lord  alway  ! 

An'  mind  your  duty,  duly,  morn  an'  night ! 
Lest  in  temptation's  path  ye  gang  astray. 
Implore  his  counsel  and  assisting  might : 
They  never  sought  in  vain  that  sought  the  Lord 
aright !" 

VII. 
But  hark  I  a  rap  comes  gently  to  the  door  ; 

Jenny,  wha  kens  the  meaning  o'  the  same, 
Tells  how  a  neebor  lad  cam  o'er  the  moor. 

To  do  some  errands,  and  convoy  her  hame. 
The  wily  mother  sees  the  conscious  flame 

Sparkle  in  Jenny's  e'e,  and  flush  her  cheek ; 
With  heart-struck,  anxious   care,  inquires   his 
name. 
While  Jenny  hafflins  is  afraid  to  speak ; 
Weel  pleased  the  mother  hears,  it's   nae  wild, 
worthless  rake. 


COTTER'S    SATURDAY    NIGHT. 


211 


VIII. 
Wi'  kindly  ■welcome  Jenny  brings  him  ben  ; 

A  strappan  youth ;  he  taks  the  mother's  eye ; 
BIythe  Jenny  sees  thfe  visit's  no  ill  ta'en  ; 

The  father  cracks  of  horses,  pleughs,  and  kye. 
The  youngster's  artless  heart  o'erflows  wi'  joy. 

But  blathe  and  laithfu',  scarce  can  weel behave ; 
The  mother,  wi'  a  woman's  wiles,  can  spy 
What  makes  the  j'outh  sae  bashfu'  an'  sae  grave ; 
VVeel  pleased  to  think  her  bairn's  respected  like 
the  lave. 

IX. 
0  happy  love  !  where  love  like  this  is  found  ! 

O  heartfelt  raptures  !  bliss  beyond  compare  ! 
I've  paced  much  this  weary  mortal  round, 

And  sage  experience  bids  me  this  declare— 
"  If  heaven  a  draught  of  heavenly  pleasure  spare, 

One  cordial  in  this  melancholy  vale, 
*Tis  when  a  youthful,  loving,  modest  pair. 
In  other's  arms  breathe  out  the  tender  tale, 
Beneath  the  milk-white  thorn  that  scents  the  even- 
ing gale." 

X. 

Is  there,  in  human  form,  that  bears  a  heart — 

A  wretch  !  a  villain  !  lost  to  love  and  truth  I 
That  can,  with  studied,  sly,  insnaring  art, 

Betray  sweet  Jenny's  unsuspecting  youth  ? 
Curse  on  his  perjured  arts  !  dissembling  smooth  I 

Are  honour,  virtue,  conscience,  all  exiled  ? 
Is  there  no  pity,  no  relenting  truth, 

Points  to  the  parents  fondling  o'er  their  child  ? 
Fhen  paints  the  ruin'd  maid,  and  their  distraction 
wild  ? 

XI. 
But  now  the  supper  crowns  their  simple  board, 

The  halesome  parritch,  chief  o'  Scotia's  food : 
The  soupe  their  only  hawkie  does  afford, 

That  'yont  the  hallan  snugly  chows  her  cood : 
TTie  dame  brings  forth  in  complimental  mood, 

To  grace  the  lad,  her  weel-hain'd  kebbuck,  fell, 
An'  aft  he's  prest,  an'  aft  he  ca's  it  guid ; 

The  frugal  wifie,  garrulous,  will  tell. 
How  'twas  a  towmond  auld,  sin'  lint  was  i'  the  bell. 

XII. 

The  cheerfu'  supper  done,  wi'  serious  face. 

They  round  the  ingle  form  a  circle  wide  ; 
The  sire  turns  o'er,  wi'  patriarchal  grace, 

The  big  ha'  Bib.;,  ance  his  father's  pride  : 
His  bonnet  reverently  is  laid  aside, 

His  lyart  haffets  wearing  thin  an'  bare ; 
Those  strains  that  once  did  sweet  in  Zion  glide, 

He  wales  a  portion  with  judicious  care ; 
And  «  Let  us  wo  rship  God !"  he  says,  with  solemn 
air. 

XIII. 
They  chant  their  artless  notes  in  simple  guise ; 

They  tune  their  hearts,  by  far  the  noblest  aim  : 
Perhaps  Dundee's  wild  warbling  measures  rise, 

Or  plaintive  Martyrs,  worthy  of  the  name: 
Or  noble  Elgm  beets  the  heavenward  flame, 

The  sweetest  far  of  Scotia's  holy  lays  : 
Compared  with  these,  Italian  trills  are  tame ; 

The  tickled  ears  no  heartfelt  raptures  raise  ; 
Nae  unison  hae  they  with  our  Creator's  praise. 


XIV. 

The  priest-like  father  reads  the  sacred  page, 

How  Abram  was  the  friend  of  God  on  high ; 
Or,  Moses  bade  eternal  warfare  wage 

With  Amalek's  ungracious  progeny ; 
Or  how  the  royal  bard  did  groaning  lie 

Beneath  the  stroke  of  Heaven's  avenging  ire ; 
Or,  Job's  pathetic  plaint,  and  wailing  cry  ; 

Or  rapt  Isaiah's  wild,  seraphic  fire  ; 
Or  other  holy  seers  that  tune  the  sacred  lyre. 

XV. 

Perhaps  the  Christian  volume  is  the  theme. 

How  guiltless  blood  for  guilty  man  was  shed ; 
How  He,  who  bore  in  heaven  the  second  name, 

Had  not  on  earth  whereon  to  lay  his  head: 
How  his  first  followers  and  servants  sped ; 

The  precepts  sage  they  wrote  to  many  a  land : 
How  he,  who  lone  in  Patmos  banished. 

Saw  in  the  sun  a  mighty  angel  stand ; 
And  heard  great  Babylon's  doom  pronounced  by 
Heaven's  command. 

XVI. 
Then  kneeling  down,  to  Heaven's  Eternal  King 

The  saint,  the  father,  and  the  husband  prays : 
Hope  "  springs  exulting  on  triumphant  wing,"* 

That  thus  they  all  shall  meet  in  future  days : 
There  ever  bask  in  uncreated  rays. 

No  more  to  sigh,  or  shed  the  bitter  tear, 
Together  hymning  their  Creator's  praise. 

In  such  society,  yet  still  more  dear  ;     [sphere. 
While  circling  time  moves  round  in   an   eternal 
XVII. 
Compared  with  this,  how  poor  religion's  pride. 

In  all  the  pomp  of  method,  and  of  art. 
When  men  display,  to  congregations  wide, 

Devotion's  every  grace,  except  the  heart ! 
The  Power,  incensed,  the  pageant  will  desert^ 

The  pompous  strain,  the  sacerdotal  stole  ; 
But  haply,  in  some  cottage  far  apart, 

May  hear,  weli  pleased,  the  language  of  the  soul; 
And  in  his  book  of  life  the  inmates  poor  enrol. 

xvin. 

Then  homeward  all  take  oft'  their  several  way  j 

The  yougling  cottagers  retire  to  rest : 
The  parent  pair  their  secret  homage  pay. 

And  proffer  up  to  Heaven  the  warm  request 
That  He  who  stills  the  raven's  clamorous  nest. 

And  decks  the  lily  fair  in  flowery  pride, 
Would,  in  the  way  his  wisdom  sees  the  best. 

For  them  and  for  their  little  ones  provide ; 
But  chiefly,  in  their  hearts  with  grace  divine  preside. 
XIX. 
From  scenes  like   these   old   Scotia's   grandeur 
springs. 

That  makes  her  loved  at  home,  revered  abroad  t 
Princes  and  lords  are  but  the  breath  of  kings, 

"  An  honest  man's  the  noblest  work  of  God :" 
And  certes,  in  fair  virtue's  heavenly  road. 

The  cottage  leaves  the  palace  far  behind  ; 
What  is  a  lordling's  pomp  ?  a  cumbrous  load. 

Disguising  oft  the  wretch  of  human  kind, 
Studied  in  arts  of  hell,  in  wickedness  refined  ! 

♦  Pope's  "Windsor  Forest. 


212 


BURNS. 


XX. 

0  Scotia !  my  dear,  my  native  soil ! 

For  whom  my  warmeit  wish  to  Heaven  is  sent ! 
Long  may  thy  hardy  sons  of  rustic  toil 

Be  bless'd  with  health  and  peace,  and  sweet 
content ! 
And  0  may  Heaven  their  simple  lives  prevent 

From  luxury's  contagion,  weak  and  vile  ! 
Then,  howe'er  crowns  and  coronets  be  rent, 

A  virtuous  populace  rnay  rise  the  while. 
And  stand  a  wall  of  fire  around  their  much  loved  isle. 

XXI. 

O  Thou  !  who  pour'd  the  patriotic  tide 

That  stream 'd  through  Wallace's  undaunted 
heart ; 
Who  dared  to  nobly  stem  tyrannic  pride. 
Or  nobly  die,  the  second  glorious  part, 
.     (The  patriot's  God,  peculiarly  thou  art. 

His  friend,  inspirer,  guardian,  and  reward  !) 
0  never,  never,  Scotia's  realm  desert : 
But  still  the  patriot,  and  the  patriot  bard, 
In  bright  succession  raise,  her  ornament  and  guard ! 


MAN  WAS  MADE  TO  MOURN. 

A   DIHGE. 
I. 

When  chill  November's  surly  blast 

Made  fields  and  forests  bare. 
One  evening,  as  I  wander'd  forth 

Along  the  banks  of  Ayr, 
I  spied  a  man,  whose  aged  step 

Seem'd  weary,  worn  with  care  ; 
His  face  was  furrow'd  o'er  with  years,   . 

And  hoary  was  his  hair. 

II. 

«  Young  stranger,  whither  wanderest  thou  ?" 

Began  the  reverend  sage  ; 
«  Does  thirst  of  wealth  thy  step  constrain. 

Or  youthful  pleasure's  rage  ; 
Or  haply,  press'd  with  cares  and  woes. 

Too  soon  thou  hast  began 
To  wander  forth,  with  me,  to  mourn 

The  miseries  of  man  ! 

III. 

«  The  sun  that  overhangs  yon  moors, 

Out-spreading  far  and  wide. 
Where  hundreds  labour  to  support 

A  haughty  lordling's  pride  ; 
I've  seen  yon  weary  winter  sun 

Twice  forty  times  return  ; 
And  every  time  has  added  proofs. 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

IV. 

"  0  man  !  while  in  thy  early  years. 

How  prodigal  of  time  ! 
Mispending  all  thy  precious  hours, 

Thy  glorious  youthful  prime  ! 
Alternate  follies  take  the  sway  ; 

Licentious  passions  burn  ; 
Which  tenfold  fence  gives  nature's  law, 

That  man  wa;  made  to  mourn. 


V. 

"  Look  not  alone  on  youthful  prime, 

Or  manhood's  active  might ; 
Man  then  is  useful  to  his  kind. 

Supported  is  his  right : 
But  see*  him  on  the  edge  of  life. 

With  cares  and  sorrows  worn, 
Then  age  and  want,  0  ill  match 'd  pair  ! 

Show  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

VL 

"  A  few  seem  favourites  of  fate, 

In  pleasure's  lap  carest ; 
Yet,  think,  not  all  the  rich  and  great 

Are  likewise  truly  blest. 
But,  0  !  what  crowds  in  every  land 

Are  wretched  and  forlorn  ; 
Through  wsary  life  this  lesson  learn, 

That  man  was  made  to  mourn. 

VII. 

"  Many  and  sharp  the  numerous  ills 

Inwoven  with  our  frame  ! 
More  pointed  still  we  make  ourselves. 

Regret,  remorse,  and  shame  ! 
And  man,  whose  heaven-erected  face 

The  smiles  of  love  adorn, 
Man's  inhumanity  to  man 

Makes  countless  thousands  mourn  1 

VIII. 
«  See  yonder  poor,  o'erlabour'd  wight. 

So  abject,  mean,  and  vile. 
Who  begs  a  brother  of  the  earth 

To  give  him  leave  to  toil ; 
And  see  his  lordly  fellow  worm 

The  poor  petition  spurn. 
Unmindful,  though  a  weeping  wife 

And  helpless  offspring  mourn. 

IX. 

« If  I'm  design'd  yon  lordling's  slave,- 

By  nature's  law  design'd, — 
Why  was  an  independent  wish 

E'er  planted  in  my  mind  ? 
If  not,  why  am  I  subject  to 

His  cruelty  or  scorn  ? 
Or  why  has  man  the  will  and  power 

To  make  his  fellow  mourn  ? 

X. 

«  Yet  let  not  this  too  much,  my  son. 

Disturb  thy  youthful  breast : 
This  partial  view  of  human  kind 

Is  surely  not  the  last ! 
The  poor,  oppressed,  honest  man. 

Had  never,  sure,  been  born. 
Had  there  not  been  some  recompense 

To  comfort  those  that  mourn  ! 

XL 

«0  death  !  the  poor  man's  dearest  friend. 

The  kindest  and  the  best ! 
Welcome  the  hour  my  aged  limbs 

Are  laid  with  thee  at  rest ! 
The  great,  the  wealthy,  fear  thy  blow. 

From  pomp  and  pleasure  torn ; 
But  O  !  a  bless'd  relief  to  those 

That  weary-laden  mourn !" 


THE   FIRST   PSALM. 


213 


A  PRAYER  IN  THE  PROSPECT  OF  DEATH. 

I. 

O  THOU  unknown.  Almighty  Cause 

Of  all  my  hope  and  fear ! 
In  whose  dread  presence,  ere  an  hour, 

Perhaps  I  must  appear ! 

II. 
If  I  have  wander'd  in  those  paths 

Of  life  I  ought  to  shun, 
As  something,  loudly,  in  my  breast, 

Remonstrates  I  have  done  ; 

III. 

Thou  know'st  that  thou  hast  formed  me 
With  passions  wild  and  strong ; 

And  listening  to  their  witching  voice 
Has  often  led  me  wrong. 

IV. 

Where  human  weakness  has  come  short. 

Or  frailty  stept  aside. 
Do  thou,  All-Good  !  for  such  thou  art, 

In  shades  of  darkness  hide. 

V. 

Where  with  intention  I  have  err'd, 

No  other  plea  I  have. 
But  thou  art  good ;  and  goodness  still 

Delighteth  to  forgive. 


STANZAS  ON  THE  SAME  OCCASION. 

W*Y  am  I  loath  to  leave  this  earthly  scene  ? 

Have  I  so  found  it  full  of  pleasing  charms  ? 
Some  drops  of  joy  witli  draughts  of  ill  between  : 

Some  gleams  of  sunshine  'mid  renewing  storms : 
Is  it  departing  pangs  my  soul  alarms  ? 

Or  death's  unlovely,  dreary,  dark  abode  ? 
For  guilt,  for  guilt,  my  terrors  are  in  arms ; 

I  tremble  to  approach  an  angry  God, 
And  justly  smart  beneath  his  sin-avenging  rod. 

Fain  would  I  say, "  Forgive  my  foul  offence !" 

Fain  promise  never  more  to  disobey  ; 
But,  should  my  Author  health  again  dispense, 

Again  I  might  desert  fair  virtue's  way ; 
Again  in  folly's  path  might  go  astray ; 

Again  exalt  the  brute  and  sink  the  man  ; 
Then  how  should  I  for  heavenly  mercy  pray. 

Who  act  so  counter  heavenly  mercy's  plan  ? 
Who  sin  so  oft  have  mourn 'd,  yet  to  temptation 
ran  ? 

0  thou,  great  Governor  of  all  below  ! 

If  I  may  dare  a  lifted  eye  to  thee. 
Thy  nod  can  make  the  tempest  cease  to  blow. 

Or  still  the  tumult  of  the  raging  sea : 
With  what  controlling  power  assist  e'en  me, 

Those  headlong,  furious  passions  to  confine  ; 
For  all  unfit  I  feel  my  powers  to  be, 

To  rule  their  torrent  in  th'  allowed  line  ; 
O  aid  me  with  thy  help.  Omnipotence  Divine  ! 


LYING  AT  A  REVEREND  FRIEND'S  HOUSE  ONE  NIGHT,  THS 
AUTHOR  LEFT  » 

THE    FOLLOWING    VERSES 

IN   THE   ROOM   WHERE   HE    SLEPT. 
I. 

0  THOU  dread  Power,  who  reign 'st  above ! 

I  know  thou  wilt  me  hear  : 
When  for  this  scene  of  peace  and  love, 

I  make  my  prayer  sincere. 

IL 

The  hoary  sire — the  mortal  stroke. 

Long,  long  be  pleased  to  spare  ! 
To  bless  his  little  filial  flock. 

And  show  what  good  men  are. 

III. 

She,  who  her  lovely  offspring  eyes 

With  tender  hopes  and  fears, 
O  bless  her  with  a  mother's  joys, 

But  «!pare  a  mother's  tears  ! 

VL 
Their  iuv^e,  their  stay,  their  darling  youth, 

In  manhood's  dawning  blush  ; 
Bless  him,  thou  God  of  love  and  truth, 

Up  to  a  parent's  wish  ! 

V. 

The  beauteous,  seraph  sister  band. 

With  earnest  tears  I  pray. 
Thou  know'st  the  snares  on  every  hand. 

Guide  thou  their  steps  alway ! 

VL 

When  soon  or  late  they  reach  that  coast, 

O'er  life's  rough  ocean  driven. 
May  they  rejoice,  no  wanderer  lost, 

A  family  in  heaven  ! 


THE  FIRST  PSALM. 

The  man,  in  life  wherever  placed. 

Hath  happiness  in  store. 
Who  walks  not  in  the  wicked's  way 

Nor  learr-s  their  guilty  lore  ! 

Nor  from  the  seat  of  scornful  pride 
Casts  forth  his  eyes  abroad. 

But  with  humility  and  awe 
Still  walks  before  his  God. 

That  man  shall  flourish  like  the  trees 
Which  by  the  streamlets  grow ; 

The  fruitful  top  is  spread  on  high. 
And  firm  the  root  below. 

But  he  whose  blossom  buds  m  guilt 
Shall  to  the  ground  be  cast, 

And,  like  the  rootless  stubble,  tost 
Before  the  sweeping  blast. 

For  why  ?  that  God  the  good  adore 
Hath  given  them  peace  and  rest, 

But  hath  decreed  that  wicked  men 
Shall  ne'er  be  truly  blest. 


314 


BURNS. 


A   PRAYER 


UNDER   THE   PRESSURE   OF   VIOLENT   ANGUISH. 

O  THOU  Great  Being !  what  thou  art 

Surpasses  me  to  know : 
Yet  sure  I  am,  that  known  to  thee 

Are  all  thy  works  below. 
Thy  creature  here  before  thee  stands, 

All  wretched  and  distrest ; 
Yet  sure  those  ills  that  wring  my  soul, 

Obey  thy  high  behest. 
Sure  thou,  Almighty,  canst  not  act 

From  cruelty  or  wrath ! 
O  free  my  weary  eyes  from  tears. 

Or  close  them  fast  in  death  ! 
But  if  I  must  afflicted  be. 

To  suit  some  wise  design ; 
Then  man  my  soul  with  firm  resolves 

To  bear  and  not  repine  ! 


THE  FIRST  SIX  VERSES    OF   THE    NINE- 
TIETH PSALM. 
0  THOU,  the  first,  the  greatest  Friend 

Of  all  the  human  race  ! 
Whose  strong  right  hand  has  ever  been 

Their  stay  and  dwelling  place  ! 
Before  the  mountains  heaved  their  heads 

Beneath  thy  forming  hand, 
Before  this  ponderous  globe  itself 

Arose  at  thy  command : 
That  power  which  raised  and  still  ujUJilds 

This  universal  frame. 
From  countless,  unbeginning  time 

Was  ever  still  the  same. 
Those  mighty  periods  of  years 

Which  seem  to  us  so  vast. 
Appear  no  more  before  thy  sight 

Than  yesterday  that's  past. 
Thou  givest  the  word  :  Thy  creature,  man, 

Is  to  existence  brought : 
4gain  thou  say'st,  "  Ye  sons  of  men. 

Return  ye  into  naught !" 
Thou  layest  them,  with  all  their  cares. 

In  everlasting  sleep ; 
As  with  a  flood  thou  takest  them  off 

With  overwhelming  sweep. 

They  flourish  like  the  morning  flower. 

In  beauty's  pride  array 'd  ; 
But  long  ere  night  cut  down  it  lies 

All  wither'd  and  decay'd. 


TO  A  MOUNTAIN  DAISY, 

9K  TURNING  ONE  DOWN  WITH  THE  PLOUGH  IN  APRIL, 

1786. 
Wee,  modest,  crimson-tipped  flower, 
Thou's  met  me  in  an  evil  hour  ; 
For  I  maun  crush  amang  the  stoure 

Thy  slender  stem ; 
To  spare  thee  now  is  past  my  power. 

Thou  boDiiie  gem. 


Alas !  it's  no  thy  neebor  sweet. 
The  bonnie  lark,  companion  meet ! 
Bending  thee  'mang  the  dewy  weet ! 

Wi'  spreckled  breast. 
When  upward-springing,  blythe  to  greet 

The  purpling  east. 

Cauld  blew  the  bitter-biting  north 
Upon  thy  early,  humble  birth  ; 
Yet  cheerfully  thou  glinted  forth 

Amid  the  storm, 
Scarce  rear'd  above  the  parent  earth 
Thy  tender  form. 

The  flaunting  flowers  our  gardens  yield, 
High  sheltering  woods  and  wa's  maun  shield 
But  thou  beneath  the  random  bield 

O'  clod  or  stane. 
Adorns  the  histie  stibble-field. 

Unseen,  alane. 

There,  in  thy  scanty  mantle  clad. 
Thy  snawy  bosom  sun-ward  spread. 
Thou  lifts  thy  unassuming  head 

In  humble  guise  ; 
But  now  the  share  uptears  thy  bed, 

And  low  thou  lies  ! 

Such  is  the  fate  of  artless  maid. 
Sweet  floweret  of  the  rural  shade  ! 
By  love's  simplicity  betray'd. 

And  guileless  trust. 
Till  she,  like  thee,  all  soil'd  is  laid 

Low  i'  the  dust. 

Such  is  the  fate  of  simple  bard. 
On  life's  rough  ocean  luckless  starr'd  ! 
Unskilful  he  to  note  the  card 

Of  prudent  lore. 
Till  billows  rage,  and  gales  blow  hard. 

And  whelm  him  o'er ! 

Such  fate  of  suffering  worth  is  given. 
Who  long  with  wants  and  woes  has  striven 
By  human  pride  or  cunning  driven. 

To  misery's  brink, 
Till  wrench'd  of  every  stay  but  Heaven, 

He,  ruin'd,  sink  ! 

E'en  thou  who  raourn'st  the  daisy's  fate 
That  fate  is  thine — no  distant  date  ; 
Stern  ruin's  ploughshare  drives,  elate, 

Full  on  thy  bloom. 
Till  crush'd  beneath  the  furrow's  weight 
Shall  be  thy  doom  ! 


TO  RUIN. 
I. 

All  hail !  inexorable  lord  ! 

At  whose  destruction-breathing  word, 

The  mightiest  empires  fall ! 
Thy  cruel  wo-delighted  train. 
The  ministers  of  grief  and  pain, 

A  sullen  welcome,  all ! 
With  stern-resolved,  despairing  eye, 

I  see  each  aimed  dart ; 
For  one  has  cut  my  dearest  tie. 

And  quivers  in  my  heart 


EPISTLE    TO   A   YOUNG  FRIEND. 


•It 


I 


Then  lowering,  and  pouring, 
The  storm  no  more  I  dread  ; 

Tliough  thickening  and  blackening 
Round  my  devoted  head. 

II. 

And,  thou  grim  power,  by  life  abhorr'd. 
While  life  a  pleasure  can  afford, 

O  !  hear  a  wretch's  prayer  ! 
No  more  I  shrink  appall'd,  afraid; 
I  court,  I  beg  thy  friendly  aid. 
To  close  this  scene  of  care ! 
When  shall  my  soul,  in  silent  peace, 

Resign  life's  joyless  day  ; 
My  weary  heart  its  throbbing  cease, 
Cold  mouldering  in  the  clay  ? 
No  fear  more,  no  tear  more, 
To  stain  my  lifeless  face  ; 
Enclasped,  and  grasped 
Within  thy  coW  embrace  ! 


TO  MISS  L— , 
irxTH  beattie's  poems  as  a  new-year's  gift, 

JANUARY  1,  1787. 

Again  the  silent  wheels  of  time 
Their  annual  round  have  driven, 

And  you,  though  scarce  in  maiden  prime. 
Are  so  much  nearer  heaven. 

No  gifts  have  I  from  Indian  coasts 

The  infant  year  to  hail ; 
I  send  3'ou  more  than  India  boasts, 

Iji  Edwin's  simple  tale. 

Our  sex  with  guile  and  faithless  love 

Is  charged,  perhaps,  too  true  ; 
But  may,  dear  maid,  each  lover  prove 

An  Edwin  still  to  you  ! 


EPISTLE  TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND. 
MAY,  1786. 

I. 

I  LANG  hae  thought,  my  youthfu*  friend, 

A  something  to  have  sent  you. 
Though  it  should  serve  nae  other  end 

Than  just  a  kind  memento  ; 
But  how  the  subject  theme  may  gang 

Let  time  and  chance  determine  $ 
Perhaps  it  may  turn  out  a  sang. 

Perhaps  turn  out  a  sermon. 

IL 

Ye'll  try  the  world  soon,  my  lad. 

And,  Andrew  dear,  believe  me, 
Ye'U  find  mankind  an  unco  squad, 

And  muckle  they  may  grieve  ye. 
For  care  and  trouble  set  your  thought, 

E'en  when  your  end's  attained  ; 
And  a'  your  views  may  come  to  naught. 

Where  every  nerve  is  strained. 


in. 

I'll  no  say,  men  are  villains  a*  i 

The  real,  harden'd  wicked, 
Wha  hae  nae  check  but  human  law. 

Are  to  a  few  restricked : 
But  och !  mankind  are  unco  weak, 

An'  little  to  be  trusted ; 
If  self  the  wavering  balance  shake. 

It's  rarely  right  adjusted  ! 

IV. 
Yet  they  wha  fa'  in  fortune's  strife. 

Their  fate  we  should  nae  censure. 
For  still  th'  important  end  of  life 

They  equally  may  answer  ; 
A  rnan  may  hae  an  honest  heart. 

Though  poortith  hourly  stare  him  | 
A  man  may  tak  a  neebor's  part. 

Yet  hae  nae  cash  to  spare  him. 


Aye  free,  aff  han*  your  story  tell. 

When  wi'  a  bosom  crony ; 
But  still  keep  something  to  yoursel 

Ye  scarcely  tell  to  ony. 
Conceal  yoursel  as  weel's  ye  can 

Frae  critical  dissection  ; 
But  keek  through  every  other  man, 

Wi'  sharpen'd,  slee  inspection. 

VL 

The  sacred  lowe  o'  weel-placed  love 

Luxuriantly  indulge  it ; 
But  never  tempt  th'  illicit  rove, 

Though  naething  should  divulge  it! 
I  wave  the  quantum  o'  the  sin. 

The  hazard  of  concealing ; 
But  och  !  it  hardens  a'  within. 

And  petrifies  the  feeling  ! 

VII. 
To  catch  dame  Fortune's  golden  smilA, 

Assiduous  wait  upon  her ; 
And  gather  gear  by  every  wile 

That's  justified  by  honour ; 
Not  for  to  hide  it  in  a  hedge, 

Not  for  a  train-attendant ; 
But  for  the  glorious  privilege 

Of  being  independent. 

VIII. 

The  fear  o'  hell's  a  hangman's  whip. 

To  haud  the  wretch  in  order ; 
But  where  ye  feel  your  honour  grip, 

Let  that  aye  be  your  border ; 
Its  slightest  touches,  instant  pause-— 

Debar  a'  side  pretences  ; 
And  resolutely  keep  its  laws, 

Uncaring  consequences. 

IX. 

The  great  Creator  to  revere 

Must  sure  become  the  creature  j 
But  still  the  preaching  cant  forbear, 

And  e'en  the  rigid  feature  ; 
Yet  ne'er  with  wits  profane  to  range, 

Be  complaisance  extended ; 
An  atheist's  laugh's  a  poor  exchange 

For  Deity  offended ! 


916 


BURNS. 


X. 

When  ranting  round  in  pleasure's  ring, 

Religion  may  be  blinded ; 
Or  if  she  gie  a  random  sting, 

It  may  be  little  minded ; 
But  when  on  life  we're  tempest-driven, 

A  conscience  but  a  canker — 
A  correspondence  fix'd  wi'  heaven 

Is  sure  a  noble  anchor ! 

XI. 

Adieu,  dear,  amiable  youth ! 

Your  heart  can  ne'er  be  wanting : 
May  prudence,  fortitude,  and  truth 

Erect  your  brow  undaunting  ! 
In  ploughman  phrase, «  God  send  you  speed, 

Still  daily  to  grow  wiser : 
And  may  you  better  reck  the  rede 

Than  ever  did  th'  adviser. 


ON  A  SCOTCH  BARD  GONE  TO  THE  WEST 
INDIES. 

A'  YE  wha  live  by  soups  o'  drink, 
A'  ye  wha  live  by  crambo-clink, 
A'  ye  wha  live  and  never  think. 

Come  mourn  wi'  me  ! 
Our  billie's  gien  us  a'  a  jink, 

An'  owre  the  sea. 

Lament  him,  a'  ye  rantin  core, 
Wha  dearly  like  a  random-splore, 
Nae  mair  he'll  join  the  merry-roar. 

In  social  key ; 
For  now  he's  ta'en  anither  shore, 

An'  owre  the  sea. 

The  bonnie  lasses  weel  may  wiss  him, 
And  in  their  dear  petitions  place  him ; 
The  widows,  wives,  an'  a'  may  bless  him, 

Wi'  tearfu'  e'e  ; 
For  weel  I  wat  they'll  sairly  miss  him 

That's  owre  the  sea. 

0  fortune,  they  hae  room  to  grumble ! 
Hadst  thou  ta'en  afF  some  drowsy  bummle, 
Wlia  can  do  naught  but  fyke  and  fumble, 

'Twad  been  nae  plea ; 
Btrf;  he  was  gleg  as  ony  wumble. 

That's  owre  the  sea. 

Auld,  cantie  Kyle  may  weepers  wear, 
An'  stain  them  wi'  the  saut,  saut  tear ; 
*Twill  mak  her  poor  auld  heart,  I  fear, 

In  flinders  flee  ; 
He  was  her  laureate  monie  a  year. 

That's  owre  the  sea. 

He  saw  misfortune's  cauld  nor-west 
Lang  mustering  up  a  bitter  blast ; 
A.  jillet  brak  his  heart  at  last, 

111  may  she  be ! 
So  took  a  birth  afore  the  mast. 

An'  owre  the  sea. 

To  tremble  under  fortune's  cummock, 
On  scara3  a  bellyfu'  o'  drummock. 


Wi'  his  proud,  independent  stomacn 
Could  ill  agree ; 

So  row't  his  hurdles  in  a  hammock, 
An'  owre  the  sea. 

He  ne'er  was  gien  to  great  misguiding, 
Yet  coin  his  pouches  wad  na*bide  in ; 
Wi'  him  it  ne'er  was  under  hiding; 

He  dealt  it  free  : 
The  muse  was  a'  that  he  took  pride  in, 

That's  owre  the  sea. 

Jamaica  bodies,  use  him  weel. 
An'  hap  him  in  a  cozie  biel ; 
Ye'll  find  him  aye  a  dainty  chiel. 

And  fu'  o'  glee ; 
He  wad  na  wrang'd  the  vera  did. 

That's  owre  the  sea. 

Fareweel,  my  rhyme-composing  billie ! 
Your  native  soil  was  right  ill-willie ; 
But  may  ye  flourish  like  a  lily. 

Now  bonnilie ! 
I'll  toast  ye  in  ray  hindmost  gillie. 

Though  owre  the  sea. 


TO    A    HAGGIS. 

Fair  fa'  your  honest,  sonsie  face. 
Great  chieftain  o'  the  puddin  race  ! 
Aboon  them  a'  ye  tak  your  place, 

Painch,  tripe,  or  thairm  • 
Weel  are  ye  wordy  of  a  grace 

As  lang's  my  arm. 

The  groanmg  trencher  there  ye  fill. 
Your  hurdles  like  a  distant  hill, 
Your  pin  wad  help  to  mend  a  mill 

In  time  o'  need. 
While  through  your  pores  the  dews  distil 

Like  amber  bead. 

His  knife  see  rustic  labour  dight. 
An'  cut  you  up  with  ready  slight. 
Trenching  your  gushing  entrails  bright 

Like  onie  ditch ; 
And  then,  0  what  a  glorious  sight, 

Warm-reekin,  rich ! 

Then  horn  for  horn  they  stretch  an'  strive 
Deil  tak  the  hindmost,  on  they  drive. 
Till  a'  their  weel-swall'd  kytes  belyve 

Are  bent  like  drums ; 
Then  auld  guidman,  maist  like  to  ryve, 

Bethankit  hums. 

Is  there  that  o'er  his  French  ragout. 
Or  olio  that  would  staw  a  sow. 
Or  fricasee  wad  make  her  spew 

Wi'  perfect  sconner. 
Looks  down  wi'  sneering,  scornfu'  view 

On  sic  a  dinner  ? 

Poor  devil !  see  him  owre  his  trash. 
As  feckless  as  a  wither'd  rash. 
His  spindle  shank  a  guid  whip  lash, 

His  nieve  a  nit ; 
Through  bloody  flood  or  field  to  dash, 

0  how  unfit ! 


A    DEDICfATION. 


2V 


But  mark  the  rustic,  haggis-fed, 
The  trembling  earth  resounds  his  tread. 
Clap  in  his  walie  nieve  a  blade. 

He'll  mak  it  whissle  ; 
An'  legs,  an'  arms,  an'  heads  will  sned, 
,  Like  taps  o'  thrissle. 

Ye  powers,  wha  mak  mankind  your  care, 
And  dish  them  out  their  bill  o'  fare, 
Auld  Scotland  wants  nae  skinking  ware 

That  jaups  in  luggies ; 
But,  if  ye  wish  her  gratefu'  prayer, 

Gie  her  a  haggis ! 


a  DEDICATION  TO  GAVIN  HAMILTON,  ESQ. 

Expect  na,  sir,  in  this  narration, 
A  fleechin,  fleth'rin  dedication. 
To  roose  you  up,  an'  ca'  you  guid. 
An'  sprung  o'  great  an'  noble  bluid, 
Because  ye're  surnamed  like  his  grace. 
Perhaps  related  to  the  race  ; 
Then  when  I'm  tired — and  sae  are  ye, 
Wi'  mony  a  fulsome,  sinfu'  lie. 
Set  up  a  face,  how  I  stop  short. 
For  fear  your  modesty  be  hurt. 

This  may  do — maun  do,  sir,  wi'  them  wha 
Maun  please  the  great  folk  for  a  wamefou ; 
For  me  !  sae  laigh  I  need  na  bow. 
For,  Lord  be  thankit,  I  can  plough ; 
And  when  I  downa  yoke  a  naig, 
Then,  Lord  be  thankit,  I  can  beg  ; 
Sae  I  shall  say,  an'  that's  nae  flatterin. 
It's  just  sic  poet,  an'  sic  patron. 

The  poet,  some  guid  angel  help  him. 
Or  else,  I  fear,  some  ill  ane  skelp  him, 
He  may  do  weel  for  a'  he's  done  yet, 
But  only  he's  no  just  begun  yet. 

The  patron,  (sir,  ye  maun  forgie  me, 
I  winna  lie,  come  what  will  o'  me,) 
On  every  hand  it  will  allow'd  be. 
He's  just — nae  better  than  he  should  be. 

I  readJy  and  freely  grant. 
He  dow  a  see  a  poor  man  want ; 
What's  iiO  his  ain  he  winna  tak  it, 
What  ance  he  says,  he  winna  brealc  it ; 
Aught  he  can  lend  he'll  no  refuse 't, 
Till  aft  his  guidness  is  abused : 
And  rascals  whyles  that  do  him  wrang, 
E'en  that,  he  does  na  mind  it  lang  : 
As  master,  landlord,  husband,  father, 
He  does  na  fail  his  part  in  either. 

But  then,  na  thanks  to  him  for  a'  that ; 
Nae  godly  symptom  ye  can  ca'  that ; 
It's  nae  thing  but  a  milder  feature 
Of  our  poor,  sinfu',  corrupt  nature  ! 
Ye'll  get  the  best  o'  moral  works 
'Mang  black  Gentoos  and  pagan  Turks. 
Or  hunters  wild  on  Ponotaxi, 
Wha  never  heard  of  orthodoxy. 
That  he's  the  poor  man's  friend  in  need, 
The  gentleman  in  word  and  deed, 


I         It's  no  through  terror  of  d-mn-tioa  j 
It's  just  a  carnal  inclination. 

Morality,  tliou  deadly  bane. 
Thy  tens  o'  thousands  thou  hast  slain ! 
Vain  is  his  hope,  whose  stay  and  trii?t  is 
In  moral  mercy,  truth,  and  justice  ! 

No — stretch  a  point  to  catch  a  plack ; 
Abuse  a  brother  to  his  back  ; 
Steal  through  a  winnock  frae  a  wh-re, 
But  point  the  rake  that  taks  the  door : 
Be  to  the  poor  like  onie  whunstane. 
And  haud  their  noses  to  the  grunstane, 
Ply  every  art  o'  legal  thieving ; 
No  m->tter,  stick  to  sound  believing. 

Learn  three-mile  prayers,  and  half-mile 
graces, 
Wi'  we\  -spread  looves,  an'  lang  wry  faces ; 
Grunt  up  a  solemn,  lengthen'd  groan. 
And  damn  a'  parties  but  your  own  ; 
I'll  warrant  then,  ye're  nae  deceiver, 
A  steady,  sturdy,  staunch  believer. 

O  ye  wha  leave  the  springs  of  C-lv-n, 
For  gumlie  dubs  of  your  ain  delvin  ! 
Ye  sons  of  heresy  and  error, 
Ye'll  some  day  squeel  in  quaking  terror ! 
When  vengeance  draws  the  sword  in  wrath, 
And  in  the  fire  throws  the  sheath ; 
When  ruin,  with  his  sweeping  besom. 
Just  frets  till  Heaven  commission  gies  him  a 
While  o'er  the  harp  pale  misery  moans, 
And  strikes  the  ever  deepening  tones. 
Still  louder  shrieks,  and  heavier  groans  ! 

Your  pardon,  sir,  for  this  digression, 
I  maist  forgat  my  dedication  ; 
But  when  divinity  comes  cross  me. 
My  readers  still  are  sure  to  lose  me. 

So,  sir,  ye  see  'twas  nae  daft  vapour. 
But  I  maturely  thought  it  proper. 
When  a'  my  work  I  did  review, 
To  dedicate  them,  sir,  to  you : 
Because  (ye  need  na  tak  it  ill) 
I  thought  them  something  like  yoursel. 

Then  patronize  them  wi'  your  favour, 
And  your  petitioner  shall  ever — 
I  had  amaist  said,  ever  pray. 
But  that's  a  word  I  need  na  say : 
For  pray  in  I  hae  little  skill  o't ; 
I'm  baith  dead-sweer,  an'  wretched  ill  o*t 
But  I'se  repeat  each  poor  man's  prayer. 
That  kens  or  hears  about  you,  sir — 

"  May  ne'er  misfortune's  gowling  bark 
Howl  through  the  dwelling  o'  the  clerk ! 
May  ne'er  his  generous,  honest  heart, 
For  that  same  generous  spirit  smart ! 
May  K******'s  far  honour 'd  name 
xjang  beet  his  hymeneal  flame. 
Till  H*******s,  at  least  a  dizen. 
Are  frae  their  nuptial  labours  risen  : 
Five  bonnie  lasses  round  their  table. 
And  seven  braw  fellows,  stout  an'  able 


218 


BURNS. 


To  serve  their  king  and  country  weel, 
By  word,  or  pen,  or  pointed  steel  I 
May  health  and  peace,  with  mutual  rays. 
Shine  on  the  evening  o'  his  days  ; 
Till  his  wee  curlie  John's  ier-oe. 
When  ebbing  life  nae  mair  shall  flow. 
The  last,  sad,  mournful  rites  bestow  !" 

I  will  not  wind  a  lang  conclusion, 
Wi'  complimentary  effusion  : 
But  whilst  your  wishes  and  endeavours 
Are  blest  with  fortune's  smiles  and  favours, 
I  am,  dear  sir,  with  zeal  most  fervent, 
Your  much  indebted,  humble  servant. 

But  if  (which  powers  above  prevent  I) 
That  iron-hearted  carl,  want. 
Attended  in  his  grim  advances 
By  sad  mistakes,  and  black  mischances. 
While  hopes,  and  joys,  and  pleasures  fly  him, 
Make  you  as  poor  a  dog  as  I  am. 
Your  humble  servant  then  no  more  ; 
For  who  would  humbly  serve  tlie  poor  ? 
But  by  a  poor  man's  hopes  in  heaven  ! 
While  recollection's  power  is  given. 
If,  in  the  vale  of  humble  life. 
The  victim  sad  of  fortune's  strife, 
X,  through  the  tender  gushing  tear, 
Should  recognise  my  master  dear. 
If  friendless,  low,  we  meet  together. 
Then,  sir,  your  hand — my  friend  and  brother ! 


TO   A   LOUSE. 

m  SEEING   ONE   ON  A  LADY'S   BONNET   AT    CHURCH. 

Ha  !  whare  ye  gaun,  ye  crowlin  ferlie  ? 
Your  impudence  protects  you  sairly : 
I  canna  say  but  ye  strunt  rarely 

Owre  gauze  and  lace ; 
Though  faith,  I  fear  ye  dine  but  sparely 
On  sic  a  place. 

Ye  ugly,  creepin,  blastit  wonner. 
Detested,  shunn'd  by  saunt  and  sinner. 
How  dare  ye  set  your  fit  upon  her, 

Sae  fine  a  lady  ? 
Gae  somewhere  else,  and  seek  your  dinner, 

On  some  poor  body. 

Swith,  in  some  beggar's  hafFet  squattle ; 
Where  ye  may  creep,  and  sprawl,  and  sprattle 
Wi'  ither  kindred,  jumpin  cattle. 

In  shoals  and  nations  ; 
Whare  horn  or  bane  ne'er  dare  unsettle 

Your  thick  plantations. 

Now  haud  ye  there,  ye're  out  o'  sight, 
Below  the  fatt'rils,  snug  an'  tight ; 
Na,  faith  ye  yet !  ye'll  no  be  right 

Till  ye've  got  on  it, 
The  vera  tapmost,  towering  height 

0'  miss's  bonnet. 

My  sooth !  right  bauld  ye  set  your  nose  out. 
As  plump  and  gray  as  onie  grozet ; 
0  for  some  rank,  mercurial  rozet, 

Or  fell,  red  smeddum, 
I'd  gie  you  sic  a  hearty  doze  o't. 

Wad  dress  your  droddum ! 


I  wad  na  been  surprised  to  spy 
You  on  an  auld  wife's  flainen  toy ; 
Or  aiblins  some  bit  duddie  boy, 

On's  wylie  coat  j 
But  miss's  fine  Lunardi !  fie, 

How  dare  ye  do't .' 

O  Jenny,  dinna  toss  your  head. 
An'  set  your  beauties  a'  abread ! 
Ye  little  ken  what  cursed  speed 

The  blastie's  makin ' 
Thae  winks  and  finger-ends,  I  dread, 
Are  notice  takin ! 

0  wad  some  power  tne  giftie  gie  us, 
To  see  oursels  as  others  see  us ! 
It  wad  frae  monie  a  "Dlunder  free  us 

And  foolish  notion ; 

What  airs  in  dress  and  gait  wad  lea'e  us 

And  e'en  devotion .' 


ADDRESS  TO  EDINBURGH. 


Edina  !  Scotia's  darling  seat ! 

All  hail  thy  palaces  and  towers, 
Where  once  beneath  a  monarch's  feet 

Sat  legislation's  sovereign  powers  ! 
From  marking  wildly-scatter'd  flowers 

As  on  the  banks  of  Ayr  I  stray 'd, 
And  singing,  lone,  the  lingering  hours, 

I  shelter  in  thy  honour'd  shade. 

II. 
Here  wealth  still  swells  the  golden  tide, 

As  busy  trade  his  labours  plies ; 
There  architecture's  noble  pride 

Bids  elegance  and  splendour  rise  ; 
Here  justice,  from  her  native  skies. 

High  wields  her  balance  and  her  rod ; 
There  learning,  with  his  eagle  eyes. 

Seeks  science  in  her  coy  abode. 

III. 

Thy  sons,  Edina,  social,  kind, 

With  open  arms  the  stranger  hail ; 
Their  views  enlarged,  their  liberal  mind^ 

Above  the  narrow,  rural  vale ; 
Attentive  still  to  sorrow's  wail. 

Or  modest  merit's  silent  claim  j 
And  never  may  their  sources  fail ! 

And  never  envy  blot  their  name  ! 

IV. 

Thy  daughters  bright  thy  walks  adorn  I 

Gay  as  the  gilded  summer  sky. 
Sweet  as  the  dewy  milk-white  thorn, 

Dear  as  the  raptured  thrill  of  joy  ! 
Fair  Br strikes  th'  adoring  eye, 

Heaven's  beauties  on  my  fancy  shine^ 
I  see  the  sire  of  love  on  high. 

And  own  his  work  indeed  divine  ! 

V. 

There,  watching  high  the  least  alarms. 
Thy  roughs  rude  fortress  gleams  afar; 


EPISTLE    TO   J.  LAPKAIK. 


210 


Like  some  bold  veteran,  gray  in  arms, 
And  mark'd  with  many  a  seamy  scar ; 

The  ponderous  walls  and  massy  bar. 
Grim  rising  o'er  the  rugged  rock ; 

Have  oft  withstood  assailing  war. 
And  oft  repell'd  th'  invadei  's  shock. 

VI. 
With  awe-struck  thought,  and  pitying  tears, 

I  view  that  noble,  stately  dome, 
Where  Scotia's  kings  of  other  years. 

Famed  heroes  !  bad  their  royal  home  : 
Alas  !  how  changed  the  times  to  come  ! 

Their  royal  name  low  in  the  dust ! 
Their  hapless  race  wild-wandering  roam ! 

Though  rigid  law  cries  out,  'Twas  just ! 

VII. 

Wild  beats  my  heart  to  trace  your  steps, 

Whose  ancestors,  in  days  of  yore. 
Through  hostile  ranks  and  ruin'd  gaps 

Old  Scotia's  bloody  lion  bore  : 
E'en  I  who  sing  in  rustic  lore, 

Haply  my  sires  have  left  their  shed. 
And  faced  grim  danger's  loudest  roar. 

Bold  following  where  your  fathers  led  ! 

VIII. 
Edina  !  Scotia's  darling  seat ! 

All  hail  thy  palaces  and  towers. 
Where  once  beneath  a  monarch's  feet 

Sat  legislation's  sovereign  powers  ! 
From  marking  wildly-scatter'd  flowers. 

As  on  the  banks  of  Ayr  I  stray'd. 
And  singing,  lone,  the  lingering  hours, 

I  shelter  in  thy  honour'd  shade. 


EPISTLE  TO  J.  LAPRAIK, 

AN   OLD   SCOTTISH   BARD. APRIL    Ist,    1785. 

While  briers  and  woodbines  budding  green, 
An'  paitricks  scraichin  loud  at  e'en. 
An'  morning  poussie  whiddin  seen. 

Inspire  my  muse, 
This  freedom  in  an  unknown  frien', 

I  pray  excuse. 

On  fasten-een  we  had  a  rockin. 
To  ca'  the  crack  and  weave  our  stockin ; 
And  there  was  muckle  fun  an'  jokin, 

Ye  need  na  doubt ; 
A.t  length  we  had  a  hearty  yokin 

At  sang  about. 

There  was  ae  sang,  amang  the  rest, 
Aboon  them  a'  it  pleased  me  best, 
That  some  kind  husband  had  addrest 

To  some  sweet  wife : 
It  thrill'd  the  heart-strings  through  the  breast, 

A'  to  the  life. 
I've  scarce  heard  aught  describes  sae  weel, 
What  generous,  manly  bosoms  feel ; 
Thought  I,  "  Can  this  be  Pope,  or  Steele, 

Or  Beattie's  wark  !" 
They  tauld  me  'twas  an  odd  kind  chiel 

About  Muirkirk. 


It  pat  me  fidgin-fain  to  hear't. 
And  sae  about  him  there  I  spier't ; 
Then  a'  that  ken't  him  round  declared 

He  had  ingine. 
That  nane  excell'd  it,  few  cam  near't, 
It  was  sae  fine. 

That  set  him  to  a  pint  of  ale. 
An'  either  douce  or  merry  tale. 
Or  rhymes  an'  sangs  he'd  made  himsel, 

Or  witty  catches, 
*Tween  Inverness  and  Tiviotdale, 

He  had  few  matches. 

Then  up  I  gat,  an'  swoor  an'  aith. 
Though  I  should  pawn  my  pleugh  and  graith. 
Or  die  a  cadger  pownie's  death, 

At  some  dyke-back, 
A  pint  an'  gill  I'd  gie  them  baith 

To  hear  your  crack. 

But,  first  an'  foremost,  I  should  tell, 
Amaist  ay  soon  as  I  could  spell, 
I  to  the  crambo-jingle  fell, 

Though  rude  an'  rough, 
Yet  crooning  to  a  body's  »?1, 

Does  well  eneugh. 

I  am  nae  poet,  in  a  sense. 
But  just  a  rhymer,  like,  by  chance, 
An'  hae  to  learning  nae  pretence. 

Yet,  what  the  matter  ?     . 
Whene'er  my  muse  does  on  me  glance, 

I  jingle  at  her. 

Your  critic  folk  may  cock  their  nose. 
And  say,  "  How  can  you  e'er  propose, 
You  wha  ken  hardly  verse  frae  prose. 
To  mak  a  sang  ?'* 
But,  by  your  leaves,  my  learned  foes. 

Ye 're  may  be  wrang. 

What's  a'  your  jargon  o'  your  schools. 
Your  Latin  names  for  horns  an'  stools  ; 
If  honest  nature  made  you  fools, 

What  sairs  your  grammars  i 
Ye'd  better  ta'en  up  spades  and  shools, 

Or  knappin  hammers. 

A  set  o'  dull  conceited  hashes. 
Confuse  their  brains  in  college  classes  ! 
They  gang  in  stirks,  and  come  out  asses. 

Plain  truth  to  speak  ; 
An*  syne  they  think  to  climb  Parnassu; 

By  dint  o'  Greek  I 

Gie  me  ae  spark  o'  nature's  fire. 
That's  a'  the  learning  I  desire  ; 
Then  though  I  drudge  through  dub  an'  mire 

At  pleugh  or  cart. 
My  muse,  though  hamely  in  attire. 

May  touch  the  heart 

0  for  a  spunk  o'  Allan's  glee. 
Or  Fergusson's,  the  bauld  and  slec. 
Or  bright  Lapraik's  my  friend  to  be, 

If  I  can  hit  it ! 
That  would  be  lear  eneugh  for  me. 

If  I  could  get  it. 


220 


BURNS. 


Now,  sir,  if  ye  hae  friends  enow, 
Though  real  friends,  I  b'lieve,  are  few, 
Yet,  if  your  catalogue  be  fu', 

I'se  no  insist. 
But  gif  ye  want  ae  friend  that's  true, 
I'm  on  your  list 

I  winna  blaw  about  mysel ; 
As  ill  I  like  my  fauts  to  tell ; 
But  friends,  and  folk  that  wish  me  well. 

They  sometimes  roose  me. 
Though  I  maun  own,  as  monie  still 

As  far  abuse  me.  ^ 

There's  ae  wee  faut  they  whyles  lay  to  me, 
I  like  the  lasses — Gude  forgie  me  ! 
For  monie  a  plack  they  wheedle  frae  me. 

At  dance  or  fair  ; 
May  be  some  ither  thing  they  gie  me 

They  weel  can  spare. 

But  Mauchline  race,  or  Mauchline  fair, 
I  should  be  proud  to  meet  you  there ; 
We'se  gie  ae  night's  discharge  to  care. 

If  we  forgather. 
An'  hae  a  swap  o'  rhymin-ware 

Wi'  ane  anither. 

The  four-gill  chap,  we'se  gar  him  clatter. 
An'  kirsen  him  wi'  reekin  water ; 
Syne  we'll  sit  down  an'  tak  our  whitter. 
To  cheer  our  heart ; 
An'  faith  we'se  be  acquainted  better 
Before  we  part. 

Awa,  ye  selfish  warly  race, 
Wha  think  that  havins,  sense,  an'  grace. 
E'en  love  an'  friendship,  should  give  place 

To  catch-the-plack ! 
I  dinna  like  to  see  your  face. 

Nor  hear  you  crack. 

But  ye  whom  social  pleasure  charms. 
Whose  heart  the  tide  of  kindness  warms. 
Who  hold  your  being  on  the  terms. 

Each  aid  the  others'. 
Come  to  my  bowl,  come  to  my  arms. 

My  friends,  my  brothers  ! 

But  to  conclude  my  lang  epistle, 
As  my  auld  pen's  worn  to  the  grissle 
Twa  lines  frae  3'ou  wad  gar  me  fissle. 

Who  am,  most  fervent. 
While  I  can  either  sing  or  whissle. 

Your  friend  and  servant. 


TO   THE    SAME. 
APKiL  21st,  1785. 

While  new-ca'd  kye  rout  at  the  stake. 
An'  pownics  reek  in  plough  or  braik, 
This  hour  on  e'enin's  edge  I  take. 

To  own  I'm  debtor 
To  honest-  .earted,  auld  Lapraik, 

For  his  kind  letter. 


Forjesket  sair,  with  weary  legs, 
Rattlin'  the  corn  out-owre  the  rigs, 
Or  dealing  through  amang  the  naigs 

Their  ten-hours'  bite. 
My  awkart  muse  sair  pleads  and  begs 
I  would  na  write. 

The  tapeless  ramfeezl'd  hizzie. 
She's  saft  at  best,  and  something  lazy, 
Quo'  she,  "  Ye  ken,  we've  been  sae  busy. 

This  month  an'  mair, 
That  trouth  my  head  is  grown  right  dizzie 

An'  something  sair." 

Her  dowff  excuses  pat  me  mad  ; 
«  Conscience,"  says  I,  "  ye  thowless  jad  ! 
I'll  write,  an'  tiat  s.  r.earty  blaud, 

This  vera  night ; 
So  dinna  ye  affront  your  trade, 

But  rhyme  it  right. 

"  Shall  bauld  Lapraik,  the  king  0'  hearts. 
Though  mankind  were  a  pack  0'  cartes, 
Roose  you  sae  weel  for  your  deserts. 

In  terms  so  friendly  j 
Yet  ye'll  neglect  to  shaAV  your  parts. 

An'  thank  him  kindly  !* 

Sae  I  gat  paper  in  a  blink, 
An'  down  gaed  stumpie  in  the  ink : 
Quoth  I,  "  Before  I  sleep  a  wink, 

I  vow  I'll  close  it ; 
An'  if  ye  winna  mak  it  clink, 

By  Jove  I'll  prose  it !" 

Sae  I've  begun  to  scrawl,  but  whethei 
In  rhyme  or  prose,  or  baith  thcgither, 
Or  some  hotch-potch  that's  rightly  neithet. 

Let  time  mak  proof ; 
But  I  shall  scribble  down  some  blether 

Just  clean  aff-loof. 

My  worthy  friend,  ne'er  grudge  an'  carp. 
Though  fortune  use  you  hard  an'  sharp  ; 
Come,  kittle  up  your  moorland  harp 

Wi'  gleesome  touch ! 
Ne'er  mind  how  fortune  waft  an'  warp : 

She's  but  a  b-tch. 

She's  gien  me  monie  a  jirt  an'  fleg. 
Sin'  I  could  striddle  owre  a  rig ; 
But,  by  the  L — d,  though  I  should  beg 

Wi'  lyart  pow, 
I'll  laugh,  an'  sing,  and  shake  my  leg. 

As  lang's  I  dow ! 

Now  comes  the  sax  an'  twentieth  simmer 
I've  seen  the  bud  upo'  the  timmer. 
Still  persecuted  by  the  limmer 

Frae  year  to  year; 
But  yet,  despite  the  kittle  kimmer, 

I,  Rob,  am  here. 

Do  ye  envy  the  city  gent, 
Behint  a  kist  to  lie  and  sklent. 
Or  purse-proud,  big  wi'  cent,  per  cent. 

And  muckle  wame, 
In  some  bit  brugh  to  represent 

A  bailie's  name  ? 


TO   W.  S* 


N. 


221 


Or  is't  the  paughty,  feudal  thane, 
Wi'  ruffled  sark  an'  glancin'  cane, 
Wha  thinks  himsel  nae  sheep-shank  bane. 

But  lordly  stalks. 

While  caps  and  bonnets  afF  are  ta'en. 

As  by  he  walks  ? 

*'  0  Thou  wha  gies  us  each  guid  gift ! 
Gie  me  o'  wit  an'  sense  a  lift, 
Then  turn  me,  if  Thou  please,  adrift. 

Through  Scotland  wide ; 
Wi'  cits  nor  lairds  I  wadna  shift, 

In  a'  their  pride  !" 

Were  this  the  charter  of  our  state, 
"  On  pain  o'  hell  be  rich  an'  great," 
Damnation  then  would  be  our  fate 

Beyond  remead ; 
But,  thanks  to  heaven !  that's  no  the  gate 

We  learn  our  creed. 

For  thus  the  royal  mandate  ran, 
When  first  the  human  race  began, 
«*  The  social,  friendly,  honest  man, 

Whate'er  he  be, 
'Tis  he  fulfils  ?reat  nature's  plan. 

An'  none  but  he  !" 

0  mandate  glorious  and  divine  ! 
The  ragged  followers  of  the  nine. 
Poor,  thoughtless  devils !  yet  may  shine 

In  glorious  light. 
While  sordid  sons  of  Mammon's  line 
Are  dark  as  night. 

Though  here  they  scrape,  an'  squeeze,  an' 
growl, 
Their  worthless  nievefu'  of  a  soul 
May  in  some  future  carcass  howl. 

The  forest's  fright ; 
Or  in  some  day-detesting  owl 

May  shun  the  light. 

Then  may  Lapraik  and  Burns  arise. 
To  reach  their  native,  kindred  skies. 
And  sing  their  pleasures,  hopes,  an'  joys. 

In  some  mild  sphere. 
Still  closer  knit  in  friendship's  tie 

Each  passing  year. 


TO   W.  S*****N, 

OCHILTREE. 

May,  17S5. 
I  GAT  your  letter,  winsome  Willie  ; 
Wi'  gratefu'  heart  I  thank  you  brawlie  ; 
Though  I  maun  say't,  I  wad  be  silly, 

An'  unco  vain. 
Should  I  believe,  my  coaxin'  billie. 

Your  flatterin  strain. 

But  I'se  believe  ye  kindly  meant  it, 
I  sud  be  laith  to  think  ye  hinted 
Ironic  satire,  sidelin's  sklented 

On  my  poor  musie ; 
Thougn  in  sic  phrasin'  terms  ye've  penn'd  it, 
I  scarce  excuse  ye. 


My  senses  wad  be  in  a  creel 
Should  I  but  dire  a  hope  to  speel 
Wi'  Allan,  or  wi'  Gilbertfield, 

The  braes  o'  fame ; 
Or  Fergusson,  the  writer-chiel, 

A  deathless  name. 

(0  Fergusson  !  thy  glorious  parts 
111  suited  law's  dry,  musty  arts  ! 
My  curse  upon  your  whunstane  hearts, 

Ye  Enbrugh  gentry ! 
The  tithe  o'  what  ye  waste  at  cartes. 

Wad  stow'd  his  pantry  !) 

Yet  when  a  tale  comes  i'  my  head. 
Or  lasses  gie  my  heart  a  screed. 
As  whyles  they're  like  to  be  my  deed, 

(0  sad  disease  !) 
I  kittle  up  my  rustic  reed ; 

It  gies  me  ease. 

Auld  Coila  now  may  fidge  fu'  fain,  • 
She's  gotten  poets  o'  her  ain, 
Chiels  wha  their  chanters  winna  hain. 
But  tune  their  lays. 
Till  echoes  a'  resound  again 

Her  weel-sung  praise. 

Nae  poet  thought  her  worth  his  while,. 
To  set  her  name  in  measured  style  ; 
She  lay  like  some  unkenn'd-of  isle 

Beside  New  Holland, 
Or  whare  wild-meeting  oceans  boil 
Besouth  Magellan. 

Ramsay  an'  famous  Fergusson 
Gied  Forth  an'  Tay  a  lift  aboon  ; 
Yarrow  an'  Tweed  to  monie  a  tune, 

Owre  Scotland  rings, 
While  Irwin,  Lugar,  Ayr,  an'  Doon, 

Naebody  sings. 

Th'  Illyssus,  Tiber,  Thames,  an'  Seine» 
Glide  sweet  in  monie  a  tunefu'  line ! 
But,  Willie,  set  your  fit  to  mine. 

An'  cock  your  crest. 
We'll  gar  our  streams  and  burnies  shine 

Up  wi'  the  best. 

We'll  sing  auld  Coila's  plains  an'  fells, 
Her  moors  red-brown  with  heather  bells. 
Her  banks  an'  braes,  her  dens  and  dells. 

Where  glorious  Wallace 
Aft  bure  the  gree,  as  story  tells, 

Frae  southron  billies. 

At  Wallace'  name  what  Scottish  blood 
But  boils  up  in  a  spring-tide  flood  ! 
Oft  have  our  fearless  fathers  strode 

By  Wallace'  side. 
Still  pressing  onward,  red-wat-shod. 

Or  glorious  dyed. 

0,  sweet  are  Coila's  haughs  an'  wocis, 
When  lintwhites  chant  amang  the  buda. 
And  jinkin  hares,  in  amorous  whids. 

Their  loves  enjoy. 
While  through  the  braes  the  cushat  croods 

With  wailfu'  cry ! 


BURNS. 


E'en  winter  bleak  has  charms  for  me. 
When  winds  rave  through  the  naked  tree ; 
Or  frosts  on  hills  of  Ochiltree 

Are  hoary  gray ; 
Or  blinding  drifts  wild-furious  flee, 

Darkening  the  day ! 

O  nature  !  a'  thy  shows  an'  forms 
To  feeling,  pensive  hearts  hae  charms  ! 
Whether  the  simmer  kindly  warms 

Wi'  life  an'  light, 
Or  winter  howls,  in  gusty  storms. 

The  lang,  dark  night ! 

The  muse,  nae  poet  ever  fand  her, 
Till  by  himsel  he  learn'd  to  wander, 
Adown  some  trotting  burn's  meander. 

An'  no  think  lang ; 
0  sweet !  to  stray,  an'  pensive  ponder 

A  heartfelt  sang ! 

The  warly  race  may  drudge  an'  drive, 
Hog-shouther,  jundie,  stretch,  an'  strive, 
Let  me  fair  nature's  face  descrive. 

And  I,  wi'  pleasure. 
Shall  let  the  busy,  grumbling  hive. 

Bum  owre  their  treasure. 

Fareweel, "  my  rhyme-composing  brither !' 
We've  been  owre  lang  unkenn'd  to  ither: 
Now  let  us  lay  our  heads  thegither. 

In  love  fraternal : 
May  envy  wallop  in  a  tether, 

Black  fiend,  infernal ! 

While  high  landmen  hate  tolls  and  taxes ; 
While  moorlan'  herds  like  guid  fat  braxies : 
While  terra  firma,  on  her  axis. 

Diurnal  turns. 
Count  on  a  friend,  in  faith  an'  practice. 

In  Robert  Burns. 


POSTSCRIPT. 

My  memory's  no  worth  a  preen ; 
I  had  amaist  forgotten  clean, 
Ye  bade  me  write  you  what  they  mean 

By  this  «  new-light,"* 
'Bout  which  our  herds  sae  aft  hae  been 

Maist  like  to  fight. 

In  days  when  mankind  were  but  callans 
At  grammar,  logic,  an'  sic  talents. 
They  took  nae  pains  their  speech  to  balance. 

Or  rules  to  gie. 
But  spak  their  thoughts  in  plain,  braid  lallans, 

Like  you  or  me. 

In  thae  auld  times,  they  thought  the  moon. 
Just  like  a  sark,  or  pair  o'  shoon. 
Wore  by  degrees,  till  her  last  roon, 

Gaed  past  their  viewing, 
An'  shortly  after  she  was  done. 

They  gat  a  new  one. 


♦  "New-light"  is  a  cant  phrase  in  the  west  of  Scotland, 
for  those  religious  opinions  which  Dr.  Taylor  of  Norwich 
has  defended  so  strenuously. 


This  past  for  certain,  undisputed ; 
It  ne'er  cam  i'  their  heads  to  doubt  it, 
Till  chiels  gat  up  an'  wad  confute  it. 

An'  ca'd  it  wrang  ; 
An'  muckle  din  there  was  about  it, 

Baith  loud  and  lang. 

Some  herds,  weel  learn'd  upo'  the  beuk, 
Wad  threap  auld  folk  the  thing  misteuk  ; 
For  'twas  the  auld  moon  turn'd  a  neuk, 

An'  out  o'  sight. 
An'  backlins-comin,  to  the  leuk, 

She  grew  mair  bright. 

This  was  denied,  ii  was  affirm 'd  ; 
The  kerds  an'  hissels  were  alarm'd : 
The  reverend  gray-beards  raved  an'  storm'd, 

That  beardless  laddies 
Should  think  they  better  were  inform'd 

Than  their  auld  daddies. 

Frae  less  to  mair  it  gaed  to  sticks ; 
Frae  words  an'  aiths  to  clours  an'  nicks  ; 
An'  monie  a  fallow  gat  his  licks, 

Wi'  hearty  crunt ; 
An'  some,  to  learn  them  for  their  tricks. 

Were  hang'd  an'  burnt. 

This  game  was  play'd  in  monie  lands, 
An'  auld-light  caddies  bure  sic  hands, 
That  faith  the  youngsters  took  the  sands 
Wi'  nimble  shanks, 
The  lairds  forbade,  by  strict  commands. 
Sic  bluidy  pranks. 

But  new-light  herds  gat  sic  a  cowe. 
Folk  thought  them  ruin'd  stick-an'-stowe, 
Till  now  amaist  on  every  knowe. 

Ye '11  find  ane  placed  j 
An'  some,  their  new-light  fair  avow. 

Just  quite  barefaced. 

Nae  doubt  the  auld-light  flocks  are"  bleatin  ; 
Their  zealous  herds  are  vex'd  an'  sweatin ; 
Mysel,  I've  even  seen  them  greetin 

Wi'  girnin  spite. 
To  hear  the  moon  sae  sadly  lie'd  on 

By  word  an'  write. 

But  shortly  they  will  cowe  the  louns  ! 
Some  auld-light  herds  in  neebor  towns 
Are  mind't  in  things  they  ca'  balloons. 

To  tak  a  flight. 
An'  stay  a  month  amang  the  moons 

An'  see  them  right. 

Guid  observation  they  will  gie  them  ; 
An'  when  the  auld  moon's  gaun  to  leave  them, 
The  hindmost  shaird,  they'll  fetch  it  wi'  them. 

Just  i'  their  pouch. 
An'  when  the  new-light  billies  see  them, 
I  think  they'll  crouch  ! 

Sae,  ye  observe  that  a'  this  clatter 
Is  naething  but  a  "  moonshine  matter ;" 
But  though  dull  prose-folk  Latin  splatter 

In  logic  tulzie, 
I  hope,  we  bardies  ken  some  better, 

Than  mind  sic  brulzie. 


TAM    O'  SHANTER. 


223 


EPISTLE    TO    J.  R****** 

ENCLOSING   SOME   POEMS. 

0  ROUGH,  rude,  ready-witted  r******^ 
The  wale  o'  cocks  for  fun  an'  drinkin  ! 
There's  mony  godly  folks  are  thinkin, 

Your  dreams*  an'  tricks 
Will  send  you,  Korah-like,  a-sinkin, 

Straught  to  auld  Nick's. 

Ye  hae  sae  monie  cracks  an'  cants. 
And  in  your  wicked  druncken  rants, 
Ye  mak  a  devil  o'  the  saunts, 

An'  fill  them  fou  ; 
And  then  their  failings,  flaws,  an'  wants. 

Are  a'  seen  through. 

Hypocrisy,  in  mercy  spare  it ! 
That  holy  robe,  0  dinna  tear  it ! 
Spare  't  for  their  sakes  wha  aften  wear  it. 

The  lads  in  black  ! 
But  your  curst  wit,  when  it  comes  near  it. 

Rives  't  aff  their  back. 

Think,  wicked  sinner,  wha  ye're  skaithing 
Its  just  the  blue-gown  badge  an'  claithing 
0'  saunts ;  tak  that,  ye  lea'e  them  naething 

To  ken  them  by, 
Frae  ony  unregenerate  heathen 

Like  you  or  I. 

I've  sent  you  home  some  rhyming  ware, 
A'  that  I  bargain 'd  for,  an'  mair  ; 
Sae,  when  ye  hae  an  hour  to  spare, 

I  will  expect 
Yon  sangjt  ye'll  sen't  wi'  cannie  care. 

And  no  neglect. 

Though  faith,  sma'  heart  hae  I  to  sing  ! 
My  muse  dow  scarcely  spread  her  wing ! 
I've  play'd  mysel  a  bonnie  spring, 

An'  danced  my  fill ! 
I'd  better  gane  an*  sair't  the  king, 

At  Bunker's  Hill. 

'Twas  ae  night  lately  in  my  fun, 
I  gaed  a  roving  wi'  the  gun. 
An'  brought  a  paitrick  to  the  grun, 

A  bonnie  hen. 
And,  as  the  twilight  was  begun. 

Thought  nane  wad  ken. 

The  poor  wee  thing  was  little  hurt ; 
I  straikit  it  a  wee  for  sport, 
Ne'er  thinkin  they  wad  fash  me  for't ; 

Bui,  deil-ma-care ' 
Somebody  tells  the  poacher-court 

The  hale  affair. 

Some  auld  used  hands  had  ta'en  a  note, 
That  sic  a  hen  had  got  a  shot ; 
£  was  suspected  for  the  plot ; 

I  scorn 'd  to  lie ; 
So  gat  the  whizzle  o'  my  groat, 

An'  pay't  the  fee. 

•  A  certain  humorous  dream  cf  his  was  then  making  ; 
♦.wise  in  the  country  side. 
f  A  song  he  had  promised  the  author. 


But,  by  my  gun,  o'  guns  the  wale. 
An'  by  my  pouther  an'  my  hail. 
An'  by  my  hen,  an'  by  her  tail, 

I  vow  an'  swear ! 
The  game  shall  pay  o'er  moor  an'  dale. 

For  this,  niest  year. 

As  soon's  the  clockin-time  is  by. 
An'  the  wee  pouts  begun  to  cry, 
L— d,  I'se  hae  sportin  by  an'  by. 

For  my  gowd  guinea : 
Though  I  should  herd  the  buckskin  kye 

For't  in  Virginia. 

Trowth,  they  had  muckle  for  to  blame ; 
'Twas  neither  broken  wing  nor  limb. 
But  twa-three  draps  about  the  wame 

Scarce  through  the  feathers ; 
An'  baith  a  yellow  George  to  claim. 

An'  thole  their  blethers  I 

It  pits  me  aye  as  mad's  a  hare  ; 
So  I  can  rhyme  nor  write  nae  mair ; 
But  pennyworth's  again  is  fair. 

When  time's  expedient: 
Meanwhile  I  am,  respected  sir. 

Your  most  obedient. 


TAM   O'SHANTER. 

t 

A   TALE. 

Of  brownyis  and  of  bogilis  full  is  this  buke. 

Gawin  Douclas 

When  chapman  billies  leave  the  street. 
And  drouthy  neebors  neebors  meet. 
As  market-days  are  wearing  late. 
An'  folk  begin  to  tak  the  gate ; 
While  we  sit  bousing  at  the  nappy. 
An'  gettin  fou  and  unco  happy, 
We  think  na  on  the  lang  Scots  miles. 
The  mosses,  waters,  slaps,  and  stiles. 
That  lie  between  us  and  our  hame, 
Whare  sits  our  sulky,  sullen  dame. 
Gathering  her  brows  like  gathering  storm, 
Nursing  her  wrath  to  keep  it  warm. 

This  truth  fand  honest  Tam  O'Shanter, 
As  he  frae  Ayr  ae  night  did  canter, 
(Auld  Ayr,  whom  ne'er  a  town  surpasses, 
For  honest  men  and  bonny  lasses.) 

O  Tam  !  hadst  thou  but  been  sae  wise, 
As  ta'en  thy  ain  wife  Kate's  advice  ! 
She  tauld  thee  weel  thou  was  a  skellum, 
A  blethering,  blustering,  drunken  blellum; 
That  frae  November  till  October, 
Ae  market-day  thou  was  nae  sober ; 
That  ilka  melder,  wi'  the  miller, 
Thou  sat  as  lang  as  thou  had  siller ; 
That  every  naig  was  ca'd  a  shoe  on, 
The  smith  and  thee  gat  roaring  fou  on  ; 
That  at  the  L — d's  house,  e'en  on  Sunday, 
Thou  drank  wi'  Kirton  Jean  till  Monday. 
She  prophesied,  that  late  or  soon, 
Thou  would  be  found  deep  drown'd  in  Doon 
Or  catch'd  wi'  warlocks  in  the  mirk. 
By  Alloway's  auld  haunted  kirk. 


934 


BURNS. 


Ah,  gentle  dames  !  it  gars  me  greet. 
To  think  how  mony  counsels  sweet. 
How  mony  lengthen'd,  sage  advices, 
The  husband  frae  the  wife  despises ! 

But  to  our  tale :  Ae  market  night, 
Tarn  had  got  planted  unco  right ; 
Fast  by  an  ingle,  bleezing  finely, 
Wi'  reaming  swats,  that  drank  divinely ; 
And  at  his  elbow  souter  Johnny, 
His  ancient,  trusty,  drouthy  crony ; 
Tam  lo'ed  him  like  a  vera  brither ; 
They  had  been  fou  for  weeks  thegither. 
The  night  drave  on  wi'  sangs  an'  clatter ; 
And  aye  the  ale  was  growing  better ; 
The  landlady  and  Tam  grew  gracious, 
Wi'  favours  secret,  sweet,  and  precious : 
The  souter  tauld  his  queerest  stories  ; 
The  landlord's  laugh  was  ready  chorus : 
The  storm  without  might  rair  and  rustle, 
Tam  did  na  mind  the  storm  a  whistle. 

Care,  mad  to  see  a  man  sae  happy. 
E'en  drown'd  himself  amang  the  nappy  ; 
As  bees  flee  hame  wi'  lades  o'  treasure, 
The  minutes  wing'd  their  way  wi'  pleasure ; 
Kings  may  be  blest,  but  Tam  was  glorious, 
O'er  a'  the  ills  o'  life  victorious. 

But  pleasures  are  like  poppies  spread, 
You  seize  the  flower,  its  bloom  is  shed ; 
Or  like  the  snow-falls  in  the  river, 
A  moment  white — then  melts  for  ever ; 
Or  like  the  borealis  race, 
That  flit  ere  you  can  point  their  place  ; 
Or  like  the  rainbow's  lovely  form 
Evanishing  amid  the  storm. — 
Nae  man  can  tether  time  or  tide  ; 
The  hour  approaches  Tam  maun  ride  5 
That  hour,  0'  night's  black  arch  the  key-stane, 
That  dreary  hour  he  mounts  his  beast  in ; 
And  sic  a  night  he  taks  the  road  m. 
As  ne'er  poor  sinner  was  abroad  in. 

The  wind  blew  as  'twad  blawn  its  last ; 
The  rattling  showers  rose  on  the  blast ; 
The  speedy  gleams  the  darkness  swallow'd ; 
Loud,  deep,  and  lang  the  thunder  bellow'd : 
That  night,  a  child  might  understand, 
The  deil  had  business  on  his  hand. 

Weel  mounted  on  his  gray  mare  Meg, 
A  better  never  lifted  leg, 
Tam  skelpit  on  through  dub  and  mire. 
Despising  wind,  and  rain,  and  fire ; 
Whiles  holding  fast  his  guid  blue  bonnet : 
Whiles  crooning  o'er  some  auld  Scots  sonnet ; 
Whiles  glowering  round  wi'  prudent  cares, 
Lest  bogles  catch  him  unawares ; 
Kirk- Alio  way  was  drawing  nigh, 
.  Whare  ghaists  and  howlets  nightly  cry. — 

By  this  time  he  was  cross  the  ford, 
Whare  in  the  snaw  the  chapman  smoor'd ; 
And  past  the  birks  an'  meikle  stane, 
Whare  drunken  Charlie  brak's  neck  bane  ; 
And  through  the  whins,  and  by  the  cairn, 
Whare  hunters  fand  the  murder'd  bairn ; 


And  near  the  thorn,  aboon  the  well, 
Whare  Mungo's  mither  hang'd  hersel. — 
Before  him  Doon  pours  all  his  floods ; 
The  doubling  storm  roars  through  the  woods  i 
The  lightnings  flash  from  pole  to  pole  ; 
Near  and  more  near  the  thunders  roll ; 
When,  glimmering  through  the  groaning  trees, 
Kirk-Alloway  seem'd  in  a  bleeze  ; 
Through  ilka  bore  the  beams  were  glancing  j 
And  loud  resounded  mirth  and  dancing. — 

Inspiring  bold  John  Barleycorn  ! 
What  dangers  thou  canst  make  us  scorn  I 
Wi'  tippenny  we  fear  nae  evil ; 
Wi'  usquabae  we'll  face  the  devil ! — 
The  swats  sae  reara'd  in  Tammie's  noddle, 
Fair  play,  he  cared  na  deils  a  boddle. 
But  Maggie  stood  right  sair  astonish'd. 
Till,  by  the  heel  and  hand  admonish'd, 
She  ventured  forward  on  the  light ; 
And,  vow  !  Tam  saw  an  unco  sight ! 
Warlocks  and  \yitches  in  a  dance  ; 
Nae  cotillon  brent  new  frae  France, 
But  hornpipes,  jigs,  strathspeys,  and  reels. 
Put  life  and  mettle  in  their  heels. 
A  winnock-bunker  in  the  east. 
There  sat  auld  Nick,  in  shape  o'  beast ; 
A  towzie  tyke,  black,  grim,  and  large. 
To  gie  them  music  was  his  charge  : 
He  screw 'd  the  pipes,  and  gart  them  skirl. 
Till  roof  and  rafters  a'  did  dirl. — 
Coffins  stood  round  like  open  presses, 
That  shaw'd  the  dead  in  their  last  dresses; 
And  by  some  devilish  cantraip  slight. 
Each  in  its  cauld  hand  held  a  light, — 
By  which  heroic  Tam  was  able 
To  note  upon  the  haly  table, 
A  murderer's  banes  in  gibbet  aims  ; 
Twa  span  lang,  wee,  unchristen'd  bairns  ; 
A  thief  new  cutted  frae  a  rape, 
Wi'  his  last  gasp  his  gab  did  gape ; 
Five  tomahawks,  wi'  bluid  red  rusted  ; 
Five  cimiters,  wi'  murder  crusted  ; 
A  garter,  which  a  babe  had  strangled ; 
A  knife,  a  father's  throat  had  mangled. 
Whom  his  ain  son  0'  life  bereft. 
The  gray  hairs  yet  stack  to  the  heft ; 
Wi'  mair  0'  horrible  and  awfu'. 
Which  e'en  to  name  wad  be  unlawfu'. 

As  Tammie  glowr'd,  amazed  and  curious. 
The  mirth  and  fun  grew  fast  and  furious : 
The  piper  loud  and  louder  blew ; 
The  dancers  quick  and  quicker  flew ; 
They  reel'd,  they  set,  they  cross'd,  they  cleekit 
Till  ilka  cariin  swat  and  reekit. 
And  coost  her  duddies  to  the  wark, 
And  linket  at  it  in  her  sark  ! 

Now  Tam,  0  Tam !  had  they  been  queans, 
A'  plump  and  strapping,  in  their  teens  ; 
Their  sarks,  instead  0'  creeshie  flannen, 
Been  snaw-white  seventeen  hunder  linen ! 
Thir  breeks  0'  mine,  my  only  pair. 
That  ance  were  plush,  0'  guid  blue  hair, 
I  wad  hae  gien  them  aflf  my  hurdles 
For  ae  blink  0'  the  bonnie  burdies. 


SONGS, 


225 


But  wither'd  beldams,  auld  and  droll, 
Rigwoodie  hags  wad  spcan  a  foal, 
Lowping  an'  flinging  on  a  crummock, 
T  wonder  didna  turn  thy  stomach. 

But  Tam  kenn'd  what  was  what  fu'  brawlie. 
There  was  ae  winsome  wench  and  walie. 
That  night  enlisted  in  the  core, 
(Lang  after  kenn'd  on  Carrick  shore  ! 
For  mony  a  beast  to  dead  she  shot. 
And  perish'd  mony  a  bonnie  boat, 
And  shook  baith  raeikle  corn  and  bear. 
And  kept  the  country  side  in  fear.) 
Her  cuttie  sark,  o'  Paisley  ham. 
That  while  a  lassie  she  had  worn, 
In  longitude  though  sorely  scanty, 
It  was  her  best,  and  she  was  vauntie. — 
Ah  !  little  kenn'd  thy  reverend  grannie, 
That  sark  she  coft  for  her  wee  Nannie, 
Wi'  twa  pund  Scots,  ('twas  a'  her  riches,) 
Wad  ever  graced  a  dance  of  witches  I 

But  here  my  muse  her  wing  maun  cour ; 
Sic  flights  are  far  beyond  her  power  ; 
To  sing  how  Nannie  lap  and  flang, 
(A  souple  jade  she  was  and  Strang,) 
And  how  Tam  stood  like  ane  bewitch'd, 
And  thought  his  very  e'en  enrich'd  ; 
E'en  Satan  glowr'd,  and  fidged  fu'  fain. 
And  hotch'd  and  blew  wi'  might  and  main : 
Till  first  ae  caper,  syne  anither, 
Tam  tint  his  reason  a'  thegither, 
And  roars  out,  "  Weel  done,  cutty-sark  !" 
And  in  an  instant  all  was  dark : 
And  scarcely  had  he  Maggie  rallied. 
When  out  the  hellish  legion  sallied. 

As  bees  bizz  out  wi'  angry  fyke. 
When  plundering  herds  assail  their  byke  ; 
As  open  pussie's  mortal  foes. 
When,  pop  !  she  starts  before  their  nose ; 
As  eager  runs  the  market-crowd. 
When  "  Catch  the  thief!"  resounds  aloud  ; 
So  Maggie  runs,  the  witches  follow. 
Wi'  mony  an  eldritch  skreech  and  hollow. 

Ah,  Tam  !  ah,  Tam  !  thou'll  get  thy  fairin ! 
In  hell  they'll  roast  thee  like  a  herrin  ! 
In  vain  thy  Kate  awaits  thy  comin  ! 
Kate  soon  will  be  a  wofu'  woman  ! 
Now  do  thy  speedy  utmost,  Meg, 
And  win  the  key-stane*  of  the  brig ; 
There  at  them  thou  thy  tail  may  toss, 
A  running  stream  they  dare  na  cross. 
But  ere  the  key-stane  she  could  make. 
The  fient  a  tail  she  had  to  shake  ! 
For  Nannie,  far  before  the  rest. 
Hard  upon  noble  Maggie  prest, 
And  flew  at  Tam  wi'  furious  ettle ; 
But  little  wist  she  Maggie's  mettle— 


♦  It  is  a  well  known  fact  that  witches,  or  any  evil  spirits, 
have  no  power  to  follow  a  poor  wight  any  farther  than 
the  middle  of  the  next  running  stream.— It  may  be  proper 
likewise  to  mention  to  the  benighted  traveller,  that  when 
he  falls  in  with  bogles,  whatever  danger  may  be  in  his 
going  forward,  there  is  much  more  hazard  in  turnin'^ 
Dack. 

Vol.  III.— 15 


Ae  spring  brought  off  her  master  hale. 
But  left  behind  her  ain  gray  tail: 
The  carlin  claught  her  by  the  rtmip. 
And  left  poor  Maggie  scarce  a  stump. 

Now,  wha  this  tale  o'  truth  shall  read, 
Ilk  man  and  mother's  son,  tak  heed  : 
Whene'er  to  drink  you  are  inclined, 
Or  cutty-sarks  run  in  your  mind. 
Think,  ye  may  buy  the  joys  o'er  dear,— 
Remember  Tam  O'Shanter's  mare. 


SONGS. 


THE  LEA-RIG. 

When  o'er  the  hill  the  eastern  star, 

Tells  bughtin-time  is  near,  my  jo  ; 
And  owsen  frae  the  furrow'd  field. 

Return  sae  dowf  and  weary,  0  ; 
Down  by  the  burn,  where  scented  birks, 

Wi'  dew  are  hanging  clear,  my  jo, 
I'll  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig. 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O. 

In  mirkest  glen,  at  midnight  hour, 

I'd  rove  and  ne'er  be  eerie,  0, 
If  through  that  glen,  I  gaed  to  thee. 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  0. 
Although  the  night  were  ne'er  sae  wild, 

And  I  were  ne'er  sae  wearie,  0, 
I'd  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  O. 

The  hunter  lo'es  the  morning  sun. 

To  rouse  the  mountain  deer,  my  jo, 
At  noon  the  fisher  seeks  the  glen. 

Along  the  burn  to  steer,  my  jo  ; 
Gie  me  the  hour  o'  gloamin  gray. 

It  maks  my  heart  sae  cheery,  0, 
To  meet  thee  on  the  lea-rig, 

My  ain  kind  dearie,  0. 


TO  MARY. 
Tune—"  Ewe-bughts,  Marlon." 

Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 
And  leave  auld  Scotia's  shore  ? 

Will  ye  go  to  the  Indies,  my  Mary, 
Across  th'  Atlantic's  roar  ? 

0  sweet  grows  the  lime  and  the  orange, 
And  the  apple  on  the  pine ; 

But  a'  the  charms  o'  the  ladies. 
Can  never  equal  thine. 

1  hae  sworn  by  the  heavens  to  my  Marjr, 

I  hae  sworn  by  the  heavens  to  be  true } 
And  sae  may  the  heavens  forget  me, 
When  I  forget  my  vow  I 

0  plight  me  your  faith,  my  Marj', 
And  plight  me  your  lily-white  hand ; 

0  plight  me  your  faith,  my  Mary^ 
Before  I  leave  Scotia's  stiand. 


Que 


BURNS. 


We  hae  plighted  our  troth,  my  Mary, 

In  mutual  affection  to  join, 
And  curst  be  tlie  cause  that  shall  part  us  I 

The  hour,  and  the  moment  o'  time  ! 


MY  WIFE'S  A  WINSOME  WEE  THING. 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing, 
She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing. 
She  is  a  bonnie  wee  thing, 
This  sweet  wee  wife  o'  mine. 

I  never  saw  a  fairer, 

I  never  lo'ed  a  dearer. 

And  niest  my  heart  I'll  wear  her, 

For  fear  my  jewel  tine. 

She  is  a  winsome  wee  thing. 
She  is  a  handsome  wee  thing. 
She  is  a  bonnie  wee  thing, 
This  sweet  wee  wife  o'  mine. 

The  warld's  wrack  we  share  o't, 
The  warstle  and  the  care  o't ; 
Wi'  her  I'll  blithly  bear  it, 
And  think  my  lot  divine. 


BONNIE    LESLEY. 

O  SAW  ye  bonnie  Lesley 

As  she  gaed  o'er  the  border  r 

She's  gane,  lilfe  Alexander, 

To  spread  her  conquests  farther. 

To  see  her  is  to  love  her, 
And  love  but  her  for  ever ; 

For  nature  made  her  what  she  is. 
And  ne'er  made  sic  anither  ! 

Thou  art  a  queen,  fair  Lesley, 
Thy  subjects  we,  before  thee  ; 

Thou  art  divine,  fair  Lesley, 
The  hearts  o'  men  adore  thee. 

The  deil  he  could  na  scaith  thee. 
Or  aught  that  wad  belang  thee ; 

He'd  look  into  thy  bonnie  face. 
And  say,  "  I  canna  wrang  thee." 

The  powers  aboon  will  tent  thee ; 

Misfortune  sha'na  steer  thee  ; 
Thou'rt  like  themselves  sae  lovely 

That  ill  they'll  ne'er  let  near  thee. 

Return  again,  fair  Lesley, 

Return  to  Caledonie  ! 
That  we  may  brag,  we  hae  a  lass 

There's  nane  again  sae  bonnie. 


HIGHLAND   MARY. 
Tune—"  Catharine  Ogie." 

Ye  banks,  and  braes,  and  streams  around. 

The  castle  o'  Montgomery, 
Green  be  your  woods,  and  fair  your  flowers, 

Your  waters  never  drumlie  ! 
There  simmer  first  unfauld  her  robes. 

And  there  the  langest  tarry ; 
For  there  I  took  the  last  fareweel  ■ 

O'  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 


How  sweetly  bloom'd  the  gay  green  birk, 

How  rich  the  hawthorn's  blossom  ; 
As  underneath  their  fragrant  shade 

I  clasped  her  to  my  bosom  ! 
The  golden  hours  on  angel  wings 

Flew  o'er  me  and  my  dearie ; 
For  dear  to  me,  as  light  and  life. 

Was  my  sweet  Highland  Mary. 

Wi'  mony  a  vow,  and  lock'd  embrace, 

Our  parting  was  f u'  tender ; 
And  pledging  aft  to  meet  again. 

We  tore  oursels  asunder  ; 
But  0  !  fell  death's  untimely  frost. 

That  nipt  my  flower  sae  early  ! 
Now  green's  the  sod,  and  cauld's  the  clay, 

That  wraps  my  Highland  Mary  ! 

O  pale,  pale  now,  those  rosy  lips 

I  aft  hae  kiss'd  sae  fondly ! 
And  closed  for  aye  the  sparkling  glance 

That  dwelt  on  me  sae  kindly  ! 
And  mouldering  now  in  silent  dust 

That  heart  that  loved  me  dearly  ! 
But  still  within  my  bosom's  core 

Shall  live  my  Highland  Mary. 


AULD  ROB  MORRIS. 

There's  auld  Rob  Morris  that  wons  in  yon  glen, 
He's  the  king  o'  guid  fellows  and  wale  of  auld  men 
He  has  gowd  in  his  coffers,  he  has  owsen  and  kine, 
And  ae  bonnie  lassie,  his  darling  and  mine. 

She's  fresh  as  the  morning,  the  fairest  in  May ; 
She's  sweet  as  the  evening  amang  the  new  hay ; 
As  blithe  and  as  artless  as  the  lambs  on.  the  lea, 
And  dear  to  my  heart  as  the  light  to  my  e'e. 

But  0 !  she's  an  heiress,  auld  Robin's  a  laird. 
And  my  daddie  has  naught  but  a  cot-house  and  yard 
A  wooer  like  me  maunna  hope  to  come  speed. 
The  wounds  I  must  hide  that  will  soon  be  my  deac 

The  day  comes  to  me,  but  delight  brings  me  nane 
The  night  comes  to  me,  but  my  rest  it  is  gane : 
I  wander  my  lane  like  a  night-troubled  ghaist, 
And  I  sigh  as  my  heart  it  would  burst  in  my  breasi 

0,  had  she  been  but  of  lower  degree, 
I  then  might  hae  hoped  she  wad  smiled  upon  me  ! 
0,  how  past  describing  had  then  been  my  bliss. 
As  now  my  distraction  no  words  can  express  ! 


DUNCAN  GRAY. 

Duncan  Gray  came  here  to  woo. 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 
On  blithe  yule  night  when  we  were  fou. 
Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 
Maggie  coost  her  head  fu'  high 
Look'd  asklent  and  unco  skeigh, 
Gart  poor  Duncan  stand  abeigh  ; 

Ha,  ha,  the  wooing  o't. 

Duncan  fleech'd,  and  Duncan  pray'd  j 

Ha,  ha,  &c. 
Meg  was  deaf  as  Ailsa  Craig, 

Ha,  ha,  &c. 


SONGS. 


22? 


Duncan  sigh'd  baith  out  and  in, 
Grat  his  een  baith  bleer't  and  blin', 
Spak  o'  lowpin  owre  a  linn  ; 
Ha,  ha,  &c. 

Time  and  chance  are  but  a  tide. 
Ha,  ha,  &c. 

Slighted  love  is  sair  to  bide, 
Ha,  ha,  &c. 

Shall  I,  like  a  fool,  quoth  he. 

For  a  haughty  hizzie  die  ? 

She  may  gae  to— France  for  me  ! 
Ha,  ha,  &c. 

How  it  comes  let  doctors  tell. 
Ha,  ha,  &c. 
Meg  grew  sick — as  he  giew  heal. 

Ha,  ha,  &c. 
Something  in  her  bosom  wrings. 
For  relief  a  sigh  she  brings  ; 
And  0,  her  een,  they  spak  sic  things 
Ha,  ha,  &c. 

Duncan  was  a  lad  o'  grace. 

Ha,  ha,  &c. 

Maggie's  was  a  piteous  case. 
Ha,  ha,  &c. 

Duncan  could  na  be  her  death, 

Swelling  pity  smoor'd  his  wrath  ; 

Now  they're  crouse  and  canty  baith. 
Ha,  ha,  &c. 


SONG. 

Tune—"  I  had  a  horae." 

0  POORTiTH  cauld,  and  restless  love, 

Ye  wreck  my  peace  between  ye  ; 
Yet  poortith  a'  I  could  forgive, 

An'  'twere  na  for  my  Jeanie. 
0  why  should  fate  sic  pleasure  have, 

Life's  dearest  bands  untwining  ? 
Or  why  sae  sweet  a  flower  as  love 

Depend  on  fortune's  shining  ? 

This  warld's  wealth  when  I  think  on, 
Its  pride,  and  a'  the  lave  o't ; 

Fie,  fie  on  silly  coward  man. 
That  he  should  be  the  slave  o't. 
0  why,  &c. 

Her  een  sae  bonnie  blue  betray 
How  she  repays  my  passion  ; 

But  prudence  is  her  o'erword  aye, 
She  talks  of  rank  and  fashion. 
O  why,  &c. 

0  wha  can  prudence  think  upon. 

And  sic  a  lassie  by  him  ? 
0  wha  can  prudence  think  upon. 

And  sae  in  love  as  I  am  ? 
0  why,  &c. 

How  blest  the  humble  cotter's  fate  I 

He  wooes  his  simple  dearie  ; 
The  sillie  bogles,  wealth  and  state. 

Can  never  make  them  eerie. 
0  why  should  fate  sic  pleasure  have. 

Life's  dearest  bands  untwining  ? 
Or  why  sae  sweet  a  flower  as  love 

Depend  on  fortune's  shining  ? 


GALLA  WATER. 

There's  braw,  braw  lads  on  Yarrow  braes. 
That  wander  through  the  blooming  heather : 

But  Yarrow  braes,  nor  Ettric  shaws. 
Can  match  the  lads  o'  Galla  water. 

But  there  is  ane,  a  secret  ane, 
Aboon  them  a'  I  lo'e  him  better ; 

And  I'll  be  his,  and  he'll  be  mine, 
The  bonnie  lad  o'  Galla  water. 

Although  his  daddie  was  nae  laird, 
And  though  I  hae  nae  meikle  tocher  ; 

Yet  rich  in  kindest,  truest  love. 

We'll  tent  our  flocks  by  Galla  water. 

It  ne'er  was  wealth,  it  ne'er  was  wealth, 
That  coft  contentment,  peace,  or  pleasure. 

The  bands  and  bliss  o'  mutual  love, 
O  that's  the  chiefest  warld's  treasure ! 


LORD  GREGORY. 

0  MIRK,  mirk  is  this  midnight  hour. 

And  loud  the  tempest's  roar  ; 
A  waefu'  wanderer  seeks  thy  tower, 

Lord  Gregory,  ope  thy  door. 

An  exile  frae  her  father's  ha'. 

And  a'  for  loving  thee ; 
At  least  some  pity  on  me  shaw, 

If  love  it  may  na  be. 

Lord  Gregory,  mind'st  thou  not  the  grove. 

By  bonnie  Irwine  side, 
Where  first  I  own'd  that  virgin  love 

I  lang,  lang  had  denied. 

How  aften  didst  thou  pledge  and  vow. 

Thou  wad  for  aye  be  mine  ! 
And  my  fond  heart,  itsel  sae  true. 

It  ne'er  mistrusted  thine. 

Hard  is  thy  heart,  Lord  Gregory, 

And  flinty  is  thy  breast : 
Thou  dart  of  heaven  that  flashest  by, 

0  wilt  thou  give  me  rest ! 

Ye  mustering  thunders  from  above, 

Your  willing  victim  see  ! 
But  spare  and  pardon  my  fause  love. 

His  wrangs  to  heaven  and  me  I 


MARY  MORISON. 
Tune—"  Bide  ye  yet." 

O  Mary,  at  thy  window  be. 

It  is  the  wish'd,  the  trysted  hour  ! 
Those  smiles  and  glances  let  me  sec. 

That  make  the  miser's  treasure  poor  s 
How  blithely  wad  I  bide  the  stoure, 

A  weary  slave  frae  sun  to  sun  ; 
Could  I  the  rich  reward  secure. 

The  lovely  Mary  Morison. 
Yestreen  when  to  the  trembling  string, 

The  dance  gaed  through  the  lighted  ha', 
To  thee  my  fancy  took  its  wing, 

I  sat,  but  neither  heard  or  saw : 


S2d 


BURNS. 


Though  this  was  fair,  and  that  was  hraw, 
And  yon  the  toast  of  a'  the  town, 

I  sigh'd,  and  said  amang  them  a', 
"  Ye  are  na  Mary  Morison." 

0  Mary,  canst  thou  wreck  his  peace, 

Wha  for  thy  sake  wad  gladly  die  ? 
Or  canst  thou  break  that  heart  of  his, 

Whase  only  fault  is  loving  thee  ? 
If  love  for  love  thou  wilt  na  gie, 

At  least  be  pity  to  me  shown  ! 
A  thought  ungentle  canna  be 

The  thought  o'  Mary  Morison. 


WANDERING   WILLIE. 

Here  awa,  there  awa,  wandering  Willie, 
Here  awa,  there  awa,  haud  awa  hame  ; 

Come  to  my  bosom  my  ain  only  dearie. 

Tell  me  thou  bringst  me  my  Willie  the  same. 

W^inter  winds  blew  loud  and  cauld  at  our  parting ; 

Fears  for  my  Willie  brought  tears  in  my  e'e : 
Welcome  now  simmer,  and  welcome  my  Willie, 

The  smimer  to  nature,  my  Willie  to  me. 

Rest,  ye  wild  storms,  in  the  cave  of  your  slumbers. 
.     How  your  dread  howling  a  lover  alarms  ! 
Wauken,  ye  breezes,  row  gently,  ye  billows. 
And  waft  my  dear  laddie  ance  mair  to  my  arms. 

But  0  !  if  he's  faithless,  and  minds  na  his  Nannie, 
Flow  still  between  us,  thou  wide-roaring  main  ; 

May  I  never  see  it,  may  I  never  trow  it. 

But,  dying,  believe  that  my  Willie's  my  ain  ! 


^       JESSIE. 
Tune—"  Bonny  Dundee." 
True  hearted  was  he,  the  sad  swain  o'  the  Yarrow. 

And  fair  are  the  maids  on  the  banks  o'  the  Ayr, 
But  by  the  sweet  side  o'  the  Nith's  winding  river. 

Are  lovers  as  faithful,  and  maidens  as  fair : 
To  equal  young  Jessie  seek  Scotland  all  over  ; 

To  equal  young  Jessie  you  seek  it  in  vain  ; 
Grace,  beauty,  and  elegance  fetter  her  lover, 

And  maidenly  modesty  fixes  the  chain. 

0  fresh  is  the  rose  in  the  gay,  dewy  morning. 
And  sweet  is  the  lily  at  evening  close  ; 

But  in  the  fair  presence  o'  lovely  young  Jessie, 
Unseen  is  the  lily,  unheeded  the  rose. 

Love  sits  in  her  smile,  a  wizard  insnaring ; 

•    Enthroned  in  her  e'en  he  delivers  his  law ; 

And  still  to  her  charms  she  alone  is  a  stranger ! 
Her  modest  demeanour's  the  jewel  of  a'. 


WHEN  WILD  WAR'S  DEADLY  BLAST  WAS 
BLAWN. 

Am—"  The  mill  mill  O." 
When  wild  war's  deadly  blast  was  blawn, 

And  gentle  peace  returning, 
Wi'  mony  a  sweet  babe  fatherless. 

And  mony  a  widow  mourning, 
I  left  the  lines  and  tented  field. 

Where  lang  I'd  been  a  lodger. 
My  humble  knapsack  a'  my  wealth,        * 

A  poor  and  honest  sodger. 


A  leal,  light  heart  was  in  my  breast, 

My  hand  unstain'd  wi'  plunder ; 
And  for  fair  Scotia's  hame  again, 

I  cheery  on  did  wander. 
I  thought  upon  the  banks  o'  Coil, 

I  thought  upon  my  Nancy, 
I  thought  upon  the  witching  smile 

That  caught  my  youthful  fancy. 
At  length  I  reach'd  the  bonnie  glen, 

Where  early  life  I  sported  ; 
I  pass'd  the  mill  and  trysling  thorn. 

Where  Nancy  aft  I  courted : 
Wha  spied  I  but  my  ain  dear  maid, 

Down  by  her  mother's  dwelling  ! 
And  turn'd  me  round  to  hide  the  flood 

That  in  my  e'en  was  swelling. 

Wi'  alter'd  voice,  quoth  I,  Sweet  lass, 
Sweet  as  yon  hawthorn's  blossom, 

0  !  happy,  happy  may  he  be, 
That's  dearest  to  thy  bosom  ! 

My  purse  is  light,  I've  far  to  gang. 
And  fain  wad  be  thy  lodger ; 

I've  served  my  king  and  country  lang, 
Take  pity  on  a  sodger. 

Sae  wistfully  she  gazed  on  me. 

And  lovelier  was  than  ever : 
Quo'  she,  A  sodger  ance  I  lo'ed. 

Forget  him  shall  I  never : 
Our  humble  cot  and  hamely  fare. 

Ye  freely  shall  partake  it. 
That  gallant  badge,  the  dear  cockade. 

Ye 're  welcome  for  the  sake  o't. 

She  gazed — she  redden 'd  like  a  rose — 

Syne  pale  like  ony  lily ; 
She  sank  within  my  arms,  and  cried, 

Art  thou  my  ain  dear  Willie  ? 
By  Him  who  made  yon  sun  and  skj'— 

By  whom  true  love's  regarded, 

1  am  the  man ;  and  thus  may  still 

True  lovers  be  rewarded. 

The  wars  are  o'er,  and  I'm  come  hame. 

And  find  thee  still  true  hearted ; 
Though  poor  in  gear,  we're  rich  in  love, 

And  mair  we'se  ne'er  be  parted. 
Quo'  she,  My  grandsire  left  me  gowd, 

A  mailcn  plenish'd  fairly ; 
And  come,  my  faithfu'  sodger  lad, 

Thou'rt  welcome  to  it  dearly  ! 

For  gold  the  merchant  ploughs  the  maia 

The  farmer  ploughs  the  manor ; 
But  glory  is  the  sodger's  prize ; 

The  sodger's  wealth  is  honour ; 
The  brave,  poor  sodger  ne'er  despise. 

Nor  count  him  as  a  stranger. 
Remember  he's  his  country's  stay 

In  day  and  hour  of  danger. 


SONG. 

Tune—"  Logan  Water." 

0  Logan,  SAveetly  didst  thou  glide. 
That  day  I  was  my  Willie's  bride ; 
And  years  sinsyne  has  o'er  us  run. 
Like  Logan  to  the  simmer  sun. 


SONGS. 


•229 


But  now  thy  flowery  banks  appear 

But  did  na  Jeanie's  heart  loup  light, 

Like  driunlie  winter,  dark  and  drear, 

And  did  na  joy  olink  in  her  e'e, 

While  my  dear  lad  maun  face  his  faes, 

As  Robie  tauld  a  tale  o'  love. 

Far,  far  frae  me  and  Logan  braes. 

Ae  e'enin  on  the  lily  lea  ? 

Again  the  merry  month  o'  May 

The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west, 

Has  made  our  hills  and  valleys  gay ; 

The  birds  sang  sweet  in  ilka  grove ; 

The  birds  rejoice  in  leafy  bowei-s. 

His  cheek  to  hers  he  fondly  prest, 

The  bees  hum  round  the  breathing  flowers : 

And  whisper'd  thus  his  tale  o'  love : 

Blithe  morning  lifts  his  rosy  eye, 

0  Jeanie  fair,  I  lo'e  thee  dear ; 

And  evening's  tears  are  tears  of  joy: 

0  canst  thou  think  to  fancy  me  ! 

My  soul,  delightless,  a'  surveys, 

Or  wilt  thou  leave  thy  mammie's  cot, 

While  Willie's  far  frae  Logan  braes. 

And  learn  to  tent  the  farms  wi'  me  r 

Within  yon  milk-white  hawthorn  bush, 

At  bam  or  byre  thou  shalt  na  drudge, 

Amang  her  nestlings  sits  the  thrush  ; 

Or  naething  else  to  trouble  thee ; 

Her  faithfu'  mate  will  share  her  toil. 

But  stray  amang  the  heather-bells, 

Or  wi'  his  song  her  cares  beguile, 

And  tent  the  waving  corn  wi'  me. 

But  I,  wi'  my  sweet  nurslings  here, 

Now  what  could  artless  Jeanie  do  ? 

Nae  mate  to  help,  nae  mate  to  cheer. 

She  had  nae  will  to  say  him  na  : 

Pass  widow'd  nights  and  joj'less  days, 

At  length  she  blush'd  a  sweet  consent, 

While  Willie's  far  frae  Logan  braes  ! 

t3                                                                                                                  ' 

And  love  was  aye  between  them  twa. 

0  wae  upon  you,  men  o*  state. 
That  brethren  rouse  to  deadly  hate  ! 

As  ye  make  mony  a  fond  heart  mourn. 

AULD  LANG  SYNE. 

Sae  may  it  on  your  heads  return  ! 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 

How  can  your  flinty  hearts  enjoy 

And  never  brought  to  min'? 

The  widow's  tears,  the  orphan's  cry  ? 

Should  auld  acquaintance  be  forgot. 

But  soon  may  peace  bring  happy  days. 

And  days  o'  lang  Syne  ? 

And  Willie  hame  to  Logan  braes  ! 

CHORUS. 

For  auld  lang  syne,  my  dear, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

BONNIE  JEAN. 

We'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 

There  was  a  lass,  and  she  was  fair, 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

At  kirk  and  market  to  be  seen. 

We  twa  hae  ran  about  the  braes, 

When  a'  the  fairest  maids  were  met, 

And  pu't  the  gowans  fine  ; 
But  we've  wander'd  mony  a  weary  foot, 

The  fairest  maid  was  bonnie  Jean. 

And  aye  she  wrought  her  mammie's  wark, 

Sin  auld  lang  syne. 

And  aye  she  sang  sae  merrilie : 

For  auld,  &c. 

The  blithest  bird  upon  the  bush 

We  twa  hae  paidl't  i'  the  bum, 

Had  ne'er  a  lighter  heart  than  she. 

Frae  momin  sun  till  dine  : 

But  hawks  will  rob  the  tender  joys 

But  seas  between  us  braid  hae  roar'd. 

That  bless  the  little  lintwhite's  nest; 

Sin  auld  lang  syne. 
For  auld,  &c. 

And  frost  will  blight  the  fairest  flowers, 

And  love  will  break  the  soundest  rest. 

And  here's  a  hand,  my  trusty  fier, 

And  gie's  a  hand  o'  thine ; 
And  we'll  tak  a  right  guid  willie  waught, 
For  auld  lang  syne. 
For  auld,  &c. 

Young  Robic  was  the  brawest  lad, 

The  flower  and  pride  o'  a'  the  glen ; 
And  he  had  owsen,  sheep,  and  kye, 

And  wanton  naigies  nine  or  ten. 

And  surely  ye'll  be  your  pint-stowp. 

He  gaed  wi'  Jeanie  to  the  tryste, 

And  surely  I'll  be  mine  ; 

He  danced  wi'  Jeanie  on  the  down ; 

And  we'll  tak  a  cup  o'  kindness  yet, 

And  lang  ere  witless  Jeanie  wist. 

For  auld  lang  syne. 

Her  heart  was  tint,  her  peace  was  stown 

For  auld,  &c. 

As  in  the  bosom  o'  the  stream, 

The  moonbeam  dwells  at  dewy  e'en ; 

So,  trembling,  pure,  was  tender  love, 

BANNOCKBURN. 

Within  the  breast  o'  bonnie  Jean. 

ROBERT  BRUCE's  ADDRESS  TO  HIS  ARMY. 

And  now  she  works  her  mammie's  wark, 

Scots,  wha  hae  wi'  Wallace  bled. 

And  aye  she  sighs  wi'  care  and  pain  ; 

Scots,  wham  Bruce  hasaftcn  led, 

Ye  wist  na  what  her  ail  migli'  be, 

Welcome  to  your  gory  bed. 

Or  what  wad  mak  her  weel  again. 

Or  to  glorious  victory. 

230 


BURNS. 


Now's  the  day  and  now's  the  hour ; 

See  the  front  o'  battle  lower ; 

See  approach  proud  Edward's  power ; 

Edward  !  chains  and  slavery  ! 
Wha  will  be  a  traitor  knave  ?. 
Wha  can  fill  a  coward's  grave  ? 
Wha  sae  base  as  be  a  slave  ? 

Traitor !  coward  J  turn  and  flee  ! 
Wha  for  Scotland's  king  and  law 
Freedom's  sword  will  strongly  draw, 
Freeman  stand,  or  freeman  fa', 

Caledonian  !  on  wi'  me  ! 
By  oppression's  woes  and  pains  ! 
By  your  sons  in  servile  chains  ! 
We  will  drain  our  dearest  veins. 

But  they  shall  be— shall  be  free  ! 
Lay  the  proud  usurpers  low  ! 
Tyrants  fall  in  every  foe  ! 
Liberty's  in  every  blow  ! 

Forward  !  let  us  do,  or  die  ! 


FOR  A'  THAT,  AND  A'  THAT. 

Is  there,  for  honest  poverty, 

That  hangs  his  head,  and  a'  that  j 
The  coward  slave,  we  pass  him  by. 

We  dare  be  poor  for  a'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

Our  toil's  obscure  and  a'  that, 
The  rank  is  but  the  guinea  stamp. 
The  man's  the  gowd  for  a'  that. 
What  though  on  hamely  fare  we  dine. 

Wear  hoddin  gray,  and  a'  that ; 
Gie  fools  their  silks,  and  knaves  their  wine, 

A  man's  a  man  for  a'  that ; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  tinsel  show,  and  a'  that ; 
The  honest  man,  though  e'er  sae  poor. 

Is  king  o'  men  for  a'  that. 
Ye  see  yon  birkic,  ca'd  a  lord, 

Wha  struts,  and  stares,  and  a'  that ; 
Though  hundreds  worship  at  his  word, 

He's  but  a  coof  for  a'  that ; 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

His  riband,  star,  and  a»  that. 
The  man  of  independent  mind. 

He  looks  and  laughs  at  a'  that. 
A  prince  can  mak  a  belted  knight, 

A  marquis,  duke,  and  a'  that ; 
But  an  honest  man's  aboon  his  might, 

Guid  faith  he  mauna  fa'  that ! 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that, 

Their  dignities,  and  a'  that. 
The  pith  o'  sense,  and  pride  o'  worth. 

Are  higher  ranks  than  a'  that. 
Then  let  us  pray  that  come  it  may. 

As  come  it  will  for  a'  that. 
That  sense  and  worth,  o'er  a'  the  earthy 

May  bear  the  gree,  and  a'  that. 
For  a'  that,  and  a'  that. 

It's  coming  yet,  for  a'  that, 
That  man  to  man,  the  warld  o'er. 
Shall  brothers  be  for  a'  thai. 


SCOTTISH  BALLAD. 

Tune—"  The  Lothian  Lassie." 

Last  May  a  braw  wooer  cam  down  the  lang  glen, 

And  sair  wi'  his  love  he  did  deave  me  ; 
I  said  there  was  nothing  I  hated  like  mea; 

The  deuce  gae  wi'm,  to  believe  me,  believe  me, 

The  deuce  gae  wi'm,  to  believe  me. 
He  spak  o'  the  darts  in  my  bonnie  black  e'en, 

And  vow'd  for  my  love  he  was  dying ; 
I  said  he  might  die  when  he  liked,  for  Jean ; 

The  Lord  forgie  me  for  lying,  for  lying. 

The  Lord  forgie  me  for  lying ! 
A  weel-stocked  mailen,  himsel  for  the  laird. 

And  marriage  aff-hand,  were  his  proffers : 
I  never  loot  on  that  I  kenn'd  it,  or  cared. 

But  thought  I  might  hae  waur  offers,  waur  oflferSj 

But  thought  I  might  hae  waur  offers. 
But  what  wad  ye  think  ?  in  a  fortnight  or  less, 

The  deil  tak  his  taste  to  gae  near  her  ! — 
He  up  the  lang  loan  to  my  black  cousin  Bess  j 

Guess  ye  how,  the  jad !  I  could  bear  her,  could 
bear  her. 

Guess  ye  how,  the  jad !  I  could  bear  her. 

But  a'  the  niest  week  as  I  fretted  wi'  care, 

I  gaed  to  the  tryste  o'  Dalgarnock, 
And  wha  but  my  fine  fickle  lover  was  there, 

I  glowr'd  as  I'd  seen  a  warlock,  a  warlock, 

I  glowr'd  as  I'd  seen  a  warlock. 
But  owre  my  left  shouther  I  gae  him  a  blink. 

Lest  neebors  might  say  I  was  saucy  ; 
My  wooer  he  caper'd  as  he'd  been  in  drink. 

And  vow'd  I  was  his  dear  lassie,  dear  lassie, 

And  vow'd  I  was  his  dear  lassie. 
I  spier'd  for  my  cousin  fu'  couthy  and  sweet, 

Gin  she  had  recover'd  her  hearin. 
And  how  her  new  shoon  fit  her  auld  shachl't  feet, 

But,  heavens  !  how  he  fell  a  swearin,  a  swearia 

But,  heavens !  how  he  fell  a  swearin. 
He  begg'd,  for  Gudesake  !  I  wad  be  his  wife. 

Or  else  I  wad  kill  him  wi'  sorrow : 
So  e'en  to  preserve  the  poor  body  in  life, 

I  think  I  maun  wed  him  to-morrow,  to-morrow, 

I  think  I  maun  wed  him  to-morrow. 


SONG. 

Tune—"  Here's  a  health  to  them  that's  awa,  hiney." 

CHORUS. 

Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  lo'e  dear. 
Here's  a  health  to  ane  I  lo'e  dear. 
Thou  art  sweet  as  the  smile  when  fond  lovers  rn«et 
And  soft  as  their  parting  tear— Jessy  ! 
Although  thou  maun  never  be  mine. 

Although  even  hope  is  denied  ; 
»Tis  sweeter  for  thee  despairing, 
Than  aught  in  the  world  beside — ^Jessy ! 
Here's  a  health,  &c. 
I  mourn  through  the  gay,  gaudy  day. 

As,  hopeless,  I  muse  on  thy  charms ; 
But  welcome  the  dream  o'  sweet  slumber. 
For  then  I  am  lockt  in  thy  arms-   Jessy  * 
Here's  a  health,  4tc. 


SONGS. 


331 


I  guess  by  the  dear  angel  smile, 
I  guess  by  the  love-rolling  e'e ; 

But  why  urge  the  tender  confession 

'Gainst  fortune's  fell,  cruel  decree — Jessy  ! 
»  Here's  a  health,  &c. 


THE  BIRKS  OF  ABERFELDY. 

Bonnie  lassie,  will  ye  go,  will  ye  go,  will  ye  go, 
Bonnie  lassie,  will  ye  go  to  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy  ? 

Now  simmer  blinks  on  flowery  braes. 
And  o'er  the  crystal  streamlet  plays, 
Come  let  us  spend  the  lightsome  days 
In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy, 

Bonnie  lassie,  &c. 

While  o'er  their  heads  the  hazels  hing, 
The  little  birdies  blithely  sing. 
Or  lightly  flit  on  wanton  wing 
In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie  lassie,  &c. 

The  braes  ascend  like  lofty  wa's, 
The  foaming  stream  deep-roaring  fa*s, 
Oerhung  wi'  fragrant  spreading  shaws, 

The  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie  lassie,  &c. 
The  hoary  cliflTs  are  crown'd  wi'  flowers. 
White  o'er  the  linns  the  burnie  pours, 
And  rising,  weets  wi'  misty  showers 

The  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie  lassie,  &c. 

Let  fortune's  gifts  at  random  flee. 
They  ne'er  shall  draw  a  wish  frae  me, 
Supremely  blest  wi'  love  and  thee. 
In  the  birks  of  Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie  lassie,  &c. 


I  LOVE  MY  JEAN. 

Tune—"  Misa  Admiral  Gordon's  Strathspey. 

Or  a'  the  airts  the  wind  can  blaw, 

I  dearly  like  the  west. 
For  there  the  bonnie  lassie  lives. 

The  lassie  I  lo'e  best : " 
There  wild  woods  grow,  and  rivers  row, 

And  mony  a  hill  between  ; 
But  day  and  night  my  fancy's  flight 

Is  ever  wi'  my  Jean. 

I  see  her  in  the  dewy  flowers, 

I  see  her  sweet  and  fair : 
I  hear  her  in  the  tunefu'  birds, 

I  hear  her  charm  the  air : 
There's  not  a  bonnie  flower  that  spring^' 

By  fountain,  shaw,  or  green. 
There's  not  a  bonnie  bird  that  sings. 

But  minds  me  o'  my  Jean. 


JOHN  ANDERSON  MY  JO. 

lOHN  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 
When  we  were  first  acquent ; 

Your  locks  were  like  the  raven. 
Your  bonnie  brow  was  brent ; 


But  now  your  brow  is  held,  John, 
Your  locks  are  like  the  snaw  ; 

But  blessings  on  your  frosty  pow, 
John  Anderson  my  jo. 

John  Anderson  my  jo,  John, 

We  clamb  the  hill  thegither  ; 
And  mony  a  canty  doy,  John, 

We've  had  wi'  ane  anither: 
Now  we  maun  totter  down,  John, 

But  hand  and  hand  we'll  go, 
And  sleep  thegither  at  the  foot, 

John  Anderson  my  jo. 


THE  POSIE. 

0  LUVE  will  venture  in,  where  it  ("^ur  na  weel  b« 

seen, 
0  luve  will  venture  in,  where  wisdom  ance  has 

been ; 
But  I  will  down  yon  river  rove,  amang  the  wood  sae 

green. 
And  a'  to  pu'  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  primrose  I  will  pu',  the  firstling  o'  the  year, 
And  I  will  pu'  the  pink,  the  emblem  o'  my  dear. 
For  she's  the  pink  o'  womankind,  and  blooms  with- 
out a  peer ; 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

I'll  pu'  the  budding  rose  when  Phoebus  peeps  in 

view, 
For  it's  like  a  baumy  kiss  o'  her  sweet  bonnie  mou; 
The  hyacinth's  for  constancy  wi'  its  unchanging 

blue, 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  lily  it  is  pure,  and  the  lily  it  is  fair. 
And  in  her  lovely  bosom  I'll  place  tlie  lily  there ; 
The  daisy's  for  simplicity  and  unaffected  air, 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  hawthorn  I  will  pu',  wi'  its  locks  o'  siller  gray, 
Where,  like  an  aged  man,  it  stands  at  break  o'  day, 
But  the  songster's  nest  within  the  bush  I  winna 
tak  away  ; 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

The  woodbine  I  will  pu'  when  the  e'ening  star  is 

near, 
And  the  diamond  draps  o'  dew  shall  be  her  e'en  sae 

clear : 
The  violet's  for  modesty  which  weel  she  fa's  to 

wear. 
And  a'  to  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 

I'll  tie  the  posie  round  wi'  the  silken  band  of  luve, 
And  I'll  place  it  in  her  breast,  and  I'll  swear  by  a* 

above. 
That  to  my  latest  draught  o'  life  the  band  shall  ne*er 
remuve. 
And  this  will  be  a  posie  to  my  ain  dear  May. 


THE  BANKS  O'  DOON. 

Ye  banks  and  braes  o'  bonnie  Doon, 
How  can  ye  bloom  sae  fresh  and  fair 

How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds. 
And  I  sae  weary,  fu'  o'  care  ! 


932                                                          BURNS. 

Thou'lt  break  my  heart,  thou  warbling  bird, 

Auld  baudrans  by  the  ingle  sits. 

That  wantons  through  the  flowering  thorn : 

An'  wi'  her  loof  her  face  a-washin  ; 

Thou  minds  me  o'  departed  joys. 

But  Willie's  wife  is  nae  sae  trig, 

Departed  never  to  return. 

She  dights  her  grunzie  wi'  a  hushion ; 

Oft  hae  I  rov'd  by  bonnie  Doon, 

Her  walie  nieves  like  midden-creels,              J 

To  see  the  rose  and  woodbine  twine  ; 

Her  face  wad  fyle  the  Logan- Water » 

And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  luve, 

Sic  a  wife  as  Willie  had. 

And  fondly  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

I  wad  na  gie  a  button  for  her. 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose. 

Fu'  sweet  upon  its  thorny  tree  : 

But  my  fause  luver  stole  my  rose, 

WILT  THOU  BE  MY  DEARIE  1 

But  ah  !  he  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 

Wilt  thou  be  my  dearie  ? 

When  sorrow  wrings  thy  gentle  heart. 

SONG. 

0  wilt  thou  let  me  cheer  thee  ? 

Tune— «  Catharine  Ogie."            \ 

By  the  treasure  of  my  soul, 

And  that's  the  love  I  bear  thee  ! 

Ye  flowery  banks  o'  bonnie  Doon, 

I  swear  and  vow,  that  only  thou 

How  can  ye  blume  sae  fair. 

Shall  ever  be  my  dearie. 

How  can  ye  chant,  ye  little  birds. 

Only  thou,  I  swear  and  vow. 

And  I  sae  fu'  o'  care  ! 

Shall  ever  be  my  dearie. 

Thou'l  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird 

Lassie,  say  thou  lo'es  me ; 

That  sings  upon  the  bough ; 

Or  if  thou  wilt  na  be  my  ain. 

Thou  minds  me  o'  the  happy  days 

Say  na  thou'lt  refuse  me  : 

When  my  fause  luve  was  true. 

If  it  winna,  canna  be, 

Thou'l  break  my  heart,  thou  bonnie  bird 

That  sings  beside  thy  mate  ; 
For  sae  I  sat,  and  sae  I  sang, 

And  wist  na  o'  my  fate. 

Thou  for  thine  may  choose  me ; 
Let  me,  lassie,  quickly  die. 

Trusting  that  thou  lo'es  me, 
Lassie,  let  me  quickly  die. 
Trusting  that  thou  lo'es  me. 

Aft  hae  I  roved  by  bonnie  Doon, 

To  see  the  woodbine  twine. 

And  ilka  bird  sang  o'  its  love. 

FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  SOMEBODY. 

And  sae  did  I  o'  mine. 

My  heart  is  sair,  I  dare  na  tell. 

Wi'  lightsome  heart  I  pu'd  a  rose. 

My  heart  is  sair  for  somebody ; 

Frae  aff  its  thorny  tree, 

I  could  wake  a  winter  night 

And  my  fause  luver  staw  the  rose. 

For  the  sake  o'  somebody  ! 

But  left  the  thorn  wi'  me. 

Oh-hon  !  for  somebody  ! 

• 

Oh-hey  !  for  somebody  ! 

I  could  range  the  world  around. 

SIC  A  Wib'E  AS  WILLIE  HAD. 

For  the  sake  o'  somebody. 

Willie  Wastle  dwalt  on  Tweed, 

Ye  powers  that  smile  on  virtuous  love. 

The  spot  they  ca'd  it  Linkumdoddie, 
Willie  was  a  wabster  guid, 

Cou'd  stown  a  clue  wi'  ony  bodie  ; 
He  had  a  wife  was  dour  and  din, 

0  sweetly  smile  on  somebody  ! 
Frae  ilka  danger  keep  him  free. 

And  send  me  safe  my  somebody 

Oh-hon  !  for  somebody ! 

0  Tinkler  Madgie  was  her  mither ; 

Oh-hey !  for  somebody  ! 
I  wad  do — what  wad  I  not  ? 

Sic  a  wife  as  Willie  had, 

For  the  sake  of  somebody. 

I  wad  na  gie  a  button  for  her. 

She  has  an  e'e,  she  has  but  ane. 
The  cat  has  twa  the  very  colour ; 

A  RED,  RED  ROSE. 

Five  rusty  teeth,  forbye  a  stump, 

0  MY  luve's  like  a  red,  red  rose, 

A  clapper  tongue  wad  deave  a  miller  j 

That's  newly  sprung  in  June  : 

A  whisken  beard  about  her  mou. 

0  my  luve's  like  the  melodic 

Her  nose  and  chin  they  threaten  ither ; 

That's  sweetly  play'd  in  tune 

Sic  a  wife,  &c. 

As  fair  art  thou,  my  bonnie  lass. 

She's  bow-hough'd,  she's  hein-shinn'd, 

So  deep  in  luve  am  I  : 

Ae  limpin  leg  a  hand-breed  shorter; 

And  I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

She's  twisted  right,  she's  twisted  left. 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry. 

To  balance  fair  in  ilka  quarter : 

Till  a'  the  seas  gang  dry,  my  dear. 

She  has  a  hump  upon  her  breast. 

And  the  rocks  melt  wi'  the  sun : 

The  twin  o'  that  upon  her  shouther ; 

I  will  luve  thee  still,  my  dear, 

Sic  a  wife,  &c. 


While  the  sands  o'  life  shall  run. 


SONGS. 


S33 


And  fare  thee  weel,  my  only  luve  ! 

It's  no  the  frosty  winter  wind, 

And  fare  thee  weel  a  while  I 

It's  no  the  driving  drift  and  snaw: 

And  I  will  come  again,  my  luve, 

But  aye  the  tear  comes  in  my  e'e, 

Though  it  were  ten  thousand  mile. 

To  think  on  him  that's  far  awa. 

My  father  pat  me  frae  his  door. 

SONG. 

]\Iy  friends  they  hae  disown'd  me  a* ; 

Ae  fond  kiss  and  then  we  sever ; 

But  I  hae  ane  will  tak  my  part. 

Ae  fareweel,  alas,  for  ever  ! 

The  bonnie  lad  that's  far  awa. 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I'll  pledge  thee, 

Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee. 

A  pair  o'  gloves  he  gave  to  me. 

Who  shall  say  that  fortune  grieves  him. 

And  silken  snoods  he  gave  me  twa  ; 

While  the  star  of  hope  she  leaves  him  ? 

And  I  will  wear  them  for  his  sake, 

Me,  nae  cheerfu'  twinkle  lights  me ; 

The  bonnie  lad  that's  far  awa. 

Dark  despair  around  benights  me. 

The  weary  winter  scon  will  pass. 

I'll  ne'er  blame  my  partial  fancy, 

And  spring  will  deed  the  birken-shaw ; 

Naething  could  resist  my  Nancy : 

And  my  sweet  babie  will  be  born, 

But  to  see  her,  was  to  love  her  ; 

And  he'll  come  hame  that's  far  awa. 

Love  but  her,  and'lpve  for  ever. 
Had  we  never  loved  sae  kindly. 

Had  <ve  never  loved  sae  blindly. 

Never  met — or  never  parted. 

WHISTLE  O'ER  THE  LAVE  O'T. 

We  had  ne'er  been  broken-hearted. 

First  when  Maggy  was  my  care. 

Fare  thee  weel,  thou  first  and  fairest ! 

Heaven,  I  thought,  was  in  her  air; 

Fare  thee  weel,  thou  best  and  dearest ! 

Now  we're  married — spier  nae  mail — 

Thine  be  ilka  joy  and  treasure. 

Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't— 

Peace,  enjoyment,  love,  and  pleasure  ! 

Meg  was  meek,  and  Meg  was  mild. 

Ae  fond  kiss,  and  then  we  sever ; 

Bonnie  Meg  was  nature's  child— 

Ae  fareweel,  alas,  for  ever  ! 

— Wiser  men  than  me's  beguiled : 

Deep  in  heart-wrung  tears  I  pledge  thee; 

Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't. 

Warring  sighs  and  groans  I'll  wage  thee. 

How  we  live,  my  Meg  and  me. 

How  we  love  and  how  we  'gree, 
I  care  na  by  how  few  may  see  ; 

THE  BONNIE  LAD  THAT'S  FAR  AWA. 

Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't.— 

0  HOW  can  I  be  blithe  and  glad, 

What  I  wish  were  maggot's  meat. 

Or  how  can  I  gang  brisk  and  braw, 

Dish'd  up  in  her  winding  sheet, 

When  the  bonnie  lad  that  I  lo'e  best. 

I  could  write — but  Meg  maun  see't— 

Is  o'er  the  hilis  and  far  awa .' 

Whistle  o'er  the  lave  o't 

SAMUEL  ROGERS 


Samtel  Rogers,  one  of  the  most  elegant  of  the 
British  poets,  was  the  son  of  a  banker,  and  himself 
follows  that  business  in  London,  where  he  was  born, 
about  1760.  He  received  a  learned  education,  which 
he  completed  by  travelling  through  most  of  the 
countries  of  Europe,  including  France,  Switzerland, 
Italy,  Germany,  &c.  He  has  been  all  his  life  master 
of  an  ample  fortune,  and  not  subject,  therefore,  to  the 
common  reverses  of  an  author,  in  which  character 
he  first  appeared  in  1787,  when  he  published  a  spirit- 
ed Ode  to  Superstition,  with  other  poems.  These 
were  succeeded,  after  an  interval  of  five  years,  by 
the  Pleasures  of  Memory ;  a  work  which  at  once 
established  his  fame  as  a  first-rate  poet.  In  1798,  he 
published  his  Epistle  to  a  Friend,  with  other  poems  ; 
and  did  not  again  come  forward,  as  a  poet,  till  1814, 
when  he  added  to  a  collected  edition  of  his  works, 
his  somewhat  irregular  poem  of  the  Vision  of  Co- 
lumbus. In  the  same  year  came  out  his  Jaqueline, 
a  tale,  in  company  with  Lord  Byron's  Lara ;  and, 
in  1819,  his  Human  Life.  In  1822,  was  published 
his  first  part  of  Italy,  which  has  since  been  com- 
pleted, in  three  volumes,  duodecin;o ;  and  of  which. 


a  recent  edition  has  been  given  to  the  world,  accom* 
panied  with  numerous  engravings.  This  poem  is 
his  last  and  greatest,  but  by  no  means  his  best,  per- 
formance ;  though  an  eminent  writer  in  the  New 
Monthly  Magazine  calls  it  "  perfect  as  a  whole." 
There  are  certainly  many  very  beautiful  descriptive 
passages  to  be  found  in  it;  and  it  is  totally  free 
from  meretriciousness :  but  we  think  the  author 
has  too  often  mistaken  commonplace  for  simplicity, 
to  render  it  of  much  value  to  his  reputation,  as  a 
whole.  It  is  as  the  author  of  the  Pleasures  of  Me- 
mory, that  he  will  be  chiefly  known  to  posterity, 
though,  at  the  same  time,  some  of  his  minor  poems 
are  among  the  most  pure  and  exquisite  fragments 
of  verse,  which  the  poets  of  this  age  have  produced. 
In  society,  few  men  are  said  to  be  more  agreeable 
in  manners  and  conversation  than  the  venerable 
subject  of  our  memoir ;  and  his  benevolence  is 
said  to  be  on  a  par  with  his  taste  and  accom- 
plishments. Lord  Byron  must  have  thought  liighly 
of  his  poetry,  if  he  were  sincere  in  saying, "  We 
are  all  wrong,  excepting  Rogers,  Crabbe,  and 
Campbell." 


THE  PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY. 

IN  TWO   PARTS. 


....    Hoc  est 

Vivere  bis,  vita  posse  priore  frui.— JIfar/. 


0  COULD  my  mind,  unfolded  in  my  page. 
Enlighten  climes  and  mould  a  future  age ; 
There  as  it  glow'd,  with  noblest  frenzy  fraught, 
Dispense  the  treasures  of  exalted  thought ; 
To  virtue  wake  the  pulses  of  the  heart. 
And  bid  the  tear  of  emulation  start  ! 
O  could  it  still,  through  each  succeeding  year, 
My  life,  my  manners,  and  my  name  endear ; 
And,  when  the  poet  sleeps  in  silent  dust. 
Still  hold  communion  with  the  wise  and  just  !^ 
Yet  should  this  verse,  my  leisure's  best  resource. 
When  through  the  world  it  steals  its  secret  course. 
Revive  but  once  a  generous  wish  supprest. 
Chase  but  a  sigh,  or  charm  a  care  to  rest ; 
In  one  good  deed  a  fleeting  hour  employ. 
Or  flush  one  faded  cheek  with  honest  joy ; 
Blest  were  my  lines,  though  limited  their  sphere. 
Though  short  their  date,  as  his  who  traced  them 
here.  1793. 

234 


PART   L 


Dolce  sentier. 

CoUe,  che  mi  piacesli,  .    . 

Ov'  ancor  per  usanza  Amor  mi  mena ; 

Ben  riconosco  in  voi  I'usate  forme, 

Non,  lasso,  in  me.  Petrarch. 


ANALYSIS. 

The  poem  begins  with  the  description  of  an  obscure 
village,  and  of  the  pleasing  melancholy  which  it  excitee 
on  being  revisited  after  a  long  absence.  This  mixed  sen- 
sation is  an  effect  of  the  memory.  From  an  effect  we 
naturally  ascend  to  the  cause ;  and  the  subject  proposed 
is  then  unfolded,  with  an  investigation  of  the  nature  and 
leading  principles  of  this  faculty. 

It  is  evident  that  our  ideas  flow  in  continual  succession, 
and  introduce  each  other  with  a  certain  degree  of  regu- 
larity. They  are  sometimes  excited  by  sensible  objects, 
and  sometimes  by  an  internal  operation  of  the  mind.  Of 
the  former  species  is  most  probably  the  memory  of  brutes ; 
and  its  many  sources  of  pleasures  to  them,  as  well  as  to 
us,  areconsidered  in  the  first  part.  The  latter  is  the  most 
perfect  degree  of  memory,  and  forms  the  subject  of  the 
second. 

When  ideas  have  any  relation  whatever,  they  are  at 
tractive  of  each  other  in  the  mind  ;  and  the  perception  of 
any  object  naturally  leads  to  the  idea  of  another,  which 
was  connected  with  it,  either  in  tin.e  or  place,  or  which 
can  be  compared  or  contrasted  with  it.    Hence  arises  our 


I 


PLEASURES   OF  MEMORY. 


23fi 


attachment  to  inanimate  objects;  hence  also,  in  some 
degree,  the  love  of  our  country,  and  the  emotion  with 
which  we  contemplate  the  celebrated  scenes  of  antiquity. 
Hence  a  picture  directs  our  thoughts  to  the  original :  and, 
as  cold  and  darkness  suggest  forcibly  the  ideas  of  heat 
and  light,  he  who  feels  the  infirmiliea  of  age  dwells  most 
on  whatever  reminds  him  of  the  vigour  and  vivacity  of 
his  youth. 

The  associating  principle,  as  here  employed,  is  no  less 
conducive  to  virtue  than  to  happiness  ;  and,  as  such,  it 
frequently  discovers  itseif  in  the  most  tumultuous  scenes 
of  life.  It  addresses  our  finer  feelings,  and  gives  exercise 
to  every  mild  and  generous  propensity. 

Not  confined  to  man,  it  extends  through  all  animated 
nature ;  and  its  effect  sare  peculiarly  striking  in  the 
domestic  tribes. 


Twilight's  soft  dews  steal  o'er  the  village-green, 
With  magic  tints  to  harmonize  the  scene. 
Still'd  is  the  hum  that  through  the  hamlet  broke, 
When  round  the  ruins  of  their  ancient  oak 
The  peasants  flock'd  to  hear  the  minstrel  play, 
And  games  and  carols  closed  the  busy  day. 
Her  wheel  at  rest,  the  matron  thrills  no  more 
With  treasured  tales,  and  legendary  lore. 
All,  all  are  fled  ;  nor  mirth  nor  music  flows 
To  chase  the  dreams  of  innocent  repose. 
All,  all  are  fled  ;  yet  still  I  linger  here  ! 
What  secret  charms  this  silent  spot  endear  I 

Mark  yon  old  mansion  frowning  through  the  trees, 
'Vhose  hollow  turret  woos  the  whistling  breeze. 
That  casement  arch'd  with  ivy's  brownest  shade, 
first  to  these  eyes  the  light  of  heaven  convey'd. 
The  mouldering  gateway  strews  the  grass-grown 

court, 
Once  the  calm  scene  of  many  a  simple  sport ; 
When  nature  pleased,  for  life  itself  was  new. 
And  the  heart  promised  what  the  fancy  drew. 

See,  through  the  fractured  pediment  reveal'd. 
Where  moss  inlays  the  rudely-sculptured  shield, 
The  martin's  old,  hereditary  nest: 
Long  may  the  ruin  spare  its  hallow'd  guest ! 

As  jars  the  hinge,  what  sullen  echoes  call ! 
0  haste,  unfold  the  hospitable  hall ! 
That  hall,  where  once,  in  antiquated  state, 
The  chair  of  justice  held  the  grave  debate,    [hung, 

Now  stain'd  with  dews,  with  cobwebs   darkly 
Oft  has  its  roof  with  peals  of  rapture  rung ; 
When  round  yon  ample  board,  in  due  degree. 
We  sweeten 'd  every  meal  with  social  glee. 
The  heart's  light  laugh  pursued  the  circling  jest 
And  all  was  sunshine  in  each  little  breast. 
*Twas  here  we  chased  the  slipper  by  the  sound  ; 
And  turn'd  the  blindfold  hero  round  and  round. 
'Twas  here,  at  eve,  we  form'd  our  fairy  ring ; 
And  fancy  flutter'd  on  her  wildest  wing. 
Giants  and  genii  chain 'd  each  wondering  ear ; 
And  orphan  sorrows  drew  the  ready  tear. 
Oft  with  the  babes  we  wander'd  in  the  wood. 
Or  view'd  the  forest  feats  of  Robin  Hood  : 
Oft,  fancy-led,  at  midnight's  fearful  hour. 
With  startling  step  we  scaled  the  lonely  tower ; 
O'er  infant  innocence  to  hang  and  weep, 
Murder'd  by  rufllan  hands,  when  smiling  in  its  sleep. 

Ye  household  deities  !  whose  guardian  eye 
Mark'd  each  pure  thought,  ere  register'd  on  high  ; 
Still,  still  ye  walk  the  consecrated  ground. 
And  breathe  tfc?  soul  of  inspiration  round. 


As  o'er  the  dusky  furniture  I  bend, 
Each  chair  awakes  the  feelings  of  a  friend. 
The  storied  arras,  source  of  fond  delight. 
With  old  achievement  charms  the  wilder'd  sight  ) 
And  still,  with  heraldry's  rich  hues  imprest. 
On  the  dim  window  glows  the  pictured  crest. 
The  screen  unfolds  its  many-colour'd  chart. 
The  clock  still  points  its  moral  to  the  heart. 
That  faithful  monitor  'twas  heaven  to  hear. 
When  soft  it  spoke  a  promised  pleasure  near ; 
And  has  its  sober  hand,  its  simple  chimC; 
Forgot  to  trace  the  feather'd  feet  of  time  ? 
That  massive  beam,  with  curious  carvings  wrought, 
Whence  the  caged    linnet    soothed    my  pensive 

thought ; 
Those  muskets,  cased  with  venerable  rust  ; 
Those   once-loved  forms,  still  breathing  through 

their  dust. 
Still,  from  the  frame  in  mould  gigantic  cast. 
Starting  to  life — all  whisper  of  the  past ! 

As  through  the  garden's  desert  paths  I  rove, 
What  fond  illusions  swarm  in  every  grove  ! 
How  oft,  when  purple  evening  tinged  the  west, 
We  Avatch'd  the  emmet  to  her  grainy  nest ; 
Welcomed  the  wild-bee  home  on  weary  wing. 
Laden  with  sweets,  the  choicest  of  the  spring  ! 
How  oft  inscribed,  with  friendship's  votive  rhyme, 
The  bark  now  silver'd  by  the  touch  of  time  ; 
Soar'd  in  the  swing,  half  pleased  and  half  afraid, 
Through  sister  elms  that  waved  their  summer-shadei 
Or  strew'd  with  crumbs  yon  root-inwoven  seat. 
To  lure  the  redbreast  from  his  lone  retreat  ! 

Childhood's  loved  group  revisits  every  scene 
The  tangled  wood-walk,  and  the  tufted  green ! 
Indulgent  Memory  wakes,  and  lo,  they  live  ! 
Clothed  with  far  softer  hues  than  light  can  give. 
Thou  first,  best  friend  that  Heaven  assigns  belcTT 
To  soothe  and  sweeten  all  the  cares  we  know ; 
When  glad  suggestions  still  each  vain  alarm, 
When  nature  fades,  and  life  forgets  to  charm  ; 
Thee  would  the  muse  invoke  ! — to  thee  belong 
The  sage's  precept,  and  the  poet's  song. 
What  soften'd  views  thy  magic  glass  reveals, 
When   o'er  the  landscape  time's    meek    twilight 

steals  ! 
As  when  in  ocean  sinks  the  orb  of  day. 
Long  on  the  wave  reflected  lustres  play ; 
Thy  temper'd  gleams  of  happiness  resign'd 
Glance  on  the  darken 'd  mirror  of  the  mind. 
The  school's    lone  porch,  with  reverend    mossei 

gray. 
Just  tells  the  pensive  pilgrim  where  it  lay. 
Mute  is  the  bell  that  rung  at  peep  of  dawn. 
Quickening  my  truant  feet  across  the  lawn  : 
Unheard  the  shout  that  rent  the  noontide  air. 
When  the  slow  dial  gave  a  pause  to  care. 
Up  springs,  at  every  step,  to  claim  a  tear. 
Some  little  friendship  form'd  and  cheiish'd  here. 
And  not  the  lightest  leaf,  but  trembling  teems 
With  golden  visions,  and  romantic  dreams  ! 

Down  by  yon  hazel  copse,  at  evening,  blazed 
The  gipsy's  fagot — there  we  stood  and  gazed ; 
Gazed  on  her  sunburnt  face  with  silent  awe. 
Her  tatter'd  mantle,  and  her  hood  of  straw  ; 
Her  moving  lips,  her  caldron  brimming  o'er; 
The  drowsy  brood  that  on  her  back  she  bore. 


236 


ROGERS. 


Imps  in  the  barn  with  mousing  owlet  bred, 

From  lifled  roost  at  nightly  revel  fed  ; 

Whose  dark  eyes  flash'd  through  locks  of  blackest 

shade, 
When  in  the  breeze  the  distant  watch-dog  bay'd : — 
And  heroes  fled  the  Sibyl's  mutter'd  call, 
Whose  elfin  prowess  scaled  the  orchard  wall. 
A.S  o'er  my  palm  the  silver  piece  she  drew, 
And  traced  the  line  of  life  with  searching  view, 
How  throbb'd  my  fluttering  pulse  with  hopes  and 

fears, 
To  learn  the  colour  of  my  future  years  .' 

Ah,  then,  what  honest  triumph  flush'd  my  breast ; 
This  truth  once  known — To  bless  is  to  be  blest ! 
We  led  the  bending  beggar  on  his  way, 
Bare  were  his  feet,  his  tresses  silver  gray,) 
Soothed  the  keen  pangs  his  aged  spirit  felt. 
And  on  his  tale  with  mute  attention  dwelt. 
As  in  his  scrip  we  dropt  our  little  store. 
And  sigh'd  to  think  that  little  was  no  more. 
He  breath 'd  his  prayer,  "  Long  may  such  goodness 

live  !" 
*Twas  all  he  gave,  'twas  all  he  had  to  give. 

But  hark !  through  those  old  firs,  with  sullen  swell. 
The  church  clock  strikes !  ye  tender  scenes,  fare- 
well ! 
It  calls  me  hence,  beneath  their  shade,  to  trace 
The  few  fond  lines  that  time  may  soon  efface. 

On  yon  gray  stone,  that  fronts  the  chancel  door, 
Worn  smooth  by  busy  feet  now  seen  no  more, 
Each  eve  we  shot  the  marble  through  the  ring. 
When  the  heart  danced,  and  life  was  in  its  spring  ; 
Alas  !  unconscious  of  the  kindred  earth. 
That  faintly  echo'd  to  the  voice  of  mirth. 

The  glow-worm  loves  her  emerald  light  to  shed. 
Where  now  the  sexton  rests  his  hoary  head. 
Oft,  as  he  turn'd  the  greensward  with  his  spade. 
He  lectured  every  youth  that  round  him  play'd ; 
And,  calmly  pointing  where  our  fathers  lay. 
Roused  us  to  rival  each,  the  hero  of  his  day. 

Hush,  ye  fond  flutterings,hush  !  while  here  alone 
I  search  the  records  of  each  mouldering  stone. 
Guides  of  my  life  !  instructers  of  my  youth  ! 
Who  first  unveil'd  the  hallow'd  form  of  truth ; 
Wliose  every  word  enlighten'd  and  endear'd ; 
In  age  beloved,  in  poverty  revered; 
In  friendship's  silent  register  ye  live, 
Nor  ask  the  vain  memorial  art  can  give. 

— But  when  the  sons  of  peace,  of  pleasure  sleep, 
When  only  sorrow  wakes,  and  wakes  to  weep, 
What  spells  entrance  my  visionary  mind 
With  sighs  so  sweet,  with  transports  so  refined ! 

Ethereal  power !  who  at  the  noon  of  night 
Recall'st  the  far  fled  spirit  of  delight ; 
From  whom  that  musing,  melancholy  mood 
Which  charms  the  wise,  and  elevates  the  good ; 
Blest  Memory,  hail !  O  grant  the  grateful  muse, 
Her  pencil  dipt  in  nature's  living  hues. 
To  pass  the  clouds  that  round  thy  empire  roll, 
And  trace  its  airy  precincts  in  the  soul. 

Lull'd  in  the  countless  chambers  of  the  brain, 
Our  thoughts  are  link'd  by  many  a  hidden  chain. 
Awake  but  orje,  and  lo,  what  myriads  rise  ! 
Each  stamps  its  image  as  the  other  flies ! 
Each,  as  the  various  avenues  of  sense 
Delight  or  sorrow  to  the  soul  dispense, 


Brightens  or  fades ;  yet  all,  with  magic  art, 

Control  the  latent  fibres  of  the  heart. 

As  studious  Prospero's  mysterious  spell 

Drew  every  subject  spirit  to  his  cell ; 

Each,  at  thy  call,  advances  or  retires. 

As  judgment  dictates,  or  the  scene  inspires. 

Each  thrills  the  seat  of  sense,  that  sacred  source 

Whence  the  fine  nerves  direct  their  mazy  course, 

And  through  the  frame  invisibly  convey 

The  subtle,  quick  vibrations  as  they  play. 

Survey  the  globe,  each  ruder  realm  explore  ; 
From  reason's  faintest  ray  to  Newton  soar. 
What  different  spheres  to  human  bliss  assign'd  ! 
What  slow  gradations  in  the  scale  of  mind  ! 
Yet  mark  in  each  these  mystic  wonders  wrought ; 
0  mark  the  sleepless  energies  of  thought ! 

Th'  adventurous  boy,  that  asks  his  little  share, 
And  hies  from  home  with  many  a  gossip's  prayer. 
Turns  on  the  neighbouring  hill,  once  more  to  see 
The  dear  abode  of  peace  and  privacy ; 
And  as  he  turns,  the  thatch  among  the  trees, 
The   smoke's    blue  wreaths   ascending  with  the 

breeze. 
The  village  common  spotted  white  with  sheep. 
The  churchyard  yews  round  which  his  fathers  sleep ; 
All  rouse  reflection's  sadly  pleasing  train. 
And  oft  he  looks  and  weeps,  and  looks  again. 

So,  when  the  mild  Tupia  dared  explore 
Arts  yet  untaught,  and  worlds  unknown  before, 
And,  with  the  sons  of  science,  woo'd  the  gale 
That,  rising,  swell'd  their  strange  expanse  of  sail; 
So,  when  he  breathed  his  firm,  yet  fond  adieu. 
Borne  from  his  leafy  hut,  his  carved  canoe, 
And  all  his  soul  best  loved — such  tears  he  shed. 
While  each  soft  scene  of  summer  beauty  fled. 
Lcng  o'er  the  wave  a  wistful  look  he  cast. 
Long  watch 'd  the  streaming  signal  from  the  mast; 
Till  twilight's  dewy  tints  deceived  his  eye. 
And  fairy  forests  fringed  the  evening  sky. 

So  Scotia's  queen,  as  slowly  dawn'd  the  day 
Rose  on  her  couch,  and  gazed  her  soul  away. 
Her  eyes  had  bless'd  the  beacon's  glimmering  height, 
That  faintly  tipt  the  feathery  surge  with  light ; 
But  now  the  morn  with  orient  hues  portray 'd 
Each  castled  cliff,  and  brown  monastic  shade : 
All  touch'd  the  talisman's  resistless  spring, 
And  lo,  what  busy  tribes  were  instant  on  the  wing ! 

Thus  kindred  objects  kindred  thoughts  inspire. 
As  summer  clouds  flash  forth  electric  fire.        • 
And  hence  this  spot  gives  back  the  joys  of  youth. 
Warm  as  the  life,  and  with  the  mirror's  truth. 
Hence  homefelt  pleasure  prompts  the  patriot's  sigh; 
This  makes  him  wish  to  live,  and  dare  to  die. 
For  this  young  Foscari,  whose  hapless  fate 
Venice  should  blush  to  hear  the  muse  relate. 
When  exile  wore  his  blooming  years  away. 
To  sorrow's  long  soliloquies  a  prey. 
When  reason,  justice,  vainly  urged  his  cause, 
For  this  he  roused  her  sanguinary  laws  ; 
Glad  to  return,  though  hope  could  grant  no  more, 
And  chains  and  torture  hail'd  him  to  the  shore. 

And  hence  the  charm  historic  scenes  impart : 
Hence  Tiber  awes,  and  Avon  melts  the  heart. 
Aerial  forms  in  Tempe's  classic  vale 
Glance   through  the  gloom,  and  whisper  in  t 
gale; 


PLEASURES  OF  MEMORY. 


3S7 


In  wild  Vaucluse  with  love  and  Laura  dwell, 
And  watch  and  weep  in  Eloisa's  cell. 
*Twas  ever  thus.     As  now  at  Virgil's  tomb 
We  bless  the  shade,  and  bid  the  verdure  bloom: 
So  TuUy  paused,  amid  the  wrecks  of  time. 
On  the  rude  stone  to  trace  the  truth  sublime ; 
When  at  his  feet,  in  honour'd  dust  disclosed, 
Th'  immortal  sage  of  Syracuse  reposed. 
And  as  he  long  in  sweet  delusion  hung. 
Where  once  a  Plato  taught,  a  Pindar  sung ; 
Who  now  but  meets  him  musing,  when  he  roves 
His  ruin'd  Tusculan's  romantic  groves  ? 
Tji  Rome's  great  forum,  who  but  hears  him  roll 
riis  moral  thunders  o'er  the  subject  soul  ? 

And  hence  that  calm  delight  the  portrait  gives : 
We  gaze  on  every  feature  till  it  lives  I 
Still  the  fond  lover  sees  the  absent  maid ; 
And  the  lost  friend  still  lingers  in  his  shade  ! 
Say  why  the  pensive  widow  loves  to  w^eep. 
When  on  her  knee  she  rocks  her  babe  to  sleep : 
Tremblingly  still,  she  lifts  his  veil  to  trace 
The  father's  features  in  his  infant  face. 
The  hoary  grandsire  smiles  the  hour  away, 
Won  by  the  raptures  of  a  game  at  play  ; 
He  bends  to  meet  each  artless  burst  of  joy, 
Forgets  his  age,  and  acts  again  the  boy. 

What  though  the  iron  school  of  war  erase 
Each  milder  virtue,  and  each  softer  grace  ; 
What  though  the  fiend's  torpedo  touch  arrest 
Each  gentler,  finer  impulse  of  the  breast : 
Still  shall  this  active  principle  preside, 
And  wake  the  tear  to  pity's  celf  denied. 

Th'  intrepid  Swiss,  who  guards  a  foreign  shore, 
Connemn'd  to  climb  his  mountain  cliffs  no  mere, 
if  ciiance  he  hears  the  song  so  sweetly  wild, 
Which  on  thtrse  cliffs  his  infant  hours  beguiled. 
Melts  at  the  long-iost  scenes  that  round  him  rise, 
4.nd  sinks  a  mart>r  to  repentant  sighs. 

Ask  not  if  courts  oi  camps  dissolve  the  charm  : 
'ay  why  v'espasian  loved  his  Sabine  farm  ; 
AHiy  great  Navaire,  when  France   and  freedom 

bled, 
JoUj,ht  the  lone  limits  of  a  forest  shed. 
JVhen  Dioelesian's  sell-corrected  mmd 
The  imperial  fasces  of  a  worla  resign 'd. 
<<ay  why  we  trace  the  iabours  of  his  spade, 
m  calm  Salona's  philosophic  snade. 
^ay,  when  contentious  Chailes  renounced  a  throne, 
To  muse  with  monks  unlelcer  d  and  unknown, 
What  from  his  soul  the  parting,  tribute  drew  t 
What  claim 'd  the  sorrows  of  a  last,  auieu  ? 
The  still  retreats  that  soothed  his  tranquil  breast, 
Ere  grandeur  dazzled,  and  its  cares  oppiess  d. 

Undamp'd  by  time,  the  generous  instinct  gnr-wn 
Far  as  Angola's  sands,  as  Zembla's  snows  ; 
Glows  in  the  tiger's  den,  the  serpent's  nest, 
On  every  form  of  varied  life  imprest. 
The  social  tribes  its  choicest  influence  hail  :•— ' 
A.nd  when  the  drum  beats  briskly  in  the  gale. 
The  war-worn  courser  charges  at  the  sound, 
And  with  young  vigour  wheels  the  pasture  rour."!. 

Oft  has  the  aged  tenant  of  the  vale 
Lean'd  on  his  staff  to  lengthen  out  the  tale ; 
Oft  have  his  lips  the  grateful  tribute  breathed, 
From  sire  to  son  with  pious  zeal  bequeath'd. 


When  o'er  the  blasted  heath  the  day  declinea. 
And  on  the  scath'd  oak  warr'd  the  winter  wind ; 
When  not  a  distant  taper's  twinkling  ray 
Gleam'd  o'er  the  furze  to  light  him  on  his  way 
When  not  a  sheep-bell  soothed  his  listening  ear, 
And  the  big  rain-drops  told  the  tempest  near ; 
Then  did  his  horse  the  homeward  track  descry. 
The  track  that  shunn'd  his  sad,  inquiring  eye ; 
And  wdn  each  wavering  purpose  to  relent, 
With  v/armth  so  mild,  so  gently  violent, 
That  his  charm'd  hand  the  careless  rein  resign'd, 
And  doubts  and  terrors  vanish'd  from  his  mind. 

Recall  the  traveller,  whose  alter'd  form 
Has  borne  the  buffet  of  the  mountain  storm ; 
And  who  will  first  his  fond  impatience  meet  ? 
His  faithful  dog's  already  at  his  feet ! 
Yes,  though  the  porter  spurn  him  from  the  door. 
Though  all,  that  knew   him,  know  his  face  no 

more, 
His  faithful  dog  shall  tell  his  joy  to  each, 
With  that  mute  eloquence  which  passes  speech, — 
And  see,  the  master  but  returns  to  die  ! 
Yet  who  shall  bid  the  watchful  servant  fly  ? 
The  blasts   of   heaven,  the  drenching  dews  of 

earth. 
The  wanton  insults  of  unfeeling  mirth, 
These,  when  to  guard  misfortune's  sacred  grave. 
Will  firm  fidelity  exult  to  brave. 

Led  by  what  chart,  transports  the  timid  dove 
The  wreaths  of  conquest,  or  the  vows  of  love  .' 
Say,  through  the  clouds  what  compass  points  her 

flight  ? 
Monarchs  have  gazed,  and   nations    bless'd   the 

sight. 
Pile  rocks  on  rocks,  bid  woods  and  mountains  rise. 
Eclipse  her  native  shades,  her  native  skies : — 
'Tis  vain !    through  ether's  pathless  wilds  she 

goes. 
And  lights  at  last  where  all  her  cares  repose. 
Sw^eet  bird!   thy  truth   shall  Haarlem's  walls 
attest. 
And  unborn  ages  consecrate  thy  nest. 
When,  with  the  silent  energy  of  grief, 
With  looks  that  ask'd,  yet  dared  not  hope  relief, 
Want  with  her  babes  round  generous  valour  clung, 
To  wring  the  slow  surrender  from  his  tongue, 
'Twas  thine  to  animate  her  closing  eye  ; 
Alas  !  'twas  thine,  perchance,  the  first  to  die, 
Crush'd  by  her  meager  hand,  when  welcomed  from 
the  sky. 
Hark !    the  bee  winds   her  small  but  mellow 
horn. 
Blithe  ^  salute  the  sunny  smile  of  morn. 
O'er  thymy  downs  she  bends  her  busy  course. 
And  many  a  stream  allures  her  to  its  source. 
'Tis  noon,  'tis  night.     That  eye  so  finely  wrought^ 
Beyond  the  search  of  sense,  the  soar  of  thought. 
Now  vainly  asks  the  scenes  she  left  behind ; 
Its  orb  so  full,  its  vision  so  confined  I 
Who  guides  the  patient  pilgrim  to  her  cell  ? 
Who  bids  her  soul  with  conscious  triumph  swell? 
With  conscious  truth  retrace  the  maz}"^  clue 
Of  varied  scents,  that  charm'd  her  as  she  flew  ? 


'  Hail,  Memory,  hail !  thy  universal  reign 

[  Guards  the  least  link  of  being's  glorious  chain. 


238 


ROGERS. 


PART   II. 


Delle  cose  custode,  e  dispensiera. — Tasso, 


ANALYSIS. 

The  Memory  has  hitherto  acted  only  in  subservience 
;o  the  senses,  and  so  far  man  is  not  eminently  distin- 
guished from  other  animals ;  but,  with  respect  to  man, 
*he  has  a  higher  province ;  and  is  often  busily  employed, 
when  excited  by  no  external  cause  whatever.  She  pre- 
■erves,  for  his  use,  the  treasures  of  art  and  science,  his- 
tory and  philosophy.  She  colours  all  the  prospects  of 
life :  for  "  we  can  only  anticipate  the  future,  by  conclud- 
ing what  is  possible  from  what  is  past."  On  her  agency 
depends  every  effusion  of  the  fancy,  who  with  the  boldest 
effort  can  only  compound  or  transpose,  augment  or  dimi- 
nish, the  materials  which  she  has  collected. 

When  the  first  emotions  of  despair  have  subsided,  and 
sorrow  has  softened  into  melancholy,  she  amuses  with  a 
retrospect  of  innocent  pleasures,  and  inspires  that  noble 
confidence  which  results  from  the  consciousness  of  hav- 
ing acted  well.  When  sleep  has  suspended  the  organs 
of  sense  from  their  office,  she  not  only  supplies  the  mind 
with  images,  but  assists  in  their  combination.  And  even 
in  madness  itself,  when  the  soul  is  resigned  over  to  the 
tyranny  of  a  distempered  imagination,  she  revives  past 
perceptions,  and  awakens  that  train  of  thouglit  which  was 
formerly  most  familiar. 

Nor  are  we  pleased  only  with  a  review  of  the  brighter 
passages  of  life.  Events,  the  most  distressing  in  their 
immediate  consequences,  are  often  cherished  in  remem- 
brance with  a  degree  of  enthusiasm. 

But  the  world  and  its  occupations  give  a  mechanical 
impulse  to  the  passions,  which  is  not  very  favourable  to 
the  indulgence  of  this  feeling.  It  is  in  a  calm  and  well 
regulated  mind  that  the  memory  is  most  perfect ;  and 
solitude  is  her  best  sphere  of  action.  With  this  sentiment 
is  introduced  a  tale  illustrative  of  her  influence  in  soli- 
tude, sickness,  and  sorrow.  And  the  subject  having  now 
been  considered,  so  far  as  it  relates  to  man  and  the 
animal  world,  the  poem  concludes  with  a  conjecture 
that  superior  beings  are  blest  with  a  nobler  exercise 
of  this  faculty. 


Sweet  Memory,  wafted  by  thy  gentle  gale, 
Oft  up  the  stream  of  time  I  turn  my  sail, 
To  view  the  fairy  haunts  of  long-lost  hours, 
Blest  with  far  greener  shades,  far  fresher  flowers. 

Ages  and  climes  remote  to  thee  impart 
What  charms  in  genius,  and  refines  in  art ; 
Thee,  in  whose  hand  the  keys  of  science  dwell, 
The  pensive  portress  of  her  holy  cell ; 
Whose  constant  vigils  chase  the  chilling  damp 
Oblivion  steals  upon  her  vestal  lamp. 

The  friends  of  reason,  and  the  guides  of  youth. 
Whose  language  breathed  the  eloquence  of  truth ; 
Whose  life,  beyond  preceptive  wisdom,  taught 
The  great  in  conduct,  and  the  pure  in  thought ; 
These  still  exist,  by  thee  to  fame  consign'd, 
Still  speak  and  act,  the  models  of  mankind. 

From  thee  sweet  hope  her  airy  coloring  draws  ; 
And  fancy's  flights  are  subject  to  thy  laws. 
From  thee  that  bosom  spring  of  rapture  flows, 
Which  only  virtue,  tranquil  virtue,  knows. 

When  joy's  bright  sun  has  shed  his  evening  ray. 
And  hope's  delusive  meteors  cease  to  play  ; 
When  clouds  on  clouds  the  smiling  prospects  close, 
Still  through  the  gloom  thy  star  serenely  glows : 
Like  yon  fair  orb,  she  gilds  the  brow  of  night 
With  the  mild  magic  of  reflected  light. 


The  beauteous  maid,  who  bids  the  world  adieu, 
Oft  of  that  world  will  snatch  a  fond  review ; 
Oft  at  the  shrine  neglect  her  beads,  to  trace 
Some  social  scene,  some  dear  familiar  face  : 
And  ere,  with  iron  tongue,  the  vesper  boll 
Bursts  through  the  cypress-walk,  the  convent  cell 
Oft  will  her  warm  and  wayward  heart  revive. 
To  love  and  joy  still  tremblingly  alive  ; 
The  whisper'd  vow,  the  chaste  caress  prolong, 
Weave  the  light  dance  and  swell  the  choral  song 
With  rapt  ear  drink  th'  enchanting  serenade, 
And,  as  it  melts  along  the  moonlight  glade, 
To  each  soft  note  return  as  soft  a  sigh, 
And  bless  the  youth  that  bids  her  slumbers  fly. 

But  not  till  time  has  calm'd  the  raffled  breast. 
Are  these  fond  dreams  of  happiness  confest. 
Not  till  the  rushing  winds  forget  to  rave, 
Is  heaven's  sweet  smile  reflected  on  the  wave. 

From  Guinea's  coast  pursue  the  lessening  sail. 
And  catch  the  sounds  that  sadden  every  gale. 
Tell,  if  thou  canst,  the  sum  of  sorrows  there  ; 
Mark  the  fix'd  gaze,  the  wild  and  frenzied  glare. 
The  racks  of  thought,  and  freezings  of  despair ! 
But  pause  not  then — beyond  the  western  wave, 
Go,  view  the  captive  barter'd  as  a  slave  ! 
Crush'd  till  his  high,  heroic  spirit  bleeds. 
And  from  his  nerveless  frame  indignantly  recedes. 

Yet  here,  e'en   here,  with  pleasures    long   re 
sign'd, 
Lo  !  Memory  bursts  the  twilight  of  the  mind. 
Her  dear  delusions  soothe  his  sinking  soul, 
When  the  rude  scourge  assumes  its  base  control  j 
And  o'er  futurity's  blank  page  diffuse 
The  full  reflection  of  her  vivid  hues. 
'TJs  but  to  die,  and  then,  to  weep  no  more. 
Then  will  he  wake  on  Congo's  distant  shoiej 
Beneath  his  plantain's  ancient  shade,  renew 
The  simple  transports  that  with  freedom  flew  ; 
Catch  the  cool  breeze  that  musky  evening  blows. 
And  quaff  the  palm's  rich  nectar  as  it  glows  ; 
The  oral  tale  of  elder  time  rehearse, 
And  chant  the  rude,  traditionary  verse 
With  those,  the  loved  companions  of  his  youth, 
When  life  was  luxury,  and  friendship  truth. 

Ah !  why  should  virtue  fear  the  frowns  of  fate  } 
Hers  what  no  wealth  can  buy,  no  power  create  ! 
A  little  world  of  clear  and  cloudless  day. 
Nor  wreck'd  by  storms,  nor  moulder'd  by  decay ; 
A  world,  with  Memory's  ceaseless  sunshine  blest, 
The  home  of  happiness,  an  honest  breast. 

But  most  we  mark  the  wonders  of  her  reign, 
When  sleep  has  lock'd  the  senses  in  her  chain. 
When  sober  judgment  has  his  throne  resign'd 
She  smiles  away  the  chaos  of  the  mind  ; 
And,  as  warm  fancy's  bright  elysium  glows, 
From  her  each  image  springs,  each  colour  flows. 
She  is  the  sacred  guest !  th'  immortal  friend ! 
Oft  seen  o'er  sleeping  innocence  to  bend, 
In  that  dead  hour  of  night  to  silence  given, 
Whispering  seraphic  visions  of  her  heaven. 

When  the  blithe  son  of  Savoy,  journeying  rouM 
With  humble  wares  and  pipe  of  merry  sound, 
From  his  green  vale  and  shelter'd  cabin  hies, 
And  scales  the  Alps  to  visit  foreign  skies  ; 
Though  far  belov/  the  forked  lightnings  play, 
And  at  his  feet  the  thunder  dies  away. 


PLEASURES    OF    MEMORY. 


23& 


Oft,  in  the  saddle  rudely  rock'd  to  sleep, 
While  his  mule  browses  on  the  dizzy  steep. 
With  Memory's  aid,  he  sits  at  home,  and  sees 
His  children  sport  beneath  their  native  trees, 
And  bends  to  hear  their  cherub  voices  call, 
O'er  the  loud  fury  of  the  torrent's  fall. 

But  can  her  smile  with  gloomy  madness  dwell  ? 
Say,  can  she  chase  the  horrors  of  his  cell  ? 
Each  fiery  flight  on  frenzy's  wing  restraiil, 
And  mould  the  coinage  of  the  fever'd  brain  ? 

Pass  but  that  grate,  which  scarce  a  gleam  sup- 
plies, 
There  in  the  dust  the  wreck  of  genius  lies  ! 
He,  whose  arresting  hand  divinely  wrought 
Each  bold  conception  in  the  sphere  of  thought ; 
And  round,  in  colours  of  the  rainbow,  threw 
Forms  ever  fair,  creations  ever  new  ! 
But,  as  he  fondly  snatch 'd  the  wreath  of  fame. 
The  spectre  poverty  unnerved  his  frame. 
Cold  was  her  grasp,  a  withering  scowl  she  wore 
And  hope's  soft  energies  were  felt  no  more. 
Yet  still  how  sweet  the  soothings  of  his  art ! 
From  the  rude  wall  what  bright  ideas  start ! 
E'en  now  he  claims  the  amaranthine  wreath, 
With  scenes  that  glow,  with  images  that  breathe  I 
And  whence  these  scenes,  these  images,  declare  : 
Whence  but  from  her  who  triumphs  o'er  despair  ? 

Awake,  arise  !  with  grateful  fervour  fraught, 
Go,  spring  the  mine  of  elevating  thought. 
He,  who,  through  nature's  various  walk,  surveys 
The  good  and  fair  her  faultless  line  portrays  ; 
Whose  mind,  profaned  by  no  unhallow'd  guest. 
Culls  from  the  crowd  the  purest  and  the  best ; 
May  range,  at  will,  bright  fancy's  golden  clime. 
Or,  musing,  mount  where  science  sits  sublime. 
Or  wake  the  spirit  of  departed  time. 
Who  acts  thus  wisely,  mark  the  moral  muse, 
A  blooming  Eden  in  his  life  reviews  ! 
So  rich  the  culture,  though  so  small  the  space, 
Its  scanty  limits  he  forgets  to  trace. 
But  the  fond  fool,  when  evening  shades  the  sky, 
Turns  but  to  start,  and  gazes  but  to  sigh  ! 
The  weary  waste,  that  lengthen'd  as  he  ran. 
Fades  to  a  blank,  and  dwindles  to  a  span  ! 

Ah  !  who  can  tell  the  triumphs  of  the  mind, 
By  truth  illumined,  and  by  taste  refined  ? 
When  age  has  quench'd  the  eye,  and  closed  the 

ear. 
Still  nerved  for  action  in  her  native  sphere. 
Oft  will  she  rise — with  searching  glance  pursue 
Some  long-loved  image  vanish'd  from  her  view  ; 
Dart  through  the  deep  recesses  of  the  past. 
O'er  dusky  forms  in  chains  of  slumber  cast ; 
With  giant  grasp  fling  back  the  folds  of  night, 
And  snatch  the  faithless  fugitive  to  light. 
So  through  the  grove  th'  impatient  mother  flies. 
Each  sunless  glade,  each  secret  pathway  tries  ; 
Till  the  thin  leaves  the  truant  boy  disclose. 
Long  on  the  woodmoss  stretch'd  in  sweet  reporfe. 

Nor  yet  to  pleasing  objects  are  confined 
The  silent  feasts  of  the  reflecting  mind  ;    , 
Danger  and  death  a  dread  delight  inspire. 
And  the  bald  veteran  glows  with  wonted  fire. 
When  richly  bronzed  by  many  a  summer  sun. 
He  counts  his  scars,  and  tells  what  deeds   were 
done. 


Go,  with  old  Thames,  view  Chelsea's   glorious 
pile; 
And  ask  the  shatter'd  hero,  whence  his  smile  ? 
Go,  view  the  splendid  domes  of  Greenwich — go, 
And  own  what  raptures  from  reflection  flow. 

Hail,  noblest  structures  imaged  in  the  wave ! 
A  nation's  grateful  tribute  to  the  brave  ! 
Hail,  blest  retreats  from  war  and  shipwreck,  hail ! 
That  oft  arrest  the  wondering  stranger's  sail. 
Long  have  ye  heard  the  narratives  of  age. 
The  battle's  havoc,  and  the  tempest's  rage ; 
Long  have  ye  known  reflection's  genial  ray 
Gild  the  calm  close  of  valour's  various  day. 

Time's  sombrous  touches  soon  correct  the  piece, 
Mellow  each  tint,  and  bid  each  discord  cease : 
A  softer  tone  of  light  pervades  the  whole. 
And  steals  a  pensive  languor  o'er  the  soul. 

Hast  thou  through  Eden's  wild- wood  vales  pur- 
sued 
Each  mountain  scene,  majestically  rude  ; 
To  note  the  sweet  simplicity  of  life, 
Far  from  the  din  of  folly's  idle  strife  ; 
Nor  there  a  while,  with  lifted  eye,  revered 
That  modest  stone  which  pious  Pembroke  reai'd  ; 
Which  still  records,  beyond  the  pencil's  power, 
The  silent  sorrows  of  a  parting  hour  ; 
Still  to  the  musing  pilgrim  points  the  place. 
Her  sainted  spirit  most  delights  to  trace  ? 

Thus,  with  the  manly  glow  of  honest  pride, 
O'er  his  dead  son  the  gallant  Ormond  sigh'd. 
Thus,  through  the  gloom  of  Shenstone's  fairy  grore, 
Maria's  urn  still  breathes  the  voice  of  love. 

As  the  stern  grandeur  of  a  Gothic  tower 
Awes  us  less  deeply  in  its  morning  hour. 
Than  when  the  shades  of  time  serenely  fall 
On  every  broken  arch  and  ivied  wall ; 
The  tender  images  we  love  to  trace, 
Steal  from  each  year  a  melancholy  grace  ! 
And  as  the  sparks  of  social  love  expand. 
As  the  heart  opens  in  a  foreign  land ; 
And,  with  a  brother's  warmth,  a  brother's  smile. 
The  stranger  greets  each  native  of  his  isle  ; 
So  scenes  of  life,  w^hen  present  and  confest. 
Stamp  but  their  bolder  features  on  the  breast ; 
Yet  not  an  image,  when  remotely  view'd. 
However  trivial,  and  however  rude. 
But  wins  the  heart,  and  wakes  the  social  sigh, 
With  every  claim  of  close  affinity  ! 

But  these  pure  joys  the  world  can  never  know  } 
In  gentler  climes  tpeir  silver  currents  flow. 
Oft  at  the  silent,  shadowy  close  of  day. 
When  the  hush'd  grove  has  sung  his  parting  lay  | 
When  pensive  twilight,  in  her  dusky  car, 
Comes  slowly  on  to  meet  the  evening  star ; 
Above,  below,  aerial  murmurs  swell. 
From  hanging  wood,  brown  heatli,  and  bushy  dell . 
A  thousand  nameless  rills,  that  shun  the  light, 
Stealing  soft  music  on  the  ear  of  night. 
So  oft  the  finer  movements  of  the  soul. 
That  shun  the  sphere  of  pleasure's  gay  control, 
In  the  still  shades  of  calm  seclusion  rise. 
And  breathe  their  sweet,  seraphic  harmonies  ! 

Once,  and  domestic  annals  tell  the  time 
(Preserved  in  Cumbria's  rude,  romantic  clime) 
When  nature  smiled,  and  o'er  the  landscepe  threw 
Her  richest  fragrance,  and  her  brightest  hue. 


240 


ROGERS. 


A  blithe  and  blooming  forester  explored 
Those  loftier  scenes  Salvator's  soul  adored  ; 
The  rocky  pass  half-hung  with  shaggy  wood, 
And  the  cleft  oak  flung  boldly  o'er  the  flood  ; 
Nor  shunn'd  the  track,  unknown  to  human  tread. 
That  downward  to  the  night  of  caverns  led  ; 
Some  ancient  cataract's  deserted  bed. 

High  on  exulting  wind  the  heath-cock  rose 
And  blew  his  shrill  blast  o'er  perennial  snows  ; 
tre  the  rapt  youth,  recoiling  from  the  roar, 
Gazed  on  the  tumbling  tide  of  dread  Lodoar  ; 
And  through  the  rifted  cliffs,  that  scaled  the  sky, 
Derwent's  clear  mirror  charm'd  his  dazzled  eye. 
Each  osier  isle,  inverted  on  the  wave. 
Through  morn's  gray  mist  its  melting  colours  gave ; 
And  o'er  the  cygnet's  haunt,  the  mantling  grove 
Its  emerald  arch  with  wild  luxuriance  wove. 

Light  as  the  breeze  that  brush'd  the  orient  dew. 
From  rock  to  rock  the  young  adventurer  flew ; 
And  day's  last  sunshine  slept  along  the  shore, 
When  lo,  a  path  the  smile  of  welcome  wore. 
Imbowering  shrubs  with  verdure  veil'd  the  sky, 
And  on  the  musk-rose  shed  a  deeper  dye  ; 
Save  when  a  bright  and  momentary  gleam 
Glanced  from  the  white  foam  of  some   shelter'd 
stream. 

O'er  the  still  lake  the  bell  of  evening  toll'd. 
And  on  the  moor  the  shepherd  penn'd  his  fold  ; 
And  on  the  green  hill's  side  the  meteor  play'd, 
When,  hark  !  a  voice  sung   sweetly  through  the 

shade : 
It  ceased — ^yet  still  in  Florio's  fancy  suiig. 
Still  on  each  note  his  captive  spirit  hung ; 
Till  o'er  the  mead  a  cool,  sequester'd  grot 
From  its  rich  roof  a  sparry  lustre  shot. 
A  crystal  water  cross 'd  the  pebbled  floor. 
And  on  the  front  these  simple  lines  it  bore : 

Hence  away,  nor  dare  intrude  ! 
In  this  secret,  shadowy  cell 
Musing  Memory  loves  to  dwell. 
With  her  sister  Solitude. 
Far  from  the  busy  world  she  flies. 
To  taste  that  peace  the  world  denies. 
Entranced  she  sits  ;  from  youth  to  age, 
Reviewing  life's  eventful  page  ; 
And  noting,  ere  they  fade  away. 
The  little  lines  of  yesterday. 

Florio  had  gain'd  a  rude  and  rocky  seat, 
When  lo,  the  genius  of  this  stil^retreat ! 
Fair  was  her  form — but  who  can  hope  to  trace 
The  pensive  softness  of  her  angel  face  ? 
Can  Virgil's  verse,  can  Raphael's  touch,  impart 
Those  finer  features  of  the  feeling  heart. 
Those  tenderer  tints  that  shun  the  careless  eye. 
And  in  the  world's  contagious  climate  die  ? 

She  left  the  cave,  nor  mark'd  the  stranger  there ; 
Her  pastoral  beauty  and  her  artless  air 
Had  breathed  a  soft  enchantment  o'er  his  soul ! 
In  every  nerve  he  felt  her  blest  control ! 
What  pure  and  white-wing'd  agents  of  the  sky, 
Who  rule  the  springs  of  sacred  sympathy. 
Inform  congenial  spirits  when  they  meet  ? 
Sweet  is  their  oflfice,  as  their  natures  sweet ! 

Florio,  with  fearful  joy,  pursued  the  maid. 
Till  through  a  vista's  moonlight-checker'd  shade, 


Where  the  bat  circled,  and  the  rooks  reposed, 
(Their  wars  suspended,  and  their  councils  closed,} 
An  antique  mansion  burst  in  awful  state, 
A  rich  vine  clustering  round  the  Gothic  gate. 
Nor  paused  he  there.     The  master  of  the  scene 
Saw  his  light  step  imprint  the  dewy  green ; 
And,  slow  advancing,  hail'd  him  as  his  guest, 
Won  by  the  honest  warmth  his  looks  express'd. 
He  wore  the  rustic  manners  of  a  'squire  ; 
Age  had  not  quench 'd  one  spark  of  manly  fire ; 
But  giant  gout  had  bound  him  in  her  chain, 
And  his  heart  panted  for  the  chase  in  vain. 

Yet  here  remembrance,  sweetly  soothing  power  . 
Wing'd  with  delight  confinement's  lingering  hour. 
The  fox's  brush  still  emulous  to  wear. 
He  scour'd  the  country  in  his  elbow  chair ; 
And,  with  view-halloo,  roused  the  dreaming  hound 
That  rung,  by  starts,  his  deep-toned  music  round. 

Long  by  the  paddock's  humble  pale  confined, 
His  aged  hunters  coursed  the  viewless  wind  : 
And  each,  with  glowing  energy  portray'd. 
The  far-famed  triumphs  of  the  field  display'd ; 
Usurp'd  the  canvass  of  the  crowded  hall. 
And  chased  a  line  of  heroes  from  the  wall. 
There  slept  the  horn  each  jocund  echo  knew, 
And  many  a  smile  and  many  a  story  drew  ! 
High  o'er  the  hearth  his  forest  trophies  hung, 
And  their  fantastic  branches  wildly  flung. 
How  would  he  dwell  on  the  vast  antlers  there  ! 
These  dash'd  the  wave,  those  fann'd  the  mountain 

air. 
All,  as  they  frown'd,  unwritten  records  bore 
Of  gallant  feats  and  festivals  of  yore. 

But  why  the  tale  prolong  ? — His  only  child. 
His  darling  Julia,  on  the  stranger  smiled. 
Her  little  arts  a  fretful  sire  to  please. 
Her  gentle  gayety,  and  native  ease 
Had  won  his  soul ;  and  rapturous  fancy  shed 
Her  golden  lights,  and  tints  of  rosy  red. 
But  ah  !  few  days  had  pass'd,  ere  the  bright  vision 

fled! 
When  evening  tinged  the  lake's  ethereal  blue. 
And  her  deep  shades  irregularly  threw  ; 
Their  shifting  sail  dropt  gently  {^gun  the  cove, 
Down  by  Saint  Herbert's  consecrated  grove ; 
Whence  erst  the  chanted  hymn,  the  taper'd  rite 
Amused  the  fisher's  solitary  night  : 
And  still  the  mitred  window,  richly  wreathed, 
A  sacred  calm  through  the  brown  foliage  breathed. 

The  wild  deer,  starting  through  the  silent  glade, 
With  fearful  gaze  their  various  course  survey'd. 
High  hung  in  air  the  hoary  goat  reclined. 
His  streaming  beard  the  sport  of  every  wind ; 
And,  while  the  coot  her  jet  wing  loved  to  lave, 
Rock'd  on  the  bosom  of  the  sleepless  wave ; 
The  eagle  rush'd  from  Skiddaw's  purple  crest, 
A  cloud  still  brooding  o'er  her  giant  nest. 

And  now  the  moon  had  dimm'd  with  dewy 
ray 
The  few  fine  flushes  of  departing  day. 
O'er  the  wide  water's  deep  serene  she  hung. 
And  her  broad  lights  on  every  mountain  flung ; 
When  lo  !  a  sudden  blast  the  vessel  blew. 
And  to  the  surge  consign'd  the  little  crew. 
All,  all  escaped — ^but  ere  the  lover  bore 
His  faint  and  faded  Julia  to  the  shore. 


ITALY. 


341 


ifer  sense  had  fled  I — Exhausted  by  the  storm, 
A  fatal  trance  hung  o'er  her  pallid  lorm  ; 
Her  closing  eye  a  trembling  lustre  fired ; 
*Twas  life's  last  spark — it  flutter'd  and  expired  ! 

The  father  strew'd  his  white  hairs  in  the  wind, 
Call'd  on  his  child — nor  linger'd  long  behihd : 
A.nd  Florio  lived  to  see  the  willow  wave. 
With  many  an  evening  whisper,  o'er  their  grave. 
Yes,  Florio  lived — and,  still  of  each  possess'd. 
The  father  cherish'd  and  the  maid  caress'd  ! 

For  ever  would  the  fond  enthusiast  rove 
With  Julia's  spirit  through  the  shadowy  grove ; 
Gaze  with  delight  on  every  scene  she  plann'd. 
Kiss  every  floweret  planted  by  her  hand. 
Ah  !  still  he  traced  her  steps  along  the  glade, 
When  hazy  hues  and  glimmering  lights  betray'd 
Half  viewless  forms  ;  still  listen'd  as  the  breeze 
Heaved  its  deep  sobs  among  the  aged  trees ; 
And  at  each  pause  her  melting  accents  caught. 
In  sweet  delirium  of  romantic  thought ! 
Dear  was  the  grot  that  shunn'd  the  blaze  of  day ; 
She  gave  its  spars  to  shoot  a  trembling  ray. 
The  spring,  that  bubbled  from  its  inmost  cell, 
Murmur'd  of  Julia's  virtues  as  it  fell ; 
And  o'er  the  dripping  moss,  the  fretted  stone. 
In  Florio's  ear  breathed  language  not  its  own. 
Her  charm  around  th'  enchantress  Memory  threw, 
A  charm  that  soothes  the  mind,  and  sweetens  too  ! 

But  is  her  magic  only  felt  below  ? 
Say,  through  what  brighter  realms  she  bids  it  flow : 
To  what  pure  beings,  in  a  nobler  sphere. 
She  yields  delight  but  faintly  imaged  here : 
All  that  till  now  their  rapt  researches  knew ; 
Not  call'd  in  slow  succession  to  review. 
But,  as  a  landscape  meets  the  eye  of  day. 
At  once  presented  to  their  glad  survey  ! 

Each  scene  of  bliss  reveal'd,  since  chaos  fled. 
And  dawning  light  its  dazzling  glories  spread  ; 
Each  chain  of  wonders  that  sublimely  glow'd. 
Since  first  creation's  choral  anthem  flow'd  ; 
Each  ready  flight,  at  mercy's  call  divine^ 
To  distant  worlds  that  undiscover'd  shine ; 
Full  on  her  tablet  flings  its  living  rays. 
And  all,  combined,  with  blest  effulgence  blaze. 

There  thy  bright  train,  immortal  friendship,  soar ; 
No  more  to  part,  to  mingle  tears  no  more  ! 
And,  as  the  softening  hand  of  time  endears 
The  joys  and  sorrows  of  our  infant  years. 
So  there  the  soul,  released  from  human  strife. 
Smiles  at  the  little  cares  and  ills  of  life  ; 
Its  lights  and  shades,  its  sunshine  and  its  showers ; 
As  at  a  dream  that  charm'd  her  vacant  hours  I 

Oft  may  the  spirits  of  the  dead  descend 
To  watch  the  silent  slumbers  of  a  friend  ; 
To  hover  round  his  evfening  walk  unseen. 
And  hold  sweet  converse  on  the  dusky  green  ; 
To  hail  the  spot  where  first  their  friendship  grew. 
And  heaven  and  nature  open'd  to  their  view  1 
Oft,  when  he  trims  his  cheerful  hearth,  and  sees 
A  smiling  circle  emulous  to  please  ; 
There  may  these  gentle  guests  delight  to  dwell. 
And  bless  the  scene  they  loved  in  life  so  well ! 

0  thou  !  with  whom  my  heart  was  wont  to  share 
From  reason's  dawn  each  pleasure  and  each  care  ; 
With  whom,  alas  !  I  fondly  hoped  to  know 
The  humble  walks  of  happiness  below ; 
Vol.  III.— 16 


If  thy  blest  nature  now  unites  above 
An  angel's  pity  with  a  brother's  love, 
Still  o'er  my  life  preserve  thy  mild  control, 
Correct  my  views,  and  elevate  my  soul ; 
Grant  me  thy  peace  and  purity  of  mind, 
Devout,  yet  cheerful,  active,  yet  resign'd ; 
Grant  me,  like  thee,  whose  heart  knew  no  disguiw 
Whose  blameless  wishes  never  aim'd  to  rise, 
To  meet  the  changes  time  and  chance  present, 
With  modest  dignity  and  calm  content. 
When  thy  last  breath,  ere  nature  sunk  to  rest, 
Thy  meek  submission  to  thy  God  express'd ; 
When  thy  last  look,  ere  thought  and  feeling  fled, 
A  mingled  gleam  of  hope  and  triumph  shed ; 
What  to  thy  soul  its  glad  assurance  gave. 
Its  hope  in  death,  its  triumph  o'er  the  grave  ? 
The  sweet  remem.brance  of  unblemish'd  youth, 
The  still  inspiring  voice  of  innocence  and  truth ! 

Hail,  Memory,  hail !  in  thy  exhaustless  mine 
From  age  to  age  unnumber'd  treasures  shine  ! 
Thought  and  her  shadowy  brood  thy  call  obey. 
And  place  and  time  are  subject  to  thy  sway  ! 
Thy  pleasures  most  we  feel  when  most  alone  ; 
The  only  pleasures  we  can  call  our  own. 
Lighter  than  air,  hope's  summer  visions  die, 
If  but  a  fleeting  cloud  obscure  the  sky  ; 
If  but  a  beam  of  sober  reason  play, 
Lo,  fancy's  fairy  frost-work  melts  away  ! 
But  can  the  wiles  of  art,  the  grasp  of  power. 
Snatch  the  rich  relics  of  a  well  spent  hour  ? 
These,  when  the  trembling  spirit  wings  her  flight 
Pour  round  her  path  a  stream  of  living  light ; 
And  gild  those  pure  and  perfect  realms  of  rest. 
Where  virtue  triumphs,  and  her  sons  are  blest ! 


ITALY 


PARTL 


I. 
THE  LAKE  OF  GENEVA 
Day  glimmer'd  in  the  east,  and  the  white  moOB 
Hung  like  a  vapour  in  the  cloudless  sky. 
Yet  visible,  when  on  my  way  I  went. 
Glad  to  be  gone — a  pilgrim  from  the  north. 
Now  more  and  more  attracted  as  I  drew 
Nearer  and  nearer.    Ere  the  artisan. 
Drowsy,  half-clad,  had  from  his  window  leant. 
With  folded  arms  and  listless  look,  to  snuff 
The  morning  air,  or  the  caged  sky-lark  sung, 
From  his  green  sod  up  springing — but  in  vain. 
His  tuneful  bill  o'erflowing  with  a  song 
Old  in  the  days  of  Homer,  and  his  wings 
With  transport  quivering,  on  my  way  I  went, 
Thy  gates,  Geneva,  swinging  heavily. 
Thy  gates  so  slow  to  open,  swift  to  shut ; 
As  on  that  Sabbath  eve  when  he  arrived,* 
Whose  name  is  now  thy  glory,  now  by  thee 
Inscribed  to  consecrate  (such  virtue  dwells 
In  those  small  syllables)  the  narrow  street. 
His  birth-place — when,  but  one  short  step  too  lato> 

♦  Rousseau. 


342 


ROGERS. 


He  sate  him  down  and  wept — wept  till  the  morning ; 
Then  rose  to  go — a  wanderer  through  the  world. 

'Tis  not  a  tale  that  every  hour  brings  with  it. 
Yet  at  a  city  gate,  from  time  to  time, 
Much  might  be  learnt ;  and  most  of  all  at  thine, 
London — thy  hive  the  busiest,  greatest,  still 
Gathering,  enlarging  still.     Let  us  stand  by, 
A.nd  note  who  passes.     Here  comes  one,  a  youth, 
Glowing  with  pride,  the  pride  of  conscious  power, 
A  Chatterton — in  thought  admired,  caress'd, 
And  crown'd  like  Petrarch  in  the  capitol ; 
Ere  long  to  die — to  fall  by  his  own  hand. 
And  fdjster  with  the  vilest.    Here  come  two, 
Less  feverish,  less  exalted — soon  to  part, 
A  Garrick  and  a  Johnson  ;  wealth  and  fame 
A-waiting  one — e'en  at  the  gate,  neglect 
And  want  the  other.     But  what  multitudes, 
Urged  by  tlie  love  of  change,  and,  like  myself, 
Adventurous,  careless  of  to-morrow's  fare, 
Press  on — though  but  a  rill  entering  the  sea, 
Entering  and  lost !     Our  task  would  never  end. 

Day  glimmcr'd  and  I  went,  a  gentle  breeze 
Ruffling  the  Leman  lake.     Wave  after  wave, 
If  such  they  might  be  call'd,  dash'd  as  in  sport. 
Not  anger,  with  the  pebbles  on  the  beach. 
Making  wild  music,  and  far  westward  caught 
The  sunbeam— where,  alone  and  as  entranced. 
Counting  the  hours,  the  fisher  in  his  skiff 
Lay  with  his  circular  and  dotted  line. 
Fishing  in  silence.     When  the  heart  is  light 
With  hope,  all  pleases,  nothing  comes  amiss  ; 
And  soon  a  passage  boat  swept  gayly  by. 
Laden  with  peasant  girls,  and  fruits  and  flowers, 
And  many  a  chanticleer  and  partlet  caged 
For  Vevay's  market-place — a  motley  group 
Seen  through  the  silvery  haze.   But  soon  'twas  gone. 
The  shifting  sail  flapp'd  idly  for  an  instant. 
Then  bore  them  off. 

I  am  not  one  of  those 
So  dead  to  all  things  in  this  visible  world, 
So  wondrously  profound — as  to  move  on 
In  the  sweet  light  of  heaven,  like  him  of  old, 
(His  name  is  justly  in  the  calendar,) 
Who  through  the  day  pursued  this  pleasant  path 
That  winds  beside  the  mirror  of  all  beauty. 
And,  when  at  eve  his  fellow  pilgrims  sate. 
Discoursing  of  the  lake,  ask'd  where  it  was. 
They  marvel  I'd,  as  they  might ;  and  so  must  all. 
Seeing  what  now  I  saw ;  for  now  'twas  day. 
And  the  bright  sun  was  in  the  firmament, 
A  thousand  shadows  of  a  thousand  hues 
Checkering  the  clear  expanse.     A  while  his  orb 
Hung  o'er  thy  trackless  fields  of  snow,  Mont  Blanc, 
Thy  seas  of  ice  and  ice-built  promontories. 
That  change  their  shapes  for  ever  as  in  sport ; 
Then  travell'd  onward,  and  went  down  behind 
The  pine-clad  heights  of  Jura,  lighting  up 
The  woodman's  casement,  and  perchance  his  axe 
Borne  homeward  through  the  forest  in  his  hand ; 
And,  in  some  deep  and  melancholy  glen. 
That  dungeon  fortress  never  to  be  named, 
Where,  like  a  lion  taken  in  the  toils, 
Toussaint  breathed  out  )jis  brave  and  generous  spirit. 
Ah,  little  did  he  think,  who  sent  him  there, 
That  he  himself,  then  greatest  among  men. 
Should  in  like  manner  be  so  soon  convey'd 


Across  the  ocean — to  a  rock  so  small 

Amid  the  countless  multitude  of  waves, 

That  ships  have  gone  and  sou^t  it,  and  return'd, 

Saying  it  was  not ! 

Still  along  the  shore, 
Among  the  trees,  I  went  for  many  a  mile, 
Where  damsels  sit  and  weave  their  fishing-nets. 
Singing  some  national  song  by  the  way-side. 
But  now  'twas  dusk,  and  journeying  by  the  Rhone, 
That  there  came  down,  a  torrent  from  the  Alps, 
I  enter'd  where  a  key  unlocks  a  kingdom,* 
The  mountains  closing,  and  the  road,  the  river, 
Filling  the  narrow  pass.     There,  till  a  ray 
Glanced  through  my  lattice,  and  the  household  stir 
Warn'd  me  to  rise,  to  rise  and  to  depart, 
A  stir  unusual  and  accompanied 
With  many  a  tuning  of  rude  instruments. 
And  many  a  laugh  that  argued  coming  pleasi?  e. 
Mine  host's  fair  daughter  for  the  nuptial  rite, 
And  nuptial  feast  attiring — there  I  slept. 
And  in  my  dreams  wander'd  once  more,  well  pleased. 
But  now  a  charm  was  on  the  rocks,  and  woods. 
And  waters  ;  for,  methought,  I  was  with  those 
I  had  at  morn,  at  even,  wish'd  for  there. 

^  IL 

THE  GREAT  ST.  BERNARD. 

Night  was  again  descending,  when  my  mule, 
That  all  day  long  had  climb'd  among  the  clouds, 
Higher  and  higher  still,  as  by  a  stair 
Let  down  from  heaven  itself,  transporting  me, 
Stopp'd,  to  the  joy  of  both,  at  that  low  door 
So  near  the  summit  of  the  great  St.  Bernard; 
That  door  wliich  ever  on  its  hinges  moved 
To  them  that  knock'd,  and  nightly  sends  abroad 
Ministering  spirits.     Lying  on  the  watch. 
Two  dogs  of  grave  demeanour  welcomed  me. 
All  meekness,  gentleness,  though  large  of  limb  ; 
And  a  lay  brother  of  the  hospital. 
Who,  as  we  toil'd  below,  had  heard  by  fits 
The  distant  echoes  gaining  on  his  ear, 
Came  and  held  fast  my  stirrup  in  his  hand. 
While  I  alighted. 

Long  could  I  have  stood, 
With  a  religious  awe  contemplating 
That  house,  the  highest  in  the  ancient  world. 
And  placed  there  for  the  noblest  purposes. 
■'Twas  a  rude  pile  of  simplest  masonry, 
With  narrow  windows  and  vast  buttresses, 
Built  to  endure  the  shocks  of  time  and  chance ; 
Yet  showing  many  a  rent,  as  well  it  might, 
Warr'd  on  for  ever  by  the  elements, 
And  in  an  evil  day,  nor  long  ago. 
By  violent  men — v%rhen  on  the  mountain  top 
The  French  and  Austrian  banners  met  in  conflict 

On  the  same  rock  beside  it  stood  the  church. 
Reft  of  its  cross,  not  of  its  sanctity  ; 
The  vesper  bell,  for  'twas  the  vesper  hour. 
Duly  proclaiming  through  the  wilderness, 
"  All  ye  who  hear,  whatever  be  your  work, 
Stop  for  an  instant— move  your  lips  in  prayer  !* 
And,  just  beneath  it,  in  that  dreary  dale. 
If  dale  it  might  be  call'd,  so  near  to  heaven, 
A  little  lake,  where  never  fish  leap'd  up, 


*  St.  Maurice. 


ITALY. 


2^ 


Lay  like  a  spot  of  ink  amid  the  snow  ; 

A  star,  the  only  one  in  that  small  sky, 

On  its  dead  surface  glimmering.     'Twas  a  scene 

Resembling  nothing  I  had  left  behind, 

As  though  all  worldly  ties  were  now  dissolved  ; — 

And  to  incline  the  mind  still  more  to  thought. 

To  thought  and  sadness,  on  the  eastern  shore. 

Under  a  beetling  cliff  stood,  half  in  shadow, 

A  lonely  chapel  destined  for  the  dead. 

For  such  as,  having  wander'd  from  the  way. 

Had  perish'd  miserably.     Side  by  side. 

Within  they  lie,  a  mournful  companj', 

All  in  their  shrouds,  no  earth  to  cover  them ; 

Their  features  full  of  life,  yet  motionless 

In  the  broad  day,  nor  soon  to  suffer  change, 

Though  the  barr'd  windows,  barr'd  against  the  wolf, 

Are  always  open ! 

But  the  Bise  blew  cold  ; 
And,  bidden  to  a  spare  but  cheerful  meal, 
I  sate  among  the  holy  brotherhood 
At  their  long  board.     The  fare,  indeed,  was  such 
As  is  prescribed  on  days  of  abstinence, 
But  might  have  pleased  a  nicer  taste  than  mine  ; 
And  through  the  floor  came  up,  an  ancient  matron 
Serving  unseen  below ;  while  from  the  roof 
(The  roof,  the  floor,  the  walls  of  native  fir) 
A  lamp  hung  flickering,  such  as  loves  to  fling 
Its  partial  light  on  apostolic  heads. 
And  sheds  a  grace  on  all.  •  Theirs  time  as  j'-et 
Had  changed  not.    Some  were  almost  in  the  prime  ; 
Nor  was  a  brow  o'ercast.     Seen  as  I  saw  them. 
Ranged  round  their  ample  hearth-stone  in  an  hour 
Of  rest,  they  were  as  gay,  as  free  from  guile, 
As  children  ;  answering,  and  at  once,  to  all 
The  gentler  impulses,  to  pleasure,  mirth ; 
Mingling,  at  intervals,  with  rational  talk, 
Music ;  and  gathering  news  from  them  that  came. 
As  of  some  other  world.     But  when  the  storm 
Rose,  and  the  snow  roll'd  on  in  ocean  billows, 
When  on  his  face  th'  experienced  traveller  fell, 
Sheltering  his  lips  and  nostrils  with  his  hands. 
Then  all  was  changed ;  and,  sallying  with  their  pack 
Into  that  blank  of  nature,  they  became 
Unearthly  beings.     "  Anselm,  higher  up. 
Just  where  it  drifts,  a  dog  howls  loud  and  long. 
And  now,  as  guided  by  a  voice  from  heaven, 
Digs  with  his  feet.     That  noble  vehemence, 
Whose  can  it  be,  but  his  who  never  err'd  ? 
Let  us  to  work  !  there  is  no  time  to  lose  !— 
But  who  descends  Mont  Velan  ?     'Tis  La  Croix. 
Away,  away  !  if  not,  alas,  too  late. 
Homeward  he  drags  an  old  man  and  a  boy. 
Faltering  and  falling,  and  but  half  awaken'd. 
Asking  to  sleep  again."    Such  their  discourse. 

Oft  has  a  venerable  roof  received  me  ; 
St.  Bruno's  once* — where,  when  the  winds  were 

hush'd. 
Nor  from  the  cataract  the  voice  came  up. 
You  might  have  heard  the  mole  work  underground. 
So  great  the  stillness  of  that  place  ;  none  seen, 
Save  when  from  rock  to  rock  a  hermit  cross'd 
By  some  rude  bridge — or  one  at  midnight  toll'd 
To  matins,  and  white  habits,  issuing  forth, 
Glided  along  those  aisles  interminable. 


♦  The  Grande  Chartreuse. 


All,  all  observant  of  the  sacred  law 

Of  silence.     Nor  is  that  sequester'd  spot. 

Once  call'd  "  Sweet  Waters,"  now  "  The  Shadj 

Vale,"* 
To  me  unknown  ;  that  house  so  rich  of  old, 
So  courteous,  and  by  two,  that  pass'd  that  way,t 
Amply  requited  with  immortal  verse, 
The  poet's  payment. 

But,  among  them  all, 
None  can  with  this  compare,  the  dangerous  seat 
Of  generous,  active  virtue.     What  though  frost 
Reign  everlastingly,  and  ice  and  snow 
Thaw  not,  but  gather — there  is  that  within, 
Which,  where  it  comes,  makes  summer;   and   in 

thought. 
Oft  am  I  sitting  on  the  bench  beneath 
Their  garden  plot,  where  all  that  vegetates 
Is  but  some  scanty  lettuce,  to  observe 
Those  from  the  south  ascending,  every  step 
As  though  it  were  their  last — and  instantly 
Restored,  renew'd,  advancing  as  with  songs, 
Soon  as  they  see,  turning  a  lofty  crag, 
That  plain,  that  modest  structure,  promising 
Bread  to  the  hungry,  to  the  weary  rest. 

III. 
THE  DESCENT. 
My  mule  refresh'd — and,  let  the  truth  be  told. 
He  was  not  of  that  vile,  that  scurvy  race. 
From  sire  to  son  lovers  of  controversy. 
But  patient,  diligent,  and  sure  of  foot. 
Shunning  the  loose  stone  on  the  precipice, 
Snorting  suspicion  while  with  sight,  smell,  touch, 
Examining  the  wet  and  spongy  moss, 
And  on  his  haunches  sitting  to  slide  down 
The  steep,  the  smooth — my  mule  refresh'd,  his  bells 
Jingled  once  more,  the  signal  to  depart. 
And  we  set  out  in  the  gray  light  of  dawn, 
Descending  rapidly — by  waterfalls 
Fast  frozen,  and  among  huge  blocks  of  ice 
That  in  their  long  career  had  stopt  midway, 
At  length,  uncheck'd,  unbidden,  he  stood  still ; 
And  all  his  bells  were  muffled.     Then  my  guide, 
Lowering  his  voice,  address'd  me :  "  Through  thia 

chasm 
On  and  say  nothing — for  a  word,  a  breath. 
Stirring  the  air,  may  loosen  and  bring  down 
A  winter's  snow — enough  to  overwhelm 
The  horse  and  foot  that,  night  and  day,  defiled 
Along  this  path  to  conquer  at  Marengo. 
Well  I  remember  how  I  met  them  here, 
As  the  light  died  away,  and  how  Napoleon, 
Wrapt  in  his  cloak — I  could  not  be  deceived— 
Rein'd  in  his  horse,  and  ask'd  me,  as  I  pass'd. 
How  far  'twas  to  St.  Remi.    Where  the  rock 
Juts  forward,  and  the  road,  crumbling  away. 
Narrows  almost  to  nothing  at  its  base. 
'Twas  there ;  and  down  along  the  brink  he  led 
To  victory  ! — Dessaix,  who  turn'd  the  scale. 
Leaving  his  life-blood  in  that  famous  field, 
(When  the  clouds  break,  we  may  discern  the  spot 
In  the  blue  haze,)  sleeps,  as  you  saw  at  dawn. 
Just  as  you  enter 'd,  in  the  hospital  church." 


*  Vallombrosa,  formerly  called  Acqua  Bella, 
t  Arioato  and  Milton. 


244 


ROGERS. 


So  saying,  for  a  while  he  held  his  peace, 

Awe-struck  beneath  that  dreadful  canopy  ; 

But  soon,  the  danger  pass'd,  launch'd  forth  again. 

IV. 
JORASSE. 
JoRAssE  was  in  his  three-and-twentieth  year ; 
Graceful  and  active  as  a  stag  just  roused ; 
Gentle  withal,  and  pleasant  in  his  speech, 
Yet  seldom  seen  to  smile.    He  had  grown  up 
Among  the  hunters  of  the  higher  Alps  ; 
Had  caught  their  starts  and  fits  of  thoughtfulness. 
Their  haggard  looks,  and  strange  soliloquies. 
Said  to  arise,  by  those  who  dwell  below, 
From  frequent  dealings  with  the  mountain  spirits. 
But  other  ways  had  taught  him  better  things ; 
And  now  he  number'd,  marching  by  my  side. 
The  savans,  princes,  who  with  him  had  cross'd 
The  frozen  tract,  with  him  familiarly 
Through  the  rough  day  and  rougher  night  conversed 
In  many  a  chalet  round  the  Peak  of  Terror,* 
Round  Tacol,  Tour,  Well-horn  and  Rosenlau, 
And  her,  whose  throne  is  inaccessible,t 
Who  sits,  withdrawn,  in  virgin  majesty. 
Nor  oft  unveils.     Anon  an  avalanche 
Roll'd  its  long  thunder ;  and  a  sudden  crash. 
Sharp  and  metallic,  to  the  startled  ear 
Told  that  far  down  a  continent  of  ice 
Had  burst  in  twain.     But  he  had  now  begun  ; 
And  with  what  transport  he  recall'd  the  hour 
When  to  deserve,  to  win  his  blooming  bride, 
Madelaine  of  Annecy,  to  his  feet  he  bound 
The  iron  crampons,  and,  ascending,  trod 
The  upper  realms  of  frost ;  then,  by  a  cord 
Let  halfway  down,  enter'd  a  grot  star-bright, 
And  gather'd  from  above,  below,  around. 
The  pointed  crystals ! 

Once,  nor  long  before, 
(Thus  did  his  tongue  run  on,  fast  as  his  feet, 
And  with  an  eloquence  that  nature  gives 
To  all  her  children — ^breaking  off  by  starts 
Into  the  harsh  and  rude,  oft  as  the  mule 
Drew  his  displeasure,)  once,  nor  long  before, 
Alone  at  daybreak  on  the  Mettenberg, 
He  slipp'd,  he  fell ;  and  through  a  fearful  cleft 
Gliding  from  ledge  to  ledge,  from  deep  to  deeper. 
Went  to  the  under  world  !     Long  while  he  lay 
Upon  his  rugged  bed — then  waked  like  one 
Wishing  to  sleep  again  and  sleep  for  ever ! 
For,  looking  round,  he  saw  or  thought  he  saw 
Innumerable  branches  of  a  cavern. 
Winding  beneath  a  solid  crust  of  ice ; 
With  here  and  there  a  rent  that  show'd  the  stars  ! 
What  then,  alas,  was  left  him  but  to  die  ? 
What  else  in  those  immeasurable  chambers, 
Strewn  with  the  bones  of  miserable  men. 
Lost  like  himself  ?    Yet  must  he  wander  on, 
Till  cold  and  hunger  set  his  spirit  free  ! 
And,  rising,  he  began  his  dreary  round ; 
When  hark,  the  noise  as  of  some  mighty  river 
Working  its  way  to  light !     Back  he  withdrew. 
But  soon  return'd,  and,  fearless  from  despair, 
Jash'd  down  the  dismal  cliannel ;  and  all  day. 
_f  day  could  be  where  utter  darkness  was, 


♦  The  Schrekhorn. 


t  The  June-frau. 


Travell'd  incessantly,  the  craggy  roof 
Just  over  head,  and  the  impetuous  waves, 
Nor  broad  nor  deep,  yet  with  a  giant's  strenj^ 
Lashing  him  on.     At  last  the  water  slept 
In  a  dead  lake— at  the  third  step  he  took. 
Unfathomable — and  the  roof,  that  long 
Had  threaten 'd,  suddenly  descending,  lay 
Flat  on  the  surface.     Statue-like  he  stood, 
His  journey  ended  ;  when  a  ray  divine 
Shot  through  his  soul.     Breathing  a  prayer  to  her 
Whose  ears  are  never  shut,  the  blessed  virgin, 
He  plunged,  he  swam — and  in  an  instant  rose. 
The  barrier  past,  in  light,  in  sunshine  !     Through 
A  smiling  valley,  full  of  cottages. 
Glittering  the  river  ran  ;  and  on  the  bank 
The  young  were  dancing  ('twas  a  festival-day) 
All  in  their  best  attire.     There  first  he  saw 
His  Madelaine.     In  the  crowd  she  stood  to  hear, 
When  all  drew  round,  inquiring ;  and  her  face, 
Seen  behind  all,  and,  varying,  as  he  spoke. 
With  hope,  and  fear,  and  generous  sympathy. 
Subdued  him.     From  that  very  hour  he  loved. 

The  tale  was  long,  but  coming  to  a  close. 
When  his  dark  eyes  flash'd  fire,  and,  stopping  short. 
He  listen'd  and  look'd  up.     I  look'd  up  too  ; 
And  twice  there  came  a  hiss  that  through  me  thrill'd. 
'Twas  heard  no  more.     A  chamois  on  the  cliff" 
Had  roused  his  fellows  with  that  cry  of  fear. 
And  all  were  gone.       • 

But  now  the  thread  was  bii  ken  j 
Love  and  its  joys  had  vanish'd  from  his  mind  $ 
And  he  recounted  his  hair-breadth  escapes 
When  with  his  friend,  Hubert  of  Bionnay, 
(His  ancient  carbine  from  his  shoulder  slung, 
His  axe  to  hew  a  staircase  in  the  ice,) 
He  track'd  their  footsteps.     By  a  cloud  surprised. 
Upon  a  crag  among  the  precipices. 
Where  the  next  step  had  hurl'd  them  fifty  fathoms, 
Oft  had  they  stood,  lock'd  in  each  other's  arms. 
All  the  long  night  under  a  freezing  sky, 
Each  guarding  each  the  while  from  sleeping,  falling. 
0,  'twas  a  sport  he  loved  dearer  than  life, 
And  only  would  with  life  itself  relinquish  ! 
"  My  sire,  my  grandsire  died  among  these  wilds. 
As  for  myself,"  he  cried,  and  he  held  forth 
His  wallet  in  his  hand,  "  this  do  I  call 
My  winding  sheet — for  I  shall  have  no  other  !" 

And  he  spoke  truth.     Within  a  little  month 
He  lay  among  these  awful  solitudes, 
('Twas  on  a  glacier — halfway  up  to  heaven,) 
Taking  his  final  rest.     Long  did  his  wife, 
Suckling  her  babe,  her  only  one,  look  out 
The  way  he  went  at  parting,  but  he  came  not ! 
Long  fear  to  close  her  eyes,  lest  in  her  sleep 
(Such  their  belief)  he  should  appear  before  her. 
Frozen  and  ghastly  pale,  or  crush'd  and  bleeding, 
To  tell  her  where  he  lay,  and  supplicate 
For  the  last  rite  !     At  length  the  dismal  new 
Came  to  her  ears,  and  to  her  eyes  his  corse. 

V. 

MARGUERITE  DE  TOURS. 
Now  the  gray  granite,  starting  through  the  snow 
Discover'd  many  a  variegated  moss* 


*  Lichen  Geographicus. 


ITALY. 


24d 


I 


That  to  the  pilgrim  resting  on  his  staff 

Shadows  out  capes  and  islands  ;  and  ere  long 

r^umberless  flowers,  such  as  disdain  to  live 

In  lower  regions,  and  delighted  drink 

The  clouds  before  they  fall,  flowers  of  all  hues. 

With  their  diminutive  leaves  cover'd  the  ground. 

*Twas  then,  that,  turning  by  an  ancient  larch, 

Shiver'd  in  two,  yet  most  majestical 

With  its  long  level  branches,  we  observed 

A  human  figure  sitting  on  a  stone 

Far  down  by  the  way-side — just  where  the  rock 

Is  riTt  n  asunder,  and  the  Evil  One 

Has  bridged  the  gulf,  a  wondrous  monument 

Built  in  one  night,  from  which  the  flood  beneath, 

Raging  along,  all  foam,  is  seen,  not  heard, 

And  seen  as  motionless  ! 

Nearer  we  drew, 
And  'twas  a  woman  young  and  delicate. 
Wrapt  in  a  russet  cloak  from  head  to  foot, 
Her  eyes  cast  down,  her  cheek  upon  her  hand 
In  deepest  thought.     Young  as  she  was,  she  wore 
The  matron  cr;p  ;  and  from  her  shape  we  judged, 
As  well  wo  inight,  that  it  would  not  be  long 
Ere  she  became  a  mother.     Pale  she  look'd. 
Yet  cheerful;  though,  methought,  once,  if  not  twice, 
She  wiped  away  a  tear  that  would  be  coming : 
And  in  those  moments  her  small  hat  of  straw. 
Worn  on  one  side,  and  garnish'd  with  a  riband 
Glittering  with  gold,  but  ill  conceal'd  a  face 
Not  soon  to  be  forgotten.     Rising  up 
On  our  approach,  she  jouiney'd  slowly  on ; 
And  my  companion,  long  before  we  met, 
Knew,  and  ran  down  to  greet  her. 

She  was  born 
(Such  was  her  artless  tale,  told  with  fresh  tears) 
In  Val  d'Aosta  ;  and  an  Alpine  stream, 
Leaping  from  crag  to  crag  in  its  short  course 
To  join  the  Dora,  turn'd  her  father's  mill. 
There  did  she  blossom  till  a  Valaisan, 
A  townsman  of  Martigny,  won  her  heart. 
Much  to  the  old  man's  grief.     Long  he  held  out, 
Unwilling  to  resign  her;  and  at  length, 
When  the  third  summer  came,  they  stole  a  match 
And  fled.     The  act  was  sudden  ;  and  when  far 
Away,  her  spirit  had  misgivings.     Then 
She  pictured  to  herself  that  aged  face 
Sickly  and  wan,  in  sorrow,  not  in  anger ; 
And,  when  at  last  she  heard  his  hour  was  near, 
Went  forth  unseen,  and,  burden'd  as  she  was, 
Cross'd  the  high  Alps  on  foot  to  ask  forgiveness, 
And  hold  him  to  her  heart  before  he  died. 
Her  task  was  done.     She  had  fulfill'd  her  wish, 
And  now  was  on  her  way,  rejoicing,  weeping. 
A  frame  like  hers  had  suffer'd  ;  but  her  love 
Was  strong  within  her  ;  and  right  on  she  went, 
Fearing  no  ill.    May  all  good  angels  guard  her  ! 
And  should  I  once  again,  as  once  I  may. 
Visit  Martigny,  I  will  not  forget 
Thy  hospitable  roof.  Marguerite  de  Tours  ; 
Thy  sign  the  silver  swan.*     Heaven  prosper  thee ! 

VL 

THE  ALPS. 
Who  first  beholds  those  everlasting  clouds, 
Seed-time  and  harvest,  morning,  noon  and  night, 

*  La  Cygne. 


Still  where  they  were,  steadfast,  immovable  ; 

Who  first  beholds  the  Alps — that  mighty  chain 

Of  mountains,  stretching  on  from  east  to  west, 

So  massive,  yet  so  shadowy,  so  ethereal, 

As  to  belong  rather  to  heaven  than  to  earth — 

But  instantly  receives  into  his  soul 

A  sense,  a  feeling  that  he  loses  not, 

A  something  that  informs  him  'tis  a  moment 

Whence  he  may  date  henceforward  and  for  ever  .' 

To  me  they  seem'd  the  barriers  of  a  world, 
Saying,  Thus  far,  no  farther  !  and  as  o'er 
The  level  plain  I  travell'd  silently, 
Nearing  them  more  and  more,  day  after  day, 
My  wandering  thoughts  my  only  company, 
And  they  before  me  still,  oft  as  I  look'd, 
A  strange  delight,  mb^^led  with  fear,  came  o'er  me. 
A  wonder  as  at  things   2;  ad  not  heard  of ! 
Oft  as  I  look'd,  I  felt  as  though  it  were 
For  the  first  time  ! 

Great  was  the  tumult  there, 
Deafening  the  din,  when  in  barbaric  pomp 
The  Carthaginian  on  his  march  to  Rome 
Entered  their  fastnesses.     Trampling  the  snows, 
The  war-horse  reared  ;  and  the  tower'd  elephant 
Upturn'd  his  trunk  into  the  murky  sky. 
Then  tumbled  headlong,  swallow'd  up  and  lost. 
He  and  his  rider. 

Now  the  scene  is  changed  ; 
And  o'er  Mont  Cenis,  o'er  the  Simplon  winds 
A  path  of  pleasure.     Like  a  silver  zone 
Flung  about  carelessly,  it  shines  afar. 
Catching  the  eye  in  many  a  broken  link. 
In  many  a  turn  and  traverse  as  it  glides  ; 
And  oft  above  and  oft  below  appears. 
Seen  o'er  the  wall  by  him  who  journeys  up, 
As  though  it  were  another,  not  the  same. 
Leading  along  he  knows  not  whence  or  whither 
Yet  through  its  fairy  course,  go  where  it  will. 
The  torrent  stops  it  not,  the  rugged  rock 
Opens  and  lets  it  in ;  and  on  it  runs. 
Winning  its  easy  way  from  clime  to  clime 
Through  glens  look'd  up  before. 

Not  such  my  path  . 
Mine  but  for  those,  who,  like  Jean  Jacques,  delighi 
In  dizziness,  gazing  and  shuddering  on 
Till  fascination  comes  and  the  brain  turns  ! 
Mine,  though  I  judge  but  from  my  ague-fits 
Over  the  Drance,  just  where  the  abbot  feel,  ., 

The  same  as  Hannibal's. 

But  now  'tis  past, 
That  turbulent  chaos  ;  and  the  promised  land 
Lies  at  my  feet  in  all  its  loveliness  ! 
To  him  who  starts  up  from  a  terrible  dream. 
And  lo  the  sun  is  shinuig,  and  the  lark 
Singing  aloud  for  joy,  to  him  is  not 
Such  sudden  ravishment  as  now  I  feel 
At  the  first  glimpses  of  fair  Italy. 

VII. 
COMO. 

I  LOVE  to  sail  along  the  Larian  Lake 
Under  the  shore — though  not  to  visit  Pliny, 
To  catch  him  musing  in  his  plane  tree  walk. 
Or  fishing,  as  he  might  be,  from  his  window  : 
And,  to  deal  plainly,  (may  his  shade  forgive  me  \) 
Could  I  recall  the  ages  past,  and  play 


S4G 


ROCrERS. 


The  fool  with  Time,  I  should  perhaps  reserve 

My  leisure  for  Catullus  on  his  lake, 

Though  to  fare  worse,  or  Virgil  at  his  farm 

A  little  further  on  the  way  to  Mantua. 

But  such  things  cannot  be.     So  I  sit  still, 

And  let  the  boatman  shift  his  little  sail. 

His  sail  so  forked  and  so  swallow-like, 

Well  pleased  with  all  that  comes.     The  morning  air 

Plays  on  my  cheek  how  gently,  flinging  round 

A  silvery  gleam  :  and  now  the  purple  mists 

Rise  like  a  curtain  ;  now  the  sun  looks  out. 

Filling,  o'erflowing  with  his  glorious  light 

This  noble  amphitheatre  of  mountains  ; 

And  now  appear  as  on  a  phosphor  sea 

Numberless  barks,  from  Milan,  from  Pavja ; 

Some  sailing  up,  some  down,  and  some  at  anchor, 

Lading,  unlading  at  that  small  port-town 

Under  the  promontory — its  tall  tower 

And  long  flat  roofs,  just  such  as  Poussin  drew, 

Caught  by  a  sunbeam  slanting  through  a  cloud  ; 

A  quay-like  scene,  glittering  and  full  of  life. 

And  doubled  by  reflection. 

What  delight, 
After  so  long  a  sojourn  in  the  wild. 
To  hear  once  more  the  sounds  of  cheerful  labour  ! 
— But  in  a  clime  like  this  where  are  they  not  ? 
Along  the  shores,  among  the  hills  'tis  now 
The  heyday  of  the  vintage ;  all  abroad, 
But  most  the  young  and  of  the  gentler  sex, 
Busy  in  gathering  ;  all  among  the  vines, 
Some  on  the  ladder,  and  some  underneath, 
Filling  their  baskets  of  green  wickerwork, 
While  many  a  canzonet  and  frolic  laugh 
Come  through  the  leaves  ;  the  vines  in  light  festoons 
From  tree  to  tree,  the  trees  in  avenues, 
And  every  avenue  a  cover'd  walk. 
Hung  with  black  clusters.     'Tis  enough  to  make 
The  sad  man  merry,  the  benevolent  one 
Melt  into  tears — so  general  is  the  joy  ! 
While  up  and  down  the  cliffs,  over  the  lake. 
Wains  oxen-drawn,  and  pannier'd  mules  are  seen. 
Laden  with  grapes,  and  dropping  rosy  wine. 

Here  I  received  from  thee,  Filippo  Mori, 
One  of  those  courtesies  so  sweet,  so  rare  ! 
When,  as  I  rambled  through  thy  vineyard  ground 
On  the  hill-side,  thou  sent'st  thy  little  son, 
Charged  with  a  bunch  almost  as  big  as  he. 
To  press  it  on  the  stranger. 

May  thy  vats 
O'erflow,  and  he,  thy  willing  gift-bearer. 
Live  to  become  ere  long  himself  a  giver  ; 
And  in  due  time,  when  thou  art  full  of  honour, 
The  staff  of  thine  old  age  ! 

In  a  strange  land 
Such  things,  however  trifling,  reach  the  heart. 
And  through  the  heart  the  head,  clearing  away 
The  narrow  notions  that  grow  up  at  home, 
And  in  their  place  grafting  good-will  to  all. 
At  least  I  found  it  so  ;  nor  less  at  eve, 
When,  bidden  as  an  English  traveller, 
{'Twas  by  a  little  boat  that  gave  me  chase 
With  oar  and  sail,  as  homeward-bound  I  cross'd 
The  bay  of  Tramezzine,)  right  readily 
I  turn'd  my  prow  and  follow'd,  landing  soon 
Where  steps  of  purest  marble  met  the  wave  j 
Where,  through  the  trellises  and  corridors. 


Soft  music  came  as  from  Armida's  palace, 
Breathing  enchantment  o'er  the  woods,  the  waten 
And  through  a  bright  pavilion,  bright  as  day, 
Fonns  such  as  hers  were  flitting,  lost  among 
Such  as  of  old  in  sober  pomp  swept  by. 
Such  as  adorn  the  triumphs  and  tlie  feasts 
Painted  by  Cagliari ;  where  the  world  danced 
Under  the  starry  sky,  while  I  look'd  on. 
Admiring,  listening,  quaflSng  gramolata, 
And  reading,  in  the  eyes  that  sparkled  round. 
The  thousand  love  adventures  written  there. 

Can  I  forget — no,  never,  such  a  scene 
So  full  of  witchery  !     Night  linger'd  still. 
When,  with  a  dying  breeze,  I  left  Bellaggio  ; 
But  the  strain  follow'd  me  ;  and  still  I  saw 
Thy  smile,  Angelica ;  and  still  I  heard 
Thy  voice— once  and  again  bidding  adieu. 

VIII. 

BERGAMO. 

The  song  was  one  that  I  had  heard  befor6, 
But  where  I  knew  not.     It  inclined  to  sadness  ; 
And,  turning  round  from  the  delicious  fare 
My  landlord's  little  daughter,  Barbara, 
Had  from  her  apron  just  roll'd  out  before  me, 
Figs  and  rock-melons — at  the  door  I  saw 
Two  boys  of  lively  aspect.     Peasant-like 
They  were,  and  poorly  clad,  but  not  unskill'd; 
With  their  small  voices  and  an  old  guitar 
Winning  their  mazy  progress  to  my  heart 
In  that,  the  only  universal  language. 
But  soon  they  changed  the  measure,  entering  on 
A  pleasant  dialogue  of  sweet  and  sour, 
A  war  of  words,  and  waged  with  looks  and  gesturWi 
Between  Trappanti  and  his  ancient  dame, 
Mona  Lucilia.     To  and  fro  it  went ; 
While  many  a  titter  on  the  stairs  was  heard. 
And  Barbara's  among  them. 

When  'twas  done. 
Their  cark  eyes  flash'd  no  longer,  yet,  methought. 
In  many  a  glance  as  from  the  soul,  express'd 
More  than  enough  to  serve  them.     Far  or  n«ar, 
Few  let  them  pass  unnoticed  ;  and  there  was  not 
A  mother  round  about  for  many  a  league. 
But  could  repeat  their  story.     Twins  they  were. 
And  orphans,  as  I  learnt,  cast  on  the  world ; 
The  parents  lost  in  the  old  ferry-boat 
That,  three  years  since,  last  Martinmas,  went  dowo 
Crossing  the  rough  Penacus.* 

May  they  live 
Blameless  and  happy — rich  they  cannot  be. 
Like  him  who,  in  the  days  of  minstrelsy, 
Came  in  a  beggar's  weeds  to  Petrarch's  door, 
Crying  without,  "  Give  me  a  lay  to  sing  !" 
And  soon  in  silk  (such  then  the  power  of  song) 
Return'd  to  tKank  him  ;  or  like  him  wayworn 
And  lost,  who,  by  the  foaming  Adige 
Descending  from  the  Tyrol,  as  night  fell, 
Knock'd  at  a  city  gate  near  the  hill  foot. 
The  gate  that  bore  so  long,  sculptured  in  stone. 
An  eagle  on  a  ladder,  and  at  once 
Found  welcome — nightly  in  the  banner 'd  hall 
Tuning  his  harp  to  tales  of  chivalry 

*  LaKO  di  Garda. 


ITALY. 


24'; 


Before  the  great  Mastino,  and  his  guests, 
The  three-and-twenty,  by  some  adverse  fortune, 
By  waY  or  treason  or  domestic  malice, 
Reft  of  their  kingl^^  crowns,  reft  of  their  all, 
And  living  on  his  hounty. 

But  who  now 
Enters  the  chamber,  flourishing  a  scroll 
In  his  right  hand,  his  left  at  every  step 
Brushing  the  floor  with  what  was  once  a  hat 
Of  ceremony  ?     Gliding  on  he  comes, 
Slipshod,  ungarter'd ;  his  long  suit  of  black 
Dingy  and  threadbare,  though  renew'd  in  patches 
Till  it  has  almost  ceased  to  be  the  old  one. 
At  length  arrived,  and  with  a  shrug  that  pleads 
«  'Tis  my  necessity  !"  he  stops  and  speaks. 
Screwing  a  smile  into  his  dinnerless  face. 

"  I  am  a  poet,  signor  : — give  me  leave 
To  bid  you.  welcome.     Though  you  shrink  from 

notice. 
The  splendour  of  your  name  has  gone  before  you  ; 
And  Italy  from  sea  to  sea  rejoices, 
As  well  indeed  she  may  !     But  I  transgress : 
I  too  have  known  the  weight  of  praise,  and  ought 
To  spare  another." 

Saying  so,  he  laid 
His  sonnet,  an  impromptu,  on  my  table. 
And  bow'd  and  left  me  ;  in  his  hollow  hand 
Receiving  my  small  tribute,  a  zecchino, 
Unconsciously,  as  doctors  do  their  fees. 

My  omelet,  and  a  flagon  of  hill-wine, 
"  The  very  best  in  Bergamo  !"  had  long 
Fled  from  all  eyes  ;  or,  like  the  young  Gil  Bias 
De  Santillane,  I  had  perhaps  been  seen 
Bartering  my  bread  and  salt  for  empty  praise. 

IX. 
ITALY. 

Am  I  in  Italy  ?    Is  this  the  Mincius  ? 
Are  those  the  distant  turrets  of  Verona  ? 
And  shall  I  sup  where  Juliet  at  the  mask 
Saw  her  loved  Montague,  and  now  sleeps  by  him  ? 
Such  questions  hourly  do  I  ask  myself; 
And  not  aiinger-post  by  the  road  side 
«  To  Mantua"—"  To  Ferrara" — but  excites 
Surprise,  and  doubt,  and  self-congratulation. 

O  Italy,  how  beautiful  thou  art ! 
Yet  could  I  weep — for  thou  art  lying,  alas  ! 
Low  m  the  dust ;  and  they  who  come,  admire  thee 
As  we  admire  the  beautiful  in  death. 
Thine  was  a  dangerous  gift,  the  gift  of  beauty. 
Would  thou  hadst  less,  or  wert  as  once  thou  wast, 
Inspiring  awe  in  those  who  now  enslave  thee  ! 
— But  why  despair  ?     Twice  hast  thou  lived  already, 
Twice  shone  among  the  nations  of  the  world. 
As  the  sun  shines  among  the  lesser  lights 
Of  heaven  ;  and  shalt  again.     The  hour  shall  come. 
When  they  who  think  to  bind  the  ethereal  spirit, 
Who,  like  the  eagle  cowering  o'er  his  prey. 
Watch  with  quick  eye,  and  strike  and  strike  again 
If  but  a  sinew  vibrate,  shall  confess 
Their  wisdom  folly.     E'en  now  the  flame 
Bursts  forth  where  once  it  burnt  so  gloriously. 
And,  dying,  left  a  splendour  like  the  day. 
That  like  the  day  diffused  itself,  and  still 
Blesses  the  earth— the  light  of  genius,  virtue, 
^lieatiiess  in  thought  and  act,  contempt  of  death, 


Godlike  example.     Echoes  that  have  slept 
Since  Athens,  Lacedtemon,  were  themselves, 
Since  men  invoked  "By  tliose  in  Marathon!" 
Awake  along  the  iEgean  ;  and  the  dead, 
They  of  that  sacred  sliore,  have  heard  the  call, 
And  through  the  ranks,  from  wjng  to  wing,  are  seel 
Moving  as  once  they  were — instead  of  rage 
Breathing  deliberate  valour. 

X. 

COLL'ALTO. 

In  this  neglected  mirror  (the  broad  frame 
Of  massive  silver  serves  to  testify 
That  many  a  nob^'e  matron  of  the  house 
Has  sate  before  it'  once,  alas  .  vras  seen 
What  led  to  many  sorrows.     From  that  time 
The  bat  came  hither  for  a  sleeping  place  ; 
And  he,  who  cursed  another  in  his  heart. 
Said,  "  Be  thy  dwelling  through  the  day,  the  night, 
Shunn'd  like  Coll'alto."     'Twas  in  that  old  castle. 
Which  flanks  the  cliff  with  its  gray  battlements 
Flung  here  and  there,  and,  like  an  eagle's  nest, 
Hangs  in  the  Trevisan,  that  thus  the  steward. 
Shaking  his  locks,  the  few  that  time  had  left  him, 
Address'd  me,  as  we  enter'd  what  was  call'd 
"  My  lady's  chamber."    On  the  walls,  the  chairs. 
Much  yet  remain 'd  of  the  ricl\  tapestry 
Much  of  the  adventures  of  Sir  Lancelot 
In  the  green  glades  of  some  enchanted  forest. 
The  toilet  table  was  of  massive  silver, 
Florentine  art,  when  Florence  was  renown'd  ; 
A  gay  confusion  of  the  elements. 
Dolphins  and  boys,  and  shells  and  fruits  and  flowers  j 
And  from  the  ceiling,  in  his  gilded  cage, 
Hung  a  small  bird  of  curious  workmanship. 
That,  when  his  mistress  bade  him,  would  unfold 
(So  said  at  least  the  babbling  dame,  tradition) 
His  emerald  wings,  and  sing  and  sing  again 
The   song  that  pleased  her.     While  1  stood  and 

look'd, 
A  gleam  of  day  yet  lingering  in  the  west, 
The  steward  went  on. 

"  She  had  ('tis  now  long  since) 
A  gentle  serving  maid,  the  fair  Cristina. 
Fair  as  a  lily,  and  as  spotless  too  ; 
None  so  admired,  beloved.     They  had  grown  up 
As  play-fellows  ;  and  some  there  were,  who  said. 
Some  who  knew  much,  discoursing  of  Cristina, 
'  She  is  not  what  she  seems.'    When  unrequirea. 
She  would  steal  forth  ;  her  custom,  her  delight, 
To  wander  through  and  through  an  ancient  grove 
Self-planted  halfway  down,  losing  herself 
Like  one  in  love  with  sadness ;  and  her  veil 
And  vesture  white,  seen  ever  in  that  place, 
Kver  as  surely  as  the  hours  came  round. 
Among  those  reverend  trees,  gave  her  below 
The  name  of  the  White  Lady.     But  the  day 
Is  gone,  and  I  delay  you. 

In  that  chair 
The  countess,  as  it  might  be  now,  was  sittmg, 
Her  gentle  serving  maid,  the  fair  Cristina, 
Combing  her  golden  hair  ;  and  through  this  door 
The  count,  her  lord,  was  hastening,  call'd  away 
By  letters  of  great  urgency  to  Venice  ; 
When  in  the  glass  she  saw,  as  she  believed, 
('Twas  an  illusion  of  the  evil  spirit — 


us 


ROGERS. 


Some  say  he  came  and  cross'd  it  at  the  instant,) 
A  smile,  a  glance  at  parting,  given  and  answer'd, 
That  turn'd  her  blood  to  gall.     That  very  night 
The  deed  was  done.     That  night,  ere  yet  the  moon 
Was  up  on  Monte  Calvo,  and  the  wolf 
Baying  as  still  he  does,  (oft  do  I  hear  him. 
An  hour  and  more  by  the  old  turret  clock,) 
They  led  her  forth,  th'  unhappy,  lost  Cristina, 
Helping  her  down  in  her  distress — to  die. 

"  No  blood  was  spilt ;  no  instrument  of  death 
Lurk'd — or  stood  forth,  declaring  its  bad  purpose ; 
Nor  was  a  hair  of  her  unblemish'd  head 
Hurt  in  that  hour.    Fresh  as  a  flower  ungather'd. 
And  warm  with  life,  her  youthful  pulses  playing, 
She  was  wall'd  up  within  the  castle  wall. 
The  wall  itself  was  hollow'd  to  receive  her ; 
Then  closed  again,  and  done  to  line  and  rule. 
.  Would  you  descend  and  see  it  ? — 'Tis  far  down  ; 
And  many  a  stair  is  gone.     'Tis  in  a  vault 
Under  the  chapel :  and  there  nightly  now. 
As  in  the  narrow  niche,  when  smooth  and  fair. 
And  as  though  nothing  had  been  done  or  thought  of, 
The  stone-work  rose  before  her,  till  the  light 
Glimmer'd  and  went — there,  nightly,  at  that  hour, 
(You  smile,  and  would  it  were  an  idle  tale  ! 
Would  we  could  say  so  !)  at  that  hour  she  stands 
Shuddering — her  eyes  uplifted,  and  her  hands 
Join'd  as  in  prayer;  then,  like  a  blessed  soul 
Bursting  the  tomb,  springs  forward,  and  away 
Flies  o'er  the  woods,  the  mountains.     Issuing  forth, 
The  hunter  meets  her  in  his  hunting  track  ; 
The  shepherd  on  the  heath,  starting,  exclaims, 
(For  still  she  bears  the  name  she  bore  of  old,) 
« 'Tis  the  White  Lady  !'  " 

XI. 
VENICE. 
There  is  a  glorious  city  in  the  sea. 
The  sea  is  in  the  broad,  the  narrow  streets. 
Ebbing  and  flowing ;  and  the  salt  sea-weed 
Clings  to  the  marble  of  her  palaces. 
No  track  of  men,  no  footsteps  to  and  fro. 
Lead  to  her  gates.     The  path  lies  o'er  the  sea, 
Invisible ;  and  from  the  land  we  went. 
As  to  a  floating  city — steering  in. 
And  gliding  up  her  streets  as  in  a  dream. 
So  smoothly,  silently — by  many  a  dome 
Mosque-like,  and  many  a  stately  portico. 
The  statues  ranged  along  an  azure  sky ; 
By  many  a  pile  in  more  than  eastern  splendour, 
Of  old  the  residence  of  merchant  kings  ; 
The  fronts  of  some,  though  time  had  shatter'd  them, 
Still  glowing  with  the  richest  hues  of  art. 
As  though  the  wealth  within  them  had  run  o'er. 

Thither  I  came,  and  in  a  wondrous  ark, 
(That,  long  before  we  slipp'd  our  cable,  rang 
As  with  the  voices  of  all  living  things,) 
From  Padua,  where  the  stars  are,  night  by  night, 
Watch 'd  from  the  top  of  an  old  dungeon  tower, 
Whence  blood  ran  once,  the  tower  of  Ezzelin— 
Not  as  he  watch'd  them,  when  he  read  his  fate 
And  shudder'd.     But  of  him  I  thought  not  then, 
Him  or  his  horoscope ;  far,  far  from  me 
The  forms  of  guil  t  and  fear ;  though  some  were  there, 
Bitting  among  us  round  the  cabin  board, 
lorae  who,  like  him,  had  cried, "  Spill  blood  enough !" 


And  could  shake  long  at  shadows.    They  had  play'd 

Their  parts  at  Padua,  and  were  now  returning ; 

A  vagrant  crew,  and  careless  of  Jo-morrow, 

Careless  and  full  of  mirth.    Who,  in  that  quaver 

Sings  "  Caro,  caro  ?" — 'Tis  the  prima  donna. 

And  to  her  monkey,  smiling  in  his  face, 

Who,  as  transported,  cries,  "  Brava !  ancora  ?" 

'Tis  a  grave  personage,  an  old  macaw, 

Perch'd  on  her  shoulder.    But  mark  him  who  Icapf 

Ashore,  and  with  a  shout  urges  along 

The  lagging  mules  ;  then  runs  and  climbs  a  tree 

That  with  its  branches  overhangs  the  stream, 

And,  like  an  acorn,  drops  on  deck  again. 

'Tis  he  who  speaks  not,  stirs  not,  but  we  laugh ; 

That  child  of  fun  and  frolic,  Arlecchino. 

And  mark  their  poet — with  what  emphasis 

He  prompts  the  young  soubrette,  conning  her  part . 

Her  tongue  plays  truant,  and  he  raps  his  box, 

And  prompts  again  ;  for  ever  looking  round 

As  if  in  search  of  subjects  for  his  wit, 

His  satire  ;  and  as  often  whispering 

Things,  though  unheard,  not  unimaginable. 

Had  I  thy  pencil,  Crabbe,  (when  thou  hast  done,--i 
Late  may  it  be, — it  will,  like  Prospero's  staff, 
Be  buried  fifty  fathoms  in  the  earth,) 
I  would  portray  the  Italian — Now  I  cannot. 
Subtle,  discerning,  eloquent,  the  slave 
Of  love,  of  hate,  for  ever  in  extremes  ; 
Gentle  when  unprovoked,  easily  won. 
But  quick  in  quarrel — through  a  thousand  shades 
His  spirit  flits,  chameleon-like  ;  and  mocks 
The  eye  of  the  observer. 

Gliding  on. 
At  length  we  leave  the  river  for  the  sea. 
At  length  a  voice  aloft  proclaims  "  Venezia  !" 
And,  as  call'd  forth,  it  comes. 

A  few  in  fear. 
Flying  away  from  him  whose  boast  it  was,* 
That  the  grass  grew  not  where  his  horse  had  trod. 
Gave  birth  to  Venice.     Like  the  waterfowl, 
They  built  their  nests  among  the  ocean  waves  ; 
And,  where  the  sands  were  shifting,  as  the  wind 
Blew  from  the  north,  the  south ;  where*they  that 

came. 
Had  to  make  sure  the  ground  they  stood  upon, 
Rose,  like  an  exhalation,  from  the  deep, 
A  vast  metropolis,  with  glittering  spires. 
With  theatres,  basilicas  adorn 'd ; 
A  scene  of  light  and  glory,  a  dominion. 
That  has  endured  the  longest  among  men. 

And  whence  the  talisman  by  which  she  rose, 
Towering  ?     'Twas  found  there  in  the  barren  sea. 
Want  led  to  entei-prise  ;  and,  far  and  near. 
Who  met  not  the  Venetian  ? — now  in  Cairo ; 
Ere  yet  the  califa  came,  listening  to  hear 
Its  bells  approaching  from  the  Red  Sea  coast ; 
Now  on  the  Euxine,  on  the  Sea  of  Azoph, 
In  converse  with  the  Persian,  with  the  Russ, 
The  Tartar ;  on  his  lowly  deck  receiving 
Pearls  from  the  Gulf  of  Ormus,  gems  from  Bagdad  , 
Eyes  brighter  yet,  that  shed  the  light  of  love, 
From  Georgia,  from  Circassia.     Wandering  round. 
When  in  the  rich  bazaar  he  saw,  display'd. 
Treasures  from  unknown  climes,  away  he  went, 

♦  Attila. 


ITALY. 


3^9 


And,  travelling  slowly  upward,  drew  ere  long 
From  the  well-head  supplying  all  below  ; 
Making  the  imperial  city  of  the  east, 
Herself,  his  tributary. 

If  we  turn 
To  the  black  forests  of  the  Rhine,  the  Danube, 
Where  o'er  each  narrow  glen  a  castle  hangs. 
And,  like  the  wolf  that  hunger'd  at  his  door. 
The  baron  lived  by  rapine — there  we  meet. 
In  warlike  guise,  the  caravan  from  Venice  ; 
When  on  its  march,  now  lost  and  now  emerging, 
A  glittering  file,  the  trumpet  heard,  the  scout 
Sent  and  recall'd — but  at  a  city  gate 
All  gayety,  and  look'd  for  ere  it  comes ; 
Winning  its  way  with  all  that  can  attract. 
Cages,  whence  every  wild  cry  of  the  desert. 
Jugglers,  stage-dancers.    Well  might  Charlemain, 
And  his  brave  peers,  each  with  his  visor  up, 
On  their  long  lances  lean  and  gaze  awhile, 
When  the  Venetian  to  their  eyes  disclosed 
1  .e  wonders  of  the  east !     Well  might  they  then 
L  i^i\  for  new  conquests  ! 

Thus  did  Venice  rise. 
Thus  flourish,  till  th'  unwelcome  tidings  came. 
That  in  the  Tagus  had  arrived  a  fleet 
From  India,  from  the  region  of  the  sun. 
Fragrant  with  spices — that  a  way  was  found, 
A  channel  open'd,  and  thg^  golden  stream 
Turn'd  to  enrich  another.     Then  she  felt 
Her  strength  departing,  and  at  last  she  fell. 
Fell  in  an  instant,  blotted  out  and  razed ; 
She  who  had  stood  yet  longer  than  the  longest 
Of  the  four  kingdoms — who,  as  in  an  ark. 
Had  floated  down,  amid  a  thousand  wrecks, 
Uninjured,  from  the  old  world  to  tlie  new. 
From  the  last  trace  of  civilized  life—  to  where 
Light  shone  again,  and  with  unclouded  splendour. 
Though  many  an  age  in  the  midsea  she  dwelt. 
From  her  retreat  calmly  contemplating 
The  changes  of  the  earth,  herself  unchanged. 
Before  her  pass'd,  as  in  an  awful  dream, 
The  mightiest  of  the  mighty.     What  are  these. 
Clothed  in  their  purple  ?     O'er  the  globe  they  fling 
Their  monstrous  shadows ;  and,  while  yet  we  speak. 
Phantom-like,  vanish  with  a  dreadful  scream  I 
What— but  the  last  that  styled  themselves   the 

Cassars  ? 
And  who  in  long  array  (look  where  they  come; 
Their  gestures  menacing  so  far  and  wide) 
Wear  the  green  turban  and  the  heron's  plume  ? 
Who — but  the  caliphs  ?  follow'd  fast  by  shapes 
As  new  and  strange — emperor,  and  king,  and  czar, 
And  soldan,  each,  with  a  gigantic  stride. 
Trampling  on  all  the  flourishing  works  of  peace 
To  make  his  greatness  greater,  and  inscribe 
His  name  in  blood — some,  men  of  steel,  steel-clad ; 
Others,  nor  long,  alas  !  the  interval. 
In  light  and  gay  attire,  with  brow  serene 
Wielding  Jove's  thunder,  scattering  sulphurous  fire 
Mingled  with  darkness  ;  and,  among  the  rest, 
Lo,  one  by  one,  passing  continually. 
Those  who  assume  a  sway  beyond  them  all ; 
Men  gray  with  age,  each  in  a  triple  crown. 
And  in  his  tremulous  hands  grasping  the  keys 
That  can  alone,  as  he  would  signify, 
Unlock  heaven's  gate. 


XII. 

LUIGI. 

He  who  is  on  his  travels  and  loves  ease, 
Ease  and  companionship,  should  hire  a  youth, 
Such  as  thou  wert,  Luigi.     Thee  I  found. 
Playing  at  mora  on  the  cabin  roof 
With  Pulcinella,  crying,  as  in  wrath, 
"  Tre  !  Quattro  !  Cinque  !" — 'tis  a  game  to  strike 
Fire   from   the   coldest  heart.     What  then  froar 

thine  ? 
And,  ere  the  twentieth  throw,  I  had  resolved. 
Won  by  thy  looks.     Thou  wert  an  honest  lad ; 
Wert  generous,  grateful,  not  without  ambition. 
Had  it  depended  on  thy  will  and  pleasure. 
Thou  wouldst  have  number'd  in  thy  family 
At  least  six  doges  and  twelve  procurators. 
But  that  was  not  to  be.     In  thee  I  saw 
The  last  of  a  long  line  of  Carbonari, 
Who  in  their  forest,  for  three  hundred  years, 
Had  lived  and  labour'd,  cutting,  charring  wood; 
Discovering  where  they  were,  to  those  astray. 
By  the  re-echoing  stroke,  the  crash,  the  fall, 
Or  the  blue  wreath  that  travell'd  slowly  up 
Into  the  sky.     Thy  nobler  destinies 
Led  thee  away  to  jostle  in  the  crowd ; 
And  there  I  found  thee — by  thy  own  prescription 
Crossing  the  sea  to  try  once  more  a  change 
Of  air  and  diet,  landing,  and  as  gayly 
Near  the  Dogano — on  the  great  canal, 
As  though  thou  knewest  where  to  dine  and  sleep. 

First  didst  thou  practise  patience  in  Bologna, 
Serving  behind  a  cardinal's  gouty  chair. 
Laughing  at  jests  that  were  no  laughing  matter ; 
Then  teach  the  art  to  others  in  Ferrara, 
— At  the  Three  Moors — as  guide,  as  cicerone- 
Dealing  out  largely  in  exchange  for  pence 
Thy  scraps  of  knowledge — through  the  grassy  streei 
Leading,  explaining — pointing  to  the  bars 
Of  Tasso's  dungeon,  and  the  Latin  verse 
Graven  in  the  stone,  that  yet  denotes  the  door 
Of  Ariosto. 

Many  a  year  is  gone 
Since  on  the  Rhine  we  parted  ;  yet,  rnethinks 
I  can  recall  thee  to  the  life,  Luigi, 
In  our  long  journey  ever  by  my  side. 
O'er  rough  and  smooth,  o'er  Apennine,  Maremmaj 
Thy  locks  jet  black,  and  clustering  round  a  face 
Open  as  day,  and  full  of  manly  daring. 
Thou  hadst  a  hand,  a  heart  for  all  that  came. 
Herdsman  or  pedlar,  monk  or  muleteer ; 
And  few  there  were  that  met  thee  not  with  smiles. 
Mishap  pass'd  o'er  thee  like  a  summer  cloud. 
Cares  thou  hadst  none ;  and  they,  who  stood  to  heal 

thee. 
Caught  the  infection,  and  forgot  their  own. 
Nature  conceived  thee  in  her  merriest  mood, 
Her  happiest — not  a  speck  was  in  the  sky ; 
And  at  thy  birth  the  cricket  chirp'd,  Luigi, 
Thine  a  perpetual  voice — at  every  turn 
A  larum  to  the  echo.     In  a  clime 
Where  all  the  world  was  gay,  thou  wert  the  gayest, 
And,  like  a  babe,  hush'd  only  by  thy  slumbers. 
Up  hill  and  down,  morning,  and  noon,  and  night, 
Singing  or  talking ;  singing  to  thyself 
When  none  gave  ear,  but  to  the  listener  talking. 


S50 


ROGER  IS. 


ST. 


XIII. 
MARK'S  PLACE. 


Over  how  many  tracts,  vast,  measureless, 
Nothing  from  day  to  day,  from  year  to  year, 
Passes,  save  now  and  then  a  cloud,  a  meteor, 
A  famish 'd  eagle  ranging  for  his  prey ; 
While  on  this  spot  of  earth,  the  work  of  man. 
How  much  has  been  transacted  !    Emperors,  popes. 
Warriors,  from  far  and  wide,  laden  with  spoil. 
Landing,  have  here  perform'd  their  several  parts. 
Then  left  the  stage  to  others.     Not  a  stone 
In  the  broad  pavement,  but  to  him  who  has 
An  eye,  an  ear  for  the  inanimate  world, 
Tells  of  past  ages. 

In  that  temple  porch 
(The  brass  is  gone,  the  porphyry  remains,) 
Did  Barbarossa  fling  his  mantle  off 
And  kneeling,  on  his  neck  receive  the  foot 
Of  the  proud  pontiff— thus  at  last  consoled 
For  flight:,  d^isguise,  and  many  an  anguish  shake 
On  his  stone  pillow.     In  that  temple  porch 
Old  as  he  was,  so  near  his  hundredth  year. 
And  blind— his  eyes  put  out — did  Dandolo 
Stand  forth,  displaying  on  his  ducal  crown 
The  cross  just  then  assumed  at  the  high  altar. 
There  did  he  stand,  erect,  invincible. 
Though  wan  his  cheeks,  and  wet  with  many  tears. 
For  in  his  prayers  he  had  been  weeping  much ; 
And  now  the  pilgrims  and  the  people  wept 
With  admiration,  saying  in  their  hearts. 
"  Surely  those  aged  limbs  have  need  of  rest !" 
— 'There  did  he  stand,  with  his  old  armour  on. 
Ere,  gonfalon  in  hand,  that  stream 'd  aloft. 
As  conscious  of  its  glorious  destiny. 
So  soon  to  float  o'er  mosque  and  minaret, 
He  sail'd  away,  hve  hundred  gallant  ships, 
Their  lofty  sides  hung  with  emblazon 'd  shields. 
Following  his  track  to  glory.     He  returned  not ; 
But  of  his  trophies  four  arrived  ere  long, 
Snatch'd  from  destruction— the  four  steeds  divine, 
That  strike  the  ground,  resounding  with  their  feet, 
And  from  their  nostrils  snort  ethereal  flame 
Over  that  very  portal— in  the  place 
Where  in  an  after-time  Petrarch  was  seen 
Sitting  beside  the  doge,  on  his  right  hand. 
Amid  the  ladies  of  the  court  of  Venice, 
Their  beauty  shaded  from  the  setting  sun 
By  many-colour'd  hangings  ;  while,  beneath. 
Knights  of  all  nations,  some  fro.m  merry  England, 
Their  lances  in  the  rest,  charged  for  the  prize. 

Here,  among  other  pageants,  and  how  oft 
It  came,  as  if  returning  to  console 
The  least,  instruct  the  greatest,  did  the  doge. 
Himself,  go  round,  borne  through  the  gazing  crowd. 
Once  in  a  chair  of  state,  once  on  his  bier. 
They  were  his  first  appearance,  and  his  last. 

The  sea,  that  emblem  of  uncertainty. 
Changed  not  so  fast  for  many  and  many  an  age. 
As  this  small  spot.     To-day  'twas  full  of  maskers  ; 
And  lo,  the  madness  of  the  carnival. 
The  monk,  the  nun,  the  holy  legate  mask'd  ! 
To-morrow  came  the  scaffold  and  the  headsman ; 
And  he  died  there  by  torchlight,  bound  and  gagg'd. 
Whose  name  and  crime  they  knew  not.    Under- 
neath 


Where  the  archangel,  turning  with  the  wind, 

Blesses  the  city  from  the  topmost  tower. 

His  arms  extended— there  continually 

Two  phantom  shapes  were  sitting  side  by  side. 

Or  up,  and,  as  in  sport,  chasing  each  other  ; 

Horror  and  Mirth.    Both  vanish'd  in  one  hour  ! 

But  Ocean  only,  when  again  he  claims 

His  ancient  rule,  shall  wash  away  their  footsteps. 

Enter  the  palace  by  the  marble  stairs* 
Down  which  the  grisly  head  of  old  Faliero 
RoU'd  from  tlie  block.    Pass  onward  through  thf 

chamber. 
Where,  amct  ^  all  drawn  in  their  ducal  robes. 
But  one  is  wanting— where,  thrown  off  in  heat, 
A  short  inscription  on  the  doge's  chair 
Led  to  another  on  the  wall  yet  shorter ; 
And  thou  wilt  track  them— wilt  from  halls  of  state 
Where  kings  have  feasted,  and  the  festal  song 
Rung  through  the  fretted  roof,  cedar  and  gold, 
Step  into  darkness  ;  and  be  told,  «  'Twas  here. 
Trusting,  deceived,  assembled  but  to  die. 
To  take  a  long  embrace  and  part  again, 
Carrara  and  his  valiant  sons  were  strangled ; 
He  first — tlien  they,  whose  only  crime  had  been 
Struggling  to  save  their   father." — Through   tha 

door 
So  soon  to  cry,  smiting  his  brow,  "  I'm  lost !" 
Was  shown,  and  with  all  courtesy,  all  honour. 
The  great  and  noble  captJ^in,  Carmagnola. — 
That  deep  descent  (thou  canst  not  yet  discern 
Aught  as  it  is)  leads  to  the  dripping  vaults 
Under  the  flood,  where  light  and  warmth  came  never 
Leads  to  a  cover'd  bridge,  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  ; 
And  to  that  fatal  closet  at  the  foot. 
Lurking  for  prey,  which,  when  a  victim  enter'd. 
Grew  less  and  less,  contracting  to  a  span ; 
An  iron  door,  urged  onward  by  a  screw, 
Forcing  out  iife. — But  let  us  to  the  roof. 
And,  when  thou  hast  survey'd  the  sea,  the  land. 
Visit  the  narrow  cells  that  cluster  there. 
As  in  a  place  of  tombs.     They  had  their  tenants, 
And  each  supplied  with  sufferings  of  his  own. 
There  burning  suns  beat  unrelentingly. 
Turning  all  things  to  dust,  and  scorching  up 
The  brain,  till  reason  fled,  and  the  wild  yell 
And  wilder  laugh  burst  out  on  every  side. 
Answering  each  other  as  in  mockery  ! 
— Few  houses  of  the  size  were  better  fill'd  ; 
Though  many  came  and  left  it  in  an  hour. 
"  Most  nights,"  so  said  the  good  old  Nicolo, 
(For  three-and-thirty  years  his  uncle  kept 
The  water  gate  below,  but  seldom  spoke. 
Though  much  was   on   his  mind,)  "most  night* 

arrived 
The  prison  boat,  that  boat  with  many  oars. 
And  bore  a^^-ay  as  to  the  lower  world. 
Disburdening  in  the  canal  Orfano, 
That  drowning-place,  were  never  net  was  thrown 
Summer  or  winter,  death  the  penalty  ; 
And  where  a  secret,  once  deposited, 
Lay  till  the  waters  should  give  up  their  dead." 

Yet  what  so  gay  as  Venice  ?     Every  gale 
Breathed  heavenly  music  I   and  who   flock'd  no 
thither 

*  Scala  de'  Giganti. 


ITALY. 


251 


To  celebrate  her  nuptials  with  the  sea  ? 
To  wear  the  mask,  and  mingle  in  the  crowd 
With  Greek,  Armenian,  Persian — night  and  day 
(There,  and  there  only,  did  the  hour  stand  still) 
Pursuing  through  her  thousand  labyrinths 
The  enchantress  Pleasure ;  realizing  dreams 
The  earliest,  happiest — for  a  tale  to  catch 
Credulous  ears,  and  hold  young  hearts  in  chains, 
Had  only  to  begin,  "  There  lived  in  Venice" — 

"  Who  were  the  six  we  supp'd  with  yesternight  ?" 
"  Kings,  one  and  all !  Thou  couldst  not  but  remark 
The  style  and  manner  of  the  six  that  served  them." 

"  Who  answer'd  me  just  now  ?   Who^  when  I  said, 

*  'Tis  nine,'  turn'd  round,  and  said  so  solemnly, 

*  Signor,  he  died  at  nine  !' "— "  'Twas  the  Armenian ; 
The  mask  that  follows  thee,  go  where  thou  wilt." 

"  But  who  stands  there,  alone  among  them  all  ?" 
«  The  Cypriot.    Ministers  from  foreign  courts 
Beset  his  doors,  long  ere  his  hour  of  rising  ; 
His  the  great  secret !     Not  the  golden  house 
Of  Nero,  or  those  fabled  in  the  East, 
As  wrought  by  magic,  half  so  rich  as  his  ! 
Two  dogs,  coal  black,  in  collars  of  pure  gold, 
Walk  in  his  footsteps — who  but  his  familiars  ? 
He  casts  no  shadow,  nor  is  seen  to  smile  !" 
Such  their  discourse.     Assembling  in  St.  Mark's, 
All  nations  met  as  on  enchanted  ground  ! 

What  though  a  strange,  mysterious  power  was 
there. 
Moving  throughout,  subtle,  invisible. 
And  universal  as  the  air  they  breathed ; 
A  power  that  never  slumber'd,  never  pardon'd, 
All  eye,  all  ear,  nowhere  and  everywhere, 
Entering  the  closet  and  the  sanctuary. 
No  place  of  refuge  for  the  doge  himself ; 
Most  present  when  least  thought  of — nothing  dropt 
In  secret,  when  the  heart  was  on  the  lips, 
Nothing  in  feverish  sleep,  but  instantly 
Observed  and  judged — a  power,  that  if  but  glanced  at 
In  casual  converse,  be  it  where  it  might, 
The  speaker  lovver'd  at  once  his  eyes,  his  voice, 
And  pointed  upward,  as  to  God  in  heaven — 
What  though  that  power  was  there,  he  who  lived 

thus. 
Pursuing  pleasure,  lived  as  if  it  were  not ; 
But  let  him  in  the  midnight  air  indulge 
A  word,  a  thought  against  the  laws  of  Venice, 
And  in  that  hour  he  vanish'd  from  the  earth  ! 

XIV. 

THE  GONDOLA. 

Boy,  call  the  gondola  ;  the  sun  is  set. — 
it  came,  and  we  embark'd  ;  but  instantly, 
Though  she  had  stept  on  board  so  light  of  foot, 
So  light  of  heart,  laughing  she  knew  not  why, 
Sleep  overcame  her  ;  on  my  arm  she  slept. 
From  time  to  time  I  waked  her  ;  but  Jihe  boat 
Rock'd  her  to  sleep  again. 

The  moon  was  up, 
But  broken  by  a  cloud.     The  wind  was  hush'd, 
And  the  sea  mirror-like.     A  single  zephyr 
Play'd  with  her  tresses,  and  drew  more  and  more 
Her  veil  across  her  bosom. 

Long  I  lay 
Contemplating  that  face  so  beautiful, 


That  rosy  mouth,  that  cheek  dimpled  with  smiles. 
That  neck  but  half  concealed,  whiter  than  snow. 
'Twas  the  sweet  slumber  of  her  early  age. 
I  look'd  and  look'd,  and  felt  a  flush  of  joy 
I  would  express,  but  cannot. 

Oft  I  wish'd 
Gently — ^by  stealth — to  drop  asleep  myself, 
And  to  incline  yet  lower  that  sleep  might  come ; 
Oft  closed  my  eyes  as  in  forgetfulness. 
'Twas  all  in  vain.     Love  would  noj;  let  me  rest. 

But  how  delightful  when  at  length  she  waked  , 
When,  her  light  hair  adjusting,  and  her  veil 
So  rudely  scatter'd,  she  resumed  her  place 
Beside  me  ;  and,  as  gayly  as  before, 
Sitting  unconsciously  nearer  and  nearer, 
Pour'd  out  her  innocent  mind  ! 

So,  nor  long  since, 
Sung  a  Venetian :  and  his  lay  of  love. 
Dangerous  and  sweet,  charm'd  Venice.     As  for  rnc 
(Less  fortunate,  if  love  be  happiness) 
No  curtain  drawn,  no  pulse  beating  alarm, 
I  went  alone  under  the  silent  moon  ; 
Thy  place,  St.  Mark,  thy  churches,  palaces. 
Glittering,  and  frost-like,  and  as  day  drew  on, 
Melting  away,  an  emblem  of  themselves. 

Those  porches  pass'd  through  which  the  water- 
breeze 
Plays,  though  no  longer  on  the  noble  forms 
That  moved  there,  sable-vested — and  the  quay 
Silent,  grass-grown — 'adventurer-like  I  launch'd 
Into  the  deep,  ere  long  discovering 
Isles  such  as  cluster  in  the  southern  seas. 
All  verdure.     Everywhere,  from  bush  and  brake, 
The  musky  odour  of  the  serpents  came  ; 
Then-  slimy  track  across  the  woodman's  path 
Bright  in  the  moonshine :  and,  as  round  I  went, 
Dreaming  of    Greece,  whither    the   waves   were 

gliding, 
I  listen 'd  to  the  venerable  pines 
Then  in  close  converse  ;  and,  if  right  I  guess'd, 
Delivering  many  a  message  to  the  winds 
In  secret,  for  their  kindred  on  Mount  Ida. 

Nor  when  again  in  Venice,  when  again 
In  that  strange  place,  so  stirring  and  so  still, 
Where  nothing  comes  to  drown  the  human  voice 
But  music,  or  the  dashing  of  the  tide. 
Ceased  I  to  wander.     Now  a  Jessica 
Sung  to  her  lute,  her  signal  as  she  sate 
At  her  half-open  window.     Then,  methought, 
A  serenade  broke  silence,  breathing  hope 
Through  walls  of  stone,  and  torturing  the  proud 

heart 
Of  some  Priuli.     Once,  we  could  not  err, 
(It  was  before  an  old  Palladian  house. 
As  between  night  and  day  we  floated  by,) 
A  gondolier  lay  singing  ;  and  he  sung. 
As  in  the  time  when  Venice  was  herself. 
Of  Tancred  and  Erminia.     On  our  oars 
We  rested ;  and  the  verse  was  verse  divine  ! 
We  could  not  err — perhaps  he  was  the  last— • 
For  none  took  up  the  strain,  none  answer'd  him ; 
And  when  he  ceased,  he  left  upon  my  ear 
A  something  like  the  dying  voice  of  Venice. 

The  moon  went  down ;    and  nothing  now  was 
seen 
Save  here  and  there  the  lamp  of  a  madonna. 


252 


ROGERS. 


Glimmering — or  heard,  but  when  he  spoke,  who 

stood 
Over  the  lantern  at  the  prow,  and  cried, 
Turning  the  corner  of  some  reverend  pile, 
Some  school  or  hospital  of  old  renown. 
Though  haply  none  were  coming,  none  were  near, 
"  Hasten  or  slacken.'** 

But  at  length  night  fled  ; 
And  with  her  fled,  scattering,  the  sons  of  pleasure. 
Star  after  star  shot  by,  or  meteor-like, 
Cross'd  me  and  vanish'd — lost  at  once  among 
Those  hundred  isles  that  tower  majestically. 
That  rise  abruptly  from  the  water  mark. 
Not  with  rough  crag,  but  marble,  and  the  work 
Of  noblest  architects.     I  linger'd  still ; 
Nor  struck  my  threshold,  till  the  hour  was  come 
And  past,  when,  flitting  home  in  the  gray  light, 
The  young  Bianca  found  her  father's  door, 
That  door  so  often  with  a  trembling  hand, 
So  often — then  so  lately  left  ajar. 
Shut ;  and,  all  terror,  all  perplexity. 
Now  by  her  lover  urged,  now  by  her  love, 
Fled  o'er  the  waters  to  return  no  more. 

XV. 

THE  BRIDES  OF  VENICE. 

It  was  St.  Mary's  eve^  and  all  pour'd  forth 
As  to  some  grand  solemnity.     The  fisher 
Came  from  his  islet,  bringing  o'er  the  waves 
His  wife  and  little  one  ;  the  husbandman 
From  the  firm  land,  along  the  Po,  the  Brenta, 
Crowding  the  common  ferry.     All  arrived ; 
And  in  his  straw  the  prisoner  turn'd  and  listen 'd, 
So  great  the  stir  in  Venice.     Old  and  young 
Throng'd  her  three  hundred  bridges ;  the  grave  Turk, 
Turban'd,  long  vested,  and  the  cozening  Jew, 
In  yellow  hat  and  threadbare  gaberdine, 
Hurrying  along.     For,  as  the  custom  was. 
The  noblest  sons  and  daughters  of  the  state. 
They  of  patrician  birth,  the  flower  of  Venice, 
Whose  names  are  written  in  the  book  of  gold. 
Were  on  that  day  to  solemnize  their  nuptials. 

At  noon,  a  distant  murmur  through  the  crowd, 
Rising  and  rolling  on,  announced  their  coming ; 
And  never  from  the  first  was  to  be  seen 
Such  splendour  or  such  beauty.     Two  and  two, 
(The  richest  tapestry  unroU'd  before  them,) 
First  came  the  brides  in  all  their  loveliness  ; 
Each  in  her  veil,  and  by  two  bridemaids  follow'd, 
Onl}'^  less  lovely,  who  behind  her  bore 
The  precious  caskets  that  within  contain 'd 
The  dowry  and  the  presents.     On  she  moved. 
Her  eyes  cast  down,  and  holding  in  her  hand 
A  fan,  that  gently  waved,  of  ostrich  feathers. 
Her  veil,  transparent  as  the  gossamer. 
Fell  from  beneath  a  starry  diadem  ; 
And  on  her  dazzling  neck  a  jewel  shone. 
Ruby,  or  diamond,  or  dark  amethyst ; 
A  jewell'd  chain,  in  many  a  winding  wreath. 
Wreathing  her  gold  brocade.  i 

Before  the  church. 
That  venerable  pile  on  the  sea  brink. 
Another  train  they  met,  no  strangers  to  them, 
Brothers  to  some,  and  to  the  rest  still  dearer ; 


*  Premi  o  Bta. 


Each  in  his  hand  bearing  his  cap  and  plume. 
And,  as  he  walk'd,  with  modest  dignity 
Folding  his  scarlet  mantle,  his  tabarro. 

They  join,  they  enter  in,  and,  up  the  aisle, 
Led  by  the  full-voiced  choir  in  bright  procession, 
Range  round  the  altar.     In  his  vestments  there 
The  patriarch  stands;  and,  while  the  anthem  flows 
Who  can  look  on  unmoved  ? — mothers  in  secret 
Rejoicing  in  the  beauty  of  their  daughters, 
Sons  in  the  thought  of  making  them  their  own ; 
And  they,  array'd  in  youth  and  innocence, 
Their  beauty  heighten'd  by  their  hopes  and  fears. 

At  length  the  rite  is  ending.     All  fall  down 
In  earnest  prayer,  all  of  all  ranks  together^ 
And,  stretching  out  his  hands,  the  holy  man 
Proceeds  to  give  the  general  benediction  ; 
When  hark,  a  din  of  voices  from  without. 
And  shrieks,  and  groans,  and  outcries  as  in  battle} 
And  lo,  the  door  is  burst,  the  curtain  rent. 
And  armed  ruffians,  robbers  from  the  deep, 
Savage,  uncouth,  led  on  by  Barbarigo, 
And  his  six  brothers  in  their  coats  of  steel. 
Are  standing  on  the  threshold  !     Statue-like, 
A  while  they  gaze  on  the  fallen  multitude. 
Each  with  his  sabre  up,  in  act  to  strike  ; 
Then,  as  at  once  recovering  from  the  spell, 
Rush  forward  to  the  altar,  and  as  soon 
Are  gone  again — amid  no  clash  of  arms 
Bearing  away  the  maidens  and  the  treasures. 

Where  are   they  now  ? — ploughing  the  distant 
waves. 
Their  sails  all  set,  and  they  upon  the  deck 
Standing  triumphant.     To  the  east  they  go. 
Steering  for  Istria ;  their  accursed  barks 
(Well  are  they  known,  the  galliot  and  the  galley) 
Freighted  with  all  that  gives  to  life  its  value ! 
The  richest  argosies  were  poor  to  them  ! 

Now  might  you  see  the  matrons  running  wild 
Along  the  beach ;  the  men  half  arm'd  and  arming, 
One  with  a  shield,  one  with  a  casque  and  spear; 
One  with  an  axe  hewing  the  moDring-chain 
Of  some  old  pinnace.     Not  a  raft,  a  plank. 
But  on  that  day  was  drifting.     In  an  hour 
Half  Venice  was  afloat.     But  long  before. 
Frantic  with  grief  and  scorning  all  control. 
The  youths  were  gone  in  a  light  brigantine, 
Lying  at  anchor  near  the  arsenal ; 
Each  having  sworn,  and  by  the  holy  rood, 
To  slay  or  to  be  slain. 

And  from  the  tower 
The  watchman  gives  the  signal.     In  the  east 
A  ship  is  seen,  and  making  for  the  port ; 
Her  flag  St.  Mark's. — And  now  she  turns  the  poinl 
Over  the  waters  like  a  sea-bird  flying ! 
Ha,  'tis  the  stime,  'tis  theirs  !  from  stern  to  prow 
Hung  with  green  boughs,  she  comes,  she  comes,  ra 

storing 
All  that  was;^lost. 

Coasting,  with  narrow  search 
Friuli — like  a  tiger  in  his  spring, 
They  had  surprised  the  corsairs  where  they  lay 
Sharing  the  spoil  in  blind  security 
And  casting  lots — had  slain  them,  one  and  all. 
All  to  the  last,  and  flung  them  far  and  wide 
Into  the  sea,  their  proper  element ; 
Him  first,  as  first  in  rank,  whose  name  so  long 


ITALY. 


25S 


Had  hush'd  the  babes  of  Venice,  and  who  yet, 
Breathing  a  little,  in  his  look  retain'd 
The  fierceness  of  his  soul. 

Thus  were  the  brides 
Lost  and  recover'd  ;  and  what  now  remain'd 
But  to  give  thanks  ?     Twelve   breast-plates   and 

twelve  crowns, 
Flaming  with  gems  and  gold,  the  votive  offerings 
Of  the  young  victors  to  their  patron  saint, 
Vow'd  on  the  field  of  battle,  were  ere  long 
Laid  at  his  feet ;  and  to  preserve  for  ever 
The  memory  of  a  day  so  full  of  change. 
From  joy  to  grief,  from  grief  to  joy  again, 
Through  many  an  age,  as  oft  as  it  came  round, 
'Twas  held  religiously  with  all  observance. 
The  doge  resign'd  his  crimson  for  pure  ermine ; 
And  through  the  city  in  a  stately  barge 
Of  gold,  were  borne,  with  songs  and  symphonies. 
Twelve  ladies  young  and  noble.     Clad  they  were 
In  bridal  white  with  bridal  ornaments. 
Each  in  her  glittering  veil ;  and  on  the  deck. 
As  on  a  burnish'd  throne,  they  glided  by ; 
No  window  or  balcony  but  adorn'd 
With  hangings  of  rich  texture,  not  a  roof 
But  cover'd  with  beholders,  and  the  air 
Vocal  with  joy.     Onward  they  went,  their  oars 
Moving  in  concert  with  the  harmony. 
Through  the  Rialto  to  the  ducal  palace ; 
And  at  a  banquet  there,  served  with  due  honour. 
Sate  representing,  in  the  eyes  of  all. 
Eyes  not  unwet,  I  ween,  with  grateful  tears, 
Their  lovely  ancestors,  the  brides  of  Venice. 

XVI. 
FOSCARI. 

Let  us  lift  up  the  curtain,  and  observe 
What  passes  in  that  chamber.     Now  a  sigh, 
And  now  a  groan  is  heard.     Then  all  is  still. 
Twenty  arc  sitting  as  in  judgment  there ; 
Men  who   have  served  their  country,  and  grown 

gray 
In  governments  and  distant  embassies, 
Men  eminent  alike  in  war  and  peace ; 
Such  as  in  efRgy  shall  long  adorn 
The  walls  of  Venice — to  show  what  she  has  been  ! 
Their  gaijb  is  black,  and  black  the  arras  is. 
And  sad  the  general  aspect.     Yet  their  looks 
Are  calm,  are  cheerful ;  nothing  there  like  grief. 
Nothing  or  harsh  or  cruel.     Still  that  noise, 
That  low  and  dismal  moaning. 

Half  withdrawn, 
A  little  to  the  left,  sits  one  in  crimson, 
A  venerable  man,  fourscore  and  upward. 
Cold  drops  of  sweat  stand  on  his  furrow'd  brow. 
His  hands  are   clench'd;    his  ej^es   half  shut  and 

glazed ; 
His  shiunk  and  wither'd  limbs  rigid  as  marble. 
'Tis  Foscari,  the  doge.     A  nd  there  is  one, 
A  young  man,  lying  at  his  feet,  stretch'd  out 
In  torture.     'Tis  his  son,  his  only  one ; 

Tis  Giacomo,  the' blessing  of  his  age, 
(Say,  has  he  lived  for  this  r)  accused  of  murder. 
The  murder  of  the  senator  Dor.ato. 
Last  night  the  proofs,  if  proofs  they  are,  were  dropt 
Into  the  lion's  mouth,  the  mouth  of  brass, 
That  gapes  and  gorges  ;  and  the  doge  himself 


Must  sit  and  look  on  a  beloved  son 
Suffering  the  Question. 

Twice,  to  die  in  peace 
To  save  a  falling  house,  and  turn  the  hearts 
Of  his  fell  adversaries,  those  who  now. 
Like  hell-hounds  in  full  cry,  are  running  down 
His  last  of  four,  twice  did  he  ask  their  leave 
To  lay  aside  the  crown,  and  they  refused  him, 
An  oath  exacting,  never  more  to  ask  it ; 
And  there  he  sits,  a  spectacle  of  wo, 
By  them,  his  rivals  in  the  state,  compell'd. 
Such  the  refinement  of  their  cruelty. 
To  keep  the  place  he  sigh'd  for. 

Once  again 

The  screw  is  turn'd ;  and,  as  it  turns,  the  son 
Looks  up,  and,  in  a  faint  and  broken  accent. 
Murmurs  "  jNIy  father  I"  the  old  man  shrinks  back, 
And  in  his  mantle  muffles  up  his  face. 
"  Art  thou  not  guilty  ?"  says  a  voice,  that  once 
Would  greet  the  sufferer  long  before  they  met 
And  on  his  ear  strike  like  a  pleasant  music — 
"  Art  thou  not  guilty  ?" — "  No  !  indeed  I  am  not  ** 
But  all  is  unavailing.     In  that  court 
Groans  are  confessions  ;  patience,  fortitude. 
The  work  of  magic  ;  and,  released,  upheld 
For  condemnation,  from  his  father's  lips 
He  hears  the  sentence,  "  Banishment  to  Candia : 
Death,  if  he  leaves  it." 

And  the  bark  sets  sail ; 
And  he  is  gone  from  all  he  loves — for  ever ! 
His  wife,  his  boys,  and  his  disconsolate  parents  ! 
Gone  in  the  dead,  of  night — unseen  of  any — 
W^ithout  a  word,  a  look  of  tenderness. 
To  be  call'd  up,  when,  in  his  lonely  hours, 
He  would  indulge  in  weeping. 

Like  a  ghost. 
Day  after  day,  year  after  year  he  haunts 
An  ancient  rampart,  that  o'erhangs  the  sea ; 
Gazing  on  vacancy,  and  hourly  starting 

To  answer  to  the  watch Alas,  how  changed 

From  him,  the  mirror  of  the  youth  of  Venice, 
In  whom  the  slightest  thing,  or  Avhim,  or  chance, 
Did  he  but  wear  his  doublet  so  and  so. 
All  follow'd ;  at  whose  nuptials,  when  at  length 
He  won  that  maid  at  once  the  fairest,  noblest, 
A  daughter  of  the  house  of  Contarini, 
That  house  as  old  as  Venice,  now  among 
Its  ancestors  in  monumental  brass 
Numbering  eight  doges — to  convey  her  home 
The  biicentaur  went  forth ;  and  thrice  the  sun 
Shone  on  the  chivalr}',  that,  front  to  front. 
And  blaze  on  blaze  reflecting,  met  and  ranged^ 
To  tournay  in  St.  Mark's. 

But  lo,  at  last. 
Messengers  come.    He  is  recall'd :  his  heart 
Leaps  at  the  tidings.    He  embarks :  the  boat 
Springs  to  the  oar,  and  back  again  he  goes — 
Into  that  very  chamber  !  there  to  lie 
In  his  old  resting-place,  the  bed  of  torture  ; 
And  thence  look  up  (five  long,  long  years  of  grief 
Have  not  kill'd  either)  on  his  wretched  sire, 
Still  in  that  seat — as  though  he  had  not  left  it, 
Immovable,  enveloped  in  his  mantle. 

But  now  he  comes,  convicted  of  a  crime 
Great  by  the  laws  of  Venice.    Night  and  day. 
Brooding  on  what  he  had  been,  what  he  was 


?M 


ROGERS 


Twas  more  than  he  could  bear.    His  longing  fits 
Thicken'd  upon  him.    His  desire  for  home 
Became  a  madness  ;  and,  resolved  to  go. 
If  but  to  die,  in  his  despair  he  writes 
A  letter  to  Francesco,  Duke  of  Milan, 
Soliciting  his  influence  with  the  state. 
And  drops  it  to  be  found. — "  Would  ye  know  all  ? 
I  have  transgress'd,  offended  wilfully  ; 
And  am  prepared  to  suffer  as  I  ought. 
But  let  me,  let  me,  if  but  for  an  instant, 
(Ye  must  consent — ^for  all  of  you  are  sons 
Most  of  you  husbands,  fathers,)  let  me  first 
Indulge  the  natural  feelings  of  a  man. 
And,  ere  I  die,  if  such  my  sentence  be. 
Press  to  my  heart  ('tis  all  I  ask  of  you) 
My  wife,  my  children — and  my  aged  mother- 
Say,  is  she  yet  alive  ?" 

He  is  condemn'd 
To  go  ere  set  of  sun,  go  whence  he  came, 
A  banish'd  man — and  for  a  year  to  breatlie 
The  vapour  of  a  dungeon. — But  his  prayer 
(What  could  they  less  ?)  is  granted. 

In  a  hall 
Open  and  crowded  by  the  common  rabble, 
'Twas  there  a  trembling  wife  and  her  four  sons 
Yet  young,  a  mother,  borne  along,  bedridden, 
And  an  old  doge,  mustering  up  all  his  strength, 
That  strength  how  small !  assembled  now  to  meet 
One  so  long  lost,  long  mourn'd,  one  who  for  them 
Had  braved  so  much — death,  and  yet  worse  than 

death — 
To  meet  him,  and  to  part  with  him  for  ever ! 
Time  and  their  heavy  wrongs  had  changed  them 
all; 
Him  most !    Yet  when  the  wife,  the  mother  look'd 
Again,  'twas  he  himself,  'twas  Giacomo, 
Their  only  hope,  and  trust,  and  consolation  ! 
And  all  clung  round  him,  weeping  bitterly ; 
Weeping  the  more,  because  they  wept  in  vain. 

Unnerved,  unsettled  in  his  mind  from  long 
And  exquisite  pain,  he  sobs  aloud  and  cries. 
Kissing  the  old  man's  cheek,  "  Help  me,  my  father  ! 
Let  me,  I  pray  thee,  live  once  more  among  you  : 
Let  me  go  home." — ^"  My  son,"  returns  the  doge. 
Mastering  a  while  his  grief,  "  if  I  may  still 
Call  thee  my  son,  if  thou  art  innocent. 
As  I  would  fain  believe,"  but,  as  he  speaks, 
He  falls,  "  submit  without  a  murmur." 

Night, 
That  to  the  world  brought  revelry,  to  them 
Brought  only  food  for  sorrow.    Giacomo 
Embark'd — to  die  ;  sent  to  an  early  grave 
For  thee,  Erizzo,  whose  death-bed  confession, 
«  He  is  most  innocent !     'Twas  I  who  did  it !" 
Came  when  he  slept  in  peace.     The  ship,  that  sail'd 
Swift  as  the  winds  with  his  recall  to  honour. 
Bore  back  a  lifeless  corse.     Generous  as  brave. 
Affection,  kindness,  the  sweet  offices 
Of  love  and  duty,  were  to  him  as  needful 
As  was  his  daily  bread  ; — and  to  become 
A  by-word  in  the  meanest  mouths  of  Venice, 
Bringing  a  stain  on  those  who  gave  him  life. 
On  those,  alas  !  now  worse  than  fatherless — 
To  be  proclaim'd  a  ruffian,  a  night-stabber. 
He  on  whom  none  before  had  breathed  reproach^ 
He  lived  but  to  disprove  it.    That  hope  lost. 


Death  follow'd.    From  the  hour  he  went,  he  spokii 

not; 
And  in  his  dungeon,  when  he  laid  him  dowis 
He  sunk  to  rise  no  more.     0,  if  there  be 
Justice  in  heaven,  and  we  are  assured  there  is, 
A  day  must  come  of  ample  retribution  ! 

Then  was  thy  cup,  old  man,  full  to  o'erflowin^ 
But  thou  wert  yet  alive  ;  and  there  was  one. 
The  soul  and  spring  of  all  that  enmity. 
Who  would  not  leave  thee  ;  fastening  on  thy  flank 
Hungering  and  thirsting,  still  unsatisfied 
One  of  a  name  illustrious  as  thine  own  ! 
One  of  the  Ten  !  one  of  the  Invisible  Three  ! 
'Twas  Loredano. 

When  the  whelps  were  gone. 
He  would  dislodge  the  lion  from  his  den ; 
And,  leading  on  the  pack  he  long  had  led. 
The  miserable  pack  that  ever  howl'd 
Against  fallen  greatness,  moved  that  Foscari 
Be  doge  no  longer  ;  urging  his  great  age. 
His  incapacity  and  nothingness ; 
Calling  a  father's  sorrows  in  his  chambei 
Neglect  of  duty,  anger,  contumacy. 
"  I  am  most  willing  to  retire,"  said  Foscari : 
"  But  I  nave  sworn,  and  cannot  of  myself. 
Do  with  me  xs  ye  please." 

He  was  deposed, 
He,  who  had  reign'd  so  long  and  gloriously  ; 
His  ducal  bonnet  taken  from  his  brow. 
His  robes  stript  off,  his  ring,  that  ancient  symbol. 
Broken  before  him.     But  now  nothing  moved 
The  meekness  of  his  soul.     All  things  alike  ! 
Among  the  six  that  came  with  the  decree, 
Foscari  saw  one  he  knew  not,  and  inquired 
His  name.    "  I  am  the  son  of  Marco  Memmo."       • 
"  Ah,"  he  replied,  "  thy  father  was  my  friend.'* 
And  now  he  goes.    "  It  is  the  hour  and  past. 
I  have  no  business  here." — "  But  wilt  thou  not 
Avoid  the  gazing  crowd  ?     That  way  is  private." 
"  No  !  as  I  enter'd,  so  will  I  retire." 
And  leaning  on  his  staff,  he  left  the  palace. 
His  residence  for  four-and-thirty  j^ears. 
By  the  same  staircase  he  came  up  in  splendour. 
The  staircase  of  the  Giants.     Turning  round. 
When  in  the  court  below,  he  stopt  and  said, 
"  My  merits  brought  me  hither.     I  depart. 
Driven  by  the  malice  of  my  enemies."     -* 
Then  through  the  crowd  withdrew,  poor  as  he  came 
And  in  his  gondola  went  off,  unfollow' 
But  by  the  sighs  of  them  that  dared  not  speak. 

This  journey  was  his  last.     When  the  bell  rang 
Next  day,  announcing  a  new  doge  to  Venice, 
It  found  him  on  his  knees  before  the  altar. 
Clasping  his  aged  hands  in  earnest  prayer  ; 
And  there  he  died.     Ere  half  its  task  was  done, 
It  rang  his  knell. 

But  whence  the  deadly  hate    J 
That  cjiused  all  this — the  hate  of  Loredano  ! 
It  was  a  legacy  his  father  left  him. 
Who,  but  for  Foscari,  had  reign'd  in  Venice, 
And,  like  the  venom  in  the  serpent's  bag, 
Gather'd  and  grew  !     Nothing  but  turn'd  to  venoni 
In  vain  did  Foscari  sue  for  peace,  for  friendship,  . 
Offering  in  marriage  his  fair  Isabel, 
He  changed  not ;  with  a  dreadful  piety,  i 

Studying  revenge  .  listening  alone  to  those 


J  J  J  »  > 

9  3   >  >  3 


(KII^IEVIRj^, 


ITALY. 


255 


Who  tiilk'd  of  vengeance  ;  grasping  by  the  hand 
Those  in  their  zeal  (and  none,  alas  !  were  wanting) 
Who  came  to  tell  him  of  another  wrong, 
Done  or  imagined.     When  his  father  died, 
'Twas  whisper'd  in  his  ear,  "  He  died  by  poison  I" 
He  wrote  it  on  the  tomb,  ('tis  there  in  marble,) 
And  in  his  ledget-book — among  his  debtors — 
Enter'd  the  name  "  Francesco  Foscari," 
And  added,  "  For  the  murder  of  my  father." 
Leaving  a  blank — to  be  fill'd  up  hereafter. 
When  Foscari's  noble  heart  at  length  gave  way 
He  took  the  volume  from  the  shelf  again 
Calmly,  and  with  his  pen  fill'd  up  the  blank, 
Inscribing,  "  He  has  paid  me." 

Ye  who  sit, 
Brooding  from  day  to  day,  from  day  to  day 
Chewing  the  bitter  cud,  and  starting  up 
As  though  the  hour  was  come  to  whet  your  fangs. 
And,  like  the  Pisan,*  gnaw  the  hairy  scalp 
Of  him  who  had  offended — if  ye  must, 
Sit  and  brood  on  ;  but  0  !  forbear  to  teach 
The  lesson  to  your  children. 

XVII. 

ARQUA. 
There  is,  within  three  leagues  and  less  of  Padua, 
(The  Paduan  student  knows  it,  honours  it,) 
A  lonely  tombstone  in  a  mountain  churchyard ; 
And  I  arrived  there  as  the  sun  declined 
Low  in  the  west.     The  gentle  airs,  that  breathe 
Fragrance  at  eve,  were  rising,  and  the  birds 
Singing  their  farewell  song — the  very  song 
They  sung  the  night  that  tomb  received  a  tenant ; 
When,  as  alive,  clothed  in  his  canon's  habit. 
And,  slowly  winding  down  the  narrow  path, 
He  came  to  rest  there.     Nobles  of  the  land, 
Princes,  and  prelates  mingled  in  his  train. 
Anxious  by  any  act,  while  yet  they  could, 
To  catch  a  ray  of  glory  by  rejection  ; 
And  from  that  hour  have  kindred  spirits  flock'd 
From  distant  countries,  from  the  north,  the  south, 
To  see  where  he  is  laid. 

Twelve  years  ago. 
When  I  descended  the  impetuous  Rhone, 
]ts  vineyards  of  such  great  and  old  renown, 
Jts  castles,  each  with  some  romantic  tale. 
Vanishing  fast — the  pilot  at  the  stern, 
He  who  had  steer'd  so  long,  standing  aloft. 
His  eyes  on  the  white  breakers,  and  his  hands 

.On  what  at  once  served  him  for  oar  and  rudder, 
A  huge  misshapen  plank— the  bark  itself 
Frail  and  uncouth,  launch'd  to  return  no  more. 
Such  as  a  shipwreck'd  man  might  hope  to  build. 
Urged  by  the  love  of  home — v/hen  I  descended 
Two  long,  long  days'  silence,  suspense  on  board. 
It  was  to  offer  at  thy  fount,  Valclusa, 
Entering  the  arch'd  cave,  to  wander  where 
Petrarch  had  wander'd,  in  a  trance  to  sit 

."Where  in  his  peasant  dress  he  loved  to  sit. 
Musing,  reciting — on  some  rock  moss-grown. 
Or  the  fantastic  root  of  some  old  fig  tree, 
That  drinks  the  living  waters  a,s  they  stream 
Over  their  emerald  bed  ;  and  could  I  now 
Neglect  to  visit  Arqua,  where,  at  last, 

♦  Coom  UgoLJDo. 


When  he  had  done  and  settled  with  the  world. 

When  all  the  illusions  of  his  youth  were  fled. 

Indulged  perhaps  too  long,  cherish'd  too  fondly, 

He  came  for  the  conclusion  ?     Halfway  up 

He  built  his  house,  whence  as  by  stealth  he  caught. 

Among  the  hills,  a  glimpse  of  busy  life, 

That  soothed,  not  stirr'd. — But  knock,  and  enter  in 

This  was  his  chamber.     'Tis  as  when  he  left  it ; 

As  if  he  now  w-ere  busy  in  his  garden. 

And  this  his  closet.     Here  he  sate  and  read. 

This  was  his  chair ;  and  in  it,  unobserved, 

Reading,  or  thinking  of  his  absent  friends. 

He  pass'd  away  as  in  a  quiet  slumber. 

Peace  to  this  region  !  Peace  to  all  who  dwell  here. 
They  know  his  value — every  coming  step, 
That  gathers  round  the  children  from  their  play. 
Would  tell  them  if  they  knew  not. — But  could  aught. 
Ungentle  or  ungenerous,  spring  up    , 
Where  he  is  sleeping;  where,  and  in  an  agp 
Of  savage  warfare  and  blind  bigotry. 
He  cultured  all  that  could  refine,  exalt ; 
Leading  to  better  things  ? 

XVIIL 

GIXEVRA. 

If  ever  you  should  come  to  Modena, 
Where  among  other  trophies  may  be  seen 
Tassoni's  bucket,  (in  its  chain  it  hangs, 
Within  that  reverend  tower,  the  Guirlandina,) 
Stop  at  a  palace  near  the  Reggio-gate, 
Dwelt  in  of  old  by  one  of  the  Orsini,- 
Its  noble  gardens,  terrace  above  terrace. 
And  rich  in  fountains,  statues,  cypresses. 
Will  long  detain  you — but,  before  you  go. 
Enter  the  house — forget  it  not,  I  pray — 
And  look  a  while  upon  a  picture  there. 

'Tis  of  a  lady  in  her  earliest  youth. 
The  last  of  that  illustrious  family  ; 
Done  by  Zampieri — but  by  whom  I  care  not. 
He,  who  observes  it — ere  he  passes  on, 
Gazes  his  fill,  and  comes  and  comes  again, 
That  he  may  call  it  up,  when  far  away. 

She  sits,  inclining  forward  as  to  speak. 
Her  lips  half  open,  and  her  finger  up. 
As  though  she  said  "  Beware  I"  her  vest  of  golc 
Broider'd  with  flowers,  and  clasp'd  from  head  to  foot 
An  emerald  stone  in  every  golden  clasp  ; 
And  on  her  brow,  fairer  than  alabaster, 
A  coronet  of  pearls. 

But  then  her  face . 
So  lovely,  yet  so  arch,  so  full  of  mirth, 
The  overflowings  of  an  innocent  heart — 
It  haunts  me  still,  though  many  a  year  has  fled. 
Like  some  wild  melody  ! 

Alone  it  hangs 
Over  a  mouldering  heir-loom,  its  companion. 
An  oaken  chest,  half  eaten  by  the  worm. 
But  richly  carved  by  Antonv  of  Trent 
With  Scripture  stories  from  the  Life  of  Christ; 
A  chest  that  came  from  Venice,  and  had  held 
The  ducal  robes  of  some  old  ancestor — 
That  by  the  way — it  may  be  true  or  false — 
But  don't  forget  the  picture  ;  and  you  will  not, 
When  you  have  heard  tho  tale  they  told  rce  tbewh 

She  was  an  only  child — her  name  Ginevra, 
The  ;oy  the  pride  of  an  indulgent  fatiier  | 


256 


ROGERS. 


And  in  her  fifteenth  year  became  a  hride, 

Marrying  an  only  son,  Francesco  Doria, 

Her  playmate  from  her  birth,  and  her  first  love. 

Just  as  she  looks  there  in  her  bridal  dress, 
She  was  all  gentleness,  all  gayety, 
Her  pranks  the  favourite  theme  of  every  tongue. 
But  now  the  day  was  come,  the  day,  the  hour; 
Now  frowning,  smiling,  for  the  hundredth  time. 
The  nurse,  that  ancient  lady,  preach'd  decorum ; 
And,  in  the  lustre  of  her  youth,  she  gave 
Her  hand,  with  her  heart  in  it,  to  Francesco. 

Great  was  the  joy ;  but  at  the  nuptial  feast. 
When  all  sate  down,  the  bride  herself  was  wanting. 
Nor  was  she  to  be  found  !     Her  father  cried, 
**  'Tis  but  to  make  a  trial  of  our  love  !" 
And  fill'd  his  glass  to  all ;  but  his  hand  shook. 
And  soon  from  guest  to  guest  the  panic  spread 
'Twas  but  that  instant  she  had  left  Francesco. 
Laughing,  and  looking  back,  and  flying  still, 
Her  ivory  tooth  imprinted  on  his  finger. 
But  now,  alas  !  she  was  not  to  be  found  ; 
Nor  from  that  hour  could  any  thing  be  guess'd, 
But  that  she  was  not ! 

Weary  of  his  life, 
Francesco  flew  to  Venice,  and,  embarking. 
Flung  it  away  in  battle  with  the  Turk. 
Orsini  lived — and  long  might  you  have  seen 
An  old  man  wandering  as  in  quest  of  something. 
Something  he  could  not  find — he  knew  not  what. 
When  he  was  gone,  the  house  remain'd  a  while 
Silent  and  tenantless — then  went  to  strangers. 

Full  fifty  years  were  past,  and  all  forgotten. 
When  on  an  idle  day,  a  day  of  search 
'Mid  the  old  lumber  in  the  gallery. 
That  mouldering  chest  was  noticed  ;  and  'twas  said 
By  one  as  j'oung,  as  thoughtless  as  Ginevra, 
«  Why  not  remove  it  from  its  lurking-place  ?" 
'Twas  done  as  soon  as  said  5  but  on  the  way 
It  burst,  it  fell ;  and  lo,  a  skeleton. 
With  here  and  there  a  pearl,  an  emerald  stone, 
A  golden  clasp,  clasping  a  shred  of  gold. 
All  else  had  perish'd — save  a  wedding  ring, 
And  a  small  seal,  her  mother's  legacy, 
Engraven  with  a  name,  the  name  of  both, 
"  Ginevra." 

There  then  had  she  found  a  grave ! 
Within  that  chest  had  she  conceal'd  herself, 
Fluttering  with  joy,  the  happiest  of  the  happy ; 
When  a  spring  lock,  that  lay  in  ambush  there, 
Fasten'd  her  down  for  ever ! 

XIX. 

BOLOGNA. 
'TwAS  night ;  the  noise  and  bustle  of  the  day 
Were  o'er.    The  mountebank  no  longer  wrought 
Miraculous  cures— he  and  his  stage  were  gone ; 
And  he  who,  when  the  crisis  of  his  tale 
Came,  and  all  stood  breathless  with  hope  and  fear, 
Sent  round  his  cap ;  and  he  who  thrumm'd  his  wire 
And  sang,  with  pleading  look  and  plaintive  strain 
Melting  the  passenger.    Thy  thousand  cries,* 
So  well  portray'd,  and  by  a  son  of  thine. 


♦  See  the  Cries  of  Bologna,  as  drawn  by  Annibal  Ca- 
racci.    He  was  of  very  humble  origin ;  and,  to  correct  his 
brother's  vanity,  once  sent  him  a  portrait  of  their  father, 
tailor,  threading  his  needle. 


Whose  voice  had  swell'd  the  hubbub  in  his  youth; 
Were  hush'd,  Bologna ;  silence  in  the  streets. 
The  squares,  when  hark,  the  clattering  of  fleet  hoofs 
And  soon  a  courier,  posting  as  from  far. 
Housing  and  holster,  boot  and  belted  coat, 
And  doublet,  stain 'd  with  many  a  various  soil, 
Stopt  and  alighted.     'Twas  where  hangs  aloft 
That  ancient  sign,  the  pilgrim,  welcoming 
All  who  arrive  there,  all,  perhaps,  save  those 
Clad  like  himself,  with  staff  and  scallop-shell. 
Those  on  a  pilgrimage  ;  and  now  approach'd 
Wheels,  through  the  lofty  porticoes  resounding. 
Arch  beyond  arch,  a  shelter  or  a  shade 
As  the  sky  changes.     To  the  gate  they  came ; 
And,  ere  the  man  had  half  his  story  done. 
Mine  host  received  the  master- — one  long  used 
To  sojourn  among  strangers,  everywhere 
(Go  where  he  would,  along  the  wildest  track) 
Flinging  a  charm  that  shall  not  soon  be  lost. 
And  leaving  footsteps  to  be  traced  by  those 
Who  love  the  haunts  of  genius  ;  one  who  saw. 
Observed,  nor  shunn'd  the  busy  scenes  of  life. 
But  mingled  not,  and,  'mid  the  din,  the  stir. 
Lived  as  a  separate  spirit. 

Much  had  pass'd. 
Since  last  we  parted ;  and  those  five  short  years — 
Much  had  they  told  !     His  clustering  locks  were 

turn'd 
Gray ;  nor  did  aught  recall  the  youth  that  gwam 
From  Sestos  to  Abydos.     Yet  ais  voice. 
Still  it  was  sweet ;  still  from  iais  eye  the  thought 
Flash'd  lightning-like,  nor  linger'd  on  the  way. 
Waiting  for  words.     Far,  far  into  the  night 
We  sate,  conversing — no  imwelcome  hour. 
The  hour  we  met ;  and,  when  Aurora  rose. 
Rising,  we  climb'd  the  rugged  Apennine. 
Well  I  remember  how  the  golden  sun 
Fill'd  with  its  beams  th'  unfathomable  gulfs. 
As  on  we  travell'd,  and  along  the  ridge, 
'Mid  groves  of  cork,  and  cistus,  and  wild  fig. 
His  motley  household  came — Not  last  nor  least, 
Battista,  who,  upon  the  moonlight  sea 
Of  Venice,  had  so  ably,  zealously 
Served,  and,  at  parting,  flung  his  oar  away 
To  follow  through  the  world  ;  who  without  stain 
Had  worn  so  long  that  honourable  badge,* 
The  gondolier's,  in  a  patrician  house 
Arguing  unlimited  trust. — ^Not  last  nor  least. 
Thou,  though  declining  in  thy  beauty  and  strength^ 
Faithful  Moretto,  to  the  latest  hour 
Guarding  his  chamber  door,  and  now  along 
The  silent,  sullen  strand  of  Missolonghi 
Howling  in  grief. 

He  had  just  left  that  place 
Of  old  renown,  once  in  the  Adrian  sea,t 
Ravenna  ;  where,  from  Dante's  sacred  tomb 
He  had  so  oft,  as  many  a  verse  declares,;}: 
Drawn  inspiration ;  where,  at  twilight  time. 
Through  the  pine  forest  wandering  with  loose  reln^ 
Wandering  and  lost,  he  had  so  oft  beheld§ 


*  The  principal  gondolier,  il  fante  di  poppa,  was  almost 
always  in  the  confidence  of  his  master,  and  employed  on 
occasions  that  required  judgment  and  address. 

t  Adrianum  mare.— Ctc. 

t  See  the  prophecy  of  Dante. 

§  See  the  tale  as  told  by  Boccaccio  and  Dryden. 


ITALY. 


257 


(What  is  not  visible  to  a  poet's  eye  ?) 

The    spectre    knight,  the  hell-hounds   and  their 

prey, 
The  chase,  the  slaughter,  and  the  festal  mirth 
Suddenly  blasted.     'Twas  a  theme  he  loved  ; 
But  others  claim'd  their  turn  ;  and  many  a  tower, 
Shatter 'd,  uprooted  from  its  native  rock. 
Its  strength  the  pride  of  some  heroic  age, 
Appear'd  and  vanish'd,  (many  a  sturdy  steer* 
Yoked  and  unyoked,)  while  as  in  happier  days 
He  pour'd  his  spirit  forth.     The  past  forgot, 
A.11  was  enjoyment.     Not  a  cloud  obscured 
Present j)r  future. 

He  is  now  at  rest ; 
And  praise  and  blame  fall  on  his  ear  alike, 
Now  dull  in  death.     Yes,  Byron,  thou  art  gone, 
Gone  like  a  star  that  through  the  firmament 
Shot  and  was  lost,  in  its  eccentric  course 
Dazzling,  perplexing.     Yet  thy  heart,  methinks. 
Was  generous,  noble — noble  in  its  scorn 
Of  all  things  low  or  little  ;  nothing  there 
Sordid  or  servile.     If  imagined  wrongs 
Pursued  thee,  urging  thee  sometimes  to  do 
Things  long  regretted,  oft,  as  many  know, 
None  more  than  I,  thy  gratitude  would  build 
On  slight  foundations  :  and,  if  in  thy  life 
Not  happy,  in  thy  death  thou  surely  wert, — 
Thy  wish  accomplish'd  ;  dying  in  the  land 
Where  thy  young  mind  had  caught  ethereal  fire. 
Dying  in  Greece,  and  in  a  cause  so  glorious  ! 

They  in  thy  train — ah,  little  did  they  think, 
As  round  we  went,  that  they  so  soon  should  sit 
Mourning  beside  thee,  while  a  nation  mourn'd. 
Changing  her  festal  for  her  funeral  song ; 
That  they  so  soon  should  hear  the  mmute-gun. 
As  morning  gleam'd  on  what  remain'd  of  thee, 
Roll  o'er  the  sea,  the  mountains,  numbering 
Thy  years  of  joj^  and  sorrow. 

Thou  art  gone ; 
And  he  who  would  assail  thee  in  thy  grave, 
O,  let  him  pause !     For  who  among  us  all. 
Tried  as  thou  wert — e'en  from  thine  earliest  years, 
When  wandering,  yet  unspoilt,  a  highland  boy — 
Tried  as  thou  wert,  and  with  thy  soul  of  flame ; 
Pleasure,  while  yet  the  down  was  on  thy  cheek, 
Uplifting,  pressing,  and  to  lips  like  thine. 
Her  charmed  cup — ah,  who  among  us  all 
Could  say  he  had  not  err'd  as  much,  and  more  ? 

XX. 

FLORENCE. 

Of  all  the  fairest  cities  of  the  earth, 
None  are  so  fair  as  Florence.     'Tis  a  gem 
Of  purest  ray,  a  treasure  for  a  casket ! 
And  what  a  glorious  lustre  did  it  shed 
When  it  emerged  from  darkness  I     Search  within, 
Without,  all  is  enchantment !     'Tis  the  past 
Contending  with  the  present ;  and  in  turn 
Each  has  the  mastery. 

In  this  chapel  wrought 
Massaccio ;  and  he  slumbers  underneath. 
Wouldst  thou  behold  his  monument  ?    Look  round  ! 


*  They  wait  for  the  traveller's  carriage  at  the  foot  of 
every  hill. 

Vol.  III.— 17 


And  know  that  where  we  stand,  stood  oft  and  long 
Oft  till  the  day  was  gone,  Raphael  himself, 
He  and  his  haughty  rival — patiently, 
Humbly,  to  learn  of  those  who  came  before. 
To  steal  a  spark  from  their  authentic  fire, 
Theirs,  who  first  broke  the   gloom,  sons  of  the 
morning. 
There,  on  the  seat  that  runs  along  the  wall. 
South  of  the  church,  east  of  the  belfry  tower, 
(Thou  canst  not  miss  it,)  in  the  sultry  time 
Would  Pante  sit  conversing,  and  with  those 
Who  little  thought  that  in  his  hand  he  held 
The  balance,  and  assign'd  at  his  good  pleasure 
To  each  his  place  in  the  invisible  world. 
To  some  an  upper,  some  a  lower  region ; 
Reserving  in  his  secret  mind  a  niche 
For  thee,  Saltrello,  who  with  quirks  of  law 
Hadst  plagued  him  sore,  and  carefully  requiting 
Such  as  ere  long  condemn'd  his  mortal  part 
To  fire.     Sit  down  a  while — then  by  the  gates 
Wondrously  wrought,  so  beautiful,  so  glorious, 
That  they  might  serve  to  be  the  gates  of  heaven. 
Enter  the  baptistery.     That  place  he  loved. 
Calling  it  his  !     And  in  his  visits  there 
Well  might  he  take  delight !     For,  when  a  child, 
Playing,  with  venturous  feet,  near  and  yet  nearer 
One  of  the  fonts,  fell  in,  he  flew  and  saved  him. 
Flew  with  an  energy,  a  violence. 
That  broke  the  marble — a  mishap  ascribed 
To  evil  motives  ;  his,  alas  I  to  lead 
A  life  of  trouble,  and  ere  long  to  leave 
All  things  most  dear  to  him,  ere  long  to  know 
How  salt  another's  bread  is,  and  how  toilsome 
The  going  up  and  down  another's  stairs. 

Nor  then  forget  that  chamber  of  the  dead, 
Where  the  gigantic  forms  of  night  and  day, 
Turn'd  into  stone,  rest  everlastingly, 
Yet  still  are  breathing ;  and  shed  round  at  noon 
A  two-fold  influence — only  to  be  felt — 
A  light,  a  darkness,  mingling  each  with  each ; 
Both  and  yet  neither.     There,  from  age  to  ago 
Two  ghosts  are  sittiag  on  their  sepulchres. 
That  is  the  duke  Lorenzo.    Mark  him  well. 
He  meditates,  his  head  upon  his  hand. 
What  scowls   beneath  his  broad   and   helm-likt 

bonnet  ? 
Is  it  a  face,  or  but  an  eyeless  skull  ? 
'Tis  hid  in  shade  ;  yet,  like  the  basilisk. 
It  fascinates,  and  is  intolerable. 
His  mien  is  noble,  most  majestical ! 
Then  most  so,  when  the  distant  choir  is  heard, 
At  morn  or  eve — nor  fail  thou  to  attend 
On  that  thrice-hallow'd  da}',  when  all  are  there ; 
When  all,  propitiating  with  solemn  songs. 
With  light,  and  frankincense,  and  holy  w^ater, 
Visit  the  dead.     Then  wilt  thou  feel  his  power 

But  let  not  sculpture,  painting,  poesy. 
Or  they,  the  masters  of  these  mighty  spells, 
Detain  us.     Our  first  homage  is  to  virtue. 
Where,  in  what  dungeon  of  the  citadel 
(It  must  be  known — the  writing  on  the  wall 
Cannot  be  gone — 'twas  cut  in  with  his  dagger. 
Ere,  on  his  knees  to  God,  he  slew  himself,) 
Where,  in  what  dungeon,  did  Filippo  Strozzi, 
The  last,  the  greatest  of  the  men  of  Florence, 
Breathe  out  his  soul — lest  in  his  agony. 


258 


ROGERS. 


When  on  the  rack  and  call'd  upon  to  answer, 
He  might  accuse  the  guiltless. 

That  debt  paid, 
But  with  a  sigh,  a  tear  for  human  frailty, 
We  may  return,  and  once  more  give  a  loose 
To  the  delighted  spirit — worshipping. 
In  her  small  temple  of  rich  workmanship,* 
Venus  herself,  who,  when  she  left  the  skies. 
Came  hither. 

XXI. 

DON  GARZIA. 

Among  the  awful  forms  that  stand  assembled 
In  the  groat  square  of  Florence,  may  be  seen 
That  Cosmo,  not  the  father  of  his  country. 
Not  he  so  styled,  but  he  who  play'd  the  tyrant. 
C  .ad  in  rich  armour  like  a  paladin, 
But  with  his  helmet  off— in  kingly  state. 
Aloft  he  sits  upon  his  horse  of  brass  ; 
And  they,  who  read  the  legend  underneath, 
Go  and  pronounce  him  happy.     Yet  there  is 
A  chamber  at  Grosseto,  that,  if  walls 
Could  speak,  and  tell  of  what  is  done  within. 
Would  turn  your  admiration  into  pity. 
Half  of  what  pass'd  died  with  hira  ;  but  the  rest 
All  he  discover'd  when  the  fit  was  on. 
All  that,  by  those  who  listen'd,  could  be  glean 'd 
From  broken  sentences  and  starts  in  sleep, 
Is  told,  and  by  an  honest  chronicler. 

Two  of  his  sons,  Giovanni  and  Garz^a, 
(The  eldest  had  not  seen  his  sixteenth  summer,) 
Went  to  the  chase  ;  but  one  of  them,  Giovanni, 
His  best  beloved,  the  glory  of  his  house. 
Return 'd  not ;  and  at  close  of  day  was  found 
Bathed  in  his  innocent  blood.     Too  well,  alas  ! 
The  trembling  Cosmo  guess'd  the  deed,  the  doer  ; 
And  having  caused  the  body  to  be  borne 
In  secret  to  that  chamber — at  an  hour 
When  all  slept  sound,  save  the  disconsolate  mother,t 
Who  little  thought  of  what  was  yet  to  come. 
And  lived  but  to  be  told — he  bade  Garz)a 
Arise  and  follow  him.     Holding  in  one  hand 
A  wmking  lamp,  and  m  the  other  a  key 
Massive  and  dungeon-like,  thither  he  led ; 
And  having  enter'd  in  and  lock'd  the  door, 
The  father  fix'd  his  eyes  upon  the  son. 
And  closely  questioned  him.     No  change  betray'd 
Or  guilt  or  fear.     Then  Cosmo  lifted  up 
The  bloody  sheet,  "  Look  there !  Look  there  !"  he 

cried, 
"  Blood  calls  for  blood — and  from  a  father's  hand  ! 
— Unless  thyself  wilt  save  him  that  sad  office. 
What !"  he  exclaim'd,  when,  shuddering  at  the  sight. 
The  boy  breathed  out,  "  I  stood  but  on  my  guard." 
"  Darest  tnou  then  blacken  one  who  never  wron^'d 

thee, 
Who  would  not  set  his  foot  upon  a  worm  ? — 
Yes,  fhou  must  die,  lest  others  fall  by  thee. 
And  thou  shouldst  be  the  slayer  of  us  all." 
Then  from  Garzia's  side  he  took  the  dagger. 
That  fatal  one  which  spilt  his  brother's  blood  ; 
And,  kneeling  on  the  ground, "  Great  God  ! "  he  cried, 
^  Grant  me  the  strength  to  do  an  act  of  justice. 
Thou  knowest  what  it  costs  me  ;  but,  alas  ! 


♦  The  Tribune. 


tEleonora  di  Toledo. 


How  can  I  spare  myself,  sparing  none  else. 
Grant  me  the  strength,  the  will — and  0  forgive 
The  sinful  soul  of  a  most  wretched  son. 
'Tis  a  most  wretched  father  who  implores  it." 
Long  on  Garzia's  neck  he  hung,  and  wept 
Tenderly,  long  press'd  him  to  his  bosom  ; 
And  then,  but  while  he  held  him  by  the  arm. 
Thrusting  him  backward,  turn'd  away  his  face, 
And  stabb'c  .  im  to  the  heart. 

Well  might  De  Thou, 
When  in  his  youth  he  came  to  Cosmo's  court, 
Think  on  the  past ;  and,  as  he  wander'd  through 
The  ancient  palace — through  those  ample  spaces 
Silent,  deserted — stop  a  while  to  dwell 
Upon  two  portraits  there,  drawn  on  the  wall 
Together,  as  of  two  in  bonds  of  love. 
One  in  a  cardinal's  habit,  one  in  black, 
Those  of  the  unhappy  brothers,  and  infer 
From  the  deep  silence  that  his  questions  drew, 
The  terrible  truth. 

Well  might  he  heave  a  sigh 
For  poor  humanity,  when  he  beheld 
That  very  Cosmo  shaking  o'er  his  fire, 
Drowsy  and  deaf  and  inarticulate. 
Wrapt  in  his  night-gown,  o'er  a  sick  man's  mess. 
In  the  last  stage — death-struck  and  deadly  pale  ; 
His  wife,  another,  not  his  Eleonora, 
At  once  his  nurse  and  his  interpreter. 

XXII. 
THE  CAMPAGNA  OF  FLORENCE. 
'Tis  morning.     Let  us  wander  through  the  fields^ 
Where  Cimabue  found  a  shepherd  boy* 
Tracing  his  idle  fancies  on  the  ground  ; 
And  let  us  from  the  top  of  Fiesole, 
Whence  Galileo's  glass  by  night  observed 
The  phases  of  the  moon,  look  roimd  below 
On  Arno's  vale,  where  the  dove-colour'd  oxen 
Are  ploughing  up  and  down  among  the  vines. 
While  many  a  careless  note  is  sung  aloud. 
Filling  the  air  with  sweetness — and  on  thee. 
Beautiful  Florence,  all  within  thy  walls. 
Thy  groves  and  gardens,  pinnacles  and  towers. 
Drawn  to  our  feet. 

From  that  small  spire,  just  caug'a^ 
By  the  bright  ray,  that  church  among  the  rest 
By  one  of  old  distinguish'd  as  the  bride. 
Let  us  pursue  in  thought  (what  can  we  better  ?) 
Those  who  assembled  there  at  matin  prayers  ;t 
Who,  when  vice  revell'd,  and  along  the  street 
Tables  were  set,  what  time  the  bearer's  bell 
Rang  to  demand  the  dead  at  every  door, 
Came  out  into  the  meadows  ;  and,  a  while 
Wandering  in  idleness,  but  not  in  folly. 
Sate  down  in  the  high  grass  and  in  the  shade 
Of  many  a  tree  sun  proof — day  after  day. 
When  all  was  still  and  nothing  to  be  heard 
But  the  Cicala's  voice  among  the  olives, 
Relating  in  a  ring,  to  banish  care. 
Their  hundred  novels. 

Round  the  hill  they  wen* 
Round  underneath — first  to  a  splendid  house, 
Gherardi,  as  an  old  tradition  runs, 
That  on  the  left,  just  rising  from  the  vale  ; 


Giotto. 


t  See  the  Decameron.    First  Day 


ITALY 


A  place  for  luxury — the  painted  rooms, 

The  open  galleries  and  middle  court 

Not  unprepared,  fragrant  and  gay  with  flowers. 

Then  westward  to  another,  nobler  3-et ; 

That  on  the  right,  now  known  as  the  Palmieri, 

Where  art  with  nature  vied — a  paradise. 

With  ver-urous  walls,  and  many  a  trellis'd  walk 

All  rose  and  jasmine,  many  a  forest  vista 

Cross'd  by  the  deer.     Then  to  the  Ladies'  Valley ; 

And  the  clear  lake,  that  seem'd  as  by  enchantment 

To  lift  up  to  the  surface  every  stone 

Of  lustre  there,  and  the  diminutive  fish 

Innumerable,  dropt  with  crimson  and  gold, 

Now  motionless,  now  glancing  to  the  sun. 

Who  has  not  dwelt  on  their  voluptuous  day  ? 
The  morning  banquet  by  the  fountain  side, 
The  dance  that  foUow'd,  and  the  noontide  slumber ; 
Then  the  tales  told  in  turn,  as  round  they  lay 
On  carpets,  the  fresh  waters  murmuring  ; 
And  the  short  interval  fill'd  up  with  games 
Of  chess,  and  talk,  and  reading  old  romances. 
Till  supper  time,  when  many  a  siren  voice 
Sung  rlown  the  stars,  and  in  the  grass  the  torches 
Farp  •.  brighter  for  their  absence. 

He*  whose  dream 
It  was  (it  was  no  more)  sleeps  in  Val  d'Elsa, 
Sleeps  in  the  church,  where  (in  his  ear  I  ween) 
The  friar  pour'd  out  his  catalogue  of  treasures  ; 
A  ray,  imprimis,  of  the  star  that  shone 
To  the  wise  men  ;  a  phial  full  of  sounds, 
The  musical  chimes  of  the  great  bells  that  hung 
In  Solomon's  temple  ;  and,  though  last  not  least 
A  feather  from  the  angel  Gabriel's  wing 
Dropt  in  the  virgin's  chamber. 

That  dark  ridge 
Stretching  away  in  the  south-east,  conceals  it ; 
Not  so  his  lowly  roof  and  scanty  farm. 
His  copse  and  rill,  if  yet  a  trace  be  left. 
Who  lived  in  Val  di  Pesa,  suffering  long 
Exile  and  want,  and  the  keen  shafts  of  malice, 
With  an  unclouded  mind.f     The  glimmering  tower 
On  the  gray  rock  beneath,  his  landmark  once. 
Now  serves  for  ours,  and  points  out  where  he  ate 
His  bread  with  cheerfulness. 

Who  sees  him  not 
('Tis  his  own  sketch — he  drew  it  from  himself)  • 
Playing  the  bird-catcher,  a_ti  sallying  forth 
In  an  autumnal  morn,  laden  with  cages, 
To  catch  a  thrush  on  every  lime-twig  there  ; 
Or  in  the  wood  among  his  woodcutters  ; 
Or  in  the  tavern  by  the  highway  side 
At  tric-trac  with  the  miller  ;  or  at  night. 
Doffing  his  rustic  suit,  and,  duly  clad. 
Entering  his  closet,  and,  among  his  books. 
Among  the  great  of  every  age  and  clime, 
A  numerous  court,  turning  to  whom  he  pleased, 
Questioning  each  why  he  did  this  or  that. 
And  learning  how  to  overcome  the  fear 
,  Of  poverty  and  death  ? 

Nearer  we  hail 
Thy  sunny  slope,  Arcetri,  sung  of  old 
For  its  green  wine — dearer  to  me,  to  most, 
As  dtvelt  on  by  that  great  astronomer,^ 
Seven  years  a  prisoner  at  the  city  gate, 


♦  Boccaccio 


t  Machiavel. 


t  Galileo, 


Let  in  but  in  his  grave  clothes.     Sacred  be 

His  cottage,  (justly  was  it  call'd  the  Jewel !) 

Sacred  the  vineyard,  where,  while  yet  his  sight 

Glimmer'd,  at  blush  of  dawn  he  dress'd  his  vines. 

Chanting  aloud  in  gayety  of  heart 

Some  verse  of  Ariosto.     There,  unseen. 

In  manly  beauty  Milton  stood  before  him. 

Gazing  with  reverent  awe — Milton,  his  guest, 

Just  then  come  forth,  all  life  and  enterprise ; 

He  in  his  old  age  and  extremity. 

Blind,  at  noonday  exploring  with  his  staff" ; 

His  eyes  upturn'd  as  tg  the  golden  -sun. 

His  eyeballs  idly  rolling.     Little  then 

Did  Galileo  think  whom  he  bade  welcome  ; 

That  in  his  hand  he  held  the  hand  of  one 

Who  could  requite  him— who  would  spread  his  name 

O'er  lands  and  seas — great  as  himself,  nay  greater  j 

Milton  as  little  that  in  him  he  saw. 

As  in  a  glass,  what  he  himself  should  be. 

Destined  so  soon  to  fall  on  evil  days 

And  evil  tongues — so  soon,  alas  !  to  live 

In  darkness,  and  with  dangers  compass'd  round, 

And  solitude. 

Well  pleased,  could  we  pursue 
The  Arno,  from  his  birthplace  in  the  clouds. 
So  near  the  yellow  Tiber's — springing  up 
From  his  four  fountains  on  the  Apennine, 
That  mountain  ridge  a  sea-mark  to  the  ships 
Sailing  on  either  sea.     Downward  he  runs. 
Scattering  fresh  verdure  through  the  desolate  wild 
Down  by  the  City  of  Hermits,  and,  ere  long. 
The  venerable  woods  of  Vallombrosa ; 
Then  through  these  gardens  to  the  Tuscan  sea. 
Reflecting  castles,  convents,  villages, 
And  those  great  rivals  in  an  elder  day, 
Florence  and  Pisa — who  have  given  him  fame. 
Fame  everlasting,  but  who  stain 'd  so  oft 
His  troubled  waters.     Oft,  alas!  were  seen. 
When  flight,  pursuit,  and  hideous  rout  were  there 
Hands,  clad  in  gloves  of  steel,  held  up  imploring ; 
The  man,  the  hero,  on  his  foaming  steed. 
Borne  underneath — already  in  the  realms 
Of  darkness. 

Nor  did  night  or  burning  noon 
Bring  respite.     Oft,  as  that  great  artist  saw,* 
Whose  pencil  had  a  voice,  the  cry  "  To  arms  I" 
And  the  shrill  trumpet,  hurried  up  the  bank 
Those  who  had  stolen  an  hour  to  breast  the  tide. 
And  wash  from  their  unharness 'd  limbs  the  blood 
And  sweat  of  battle.     Sudden  was  the  rush. 
Violent  the  tumult ;  for,  already  in  sight. 
Nearer  and  nearer  yet  the  danger  drew  ; 
Each  every  sinew  straining,  every  feature. 
Each  snatching  up,  and  girding,  buckling  on. 
Morion,  and  greave,  and  shirt  of  twisted  mail, 
As  for  his  life — no  more,  perchance,  to  taste, 
Arno,  the  grateful  freshness  of  thy  glades. 
Thy  waters — where,  exulting,  he  had  felt 
A  swimmer's  transport,  there,  alas  !  to  lloat 
And  welter.     Nor  between  the  gusts  of  war, 
When  flocks  were  feeding,  and  the  shepherd's  pipe 
Gladden 'd  the  valley,  when,  but  not  unarm'd. 
The   sower  came  forth,  and,  following  him  who 
plough'd. 


*  Michael  Angelo. 


260 


ROGERS. 


Threw  in  the  seed — did  thy  indignant  waves 

Escape  pollution.     Sullen  was  the  splash, 

Heavy  and  swift  the  plunge,  when  they  received 

The  key  that  just  had  grated  on  the  ear 

Of  Ugolino — closing  up  for  ever 

That  dismal  dungeon  henceforth  to  be  named 

The  Tower  of  Famine. 

Once  indeed  'twas  thine, 
When  many  a  winter  flood,  thy  tributary, 
Was  through  its  rocky  glen  rushing,  resounding, 
And  thou  wert  in  thy  might,  to  save,  restore 
A  charge  most  precious.  '  T(j  the  nearest  ford, 
Hastening,  a  horseman  from  Arezzo  came, 
Careless,  impatient  of  delay,  a  babe 
Slung  in  a  basket  to  the  knotty  staff* 
That  lay  athwart  his  saddle-bow.     He  spurs. 
He  enters  ;  and  his  horse,  alarm'd,  perplex'd, 
Halts  in  the  midst.     Great  is  the  stir,  the  strife ; 
And  lo,  an  atom  on  that  dangerous  sea. 
The  babe  is  floating  !     Fast  and  far  he  flies ; 
Now  tempest  rock'd,  now  whirling  round  and  round, 
But  not  to  perish.     By  thy  willing  waves 
Borne  to  the  shore,  among  the  bulrushes 
The  ark  has  rested  ;  and  unhurt,  secure 
As  on  his  mother's  breast  he  sleeps  within. 
All  peace  !  or  never  had  the  nations  heard 
That  voice  so  sweet,  which  still  enchants,  inspires  ; 
That  voice,  which  sung  of  love,  of  liberty. 

Petrarch  lay  there  ! 'And  such  the  images 

That  cluster'd  round  our  Milton,  when  at  eve 
Reclined  beside  thee,  Arno  ;  when  at  eve, 
Led  on  by  thee,  he  wander'd  with  derlight, 
Framing  Ovidian  verse,  and  through  thy  groves 
Gathering  wild  myrtle.     Such  the  poet's  dreams ; 
Yet  not  such  only.     For  look  round  and  say. 
Where  is  the  ground  that  did  not  drink  warm  blood. 
The  echo  that  had  learnt  not  to  articulate 
The  cry  of  murder  ? — Fatal  was  the  day 
To  Florence,  when — ('twas  in  a  street  behind 
The  church  and  convent  of  the  Holy  Cross — 
There  is  the  house — that  house  of  the  Donati, 
Towerless,  and  left  long  since,  but  to  the  last 
Braving  assault — all  rugged,  all  emboss'd 
Below,  and  still  distinguished  by  the  rings 
Of  brass,  that  held  in  war  and  festival  time 
Their  family  standards) — fatal  was  the  day 
To  Florence,  when,  at  morn,  at  the  ninth  hour, 
A  noble  dame  in  weeds  of  widowhood, 
Weeds  to  be  worn  hereafter  by  so  many, 
Stood  at  her  door ;  and,  like  a  sorceress,  flung 
Her  dazzling  spell.     Subtle  she  was,  and  rich, 
Rich  in  a  hidden  pearl  of  heavenly  light, 
Her  daughter's  beauty ;  and  too  well  she  knew 
Its  virtue  !     Patiently  .she  stood  and  watch'd  ; 
Nor  stood  alone — but  syoke  not. — In  her  breast 
Her  purpose  lay ;  and,  aj  a  youth  pass'd  by, 
Clad  for  the  nuptial  rite,  she  smiled  and  said. 
Lifting  a  corner  of  the  maiden's  veil, 
*'  This  had  I  treasured  up  in  secret  for  thee. 
This  hast  thou  lost !"    He  gazed,  and  was  undone  ! 
Forgetting — not  forgot — he  broke  the  bond, 
And  paid  the  penalty,  losing  his  life 
At  the  bridge  foot ;  and  hence  a  world  of  wo  ! 
Vengeance  for  vengeance  crying,  blood  for  blood ; 
No  intermission  !     Law,  that  slumbers  not, 
Anda  like  the  angel  with  the  flaming  sword. 


Sits  over  all,  at  once  chastising,  healing, 
Himself  th'  avenger,  went ;  and  every  street 
Ran  red  with  mutual  slaughter — though  sometimeJ 
The  young  forgot  the  lessons  they  had  learnt. 
And  loved  when  they  should  hate — like  thee,  Imeloa^ 
Thee  and  thy  Paolo.     When  last  ye  met 
In  that  still  hour — (the  heat,  the  glare  was  gone. 
Not  so  the  splendour — through  the  cedar  grove 
A  radiance  stream'd  like  a  consuming  fire. 
As  though  the  glorious  orb,  in  its  descent. 
Had  come  and  rested  there) — when  last  ye  met. 
And  those  relentless  brothers  dragg'd  him  forth. 
It  had  been  well  hadst  thou  slept  on,  Imelda, 
Nor  from  thy  trance  of  fear  awaked,  as  night 
Fell  on  that  fatal  spot,  to  wish  thee  dead. 
To  track  him  by  his  blood,  to  search,  to  find. 
Then  fling  thee  down  to  catch  a  word,  a  look, 
A  sigh,  if  yet  thou  couldst,  (alas  !  thou  couldst  not,) 
And  die,  unseen,  unthought  of — ^from  the  wound 
Sucking  the  poison. 

Yet,  when  slavery  came. 
Worse  follow'd.     Genius,  valour  left  the  land. 
Indignant — all  that  had  from  age  to  age 
Adorn'd,  ennobled  ;  and  headlong  they  fell. 
Tyrant  and  slave.     For  deeds  of  violence. 
Done  in  broad  day  and  more  than  half  redeem'd 
By  many  a  great  and  generous  sacrifice 
Of  self  to  others,  came  the  unpledged  bowl. 
The  stab  of  the  stiletto.     Gliding  by 
Unnoticed,  in  slouch'd  hat  and  muffling  cloak. 
That  just  discover'd,  Caravaggio-like, 
A  swarthy  cheek,  black  brow,  and  eye  of  flame. 
The  bravo  took  his  stand,  and  o'er  the  shoulder 
Plunged  to  the  hilt,  or  from  beneath  the  rib 
Slanting  (a  surer  path,  as  some  averr'd) 
Struck  upward — then  slunk  off,  or,  if  pursued, 
Made  for  the  sanctuary,  and  there  along 
The  glimmering  aisle,  among  the  worshippers, 
Wander'd  with  restless  step  and  jealous  look. 
Dropping  thick  gore. 

Misnamed  to  lull  suspicion, 
In  every  palace  was  the  laboratory. 
Where  he  within  brew'd  poisons  swift  and  slow. 
That  scatter'd  terror  till  all  things  seem'd  poisonoui 
And  brave  men  trembled  if  a  hand  held  out 
A  nosegay  or  a  letter ;  while  the  great 
Drank  from  the  Venice-glass,  that  broke,  that 

shiver'd, 
If  aught  malignant,  aught  of  thine  was  there. 
Cruel  Tophana ;  and  pawn'd  provinces 
For  the  miraculous  gem  that  to  the  wearer 
Gave  signs  infallible  of  coming  ill. 
That  clouded  though  the  vehicle  of  death 
Were  an  invisible  perfume. 

Happy  then 
The  guest  to  whom  at  sleeping  time  'twas  said. 
But  in  an  under  voice,  (a  lady's  page 
Speaks  in  no  louder,)  "  Pass  not  on.     That  dooi 
Leads  to  another  which  awaits  your  coming, 
One  in  the  floor — now  left,  alas  !  unbolted. 
No  eye  detects  it — lying  under  foot. 
Just  as  you  enter,  at  the  thresliold-stone  ; 
Ready  to  fall  and  plunge  you  into  darkness.    • 
Darkness  and  long  oblivion  !" 

Then,  indeed. 
Where  lurk'd  not  danger  ?    Through  the  fairy  land 


IT.\LY. 


2(;i 


No  seat  of  pleasure  glittering  halfwaj-  down, 
No  hunting  place — but  with  some  damning  spot 
That  will  not  be  wash'd  out !     There,  at  Caiano, 
Where,  when  the  hawks  were  hooded  and  night 

came, 
Pulci  would  set  the  table  in  a  roar 
With  his  wild  lay — there,  where  the  sun  descends. 
And  hill  and  dale  are  lost,  veil'd  with  his  beams, 
The  fair  Venetian*  died — she  and  her  lord, 
Died  of  a  posset  drugg'd  luf  him  who  sate 
And  saw  them  suffer,  flinging  back  the  charge, 
The  murderer  on  the  murder'd. 

Sobs  of  grief, 
Sounds  inarticulate — suddenly  stopt, 
And  follow'd  by  a  struggle  and  a  gasp, 
A  gasp  in  death,  are  heard  yet  in  Cerreto, 
Along  the  marble  halls  and  staircases, 
Nightly  at  twelve  ;  and,  at  the  selfsame  hour. 
Shrieks,  such  as  penetrate  the  inmost  soul. 
Such  as  awake  the  innocent  babe  to  long, 
Long  wailing,  echo  through  the  emptiness 
Of  that  old  den  far  up  among  the  hills. 
Frowning  on  him  who  comes  from  Pietra-Mala : 
In  them,  in  both,  within  five  days  and  less, 
Two  unsuspecting  victims,  passing  fair. 
Welcomed  with  kisses,  and  slain  cruelly, 
One  with  the  knife,  one  with  the  fatal  noose. 

But  lo,  the  sun  is  setting ;  earth  and  sky 
One  blaze  of  glory — What  but  now  we  saw 
As  though  it  were  not,  though  it  had  not  been  I 
He  lingers  yet,  and,  lessening  to  a  point, 
Shines  like  the  eye  of  heaven — then  withdraws  ; 
And  from  the  zenith  to  the  utmost  skirts 
All  is  celestial  red  !     The  hour  is  come, 
When  they  that  sail  along  the  distant  seas 
Languish  for  home ;  and  they  that  in  the  morn 
Said  to   sweet  friends  "Farewell,"    melt    as   at 

parting ; 
When,  journeying  on,  the  pilgrim,  if  he  hears, 
As  now  we  hear  it,  echoing  round  the  hill, 
The  bell  that  seems  to  mourn  the  dying  day, 
Slackens  his  pace  and  sighs,  and  those  he  loved 
Loves  more  than  ever.     But  who  feels  it  not  ? 
And  well  may  we,  for  we  are  far  away. 
Let  us  retire,  and  hail  it  in  our  hearts. 


PART   IL 


THE   PILGRIM. 


It  vtbo  an  hour  of  universal  joy. 
The  lark  was  up  and  at  the  gate  of  heaven, 
Singing,  as  sure  to  enter  when  he  came ; 
The  butterfly  was  basking  in  my  path, 
His  radiant  wings  unfolded.     From  below 
The  bell  of  prayer  rose  slowly,  plaintively  ; 
And  odours,  such  a5  welcome  in  the  day 
Such  as  salute  the  early  traveller, 
And  come  and  go,  each  sweeter  than  the  last, 
Were  rising.     Hill  and  valley  breathed  delight ! 
Acd  not  a  living  thing  but  bless'd  the  hour . 

♦  Bianca  Capela. 


In  every  bush  and  brake  there  was  a  voice 
Responsive  I 

From  the  Thrasymene,  that  now 
Slept  in  the  sun,  a  lake  of  molten  gold, 
And  from  the  shore  that  once,  when  armies  met, 
Rock'd  to  and  fro  unfelt,  so  terrible 
The  rage,  the  slaughter,  I  had  turn'd  away ; 
The  path,  that  led  me,  leading  through  a  wood, 
A  fairy  wilderness  of  fruits  and  flowers. 
And  by  a  brook  that,  in  the  day  of  strife. 
Ran  blood,  but  now  runs  amber — when  a  glade, 
Far,  far  within,  sunn'd  only  at  noonday. 
Suddenly  open'd.     Many  a  bench  was  there, 
Each  round  its  ancient  elm  ;  and  many  a  track 
Well  known  to  them  that  from  the  highway  loveij 
A  while  to  deviate.     In  the  midst  a  cross 
Of  mouldering  stone  as  in  a  temple  stood. 
Solemn,  severe  ;  coeval  with  the  trees 
That  round  it  in  mnjestic  order  rose  ; 
And  on  the  lowest  step  a  pilgrim  knelt, 
Clasping  his  hands  in  prayer.     He  was  the  first 
Yet  seen  by  me,  (save  in  a  midnight  mask, 
A  revel,  where  none  cares  to  play  his  part, 
And  they  that  speak  at  once  dissolve  the  charm,) 
The  first  in  sober  truth,  no  counterfeit ; 
And,  when  his  orisons  were  duly  paid, 
He  rose,  and  we  exchanged,  as  all  are  wont. 
A  traveller's  greeting. 

Young,  and  of  an  age 
When  youth  is  most  attractive,  when  a  light 
Plays  round  and  round,  reflected,  if  I  err  not. 
From  some  attendant  spirit,  that  ere  "iong 
(His  charge  relinquish'd  with  a  sigh,  a.  tear) 
Wings  his  flight  upward — with  a  look  he  won 
My  favour ;  and,  the  spell  of  silence  broke, 
I  could  not  but  continue. 

"  Whence,"  I  ask'd, 
"Whence  art   thou?"  — "From   Mont'alto,"  he 

replied, 
"My  native  village  in  the  Apennines." 
"  And  whither  journeying  ?" — "  To  the  holy  shrine 
Of  Saint  Antonio,  in  the  city  of  Padua. 
Perhaps,  if  thou  hast  ever  gone  so  far, 
Thou  wilt  direct  my  course." — "  Most  willingly; 
But  thou  hast  much  to  do,  much  to  endure. 
Ere  thou  hast  enter'd  where  the  silver  lamps 
Burn  ever.     Tell  me — I  would  not  transgress, 
Yet  ask  I  must — what  could  have  brought  thee  forth, 
Nothing  in  act  or  thought  to  be  atoned  for  ?" — 
"  It  was  a  vow  I  made  in  my  distress. 
We  were  so  blest,  none  were  so  blest  as  we, 
Till  sickness  came.     First,  as  death-struck,  I  fell 
Then  my  beloved  sister ;  and  ere  long. 
Worn  with  continual  watchings,  night  and  day, 
Our  saint-like  mother.    Worse  and  worse  she  grew ; 
And  in  my  anguish,  my  despair,  I  vow'd. 
That  if  she  lived,  if  Heaven  restored  her  to  us, 
I  would  forthwith,  and  in  a  pilgrim's  weeds, 
Visit  that  holy  shrine.     My  vow  was  heard ; 
And  therefore  am  I  come." — "  Thou  hast  done  well 
And  may  those  weeds,  so  reverenced  of  old, 
Guard  thee  in  danger  I" — 

"  They  are  nothing  wortlv 
But  they  are  worn  in  humble  confidence  ; 
I  Nor  would  I  for  the  richest  robe  resign  them, 
I  Wrought,  as  they  were,  by  those  I  love  so  v«]2. 


263 


ROGERS. 


Lauretta  and  my  sister ;  theirs  the  task. 
But  none  to  them,  a  pleasure,  a  delight. 
To  ply  their  utmost  skill,  and  send  me  forth 
As  best  became  this  service.     Their  last  words, 
'  Fare  thee  well,  Carlo.    We  shall  count  the  hours  !' 
Will  not  gt)  from  me." — 

"  Health  and  strength  be  thine 
In  thy  long  travel !     May  no  sunbeam  strike  ; 
No  vapour  cling  and  wither  !    Mayst  thou  be, 
Sleeping  or  waking,  sacred  and  secure  ! 
And,  when  again  thou  comest,  thy  labour  done, 
Joy  be  among  ye  !     In  that  happy  hour 
All  will  pour  forth  to  bid  thee  welcome.  Carlo ; 
And  there  is  one,  or  I  am  much  deceived. 
One  thou  hast  named,  who  will  not  be  the  last."— - 
"  0,  she  is  true  as  truth  itself  can  be  ! 
But  ah,  thou  know'st  her  not     Would  that  thou 

couldst ! 
My  steps  I  quicken  when  I  think  of  her ; 
For,  though  they  take  me  further  from  her  door, 
I  shall  return  the  sooner." 

II. 

AN  INTERVIEW. 

Pleasure,  that  comes    unlook'd-for,  is   thrice 
welcome ; 
And,  if  it  stir  the  heart,  if  aught  be  there 
That  may  hereafter,  in  a  thoughtful  hour, 
Wake  but  a  sigh,  'tis  treasured  up  among 
The  things  most  precious  ;  and  the  day  it  came 
Is  noted  as  a  white  day  in  our  lives. 

The  sun  was  wheeling  westward,  and  the  cliffs 
And  nodding  woods,  that  everlastingly 
(Such  the  dominion  of  thy  mighty  voice, 
Thy  voice,  Velino,  utter'd  in  the  mist) 
Hear  thee  and  answer  thee,  were  left  at  length 
For  others  still  as  noon ;  and  on  we  stray'd 
From  wild  to  wilder,  nothing  hospitable 
Seen  up  or  down,  no  bush  or  green  or  dry, 
That  ancient  symbol  at  the  cottage  door, 
Offering  refreshment — when  Luigi  cried. 
"  Well,  of  a  thousand  tra:  ts  we  chose  the  best ."' 
And,  turning  round  an  oak,  oracular  once, 
Now  lightning-struck,  a  cave,  a  thoroughfare 
For  all  that  came,  each  entrance  a  broad  arch. 
Whence  many  a  deer,  rustling  his  velvet  coat, 
Had  issued,  many  a  gipsy  and  her  brood 
Peer'd  forth,  then  housed  again — the  floor  yet  gray 
With  ashes,  and  the  sides,  where  roughest,  hung 
Loosely  with  locks  of  hair — I  look'd  and  saw 
What,  seen  in  such  an  hour  by  Sancho  Panza, 
Had  given  his  honest  countenance  a  breadth, 
His  cheeks  a  flush  of  pleasure  and  surprise, 
Unknown  before,  had  chain'd  him  to  the  spot. 
And  thou.  Sir  Knight,  hadst  traversed  hill  and  dale 
Squire-less. 

Below  and  winding  far  away, 
A  narrow  glade  imfolded,  such  as  spring 
Broiders  with  flowers,  and,  when  the  moon  is  high, 
The  hare  delights  to  race  in,  scattering  round 
The  silvery  dews.     Cedar  and  cypress  threw 
Singly  their  length  of  shadow,  checkering 
The  greensward,  and,  what  grew  in  frequent  tufts, 
An  underwood  of  myrtle,  that  by  fits 
Sent  up  a  gale  of  fragrance.    Through  the  midst, 
Reflectmg,  as  it  ran,  purple  and  gold. 


A  rainbow's  splendour,  (somewhere  in  the  east 
Rain-drops  were  falling  fast,)  a  rivulet 
Sported  as  loath  to  go  ;  and  on  the  bank 
Stood  (in  the  eyes  of  one,  if  not  of  both, 
Worth  all  the  rest  and  more)  a  sumpter-mule 
Well  laden,  while  two  menials  as  in  haste 
Drew  from  his  ample  panniers,  ranging  round 
Viands  and  fruits  on  many  a  shining  salver, 
And  plunging  in  the  cool  translucent  wave 
Flasks  of  delicious  wine. 

Anon  a  horn 
Blew,  through  the  champaign  bidding  to  the  feast, 
Its  jocund  note  to  other  ears  address'd. 
Not  ours  ;  and,  slowly  coming  by  a  path 
That,  ere  it  issued  from  an  ilex  grove. 
Was  seen  far  inward,  though  along  the  glade 
Distinguish'd  only  by  a  fresher  verdure, 
Peasants  approach'd,  one  leading  in  a  leash 
Beagles  yet  panting,  one  with  various  game, 
In  rich  confusion  slung,  before,  behind, 
Leveret,  and  quail,  and  pheasant.     All  announced 
The  chase  as  over ;  and  ere  long  appear'd 
Their  horses,  full  of  fire,  champing  the  curb. 
For  the  white  foam  was  dry  upon  the  flank. 
Two  in  close  converse,  each  in  each  delighting, 
Their  plumage  waving  as  instinct  with  life  ; 
A  lady  young  and  graceful,  and  a  youth. 
Yet  younger,  bearing  on  a  falconer's  glove, 
As  in  the  golden,  the  romantic  time. 
His  falcon  hooded.     Like  some  spirit  of  air. 
Or  fairy  vision,  such  as  feign'd  of  old. 
The  lady,  while  her  courser  paw'd  the  ground, 
Alighted  ;  and  her  beauty,  as  she  trod 
Th'  enamell'd  bank,  bruising  nor  herb  nor  flower 
That  place  illumined. 

Ah,  who  should  she  be, 
(And  with  her  brother,  as  when  last  we  met. 
When  the  first  lark  had  sung  ere  half  was  said, 
I  And  as  she  stood,  bidding  adieu,  her  voice. 
So  sweet  it  was,  recall'd  me  like  a  spell,) 
Who  but  Angelica  ? 

That  day  we  gave 
To  pleasure,  and,  unconscious  of  their  flight, 
Another  and  another ;  hers  a  home 
Dropt  from  the  sky  amid  the  wild  and  rude, 
Loretto-like.     The  rising  moon  we  hail'd. 
Duly,  devoutly,  from  a  vestibule 
Of  many  an  arch,  o'erwrought,  and  lavishly, 
AVith  many  a  wildering  dream  of  sylphs  and  flowers, 
When  Raphael  and  his  school  from  Florence  came, 
Filling  the  land  with  splendour — nor  less  oft 
Watch'd  her  declining  from  a  silent  dell, 
Not  silent  once,  what  time  in  rivalry 
Tasso,  Guarini,  waved  their  wizard  wands. 
Peopling  the  groves  from  Arcady,  and  lo. 
Fair  forms  appear'd,  murmuring  melodious  verse, 
— Then,  in  their  day,  a  sylvan  theatre. 
Mossy  the  seats,  the  stage  a  verdurovs  floor, 
The  scenery  rock  and  shrub-wood,  nature's  own  5 
Nature  the  architect. 

HI. 

ROME. 
I  AM  in  Rome  !     Oft  as  the  morning  ray 
Visits  these  eyes,  waking  at  once  I  cry. 
Whence  this  excess  of  joy  ?  what  has  befallen  me  r 


ITALY. 


26 


And  Irom  within  a  thrilling  voice  replies, 
Thou  art  in  Rome  !     A  thousand  busy  thoughts 
Rush  on  my  mind,  a  thousand  images  ; 
And  I  spring  up  as  girt  to  run  a  race  ! 

Thou  art  in  Rome  !  the  city  that  so  long 
Reign 'd  absolute,  the  mistress  of  the  world ; 
The  mighty  vision  that  the  prophets  saw, 
And  trembled  ;  that  from  nothing,  from  the  least, 
The  lowliest  village  (what  but  here  and  there 
A  reed-roof'd  cabin  by  a  river  side  ?) 
Grew  into  every  thing ;  and,  year  by  year, 
Patiently,  learlessly  working  her  way 
O'er  brook  and  field,  o'er  continent  and  sea. 
Not  like  the  merchant  with  his  merchandise. 
Or  traveller  with  staff  and  scrip  exploring. 
But  hand  to  hand,  and  foot  to  foot,  through  hosts. 
Through  nations  numberless  in  battle  array, 
Each  behind  each,  each,  when  the  other  fell. 
Up  and  in  arms,  at  length  subdued  them  all. 

Thou  art  in  Rome  !  the  city  where  the  Gauls, 
Entering  at  sunrise  through  her  open  gates. 
And,  through  her  streets  silent  and  desolate. 
Marching  to  slay,  thought  they  saw  gods,  not  men 
The  city  that,  by  temperance,  fortitude. 
And  love  of  glory,  tower'd  above  the  clouds. 
Then  fell — but,  falling,  kept  the  highest  seat, 
And  in  her  loneliness,  her  pomp  of  wo. 
Where  now  she  dwells,  withdrawn  into  the  wild. 
Still  o'er  the  mind  maintains,  from  age  to  age, 
Her  empire  undiminish'd. 

There,  as  though 
Grandeur  attracted  grandeur,  are  beheld 
All  things  that  strike,  ennoble — from  the  depths 
Of  Egypt,  from  the  classic  fields  of  Greece, 
Her  groves,  her  temples — all  things  that  inspire 
Wonder,  delight !     Who  would  not  say  the  forms 
Most  perfect,  most  divine,  had  by  consent 
Flock'd  thither  to  abide  eternally. 
Within  those  silent  chambers  where  they  dwell, 
In  happy  intercourse  i* 

And  I  am  there  ! 
Ah,  little  thought  I,  when  in  school  I  sate, 
A  schoolboy  on  his  bench,  at  early  dawn 
Glowing  with  Roman  story,  I  should  live 
To  tread  the  Appian,  once  an  avenue 
Of  monuments  most  glorious,  palaces. 
Their  doors  seal'd  up  and  silent  as  the  night, 
The  dwellings  of  the  illustrious  dead — to  turn 
Toward  Tiber,  and,  beyond  the  city  gate. 
Pour  out  my  unpremeditated  verse. 
Where  on  his  mule  I  might  have  met  so  oft 
Horace  himself — or  climb  the  Palatine, 
Dreaming  of  old  Evander  and  his  guest. 
Dreaming  and  lost  on  that  proud  eminence. 
Longwhile  the  seat  of  Rome,  hereafter  found 
Less  than  enough  (so  monstrous  was  the  brood 
Engender'd  there,  so  Titan-like)  to  lodge 
One  in  his  madness  ;*  and,  the  summit  gain'd, 
Inscribe  my  name  on  some  broad  aloe-leaf. 
That  shoots  and  spreads  within  those  very  walls 
Where  Virgil  read  aloud  his  tale  divine. 
Where  his  voice  falter'd,  and  a  mother  wept 
Tears  of  delight ! 

But  what  a  narrow  space 


♦  Nero 


Just  underneath  !     In  many  a  heap  the  ground 
Heaves,  as  though  ruin  in  a  frantic  mood 
Had  done  his  utmost.     Here  and  there  appears 
As  left  to  show  his  handy-work,  not  ours. 
An  idle  column,  a  half  buried  arch, 
A  wall  of  some  great  temple. 

It  was  once, 
And  long,  the  centre  of  their  universe. 
The  Forum — whence  a  mandate,  eagle-wing'd, 
Went  to  the  ends  of  th'  earth.     Let  us  descend 
Slowly.     At  every  step  much  may  be  lost ; 
The  very  dust  we  tread  stirs  as  with  life  ; 
And  not  the  lightest  breath  that  sends  not  up 
Something  of  human  grandeur. 

We  are  come, 
Are  now  where  once  the  mightiest  spirits  met 
In  terrible  conflict ;  this,  while  Rome  was  free, 
The  noblest  theatre  on  this  side  heaven  ! 

Here  the  first  Brutus  stood,  when  o'er  the  corse 
Of  her  so  chaste  all  mourn 'd,  and  from  his  cloud 
Burst  like  a  god.     Here,  holding  up  the  knife 
That  ran  with  blood,  the  blood  of  his  own  child, 
Virginius  call'd   down   vengeance. — But  whence 

spoke 
They  who  harangued  the  people ;  turning  now 
To  the  twelve  tables,  now  with  lifted  hands 
To  the  Capitoline  Jove,  whose  fulgent  shape 
In  the  unclouded  azure  shone  far  off". 
And  to  the  shepherd  ori  the  Alban  mount 
Seem'd  like  a  star  new  risen  ?    Where  were  ranged 
In  rough  array  as  on  their  element, 
The  beaks  of  those  old  galleys,  destined  still* 
To  brave  the  brunt  of  war — at  last  to  know 
A  calm  far  worse,  a  silence  as  in  death  ? 
All  spiritless  ;  from  that  disastrous  hour 
When  he,  the  bravest,  gentlest  of  them  all,t 
Scorning  the  chains  he  could  not  hope  to  break, 
Fell  on  his  sword  ! 

Along  the  Sacred  Way 
Hither  the  triumph  came,  and,  winding  round 
With  acclamation,  and  the  martial  clang 
Of  instruments,  and  cars  laden  with  spoil, 
Stopt  at  the  sacred  stair  that  then  appear'd. 
Then  through  the  darkness  broke,  ample,  star-bright, 
As  though  it  led  to  heaven.    'Twas  night ;  but  now 
A  thousand  torches,  turning  night  to  day. 
Blazed,  and  the  victor,  springing  from  his  seat. 
Went  up,  and,  kneeling  as  in  fervent  prayer, 
Enter'd  the  capitol.     But  what  are  they. 
Who  at  the  fdbt  withdraw,  a  mournful  train 
In  fetlers  ?     And  who,  yet  incredulous, 
Now  gazing  wildly  round,  now  on  his  sons. 
On  those  so  young,  well  pleased  with  all  they  stt. 
Staggers  along,  the  last  ? — They  are  the  fallen, 
Those  who  were  spared  to  grace  the  chariot  wheels 
And  there  they  parted,  where  the  road  divides, 
The  victor  and  the  vanquish'd — there  withdrew,- 
He  to  the  festal-board,  and  they  to  die. 

Well  might  the  great,  the  mighty  of  the  world 
They  who  were  wont  to  fare  deliciously. 
And  war  but  for  a  kingdom  more  or  less. 
Shrink  back,  nor  from  their  thrones  endure  to  k  ok 
To  think  that  way  I     Well  might  they  in  theij 

state 


*  The  Rostra. 


t  Marcus  Junius  Urutua. 


264 


ROGERS. 


Humble  themselves,  and  kneel  and  supplicate 
To  be  delivered  from  a  dream  like  this  ! 

Here  Cincinnatus  pass'd,  his  plough  the  while 
Left  in  the  furrow,  and  how  many  more 
Whose  laurels  fade  not,  who  still  walk  the  earth, 
Consuls,  dictators,  still  in  curule  pomp 
Sit  and  decide  ;  and,  as  of  old  in  Rome, 
Name  but  their  names,  set  every  heart  on  fire  ! 

Here,  in  his  bonds,  he  whom  the  phalanx  saved 
not,* 
The  last  on  Philip's  throne  ;  and  the  Numidian,t 
So  soon  to  say,  stript  of  his  cumbrous  robe, 
Stript  to  the  skin,  and  in  his  nakednesf 
Thrust  under   ground,  "  How  cold    t'L'is   bath    of 

yours !" 
And  thy  proud  queen,  Palmyra,  through  the  sands^ 
Pursued,  o'ertaken  on  her  dromedary ; 
Whose  temples,  palaces,  a  wondrous  dream 
That  passes  not  away,  for  many  a  league 
Illumine  yet  the  desert.     Some  invoked 
Death,  and  escaped  ;  the  Egyptian,  when  her  asp 
Came  from  his  covert  under  the  green  leaf  :§ 
And  Hannibal  himself;  and  she  who  said. 
Taking  the  fatal  cup  between  her  hands,]] 
"  Tell  him  I  would  it  had  come  yesterday ; 
For  then  it  had  not  been  his  nuptial  gift." 

Now  all  is  changed  ;  and  here,  as  in  the  wild, 
The  day  is  silent,  dreary  as  the  night ; 
None  stirring,  save  the  herdsman  and  his  herd. 
Savage  alike  ;  or  they  that  would  explore. 
Discuss  and  learnedly  ;  or  they  that  come, 
(And  there  are  many  who  have  cross'd  the  earth,) 
That  they  may  give  the  hours  to  meditation. 
And  wander,  often  saying  to  themselves, 
«  This  was  the  Roman  Forum  !" 

IV. 

A  FUNERAL. 
"  Whence  this  delay  ?"    «  Along  the  crowded 
street 
A  funeral  comes,  and  with  unusual  pomp." 
So  I  withdrew  a  little,  and  stood  still. 
While  it  went  by.    "  She  died  as  she  deserved," 
Said  an  abat6,  gathering  up  his  cloak, 
And  with  a  shrug  retreating  as  the  tide 
Flow'd  more  and  more. — "  But  she  was  beautiful !" 
Replied  a  soldier  of  the  pontifTs  guard. 
"And  innocent  as  beautiful !"  exclaim'd 
A  matron  sitting  in  her  stall,  hung  round 
With  garlands,  holy  pictures,  and  what  not  ? 
Her  Alban  grapes  and  Tusculan  figs  displayl 
In  rich  profusion.     From  her  heart  she  spoke ; 
And  I  accosted  her  to  hear  her  story. 
"  The  stab,"  she  cried,  "  was  given  in  jealousy ; 
But  never  fled  a  purer  spirit  to  heaven, 
As  thou  wilt  say,  or  much,  my  mind  misleads, 
When  thou  hast  seen  her  face.     Last  night  at  dusk 
When  on  her  way  from  vespers — None  were  near, 
None  save  her  serving  boy,  who  knelt  and  wept. 
But  what  could  tears  avail  him,  when  she  fell- 
Last  night  at  dusk,  the  clock  then  striking  nine. 
Just  by  the  fountain — that  before  the  church, 
The  church  she  always  used,  St.  Isidoie's — 


*  Persous. 
6  Cleopatra. 


t  .riiffiirt.ha. 
II  Sophonisba. 


t  Zenobia. 


Alas,I  knew  her  from  her  earliest  youth, 

That  excellent  lady.    Ever  would  she  say, 

Good  even,  as  she  pass'd,  and  with  a  voice 

Gentle  as  theirs  in  heaven  !" — But  now  by  fits 

A  dull  and  dismal  noise  assail'd  the  ear, 

A  wail,  a  chant,  louder  and  louder  yet ; 

And  now  a  strange  fantastic  troop  a-ppear'd  . 

Thronging,  they  came — as  from  the  &:iades  I  elow  | 

All  of  ghostly  white !    "  O  say,"  I  cried, 

"  Do  not  the  living  here  bury  the  dead  ? 

Do  spirits  come  and  fetch  them  ?    What  are  the«« 

That  seem  not  of  this  world,  and  mock  the  day ; 

Each  with  a  burning  taper  in  his  hand  ?" — 

"  It  is  an  ancient  brotherhood  thou  seest. 

Such  their  apparel.     Through  the  long,  long  Ime, 

Look  where  thou  wilt,  no  likeness  of  a  man  ; 

The  living  mask'd,  the  dead  alone  unco"  er'd. 

But  mark" — And,  lying  on  her  funeral  couch. 

Like  one  asleep,  her  eyelids  closed,  her  hands 

Folded  together  on  her  modest  breast, 

As  'twere  her  nightly  posture,  through  the  crowd 

She  came  at  last — and  richly,  gayly  clad. 

As  for  a  birth-day  feast  I     But  breathes  she  not  ? 

A  glow  is  on  her  cheek — and  her  lips  move  ! 

And  now  a  smile  is  there — how  heavenly  sweet ! 

"  O  no  !"  replied  the  dame,  wiping  her  tears. 

But  with  an  accent  less  of  grief  than  anger, 

"  No,  she  will  never,  never  wake  again !" 

Death,  when  we  meet  the  spectre  in  our  walks, 
As  we  did  yesterday,  and  shall  to-morrow. 
Soon  grows  familiar — like  most  other  things. 
Seen,  not  observed;  but  in  a  foreign  clime. 
Changing  his  shape  to  something  new  and  strange 
(And  through  the  world  he  changes  as  in  bport, 
Affect  he  greatness  or  humility) 
Knocks  at  the  heart.     His  form  and  fashion  here 
To  me,  I  do  confess,  reflect  a  gloom, 
A  sadness  round  ;  yet  one  I  would  not  lose ; 
Being  in  unison  with  all  things  else 
In  this,  this  land  of  shadows,  where  we  live 
More  in  past  time  than  present,  where  the  ground, 
League  beyond  league,  like  one  great  cemetery. 
Is  cover'd  o'er  with  mouldering  monuments ; 
And,  let  the  living  wander  where  they  will. 
They  cannot  leave  the  footsteps  of  the  dead. 

Oft,  where  the  burial  rite  follows  so  fast. 
The  agony,  oft  coming,  nor  from  far. 
Must  a  fond  father  meet  his  darling  child, 
(Him  who  at  parting  climb'd  his  knees  and  clung,) 
Clay  cold  and  wan,  and  to  the  bearers  cry, 
"  Stand,  I  conjure  ye  !" 

Seen  thus  destitute. 
What  are  the  greatest  ?    They  must  speak  beyonu 
A  thousand  homilies.     When  Raphael  went. 
His  heavenly  face  the  mirror  of  his  mind. 
His  mind  a  temple  for  all  lovely  things 
To  flock  to  and  inhabit — when  he  went. 
Wrapt  in  his  sable  cloak  he  wore. 
To  sleep  beneath  the  venerable  dome,* 
By  those  attended,  who  in  life  had  loved. 
Had  worshipp'd,  following  in  his  steps  to  fame, 
( 'Twas  on  an  April  day,  when  nature  smiles,) 
All  Rome  was  there.     But,  ere  the  march  began, 
Ere  to  receive  their  charge  the  bearers  came. 


*  The  Pantheon. 


ITALY. 


265 


Who  had  not  sought  him  ?     And  when  all  beheld 

Him,  where  he  lay,  how  changed  from  yesterday, 

Him  in  that  hour  cut  off,  and  at  his  head 

His  last  great  work ;  when,  entering  in,  they  look'd 

Now  on  the  dead,  then  on  that  master-piece. 

Now  on  his  face,  lifeless  and  colourless. 

Then  on  those  forms  divine  that  lived  and  breathed. 

And  would  live  on  for  ages — all  were  moved  ; 

And  sighs  burst  forth,  and  loudest  lamentations. 

V. 

NATIONAL  PREJUDICES. 

"  Another  assassination  !  This  venerable  city," 
I  exclaimed,  "  what  is  it,  but  as  it  began,  a  nest  of 
roDbers  and  murderers  ?  We  must  away  at  sun- 
rise. Luigi."  But  before  sunrise  I  had  reflected  a 
little,  and  in  the  soberest  prose.  My  indignation 
was  gone ;  and,  when  Luigi  undrew  my  curtain, 
crying,  «  Up,  signor,  up!  The  horses  are  at  the 
door." — "  Luigi,"  I  replied, « if  thou  lovest  me,  draw 
the  curtain."* 

rt  would  lessen  very  much  the  severity  with 
which  men  judge  of  each  other,  if  they  would  but 
trace  effects  to  their  causes,  and  observe  the  pro- 
gress of  things  in  the  moral  as  accurately  as  in  the 
physical  world.  When  we  condemn  millions  in  the 
mass  as  vindictive  and  sanguinary,  we  should  re- 
member that  wherever  justice  is  ill  administered, 
the  injured  will  redress  themselves.  Robbery  pro- 
vokes to  robbery ;  murder  to  assassination.  Re- 
sentments become  hereditary ;  and  what  began  in 
disorder,  ends  as  if  all  hell  had  broke  loose. 

Laws  create  a  habit  of  self-restraint,  not  only  by 
the  influence  of  fear,  but  by  regulating  in  its  exer- 
cise the  passion  of  revenge.  If  they  overawe  the 
bad  by  the  prospect  of  a  punishment  certain  and 
well  defined,  they  console  the  injured  by  the 
infliction  of  that  punishment ;  and,  as  the  infliction 
is  a  public  act,  it  excites  and  entails  no  enmity. 
The  laws  are  offended;  and  the  community,  for 
its  own  sake,  pursues  and  overtakes  the  offender ; 
often  without  the  concurrence  of  the  sufferer, 
sometimes  against  his  wishes. 

Now  those  who  were  not  born,  like  ourselves, to 
such  advantages,  we  should  surely  rather  pity  than 
hate;  and,  when  atlength  they  venture  to  turn  against 
their  rulers,t  we  should  lament,  not  wonder  at 
their  excesses  ;  remembering  that  nations  are  natu- 
rally patient,  and  long-suffering,  and  seldom  rise  in 
rebellion  till  they  are  so  degraded  by  a  bad  govern- 
ment as  to  be  almost  incapable  of  a  good  one. 

"  Hate  them,  perhaps,"  you  may  say, «  we  should 
not ;  but  despise  them  we  must,  if  enslaved,  like 
the  people  of  Rome,  in  mind  as  well  as  body;  if 
their  religion  be  a  gross  and  barbarous  superstition." 

♦  A  dialogue,  which  is  said  to  have  passed  many  years 
ago  at  Lyons,  (Mem.  de  Grammont,  I.  3,)  and  which  may 
fltill  be  heard  in  almost  every  h6tellerie  at  daybreak. 

t  As  the  descendants  of  an  illustrious  people  have  late- 
ly lone.  Can  it  be  believed  there  are  many  among  us, 
who,  from  a  desire  to  be  thought  superior  to  common- 
place senlimems  and  vulgar  feelings,  affect  an  indif- 
ference to  their  cause  !  "  If  the  Greeks,"  ihey  say,  "  had 
the  probity  of  other  nations— but  they  are  false  to  a  pro- 
verb !"  And  is  no:  falsehood  the  characteristic  of  slaves  ? 
Man  is  the  creature  of  circumstances.  Free,  he  has  the 
luaLties  of  a  freeman ;  enslaved,  those  of  a  slave. 


— I  respect  knowledge  ;  but  I  do  not  despise  igno 
ranee.  They  think  only  as  their  fathers  thought, 
worship  as  they  worshipped.  They  do  no  more 
and,  if  ours  had  not  burst  their  bondage,  braving 
imprisonment  and  death,  might  not  we  at  this  very 
moment  have  been'exhibiting,  in  our  streets  and  our 
churches,  the  same  processions,  ceremonials,  and 
mortifications  p 

Nor  should  we  require  from  those  who  are  in  an 
earlier  stage  of  society,  what  belongs  to  a  later  ? 
They  are  only  where  we  once  were  ;  and  why 
hold  them  in  derision  ?  It  is  their  business  to  cul- 
tivate the  inferior  arts  befcie  ♦hey  think  of  the  more 
refined  ;  and  in  many  of  the  last  what  are  we  as  a 
nation,  when  compared  to  others  that  have  passed 
away  ?  Unfortunately,  it  is  too  much  the  practice 
of  governments  to  nurse  and  keep  alive  in  the 
governed  their  national  prejudices.  It  withdraws 
their  attention  from  what  is  passing  at  home,  and 
makes  them  better  tools  in  the  hands  of  ambition. 
Hence  next-door  neighbours  are  held  up  to  us  from 
our  childhood  as  natural  enemies  ;  and  we  are  urged 
on  like  curs  to-  worry  each  other.* 

In  like  manner  we  should  learn  to  Ir?  tust  to  indi- 
viduals. Who  can  say,  "  In  such  circumstances  I 
should  have  done  otherwise  ?"  Who,  did  he  but 
reflect  by  what  slow  gradations,  often  by  how  many 
strange  concurrences,  we  are  led  astray  ;  with  how 
much  reluctance,  how  much  agony,  how  many 
etForts  to  escape,  how  many  self-accusations,  how 
many  sighs,  how  many  tears — Who,  did  he  but 
reflect  for  a  moment,  would  have  the  heart  to  cast 
a  stone  ?  Fortunately,  these  things  are  known  to 
Him,  from  whom  no  secrets  are  hidden  ;  and  let  us 
rest  in  the  assurance  that  his  judgments  are  not  as 
ours  are. 

VT. 
THE  CA3IPAGNA  OF  ROIVIE. 
Have  none  appear'd  as  tillers  of  the  ground, 
None   since   they  went — as   though  it  still  were 

theirs. 
And  they  might  come  and  claim  their  own  again.? 
Was  the  last  plough  a  Roman's  ? 

From  this  seat. 
Sacred  for  ages,  whence,  as  Virgil  sings, 
The  Queen  of  Heaven,  alighting  from  the  sky 
Look'd  down  and  saw  the  armies  in  array ,t 
Let  us  contemplate ;  and,  where  dreams  from  Jove 
Descended  on  the  sleeper,  where  perhaps 
Some  inspirations  may  be  lingering  still, 
Some  glimmerings  of  the  future  or  the  past, 
Await  their  influence  ;  silently  revolving 
The  changes  from  that  hour,  when  he  from  Troy 
Went  up  the  Tiber ;  when  refulgent  shields, 
No  strangers  to  the  iron  hail  of  war, 
Stream 'd  far  and  wide,  and  dashing  oars  were  heard 


*  Candour,  generosity,  how  rare  are  they  in  the  world  • 
and  how  much  is  to  be  deplored  the  want  of  them !  When 
a  minister  in  our  parliament  consents  at  last  to  a  mea- 
sure, which,  for  many  reasons  perhaps  existing  no 
longer,  he  had  before  refused  to  adopt,  there  should  be  no 
exultation  as  over  the  fallen,  no  taunt,  no  jeer.  How  often 
may  the  resistance  be  continued  lest  an  enemy  should 
triumph,  and  the  result  of  conviction  be  received  as  a 
symptom  of  fear ! 

t  jEneid,  xii.  134. 


ROGERS. 


Among  those  woods  where  Silvia's  stag  was  lying, 
His  antlers  gay  with  flowers ;  among  those  woods 
Where,  by  the  moon,  that  saw  and  yet  withdrew 

not, 
Two  were  so  soon  to  wander  and  be  slain, 
Two  lovely  in  their  lives,  nor  ih  their  death 
Divided. 

Then,  and  hence  to  be  discern'd, 
How  many  realms,  pastoral  and  warlike,  lay 
Along  this  plain,  each  with  its  schemes  of  power, 
Its  little  rivalships  !     What  various  turns 
Of  fortune  there  ;  what  moving  accidents 
From  ambuscade  and  open  violence  I 
Mingling,  the  sounds  came  up ;  and  hence  how  oft 
We  might  have  caught  among  the  trees  below. 
Glittering  with  helm  and  shield,  the  men  of  Tibur  ;* 
Or  in  Greek  vesture,  Greek  their  origin, 
Some  embassy,  ascending  to  Praeneste ;! 
How  oft  descried  without  thy  gates,  Aricia,| 
Entering  the  solemn  grove  for  sacrifice. 
Senate  and  people  !     Each  a  busy  hive. 
Glowing  with  life ! 

But  all  ere  long  are  lost 
In  one.     We  look,  and  where  the  river  rolls 
Southward  its  shining  labyrinth,  in  her  strength 
A  city,  girt  with  battlements  and  towers. 
On  seven  small  hills  is  rising.     Round  about. 
At  rural  work  the  citizens  are  seen. 
None  unemploy'd ;  the  noblest  of  them  all 
Binding  their  sheaves  or  on  their  threshing-floors, 
As  though  they  had  not  conquer'd.     Everywhere 
Some  trace  of  valour  or  heroic  virtue  ! 
Here  is  the  sacred  field  of  the  Horatii, 
There  are  the  Quiiftian  meadows.     Here  the  hill,§ 
How  holy,  where  a  generous  people,  twice. 
Twice  going  forth,  in  terrible  anger  sate         [way, 
Arm'd ;  and,  their  wrongs  redress'd,  at  once  gave 
Helmet  and  shield,  and  sword  and  spear  thrown 

down, 
And  every  hand  uplifted,  every  heart 
Pour'd  out  in  thanks  to  heaven. 

Once  again 
We  look ;  and,  lo,  the  sea  is  white  with  sails 
Innumerable,  wafting  to  the  shore 
Treasures  untold ;  the  vale,  the  promontories, 
A  dream  of  glory  ;  temples,  palaces, 
Call'd  up  as  by  enchantment ;  aqueducts 
Among  the  groves  and  glades  rolling  along 
Rivers,  on  many  an  arch  high  over  head  ; 
And  in  the  centre,  like  a  burning  sun. 
The  imperial  city  !     They  have  now  subdued 
All  nations.     But  where  they  who  led  them  forth 
Who,  when  at  length  released  by  victory, 
(Buckler  and  spear  hung  up — but  not  to  rust,) 
Held  poverty  no  evil,  no  reproach. 
Living  on  little  with  a  cheerful  mind, 
The  Decii,  the  Fabricii  ?     Where  the  spade 
And  reaping-hook,  among  their  household  things 
Duly  transmitted  ?     In  the  hands  of  men 
Made  captive ;  while  the  master  and  his  guests, 
Reclining,  quaff  in  gold,  and  roses  swim, 
Summer  and  winter,  through  the  circling  year, 
On  their  Falernian — in  the  hands  of  men 


♦  Tivoli. 
t  La  Kiccia. 


t  Palestrina. 
§  Mons  Sacer 


Dragg'd  into  slavery,  with  how  many  more 
Spared  but  to  die,  a  public  spectacle, 
In  combat  with  each  other,  and  required 
To  fall  with  grace,  with  dignity  to  sink. 
While  life  is  gushing,  and  the  plaudits  ring 
Faint  and  yet  fainter  on  their  failing  ear. 
As  models  for  the  sculptor. 

But  their  days, 
Their  hours  are  number'd.  Hark,  a  yell,  a  shriek 
A  barbarous  dissonance,  loud  and  yet  louder. 
That  echoes  from  the  mountains  to  the  sea ! 
And  mark,  beneath  us,  like  a  bursting  cloud. 
The  battle  moving  onward  !  Had  they  slain 
All,  that  the  earth  should  from  her  womb  bring 

forth 
New  nations  to  destroy  them  ?     From  the  depth 
Of  forests,  from  what  none  had  dared  explore. 
Regions  of  thrilling  ice,  as  though  in  ice 
Engender'd,  multiplied,  they  pour  along, 
Shaggy  and  huge  !     Host  after  host,  they  coriie  ; 
The  Goth,  the  Vandal ;  and  again  the  Goth  ! 

Once  more  we  look,  and  all  is  still  as  night. 
All  desolate  !    Groves,  temples,  palaces, 
Swept  from  the  sight,  and  nothing  visible, 
Amid  the  sulphurous  vapours  that  exhale 
As  from  a  land  accurst,  save  here  and  there. 
An  empty  tomb,  a  fragment  like  the  limb 
Of  some  djsmember'd  giant.     In  the  midst 
A  city  stands,  her  domes  and  turrets  crown'd 
With  many  a  cross  ;  but  they  that  issue  forth 
Wander  like  strangers  who  had  built  among 
The  mighty  ruins,  silent,  spiritless  ; 
And  on  the  road,  where  once  we  might  have  met 
Caesar  and  Cato,  and  men  more  than  kings, 
We  meet,  none  else,  the  pilgrim  and  the  beggar. 

VIL 
THE  ROMAN  PONTIFFS. 

Those   ancient   men,  what  were   they,  who 
achieved 
A  sway  beyond  the  greatest  conquerors  ; 
Setting  their  feet  upon  the  necks  of  kings. 
And,  through  the  world  subduing,  chaining  d  wn 
The  free,  LTtimortal  spirit  ?     Were  they  not 
Mighty  magicians  ?     Theirs  a  wondrous  spell, 
Where  true  and  false  were  with  infernal  art 
Close  interwoven ;  where  together  met 
Blessings  and  curses,  threats  and  promises  ; 
And  with  the  terrors  of  futurity. 
Mingled  whate'er  enchants  and  fascinates, 
Music  and  painting,  sculpture,  rhetoric 
And  architectural  pomp,  such  as  none  else ; 
And  dazzling  light,  and  darkness  visible  ! 
What  in  his  day  the  Syracusan  sought. 
Another  world  to  plant  his  engines  on. 
They  had ;  and,  having  it,  like  gods,  not  men, 
Moved  this  world  at  their  pleasure.    Ere  they  came 
Their   shadows,  stretching   far    and  wide,  wer* 

known. 
And  two,  that  look'd  beyond  the  visible  sphere. 
Gave  notice  of  their  coming — he  who  saw 
The  Apocalypse ;  and  he  of  elder  time. 
Who  in  an  awful  vision  of  the  night 
Saw  the  Four  Kingdoms.    Distant  as  they  were. 
Well  might  those  holy  men  be  fill'd  w-ith  fear ! 


ITALY. 


267 


VIII. 
CAIUS   CESTIUS. 

When  I  am  inclined  to  he  serious,  I  love  to  wan- 
der up  and  down  before  the  tomb  of  Caius  Cestius. 
The  Protestant  burial-ground  is  there  ;  and  most  of 
the  little  monuments  are  erected  to  the  j'oung: 
young  men  of  promise,  cut  oiT  when  on  their  travels, 
full  of  enthusiasm,  full  of  enjoyment ;  brides,  in  the 
bloom  of  their  beauty,  on  their  first  journey  ;  or 
children,  borne  from  home  in  search  of  health. 
This  stone  was  placed  by  bis  fellow  travellers, 
young  as  himself,  who  will  return  to  the  house  of 
his  parents  without  him  ;  that,  by  a  husband  or  a 
father,  now  in  his  native  country.  His  heart  is 
buried  in  that  grave. 

It  is  a  quiet  and  sheltered  nook,  covered  in  the 
winter  with  violets ;  and  the  pyramid,  that  over- 
shadows it,  gives  it  a  classical  and  singularly  solemn 
air.  You  feel  an  interest  there,  a  sympathy  you 
were  not  prepared  for.  You  are  j'ourself  in  a  foreign 
land,  and  they  are  for  the  most  part  your  countr}-- 
men.  They  call  upon  you  in  your  mother  tongue — 
in  English — in  words  unknown  to  a  native,  known 
only  to  yourselves :  and  the  tomb  of  Cestius,  that  old 
majestic  pile,  has  this  also  in  common  with  them.  It 
is  itself  a  stranger,  among  strangers.  It  has  stood 
there  till  the  language  spoken  round  about  it  has 
changed ;  and  the  shepherd,  born  at  the  foot,  can  read 
its  inscription  no  longer. 

IX. 

THE  NUN. 
'Tis  over ;  and  her  lovely  cheek  is  now 
On  her  hard  pillow — there,  alas  !  to  be 
Nightly,  through  many  and  many  a  dreary  hour, 
Wan,  often  wet  with  tears,  and  (ere  at  length 
Her  place  is  empty,  and  another  comes) 
In  anguish,  in  the  ghastliness  of  death  ; 
Hers  never  more  to  leave  those  mournful  walls, 
Even  on  her  bier. 

'Tis  over ;  and  the  rite, 
With  all  its  pomp  and  harmony,  is  now 
Floating  before  her.     She  arose  at  home, 
To  be  the  show,  the  idol  of  the  day ; 
Her  vesture  gorgeous,  and  her  starry  head- 
No  ro  Ket,  bursting  in  the  midnight  sky. 
So  da,,zling.     When  to-morrow  she  awakes. 
She  will  awake  as  though  she  still  was  there, 
Still  in  her  father's  house  ;  and  lo,  a  cell 
Narrow  and  dark,  naught  through  the  gloom  dis- 
cern'd. 
Naught  save  the  crucifix,  the  rosary, 
And  the  gray  habit  lying  by  to  shroud 
Her  beauty  and  grace. 

When  on  her  knees  she  fell. 
Entering  the  solemn  place  of  consecration. 
And  from  the  latticed  gallery  came  a  chant 
Of  psalms,  most  saint-like,  mo?t  angelical. 
Verse  after  verse  sung  out,  how  holily  ! 
The  strain  returning,  and  still,  still  returning, 
Methought  it  acted  like  a  spell  upon  her. 
And  she  was  casting  off  her  earthly  dross  ; 
Yet  was  it  sad  as  sweet,  and,  ere  it  closed. 
Came  like  a  dirge.    When  her  fair  head  was  shorn, 
And  the  long  tresses  in  her  hands  were  laid, 


That  she  might  fling  them  from  her,  saying, "  Thus 
Thus  I  renounce  the  world  and  worldly  things  !" 
When,  as  she  stood,  her  bridal  ornaments 
Were,  one  by  one,  removed,  e'en  to  the  last, 
That  sh«  might  say,  flinging  them  from  her, "  Thus. 
Thus  I  renounce  the  world  I"  when  all  was  changed^ 
And,  as  a  nun,  in  homeliest  guise  she  knelt, 
Veil'd  in  her  veil,  crown'd  with  her  silver  crown, 
Her  crown  of  lilies  as  the  spouse  of  Christ, 
Well  might  her  strength  forsake  her,  and  her  knees 
Fail  in  that  hour  !     Well  might  the  holy  man. 
He  at  whose  feet  she  knelt,  give  as  by  stealth 
('Twas  in  lier  utmost  need ;  nor,  while  she  lives, 
Will  it  go  from  her,  fleeting  as  it  was) 
That  faint  but  fatherly  smile,  that  smile  of  love 
And  pity ! 

Like  a  dream  the  whole  is  fled ; 
And  they  that  came  in  idleness  to  gaze 
Upon  the  victim  dress'd  for  sacrifice. 
Are  mingling  in  the  world ;  thou  in  thy  cell 
Forgot,  Teresa.     Yet,  among  them  all. 
None  were  so  fonn'd  to  love  and  to  be  loved. 
None  to  delight,  adorn  ;  and  on  thee  now 
A  curtain,  blacker  than  the  night,  is  dropp'd 
For  ever !     In  thy  gentle  bosom  sleep 
Feelings,  affections,  destined  now  to  die, 
To  wither  like  the  blossom  in  the  bud. 
Those  of  a  wife,  a  mother ;  leaving  there 
A  cheerless  void,  a  chill  as  of  the  grave, 
A  languor  and  a  lethargy  of  soul, 
Death-like,  and  gathering  more  and  more,  till  death 
Comes  to  release  thee.     Ah,  what  now  to  thee. 
What  now  to  thee  the  treasure  of  thy  youth  ? 
As  nothing ! 

But  thou  canst  not  yet  reflect 
Calmly ;  so  many  things,  strange  and  perverse. 
That  meet,  recoil,  and  go  but  to  return. 
The  monstrous  birth  of  one  eventful  day. 
Troubling  thy  spirit — from  the  first,  at  dawn 
The  rich  arraying  for  the  nuptial  feast. 
To  the  black  pall,  the  requiem. 

All  in  turn 
Revisit  thee,  and  round  thy  lowly  bed 
Hover,  uncall'd.     The  young  and  innocent  heart. 
How  is  it  beating  ?     Has  it  no  regrets  ? 
Discoverest  thou  no  weakness  lurking  there  ? 
But  thine  exhausted  frame  has  sunk  to  rest. 
Peace  to  thy  slumbers  ! 

X. 

THE  FIRE-FLY. 
There  is  an  insect,  that,  when  evening  ^mes, 
Small  though  he  be  and  scarce  distinguishable. 
Like  evening  clad  in  soberest^very, 
Unsheaths  his  wings,  and  through  the  woods  an*. 

glades 
Scatters  a  marvellous  splendour.     On  he  wheels, 
Blazing  by  fits  as  from  excess  of  joy. 
Each  gush  of  light  a  gush  of  ecstasy  ; 
Nor  unaccompanied  ;  thousands  that  fling 
A  radiance  all  their  own,  not  of  the  day. 
Thousands  as  bright  as  he,  from  dusk  till  dawn, 
Soaring  descending. 

In  the  mother's  lap 
Well  may  the  child  put  forth  his  little  hands, 
Singing  the  nursery-song  he  learnt  so  soon 


ROGEKS. 


And  the  young  nymph,  preparing  for  the  dance. 
By  brook  or  fountain  side,  in  many  a  braid, 
Wreathing  her  golden  hair,  well  may  she  cry, 
"  Come  hither  ;  and  the  shepherds  gathering  round. 
Shall  say,  Floretta  emulates  the  night,      • 
Spangling  her  head  with  stars." 

Oft  have  I  met 
This  shining  race,  when  in  the  Tusculan  groves 
My  path  no  longer  glimmer'd  ;  oft  among 
Those  trees,  religious  once  and  always  green. 
That  yet  dream  out  their  stories  of  old  Rome 
Over  the  Alban  lake  ;  oft  met  and  hail'd, 
Where  the  precipitate  Anio  thunders  down, 
A-nd  through  the  surging  mist  a  poet's  house 
(So  some  aver,  and  who  would  not  believe  ?) 
Reveals  itself. 

Yet  cannot  I  forget 
Him,  who  rejoiced  me  in  those  walks  at  eve, 
My  earliest,  pleasantest ;  who  dwells  unseen, 
A  nd  in  our  northern  clime,  when  all  is  still. 
Nightly  keeps  watch,  nightly  in  bush  or  brake 
His  lonely  lamp  rekindling.*    Unlike  theirs, 
His,  if  less  dazzling,  through  the  darkness  knows 
No  intermission  ;  sending  forth  its  ray 
Through  the  green  leaves,  a  ray  serene  and  clear 
As  virtue's  own. 

XI. 
FOREIGN  TRAVEL. 
It  was  in  a  splenetic  humour  that  I  sate  me  down 
to  my  scanty  fare  at  Terracina ;  and  how  long  I 
should  have  contemplated  the  lean  thrushes  in  array 
before  me,  I  cannot  say,  if  a  cloud  of  smoke,  that 
drew  the  tears  into  my  eyes,  had  not  burst  from  the 
green  and  leafy  boughs  on  the  hearth-stone.  "Why," 
I  exclaimed,  starting  up  from  the  table,  "  why  did 
I  leave  my  own  chimney-corner  ? — But  am  I  not  on 
the  road  to  Brundusium  ?  And  are  not  these  the 
very  calamities  that  befell  Horace  and  Virgil,  and 
Mfficenas,  and  Plotius,  and  Varius  ?  Horace  laughed 
at  them — then  why  should  not  I  ?  Horace  resolved 
to  turn  them  to  account ;  and  Virgil — cannot  we 
hear  him  observing,  that  to  remember  them  will, 
by-and-by,  be  a  pleasure  ?"  My  soliloquy  recon- 
ciled me  at  once  to  my  fate  ;  and  when,  for  the 
twentieth  time,  I  had  looked  through  the  window 
on  a  sea  sparkling  with  innumerable  brilliants,  a 
sea  on  which  the  heroes  of  the  Odyssey  and  the 
Eneid  had  sailed,  I  sat  down  as  to  a  splendid  ban- 
quet. My  thrusl>es  had  the  flavour  of  ortolans  ;  and 
I  ate  with  an  appetite  I  had  not  known  before. 

"  Who,"  I  cried,  as  I  poured  out  my  last  glass  of 
Falernian,t  (for  Falernian  it  was  said  to  be,  and 
in  my  eyes  it  ran  brjght  and  clear  as  a  topaz  stone) 
— "  who  would  remain  at  home,  could  he  do  other- 
wise ?  Who  would  submit  to  tread  that  dull,  but 
daily  round  ;  his  hours  forgotten  as  soon  as  spent  ?" 
and,  opening  my  journal-book  and  dipping  my  pen 
into  nay  ink-horn,  I  determined,  as  far  as  I  could, 
to  justify  myself  and  my  countryman  in  wandering 
over  the  face  of  the  earth.    "  It  may  serve  me," 


*  The  glow-worm. 

t  We  were  now  within  a  few  hours  of  the  Campania 
Felix.  On  the  colour  and  flavour  of  Falernian,  consult 
Galeu  and  Dioscorides. 


said  I,  "  as  a  remedy  in  some  future  fit  of  the 
spleen." 

Ours  is  a  nation  of  travellers  ;*  and  no  wonder 
when  the  elements,  air,  water,  fire,  attend  at  oqr 
bidding,  to  transport  us  from  shore  to  shore  ;  when 
the  ship  rushes  into  the  deep,  her  track  the  foam  au 
of  some  mighty  torrent ;  and,  in  three  hours  or  less 
we  stand  gazing  and  gazed  at  among  a  foreign 
people.  None  want  an  excuse.  If  rich,  they  €0  to 
enjoy  ;  if  poor,  to  retrench  ;  if  sick,  to  recover  ,  if 
studious,  to  learn ;  if  learned,  to  relax  from  theii 
studies.  But  whatever  they  may  say,  whatever  they 
may  believe,  they  go  for  the  most  part  on  the  same 
errand  ;  'nor  will  those  who  reflect,  think  that 
errand  an  idle  one. 

Almost  all  men  are  over  anxious.  No  sooner  do 
they  enter  the  world,  than  they  lose  that  taste  for 
natural  and  simple  pleasures,  so  remarkable  in  early 
life.  Every  hour  do  they  ask  themselves  what 
progress  they  have  made  in  the  pursuit  of  wealth  or 
honour  ;  and  on  they  go  as  their  fathers  went  before 
them,  till,  weary  and  sick  at  heart,  they  look  back 
with  a  sigh  of  regret  to  the  golden  time  of  their 
childhood. 

Now  travel,  and  foreign  travel  more  particularly, 
restores  to  us  in  a  great  degree  what  we  have  lost. 
When  the  anchor  is  heaved,  we  double  down  the 
leaf;  and  for  a  while  at  least  all  effort  is  over. 
The  old  cares  are  left  clustering  round  the  old 
objects ;  and  at  every  step,  as  we  proceed,  the 
slightest  circumstance  amuses  and  interests.  All 
is  new  and  strange.  We  surrender  ourselves,  and 
feel  once  again  as  children.  Like  them,  we  enjoy 
eagerly  ;  like  them,  when  we  fret,  we  fret  only  for 
the  moment ;  and  here  indeed  the  resemblance  is 
very  remarkable,  for  if  a  journey  has  its  pains  as 
well  as  its  pleasures,  (and  there  is  nothing  unmixed 
in  this  world,)  the  pains  are  no  sooner  over  than 
they  are  forgotten,  while  the  pleasures  live  long  in 
the  memory. 

Nor  is  it  surely  without  another  advantage.  If 
life  be  short,  not  so  to  many  of  us  are  its  days  and 
its  hours.  When  the  blood  slumbers  in  the  veins, 
how  often  do  we  wish  that  the  earth  would  turn 
faster  on  its  axis,  that  the  sun  would  rise  and  set 
before  it  does,  and,  to  escape  from  the  weight  of 
time,  how  many  follies,  how  many  crimes  are  com- 
mitted I  Men  rush  on  danger,  and  even  on  ie-Sn. 
Intrigue,  play,  foreign  and  domestic  broil,  such  are 
their  resources  ;  and,  when  these  things  fail,  they 
destroy  themselves. 

Now  in  travelling  we  multiply  events,  and  inno- 
cently. We  set  out,  as  it  were,  on  our  adventures  ; 
and  many  are  those  that  occur  to  us,  morning,  noon, 
and  night.  The  day  we  come  to  a  place  which  we 
have  long  heard  and  read  of,  and  in  Italy  we  do  so 
continually,  it  is  an  era  in  our  lives  ;  and  from  that 


*  As  indeed  it  always  was,  contributing  those  of  every 
degree,  from  a  milors  with  his  suite  to  him  whose  only 
attendant  is  his  shadow-  Coryate  in  1608  performed  his 
journey  on  foot ;  and,  returning,  hung  up  his  shoes  in  liis 
village  church  as  an  ex-voto.  Goldsmith,  a  centuiy  and 
a  half  afterwards,  followed  in  nearly  the  same  path ; 
playing  a  tune  on  his  flute  to  procure  admittance,  ivhen 
ever  he  approached  a  cottage  at  nightfall. 


ITALY. 


269 


moment  the  very  name  calls  up  a  picture.  How 
delightfully  too  does  the  knowledge  flow  in  upon 
us,  and  how  fast'!*  Would  he  who  sat,  in  a  corner 
of  his  library,  poring  over  books  and  maps,  learn 
more  or  so  much  in  the  time,  as  he  who,  with  his 
ej'es  and  his  heart  open,  is  receiving  impressions,  all 
day  long,  from  the  things  themselves  ?t  How  ac- 
curately do  they  arrange  themselves  in  our  memo- 
ry, towns,  rivers,  mountains ;  and  in  what  living 
colours  do  we  recall  the  dresses,  manners,  and 
customs  of  the  people  !  Our  sight  is  the  noblest  of 
all  our  senses.  "  It  fills  the  mind  with  most  ideas, 
converses  with  its  objects  at  the  greatest  distance, 
and  continues  longest  in  action  without  being  tired." 
Our  sight  is  on  the  alert  when  we  travel ;  and  its 
exercise  is  then  so  delightful,  that  we  forget  the 
profit  in  the  pleasure.. 

Like  a  river  that  gathers,  that  refines  as  it  runs, 
like  a  spring  that  takes  its  course  through  some  rich 
vein  of  mineral,  we  improve  and  imperceptibly — 
jor  in  the  head  only,  but  in  the  heart.  Our  preju- 
dices leave  us,  one  by  one.  Seas  and  mountains  are 
no  longer  our  boundaries.  We  learn  to  love,  and 
esteem,  and  admire  beyond  them.  Our  benevolence 
extends  itself  with  our  knowledge.  And  must  we 
not  return  better  citizens  than  we  went  ?  For  the 
more  we  become  acquainted  with  the  institutions 
of  other  countries,  the  more  highly  must  we  value 
our  own. 


I  threw  down  my  pen  in  triumph  "  The  ques- 
tion," said  I,  "  is  set  to  rest  for  ever.     And  yet — " 

"  And  yet — "  I  must  still  say.  The  wisest  of  men 
seldom  went  out  of  the  walls  of  Athens ;  and  for 
that  worst  of  evils,  that  sickness  of  the  soul,  to 
which  we  are  most  liable  when  most  at  our  ease, 
is  there  not  after  all  a  surer  and  yet  pleasanter 
remedy,  a  remedy  for  which  we  have  only  to  cross 
the  threshold  ?  A  Piedmontese  nobleman,  into 
whose  company  I  fell  at  Turm,had  not  long  before 
experienced  its  efficacy :  and  his  story,  which  he 
told  me  without  reserve,  was  as  follows. 

"  I  was  weary  of  life,  and,  after  a  day.  such  as 
few  have  known  and  none  would  wish  to  remember, 
was  hurrying  along  the  street  to  the  river,  when  I 
felt  a  sudden  check.  I  turned  and  beheld  a  little 
boy,  who  had  caught  the  skirt  of  my  cloak  in  his 
anxiety  to  solicit  my  notice.  His  look  and  manner 
were  irresistible.  Not  less  so  was  the  lesson  he  had 
learnt. 

*'  'There  are  six  of  us  ;  and  we  are  dying  for  want 
ol  food.' — '  Why  should  I  not,'  said  I  to  myself,  're- 
lieve this  wretched  family  ?  I  have  the  means . 
and  it  will  not  delay  me  many  minutes.  But  what^ 
if  it  does  ?'  The  scene  of  misery  he  conducted  me 
to  I  cannot  describe.  I  threw  them  my  purse  ;  and 
their  burst  of  gratitude  overcame  me.  It  filled  my 
eyes — it  went  as  a  cordial  to  my  heart.    '  I  will  call 


♦  To  judge  at  once  of  a  nation,  we  have  only  to  throw 
our  eyes  on  the  markets  and  the  fields.  If  the  markets 
are  well  supplied,  the  fields  well  cultivated,  all  is  right. 
If  otherwise,  we  may  say,  and  say  truly,  these  people  are 
barbarous  or  oppressed. 

t  Assuredly  not,  if  the  last  has  laid  a  proper  foundation. 
Knowledge  makes  knowledge  as  money  makes  money, 
nor  evei  perhaps  so  fast  as  on  a  journey. 


again  to-morrow,'  I  cried.  'Fool  that  I  was,  tc 
think  of  leaving  a  world,  where  such  pleasure  was 
to  be  had,  and  so  cheaply  !'  " 

XII. 
THE  FOUNTAIN 

It  was  a  well 
Of  whitest  marble,  white  as  from  the  quarry  j 
And  richly  wrought  with  many  a  high  relief, 
Greek  sculpture — in  some  earlier  day  perhaps 
A  tomb,  and  honour'd  with  a  hero's  ashes. 
The  water  from  the  rock  fill'd,  overflow'd  it ; 
Then  dash'd  away,  playing  the  prodigal, 
And  soon  was  lost — stealing  unseen,  unheard. 
Through  the  long  grass,  and  round  the  twisted  rooti 
Of  aged  trees  ;  discovering  where  it  ran 
By  the  fresh  verdure.     Overcome  with  heat, 
I  threw  me  down ;  admiring,  as  I  lay, 
That  shady  nook,  a  singing  place  for  birds. 
That  grove  so  intricate,  so  full  of  flowers, 
More  than  enough  to  please  a  child  a-Maying. 

The  sun  was  down,  a  distant  convent-bell 
Ringing  the  Angelus  ;  and  now  approach'd 
The  hour  for  stir  and  village  gossip  there, 
The  hour  Rebekah  came,  when  from  the  well 
She  drew  with  such  alacrity  to  serve 
The  stranger  and  his  camels.     Soon  I  heard 
Footsteps  ;  and  lo,  descending  by  a  path 
Trodden  for  ages,  many  a  nymph  appear'd, 
Appear'd  and  vanish'd,  bearing  on  her  head 
Her  earthen  pitcher.     It  call'd  up  the  day 
Ulysses  landed  there ;  and  long  I  gazed. 
Like  one  awaking  in  a  distant  time. 

At  length  there  came  the  loveliest  of  them  all, 
Her  little  brother  dancing  down  before  her  ; 
And  ever  as  he  spoke,  which  he  did  ever, 
Turning  and  looking  up  in  warmth  of  heart 
And  brotherly  affection.     Stopping  there. 
She  join'd  her  rosy  hands,  and,  filling  them 
With  the  pure  element,  gave  him  to  drink/ 
And,  while  he  quench 'd  his    thirst,  stanuing    oi 

tiptoe, 
Look'd  down  upon  him  with  a  sister's  smile, 
Nor  stirr'd  till  he  had  done,  fix'd  as  a  statue. 

Then  hadst  thou  seen  them  as  they  stood,  Canova^ 
Thou  hadst  endow'd  them  with  immortal  youth  ; 
And  they  had  evermore  lived  undivided. 
Winning  all  hearts — of  all  thy  works  the  fairest 

XIII. 
BANDITTI. 

'Tis  a  wild  life,  fearful  and  full  of  change. 
The  mountain  robber's.     On  the  watch  he  lies. 
Levelling  his  carbine  at  the  passenger; 
And,  when  his  work  is  done,  he  dares  not  sleep. 

Time  was,  the  trade  was  nobler,  if  not  honest  i 
When  they  that  robb'd  were  men  of  better  faith 
Than  kings  or  pontiffs,  when,  such  reverence 
The  poet  drew  among  the  woods  and  wilds, 
A  voice  was  heard,  that  never  bade  to  spare. 
Crying  aloud,  "  Hence  to  the  distant  hills  I 
Tasso  approaches  ;  he,  whose  song  beguiles 
The  day  of  half  its  hours  ;  whose  sorcery 
Dazzles  the  sense,  turning  our  forest  glades 
To  lists  that  blaze  with  gorgeous  armory. 
Our  mountain  caves  to  regal  palaces. 


270 


ROGERS, 


Hence,  nor  descend  till  he  and  his  are  gone. 
Let  him  fear  nothing." 

When  along  the  shore, 
And  by  the  path  that,  wandering  on  ts  way, 
Leads  through  the  fatal  grove  where  Tully  fell, 
(Gray  and  o'ergrown,  an  ancient  tOmb  is  there,) 
He  came  and  they  withdrew :  they  were  a  race 
Careless  of  life  in  others  and  themselves, 
For  they  had  learnt  their  lesson  in  a  camp  j 
But  not  ungenerous.     'Tis  no  longer  so. 
Now  crafty,  cruel,  torturing  ere  they  slay 
Th'  unhappy  captive,  and  with  bitter  jests 
Mocking  misfortune ;  vain,  fantastical, 
Wearing  whatever  glitters  in  the  spoil ; 
And  most  devout,  though  when   they  kneel  and 

pray. 
With  every  bead  they  could  recount  a  murder. 
As  by  a  spell  they  start  up  in  array. 
As  by  a  spell  they  vanish — theirs  a  band. 
Not  as  elsewhere  of  outlaws,  but  of  such 
As  sow  and  reap,  and  at  the  cottage  door 
Sit  to  receive,  return  the  traveller's  greeting ; 
Now  in  iae  garb  of  peace,  now  silently 
Arming  and  issuing  forth,  led  on  by  men 
Whose  names  on  innocent  lips  are  words  of  fear. 
Whose  lives  have  long  been  forfeit. 

Some  there  are 
That,  ere  they  rise  to  this  bad  eminence. 
Lurk,  night  and  day,  the  plague  spot  visible. 
The  guilt  that  says,  Beware  ;  ani  mark  we  now 
Him,  where  he  lies,  who  couches  for  his  prey 
At  the  bridge  foot,  in  some  dark  cavity 
Scoop'd  by  the  waters,  or  some  gaping  tomb, 
Nameless  and  tenantless,  whence  the  red  fox 
Slunk  as  he  enter'd.     There  he  broods,  in  spleen 
Gnawing  his  beard ;  his  rough  and  sinewy  frame 
O'erwritten  with  the  story  of  his  life : 
On  his  Avan  cheek  a  sabre  cut,  well  earn'd 
In  foreign  warfare ;  on  his  breast  the  brand 
Indelible,  burnt  in  when  to  the  port 
He  clank'd  his  chain,  among  a  hundred  more 
Dragg'd  ignominiously ;  on  every  limb 
Memorials  of  his  glory  and  his  shame. 
Stripes  of  the  lash  and  honourable  scars. 
And  channels  here  and  there  worn  to  the  bone 
By  galling  fetters. 

He  comes  slowly  forth 
Unkennelling,  and  up  that  savags  dell 
Anxiously  looks  ;  his  cruse,  an  ample  gourd, 
(Duly  replenish'd  from  the  vintner's  cask,) 
Slung  from  his  shoulder ;  in  his  breadth  of  belt 
Two  pistols  and  a  dagger  yet  uncleansed, 
A  parchment  scrawl'd  with  uncouth  characters. 
And  a  small  vial,  his  last  remedy. 
His  cure  when  all  things  fail.    No  noise  is  heard, 
Save  when  the  rugged  bear  and  the  gaunt  wolf 
Howl  in  the  upper  region,  or  a  fish 
Leaps  in  the  gulf  beneath : — But  now  he  kneels 
And  (like  a  scout  when  listening  to  the  tramp 
Of  horse  or  foot)  lays  his  experienced  ear 
Close  to  the  ground,  then  rises  and  explores. 
Then  kneels  again,  and,  his  short  rifle  gun 
Against  his  cheek,  waits  patiently. 

Two  monks, 
Portly,  grav-headed,  on  their  gallant  steeds. 
Descend  where  yet  a  moulderit;g  cross  o'erhangs 


The  grave  of  one  that  from  the  precipice 
Fell  in  an  evil  hour.     Their  bridle  bells 
Ring  merrily ;  and  many  a  loud,  long  laugh 
Re-echoes ;  but  at  once  the  sounds  are  lost. 
Unconscious  of  the  good  in  store  below. 
The  holy  fathers  have  turn'd  off,  and  ijcw 
Cross  the  brown  heath,  ere  long  to  wag  tileir  beaids 
Before  my  lady  abbess,  and  discuss 
Things  only  known  to  the  devout  and  pure 
O'er  her  spiced  bowl — then  shrive  the  sisterhood. 
Sitting  by  turns  with  an  inclining  ear 
In  the  confessional. 

He  moves  his  lips 
As  with  a  curse — then  paces  up  and  down. 
Now  fast,  now  slow,  brooding  and  muttering  on ; 
Gloomy  alike  to  him  the  past,  the  future. 

But  hark,  the  nimble  tread  pf  numercjas  feet ! 
— 'Tis  but  a  dappled  herd  come  down  to  slake 
Their  tliirst  in  the  cool  wave.    He  turns  and  aims- 
Then  checks  himself,  unwilling  to  disturb 
The  sleeping  echoes.     . 

Once  again  he  earths  ; 
Slipping  away  to  house  with  them  beneath. 
His  old  companions  in  that  hiding  place, 
The  bat,  the  toad,  the  blind-worm,  and  the  newt ; 
And  hark,  a  footstep,  firm  and  confident, 
As  of  a  man  in  haste.     Nearer  it  draws  ; 
And  now  is  at  the  entrance  of  the  den. 
Ha  !  'tis  a  comrade,  sent  to  gather  in 
The  band  for  some  great  enterprise. 

Who  want! 
A  sequel,  may  read  on.     Th'  unvarnish'd  tale. 
That  follows,  will  supply  the  place  of  one. 
'Twas  told  me  by  the  Marquis  of  Ravina, 
When  in  a  blustering  night  he  shelter'd  mc, 
In  tliat  brave  castle  of  his  ancestors 
O'er  Garigliano,  and  is  such,  indeed. 
As  every  day  brings  with  it — in  a  land 
Where  laws  are  trampled  on,  and  lawless  men 
Walk  in  the  smi ;  but  it  should  not  be  lost, 
For  it  may  serve  to  bind  us  to  our  country. 

XIV. 
AN  ADVENTURE. 

Three  days  they  lay  in  ambush  at  my  gate. 
Then  sprung  and  led  me  captive.    Many  a  wild 
We  traversed  ;  but  Rusconi,  'twas  no  less, 
March'd  by  my  side,  and,  when  I  thirsted,  climb'd 
The  cliffs  for  water ;  though  whene'er  he  spoke, 
'Twas  briefly,  sullenly  ;  and  on  he  led, 
Distinguish'd  only  by  an  amulet. 
That  in  a  golden  chain  hung  from  his  neck, 
A  crystal  ol  rare  virtue.     Night  fell  fast. 
When  on  a  heath,  black  and  immeasurable. 
He  turn'd  and  bade  them  halt.     'Twas  where  the 

earth 
Heaves  o'er  the  dead — where  erst  some  Alaric 
Fought  his  last  fight,  and  every  warrior  threw 
A  stone  to  tell  for  ages  where  he  lay. 

Then  all  advanced,  and,  ranging  in  a  square, 
Stretch'd  forth  their  arms  as  on  the  holy  cross. 
From  each  to  each  their  sable  cloaks  extending, 
That,  like  the  solemn  hangings  of  a  tent, 
Cover'd  us  round  ;  and  in  the  midst  I  stood, 
Weary  and  faint,  and  face  to  face  with  one 
Whose  voice,  whose  look  dispenses  life  and  ieath 


ITALY. 


27 


Whose  heart  knows  no  relentings.     Instantly 
A  light  was  kindled,  and  the  bandit  spoke. 
« I  know  thee.     Thou  hast  sought  us,  for  the  sport 
Slipping  thy  blood-hounds  with  a  hunter's  cry ; 
And  thou  hast  found  at  last.    Were  I  as  thou, 
I  in  thy  grasp  as  thou  art  now  in  ours, 
Soon  should  I  make  a  midnight  spectacle. 
Soon,  limb  by  limb,  be  mangled  on  a  wheel, 
Then  gibbeted  to  blacken  for  the  vultures. 
But  I  would  teach  thee  better — how  to  spare. 
Write  as  I  dictate.    If  thy  ransom  comes, 
Thou  livest.     If  not — ^but  answer  not,  I  pray. 
Lest  thou  provoke  me.     I  may  strike  thee  dead  ; 
And  know,  young  man,  it  is  an  easier  thing 
To  do  it  than  to  say  it.    Write,  and  thus." — 

I  wrote.    "  'Tis  well,"  he  cried.    "  A  peasant  boy. 
Trusty  and  swift  of  foot,  shall  bear  it  hence. 
Meanwhile  lie  down  and  rest.     This  cloak  of  mine 
Will  serve  thee  ;  it  has  weather'd  many  a  storm." 
The  watch  was  se*;;  and  twice  it  had  been  changed. 
When  morning  broke,  and  a  wild  bird,  a  na^nc. 
Flew  in  a  circle,  screaming.     I  look'd  up. 
And  all  were  gone,  save  him  who  now  kept  guard. 
And  on  his  arms  lay  musing.    Young  he  seem'd. 
And  sad,  as  though  he  could  indulge  at  will 
Some  secret  sorrow.    "  Thou  shrink'st  back,"  he 

said. 
«*  Well  mayst  thou,  lyin j,  as  thou  dost,  so  near 
A  ruffian, — one  for  ever  link'd  and  bound 
To  guilt  and  infamy.     There  was  a  time 
When  he  had  not  perhaps  been  deem'd  unworthy. 
When  he  had  watch'd  that  planet  to  its  setting. 
And  dwelt  with  pleasure  on  the  meanest  thing 
That  nature  has  given  birth  to.     Now  'tis  past. 
"  Wouldst  thou  know  more  i"    My  story  is  an 
old  one. 
I  loved,  was  scom'd ;  I  trusted,  was  betray'd ; 
And  in  my  anguish,  my  necessity, 
Met  with  the  liond,  the  tennpter — in  Rusconi. 
« Why  thus  ?'  he  cried.     <  Thou  wouldst  be  free, 

and  darest  not. 
Come  and  assert  thy  birthright  while  thou  canst. 
A  robber's  cave  is  better  than  a  dungeon  ; 
And  death  itself,  what  is  it  at  the  worst, 
What,  but  a  harlequin's  leap  ?'   Him  I  had  known. 
Had  served  with,  sufFer'd  with  ;  and  on  the  walls 
Of  Capua,  while  the  moon  went  down,  I  swore 
Allegiance  on  his  dagger. 

Dost  thou  ask 
How  I  have  kept  my  oath  ?     Thou  shalt  be  told, 
Cost  what  it  may. — But  grant  me,  I  implore, 
Grant  me  a  passport  to  some  distant  land, 
That  I  may  never,  never  more  be  named. 
Thou  wilt,  I  know  thou  wilt. 

Two  months  ago, 
When  oc  a  vineyard  hill  we  lay  conceal'd. 
And  scatter'd  up  and  down  as  we  were  wont. 
I  heard  a  damsel  singing  to  herself, 
And  soon  espied  her,  coming  all  alone. 
In  her  first  beauty.    Up  a  path  she  came, 
Leafy  and  intricate,  singing  her  song, 
A  song  of  love,  by  snatches  ;  breaking  off 
If  but  a  flower,  an  insect  in  the  sun 
Pleased  for  an  instant ;  then  as  carelessly 
The  strain  resuming,  and,  where'er  she  stopt, 
5Lising  on  tiptoe  underneath  the  boughs 


To  pluck  a  grape  in  very  wantonness. 

Her  look,  her  mien,  and  maiden  ornaments, 

Show'd  gentle  birth ;  and,  step  by  st«p,  she  came 

Nearer  and  nearer  to  the  dreadful  snare. 

None  else  were  by ;  and,  as  I  gazed  unseen. 

Her  youth,  her  innocence  and  gayety 

Went  to  my  heart ;  and,  starting  up,  I  cried, 

'  Fly — for  your  life  I'    Alas,  she  shriek'd,  she  fell 

And,  as  I  caught  her  falling,  all  rush'd  forth. 

'  A  wood  nymph  !'  said  Rusconi.    '  By  the  light. 

Lovely  as  Hebe.     Lay  her  in  the  shade.' 

I  heard  him  not.     I  stood  as  in  a  trance. 

'  What,'  he  exclaim'd,  with  a  malicious  smile, 

'  Wouldst  thou  rebel  ?'     I  did  as  he  required. 

'  Now  bear  her  hence  to  the  well-head  below 

A  few  cold  drops  will  animate  this  marble. 

Go  !     'Tis  an  office  all  will  envy  thee ; 

But  thou  hast  earn'd  it.' 

As  I  s  tagger 'd  down. 
Unwilling  to  surrender  her  sweet  body ; 
Her  golden  hair  dishevell'd  on  a  neck 
Of  snow,  and  her  fair  eyes  closed  as  in  sleep. 
Frantic  with  love,  with  hate, '  Great  God  !'  I  cried, 
(I  had  almost  forgotten  how  to  pray,) 
'  Why  may  I  not,  while  yet — while  yet  I  can. 
Release  her  from  a  thraldom  worse  than  death  ?' 
'Twas  done  as  soon  as  said.     I  kiss'd  her  brow. 
And  smote  her  with  my  dagger.     A  short  cry 
She  utter'd,  but  she  stirr'd  not ;  and  to  heaven 
Her  gentle  spirit  fled.     'Twas  where  the  path 
In  its  descent  turn'd  suddenly.     No  eye 
Observed  me,  though  their  steps  were  following  fast. 
But  soon  a  yell  broke  forth,  and  all  at  once 
Levell'd  their  deadly  aim.     Then  I  had  ceased 
To  trouble  or  be  troubled,  and  had  now 
(Would  I  were  there  !)  been  slumbering  in  my 

grave. 
Had  not  Rusconi  with  ji  terrible  shout 
Thrown  himself  in  between  us,  and  exclaim'd, 
Grasping  my  arm, '  'Tis  bravely,  nobly  done  ! 
Is  it  for  deeds  like  these  thou  wear'st  a  sword  ? 
Was  this  the  business  that  thou  camest  upon  ? 
— But  'tis  his  first  offence,  and  let  it  pass. 
Like  the  young  tiger  he  has  tasted  blood. 
And  may^  do  much  hereafter.     He  can  strike 
Home  to  the  hilt.'    Then  in  an  under  tone, 
'  Thus  wouldst  thou  justify  the  pledge  I  gave. 
When  in  the  eyes  of  all  I  read  distrust  ? 
For  once,'  and  on  his  cheek,  methought,  I  saw 
The  blush  of  virtue, '  I  will  save  thee,  Albert ; 
Again,  I  cannot.'  " 

Ere  his  tale  was  told. 
As  on  the  heath  we  lay,  my  ransom  came  ; 
And  in  six  days,  with  no  ungrateful  mind, 
Albert  was  sailing  on  a  quiet  sea. 
— But  the  night  wears,  and  thou  art  much  in  need 
Of  rest.     The  young  Antonio,  with  his  torch. 
Is  waiting  to  conduct  thee  to  thy  chamber. 

XV. 
NAPLES. 
This  region,  surely,  is  not  of  the  earth.* 
Was  it  not  dropt  from  heaven  ?    Not  a  grove, 
•Citron,  or  pine,  or  cedar,  not  a  grot, 


*  Un  pezzo  di  ciclo  caduto  in  terro.—Sannazaro . 


272 


ROGERS. 


Sea-wgrn  and  mantled  with  the  gaddmg  vine, 
But  breathes  enchantment.    Not  a  cliff  hut  flings 
On  the  clear  wave  some  image  of  delight, 
Some  cabin  roof  glowing  with  crimson  flowers, 
Some  ruin'd  temple  or  fallen  monument, 
To  muse  on  as  the  bark  is  gliding  by. 
And  be  it  mine  to  muse  there,  mine  to  glide. 
From  daybreak,  when  the  mountain  pales  his  fire, 
Yet  more  and  more,  and  from  the  mountain  top, 
Till  then  invisible,  a  smoke  ascends. 
Solemn  and  slow,  as  erst  from  Ararat, 
When  he  the  patriarch,  who  escaped  the  flood, 
Was  with  his  household  sacrificing  there — 
From  daybreak  to  that  hour,  the  last  and  best. 
When,  one  by  one,  the  fishing  boats  come  forth, 
Each  with  its  glimmering  lantern  at  the  prow, 
And,  when  the  nets  are  thrown,  the  evening  hymn 
Steals  o'er  the  trembling  waters. 

Everywhere 
Fable  and  truth  have  shed,  in  rivalry. 
Each  her  peculiar  influence.    Fable  came. 
And  laugh'd  and  sung,  arraying  truth  in  flowers. 
Like  a  young  child  her  grandam.     Fable  came  ; 
Earth,  sea,  and  sky  reflecting,  as  she  flew, 
A  thousand,  thousand  colours  not  their  own  : 
And  at  her  bidding,  lo  !  a  dark  descent 
To  Tartarus,  and  those  thrice  happy  fields. 
Those  fields  with  ether  pure  and  purple  light 
Ever  invested,  scenes  by  him  described,* 
Who  here  was  wont  to  wander,  record 
What  they  reveal'd,  and  on  the  western  shore 
Sleeps  in  a  silent  grove,  o'erlooking  thee, 
Beloved  Parthenope. 

Yet  here,  methinks. 
Truth  wants  no  ornament,  in  her  own  shape 
Filling  the  mind  by  turns  with  awe  and  love. 
By  turns  inclining  to  wild  ecstasy, 
And  soberest  meditation. 

Here  the  vines 
Wed,  each  her  elm,  and  o'er  the  golden  grain 
Hang  their  luxuriant  clusters,  checkering 
The  sunshine  ;  where,  when  cooler  shadows  fall. 
And  the  mild  moon  her  fairy  net-work  weaves, 
The  lute,  or  mandoline,  accompanied 
By  many  a  voice  yet  sweeter  than  their  own, 
Kindles,  nor  slowly  ;  and  the  dancef  displays 
The  gentle  arts  and  witcheries  of  love. 
Its  hopes  and  fears  and  feignings,  till  the  youth 
Drops  on  his  knee  as  vanquish'd,  and  the  maid, 
Her  tambourine  uplifting  with  a  grace. 
Nature's  and  Nature's  only,  bids  him  rise. 

But  here  the  mighty  monarch  underneath, 
He  in  his  palace  of  fire,  diffuses  round 
A  dazzling  splendour.     Here,  unseen,  unheard, 
Opening  another  Eden  in  the  wild, 
He  works  his  wonders  ;  save,  when  issuing  forth 
In  thunder,  he  blots  out  the  sun,  the  sky. 
And,  mingling  all  things  earthly  as  in  scorn. 
Exalts  the  valley,  lays  the  mountain  low, 
Pours  many  a  torrent  from  his  burning  lake. 
And  in  an  hour  of  universal  mirth, 
What  time  the  trump  proclaims  the  festival, 
Buries  some  capital  city,  there  to  sleep 


The  sleep  of  ages — till  a  plough,  a  spade 
Disclose  the  secret,  and  the  eye  of  day 
Glares  coldly  on  the  streets,  the  skeletons. 
Each  in  his  place,  each  in  his  gay  attire, 
And  eager  to  enjoy. 

Let  us  go  round, 
And  let  the  sail  be  slack,  the  course  be  slow, 
That  at  our  leisure,  as  we  coast  along, 
We  may  contemplate,  and  from  every  scene 
Receive  its  influence.     The  Cumaean  towers, 
There  did  they  rise,  sun-gilt ;  and  here  thy  grovet 
Delicious  Baiee.     Here  (what  would  they  not  ?) 
The  masters  of  the  earth,  unsatisfied, 
Built  in  the  sea  ;  and  now  the  boatman  steers 
O'er  many  a  crypt  and  vault  yet  glimmering. 
O'er  many  a  broad  and  indestructible  arch, 
Tlie  deep  foundations  of  their  palaces  ; 
Nothing  now  heard  ashore,  so  great  the  change. 
Save  when  tlie  sea-mew  clamours,  or  the  owl 
Hoots  in  the  temple. 

What  the  mountainous  isle,* 
Seen  in  the  south  ?     'Tis  where  a  monster  dwelt,t 
AVho  hurl'd  his  victims  from  the  topmost  cliff; 
Then  and  then  only  merciful,  so  slow^ 
So  subtle  were  the  tortures  they  endured. 
Fearing  and  fear'd  he  lived,  cursing  and  cursed 
And  still  the  dungeons  in  the  rock  breathe  out 
Darkness,  distemper. — Strange,  that  one  so  vile 
Should  from  his  den  strike  terror  through  the  world. 
Should,  where  withdrawn  in  his  decrepitude, 
Say  to  the  noblest,  be  they  where  they  might, 
"  Go  from   the  earth !"   and  from  the  earth  they 

went. 
Yet  such  things  were — and  will  be,  when  mankind, 
Losing  all  virtue,  lose  all  energy  ; 
And  for  the  loss  incur  the  penalty. 
Trodden  down  and  trampled. 

Let  us  turn  the  prow, 
And  in  the  track  of  him  who  went  to  die,|: 
Traverse  this  valley  of  waters,  landing  where 
A  waking  dream  awaits  us.     At  a  step 
Two  thousand  years  roll  backward,  and  we  stand, 
Like  those  so  long  within  that  awful  place,§ 
Immovable,  nor  asking.  Can  it  be  ? 

Once  did  I  linger  there  alone,  till  day 
Closed,  and  at  length  the  calm  of  twilight  came, 
So  grateful,  yet  so  solemn  !     At  the  fount. 
Just  where  the  three  ways  meet,  I  stood  and  look'l^ 
( 'Twas  near  a  noble  house,  the  house  of  Pansa,) 
And  all  was  still  as  in  the  long,  long  night 
That  follow'd,  when  the  shower  of  ashes  fell, 
When  they  that  sought  Pompeii,  sought  in  vain  ; 
It  was  not  to  be  found.     But  now  a  ray. 
Bright  and  yet  brighter,  on  the  pavement  glanced. 
And  on  the  wheel-track  worn  for  centuries. 
And  on  the  stepping-stones  from  side  to  side, 
O'er  which  the  maidens,  with  their  water-urn« 
Were  wont  to  trip  so  lightly.    Full  and  clear. 
The  moon  was  rising,  and  at  once  reveal'd 
The  name  of  every  dweller,  and  his  craft ; 
Shining  throughout  with  an  unusual  lustre, 
And  lighting  up  this  city  of  tne  dead. 


Virgil. 


t  The  tarantella. 


*  Caprese. 

t  The  elder  Pliny. 


t  TiberiuB. 
§  FompeiL 


ITALY. 


273 


Here  lived  a  miller ;  silent  and  at  rest 
His  millstones  now.     In  old  companionship 
Still  do  th^y  stand  as  on  the  day  he  went, 
Each  lead}"-  for  its  oifice — but  he  comes  not. 
And  here,  hard  by,  (where  one  in  idleness 
Has  stopt  to  scrawl  a  ship,  an  armed  man  ; 
And  in  a  tablet  on  the  wall  we  read 
Of  shows  ere  long  to  be,)  a  sculptor  wrought. 
Nor  meanly  ;  blocks,  half  chisell'd  into  life. 
Waiting  his  call.     Here  long,  as  yet  attests 
The  trodden  floor,  an  olive  merchant  drew 
From  many  an  ample  jar,  no  more  replenish'd  ; 
And  here  from  his  a  vintner  served  his  guests 
Largely,  the  stain  of  his  o'erflowing  cups 
Fresh  on  the  marble.     On  the  bench,  beneath, 
They  sate  and  quaflfd,  and  Icok'd  on   them  that 

pass'd, 
Gravely  discussing  the  last  news  from  Rome. 

But  lo,  engraven  on  a  threshold  stone, 
That  word  of  courtesy,  so  sacred  once. 
Hail !    At  a  master's  greeting  we  may  enter. 
And  lo,  a  fairy  palace !  everywhere, 
As  through  the  courts  and  chambers  we  advance. 
Floors  of  mosaic,  walls  of  arabesque, 
And  columns  clustering  in  patrician  splendour. 
But  hark,  a  footstep  !     May  we  not  intrude  ? 
And  now,  methinks,  I  hear  a  gentle  laugh, 
And  gentle  voices  mingling  as  in  converse  ! 
—And  now  a  harp-string  as  struck  carelessly, 
And  now — along  the  corridor  it  comes — 
I  cannot  err,  a  filling  as  of  baths  ! 
— Ah,  no,  'tis  but  a  mockery  of  the  sense. 
Idle  and  vain  !     We  are  but  where  we  were ; 
Still  wandering  in  a  city  of  the  dsad  ! 

XVI. 

THE  BAG  OF  GOLD. 

I  DINE  very  often  with  the  good  old  Cardinal  *** 
and,  I  should  add,  with  his  cats  ;  for  they  always  sit 
at  his  table,  and  are  much  the  gravest  of  the  com- 
pany. His  beaming  countenance  makes  us  forget 
his  age ;  nor  did  I  ever  see  it  clouded  till  yesterday, 
when,  as  we  were  contemplating  the  sunset  from 
his  terrace,  he  happened,  in  the  course  of  our  con- 
versation, to  allude  to  an  affecting  circumstance  in 
his  early  life. 

He  had  just  left  the  university  of  Palermo  and 
was  entering  f.>?  army,  when  he  became  acquainted 
with  a  young  lady  of  great  beauty  and  merit,  a 
Sicilian  of  a  family  as  illustrious  as  his  own. 
Living  near  each  other,  they  were  often  together  ; 
and,  at  an  age  like  theirs,  friendship  soon  turns  to 
love.  But  his  father,  for  what  reason  I  forget,  re- 
fused his  consent  to  their  union ;  till,  alarmed  at 
the  declining  health  of  his  son,  he  promised  to  op- 
pose it  no  longer,  if,  after  a  separation  of  three 
years,  they  continued  as  much  in  love  as  ever. 

Relj'ing  on  that  promise,  he  said,  I  set  out  on  a 
long  journey,  but  in  my  absence  the  usual  arts  were 
resorted  to.  Our  letters  were  intercepted  ;  and  false 
rumours  were  spread — first  of  my  indifference,  then 
of  my  inconstancy,  then  of  my  marriage  with  a  ridh 
heiress  of  Sienna  ;  and,  when  at  length  I  returned 
to  make  her  my  own,  I  found  her  in  a  convent  of 
Ursuline  nuns.  She  had  taken  the  veil ;  and  I, 
Vol.  III._18 


said  he  with  a  sigli — what  else  remained  for  me  ? 
— I  went  into  the  church. 

Yet  many,  he  continued,  as  if  to  turn  the  conver- 
sation, very  many  have  been  happy,  though  we  were 
not ;  and,  if  I  am  not  abusing  an  old  man's  privi- 
lege, let  me  tell  you  a  story  with  a  better  catas- 
trophe. It  was  told  to  me  when  a  boy  ;  and  you 
may  not  be  unwilling  to  hear  it,  for  it  bears  some 
resemblance  to  that  of  the  Merchant  of  Venice. 

We  were  now  arrived  at  a  pavilion  that  com- 
manded one  of  the  noblest  prospects  imaginable  ; 
the  mountains,  the  sea,  and  the  islands  illuminated 
by  the  last  beams  of  day ;  and,  sitting  down  there, 
he  proceeded  with  his  usual  vivacity  ;  for  the  sad- 
ness, that  had  come  across  him,  was  gone. 

There  lived  in  the  fourteenth  century,  near  Bo- 
logna, a  widow  lady  of  tlie  Lambertini  familj', 
called  Madonna  Lucrezia,  who  in  a  revolution  of 
the  state  had  known  the  bitterness  of  poverty,  and 
had  even  begged  her  bread  ;  kneeling  day  after  day 
like  a  statue  at  the  gate  of  the  cathedral ;  her  rosary 
in  her  left  hand  and  her  right  held  out  for  charity 
her  long  black  veil  concealing  a  face  that  had  once 
adorned  a  court,  and  had  received  the  homage  of  as 
many  sonnets  as  Petrarch  has  written  on  Laura. 

But  fortune  had  at  last  relented  ;  a  legacy  from 
a  distant  relation  had  come  to  her  relief ;  and  she 
was  now  the  mistress  of  a  small  inn  at  the  foot  of 
the  Apennines  ;  Where  she  entertained  as  well  as 
slie  could,  and  where  those  only  stopped  who  were 
contented  with  a  little.  The  house  was  still  stand- 
ing, when  in  my  youth  I  passed  that  way  ;  though 
the  sign  of  the  White  Cross,  the  cross  of  the  Hos- 
pitallers, was  no  longer  to  be  seen  over  the  door  j 
a  sign  which  she  had  taken,  if  we  may  believe  the 
tradition  there,  in  honour  of  a  maternal  uncle,  a 
grandmaster  of  that  order,  whose  achievements  in 
Palestine  she  would  sometimes  relate.  A  mountain 
stream  ran  through  the  garden  ;  and  at  no  great 
distance,  where  the  road  turned  on  its  way  to  Bo- 
logna, stood  a  little  chapel,  in  which  a  lamp  was 
always  burning  before  a  picture  of  the  virgin,  a 
picture  of  great  antiquity,  the  work  of  some  Greek 
artist. 

Here  slie  was  dwelling,  respected  by  all  who 
knew  her ;  when  an  event  took  place,  which  threw 
her  into  the  deepest  affliction.  It  was  at  noonday 
in  September  that  three  foot  travellers  arrived,  and, 
seating  themsc-lver.  on  a  bench  under  her  vine  trel- 
lis, were  supplied  with  a  flagon  of  Aleatico  by  a 
lovely  girl,  her  only  child,  the  image  of  her  former 
self.  The  eldest  spoke  like  a  Venetian,  and  his 
beard  was  short  and  pointed  after  the  fashion  of 
Venice.  In  his  demeanour  he  affected  great  cour- 
tesy, but  his  look  inspired  little  confidence  ;  for 
when  he  smiled,  which  he  did  continually,  it  was 
with  his  lips  only,  not  with  his  eyes  ;  and  they 
were  always  turned  from  yours.  His  companions 
were  bluff  and  frank  in  their  manner,  and  on  their 
tongues  had  many  a  soldier's  oath.  In  their  hats 
they  wore  a  medal,  such  as  in  that  age  was  often 
distributed  in  war ;  and  they  were  evidently  sub- 
alterns in  one  of  those  free  bands  which  were  al- 
ways ready  to  serve  in  any  quarrel,  if  a  service  it 
could  be  called,  where  a  battle  was  little  more  thjMi 
a  mockery ;  and  the  slain,  as  on  an   opera  stage^ 


974 


ROGERS. 


were  up  and  fighting  to-morrow.  Overcome  with 
the  heat,  they  threw  aside  their  cloaks  ;  and,  with 
their  gloves  tucked  under  their  belts,  continued  for 
some  time  in  earnest  conversation. 

At  length  they  rose  to  go  ;  and  the  Venetians 
thus  addressed  their  hostess.  "  Excellent  lady, 
may  we  leave  under  your  roof,  for  a  day  or  two,  this 
bag  of  gold  ?"  "  You  may,"  she  replied  gayly. 
"  But  remember,  we  fasten  only  with  a  latch.  Bars 
and  bolts  we  have  none  in  our  village  ;  and,  if  we 
had,  where  would  be  your  security  ?" 

"  In  your  word,  lady." 

"  But  what  if  I  died  to-night  ?  where  would  it  be 
then  .?"  said  she,  laughing.  "  The  money  would  go 
to  the  church ;  for  none  could  claim  it." 

"  Perhaps  you  will  favour  us  with  an  acknow- 
ledgment." 

«  If  you  will  write  it." 

An  acknowledgment  was  written  accordingly, 
and  she  signed  it  before  Master  Bartolo,  the  village 
physician,  who  had  just  called  by  chance  to  learn 
the  news  of  the  day ;  the  gold  to  be  delivered  when 
applied  for,  but  to  be  delivered  (these  were  the 
words)  not  to  one — nor  to  two— but  to  the  three ; 
words  wisely  introduced  by  those  to  whom  it  be- 
longed, knowing  what  they  knew  of  each  other. 
The  gold  they  had  just  released  from  a  miser's  chest 
in  Perugia;  and  they  were  now  on  a  scent  that 
promised  more. 

They  and  their  shadows  were  no  sooner  departed, 
than  the  Venetian  returned,  saying, "  Give  me  leave 
to  set  my  seal  on  the  bag,  as  the  others  have  done  ;" 
and  she  placed  it  on  a  table  before  him.  But  in  that 
moment  she  was  called  away  to  receive  a  cavalier, 
who  had  just  dismounted  from  his  horse ;  and,  when 
she  came  back,  it  was  gone.  The  temptation  had 
proved  irresistible ;  and  the  man  and  the  money  had 
vanished  togetlier. 

"  Wretched  woman  that  I  am  I"  she  cried,  as  in 
an  agony  of  grief  she  fell  on  her  daughter's  neck  ; 
«  what  will  become  of  us  ?  Are  we  again  to  be 
cast  out  into  the  wid«  world  ? — Unhappy  child, 
would  that  thou  hadst  never  been  born  !"  and  all 
day  long  she  lamented ;  but  her.  tears  availed  her 
little.  The  others  were  not  slow  in  returning  to 
claim  their  due ;  and  there  were  no  tidings  of  the 
thief:  he  had  fled  far  away  with  his  plunder.  A 
process  against  her  was  instantly  begun  in  Bologna ; 
and  wliat  defence  could  she  make  ? — how  release 
herself  from  the  obligation  of  the  bond  ?  Wilfully 
or  in  negligence  she  had  parted  with  it  to  one,  when 
she  should  have  kept  it  for  all,  and  inevitable  ruin 
awaited  her ! 

"  Go,  Gianetta,"  said  she  to  her  daughter,  "  take 
this  veil,  which  your  mother  has  worn  and  wept 
under  so  often,  and  implore  the  counsellor  Calderino 
to  plead  for  us  on  the  day  of  trial.  He  is  generous, 
and  will  listen  to  the  unfortunate.  But,  if  lie  will 
not,  go  from  door  to  door ;  Monaldi  cannot  refuse  us. 
Make  haste,  my  child ;  but  remember  the  chapel  as 
you  pass  by  it.    Nothing  prospers  without  a  prayer." 

Alas,  she  went,  but  in  vain.  These  were  retained 
against  them ;  those  demanded  more  than  they  had 
to  give  ;  and  all  bade  them  despair.  What  was  to 
be  done  ?  No  advocate ;  and  the  cause  to  come  on 
to-morrow ! 


Now  Gianetta  had  a  lover ;  and  he  was  a  studen 
of  the  law,  a  3'oung  man  of  great  promise,  Lorenz* 
Martelli.  He  had  studied  long  and  diligently  under 
that  learned  lawyer,  Giovanni  Andreas,  who,  though 
little  of  stature,  was  great  in  renown,  and  by  his  con- 
temporaries was  called  the  Arch-doctor,  the  Rabbi 
of  Doctors,  the  Light  of  the  World.  Under  him  he 
had  studied,  sitting  on  the  same  bench  with  Petrarch  j 
and  also  under  his  daughter,  Novella,  who  would 
often  lecture  to  the  scholars,  when  her  father  was 
otherwise  engaged,  placing  herself  behind  a  small 
curtain,  lest  her  beauty  should  divert  their  thoughts ; 
a  precaution  in  this  instance  at  least  unnecessary, 
Lorenzo  having  lost  his  heart  to  another.* 

To  him  she  flies  in  her  necessity ;  but  of  w^hat 
assistance  can  he  be  ?  He  has  just  taken  his  place  at 
the  bar,  but  he  has  never  spoken  ;  and  how  stand  up 
alone,  unpractised  and  unprepared  as  he  is,  against 
an  array  that  would  alarm  the  most  experienced  ? — 
"  Were  I  as  mighty  as  I  am  v.-^eak,"  said  he,  "  my 
fears  for  you  would  make  me  as  nothing.  But  I  will 
be  there,  Gianetta;  and  may  the  Friend  of  the 
friendless  give  me  strength  in  that  hour !  Even  now 
my  heart  fails  me ;  but,  come  what  will,  while  I  have 
a  loaf  to  share,  you  and  your  mother  shall  never 
want.     I  will  beg  through  the  world  for  you." 

The  day  arrives,  and  the  court  assembles.  The 
claim  is  stated,  and  the  evidence  given.  And  now 
the  defence  is  called  for — but  none  is  made ;  not  a 
syllable  is  uttered ;  and,  after  a  pause  and  a  consulta- 
tion of  some  minutes,  the  judges  are  proceeding  to 
give  judgment,  silence  having  been  proclaimed  in 
the  court,  when  Lorenzo  rises  and  thus  addressee 
them. 

"  Reverend  signors.  Young  as  I  am,  may  I  ven- 
ture to  speak  before  you  ?  I  would  speak  in  behalf 
of  one  who  has  none  else  to  help  her;  and  I  will 
not  keep  you  long. 

"  Much  has  been  said ;  much  on  the  sacred  na- 
ture of  the  obligation — and  we  acknowledge  it  in 
its  full  force.  Let  it  be  fulfilled,  and  to  the  last 
letter.  It  is  what  we  solicit,  what  we  require.  But 
to  whom  is  the  bag  of  gold  to  be  delivered  ?  What 
says  the  bond  ?  Not  to  one — not  to  two — ^but  to 
the  three.    Let  the  three  stand  forth  and  claim  it." 

From  that  day,  (for  who  can  doubt  t?.e  issue  ?) 
none  were  sought,  none  employed,  but  the  subtl«, 
the  eloquent  Lorenzo.  Wealth  followed  fame  ;  nor 
need  I  say  how  soon  he  sat  at  his  marriage  feast 
or  who  sat  beside  him. 

XVII. 
A  CHARACTER. 
One  of  two  things  Montrioli  may  have. 
My  envy  or  compassion.     Both  he  cannot. 
Yet  on  he  goes,  numbering  as  miseries, 
What  least  of  all  he  would  consent  to  lose, 
What  most,  indeed,  he  prides  himself  upon. 
And,  for  not  having,  most  despises  me. 
"  At  morn  the  minister  exacts  an  hour  ; 
At  noon  tlie  kinsr.     Then  comes  the  council  board ; 


*  Ce  pourroit  6lre,  says  Bayle,  la  matidre  d'un  joli 
probldme  :  on  pourroit  examiner  si  cette  fille  avangoit, 
ou  si  elle  retardoit  le  profit  de  ses  audileurs,  en  lour  ca- 
chant  son  beau  visage.  II  y  auroit  cent  choses  k  dire  poui 
ct  contre  ia,-de3«us 


ITALY. 


275 


And  then  the  chase,  the  supper.    When,  an  !  when 

The  leisure  and  the  liberty  I  sigh  for  ? 

Not  when  at  home ;  at  home  a  miscreant  crew. 

That  now  no  longer  serve  me,  mine  the  service. 

And  then  that  old  hereditary  bore. 

The  steward,  his  stories  longer  than  his  rent-roll. 

Who  enters,  quill  in  ear,  and,  one  by  one. 

As  though  I  lived  to  write  and  wrote  to  live, 

[JnrcJ.'s  his  leases  for  my  signature." 

He  clanks  his  fetters  to  disturb  my  peace. 
Yet  who  would  wear  them,  and  become  the  slave 
Of  wealth  and  power,  renouncing  willingly 
His  freedom,  and  the  hours  that  fly  so  fast, 
A  burden  or  a  curse  when  misemploy'd. 
But  to  the  wise  how  precious  ! — every  day 
A  little  life,  a  blank  to  be  inscribed 
With  gentle  deeds,  such  as  in  after-time 
Console,  rejoice,  whene'er  we  turn  the  leaf 
To  read  them  ?    All,  wherever  in  the  scale 
Have,  be  they  high  or  low,  or  rich  or  poor, 
Inherit  they  a  sheep-hook  or  a  sceptr^, 
Much  to  be  grateful  for  ;  but  most  has  he, 
Born  in  that  middle  sphere,  that  temperate  zone. 
Where  knowledge  lights  his  lamp,  there  most  seems 
And  wisdom  comes,  if  ever,  she  who  dwells 
Above  the  clouds,  above  the  firmament, 
That  seraph  sitting  in  the  heaven  of  heavens. 

What  men  most  covet,  wealth,  distinction,  power, 
Are  baubles  nothing  worth,  that  only  serve 
To  rouse  us  up,  as  children  in  the  schools 
Are  roused  up  to  exertion.     The  reward 
Is  in  the  race  we  run,  not  in  the  prize ; 
And  they,  the  few,  that  have  it  ere  they  earn  it, 
Having  by  favour  or  inheritance. 
These  dangerous  gifts  placed  in  their  idle  hands, 
And  all  that  should  await  on  worth  well  tried, 
All  in  the  glorious  days  of  old  reserved 
For  manhood  most  mature  or  reverend  age, 
Know  not,  nor  ever  can,  the  generous  pride 
That  glows  in  him  who  on  himself  relies. 
Entering  the  lists  of  life. 

XVIII. 
SORRENTO. 

He  who  sets  sail  from  Naples,  when  the  wind 
Blows  fragrance  from  Posilipo,  may  soon. 
Crossing  from  side  to  side  that  beautiful  lake, 
Land  underneath  the  cliff,  where  once  among 
The  children  gathering  shells  along  the  shore. 
One  laugh'd  and  play'd,  unconscious  of  his  fate  ;* 
His  to  drink  deep  of  sorrow,  and,  through  life. 
To  be  the  scorn  of  them  that  knew  him  not, 
Trampling  alike  the  giver  and  his  gift, 
The  gift  a  pearl  precious,  inestimable, 
A  lay  divine,  a  lay  of  love  and  war. 
To  charm,  ennoble,  and,  from  age  to  age. 
Sweeten  the  labour,  when  the  oar  was  plied 
Or  on  the  Adrian  or  the  Tuscan  sea. 

There  would  I  linger— then  go  forth  again. 
And  hover  round  that  region  unexplored. 
Where  to  Salvator  (when,  as  some  relate, 
By  chance  or  choice  he  led  a  bandit's  life. 
Yet  oft  withdrew,  alone  and  unobserved, 
To  wander  through  those  awful  solitudes) 

*  Tasso. 


Nature  reveal'd  herself.     Unveil'd  she  stood, 

In  a-11  her  wildness,  all  her  majesty. 

As  in  that  elder  time,  ere  man  was  made. 

There  would  I  linger — then  go  forth  agam ; 
And  he  who  steers  due  east,  doubling  the  cape, 
Discovers,  in  a  crevice  of  the  rock. 
The  fishing  town,  Amalfi.     Haply  there 
A  heaving  bark,  an  anchor  on  the  strand, 
May  tell  him  what  it  is  ;  but  what  it  was 
Cannot  be  told  so  soon. 

The  time  has  been, 
When  on  the  quays  along  the  Syrian  coast, 
'Twas  ask'd,  and  eagerly,  at  break  of  dawn, 
"  What  ships  are  from  Amalfi  ?"  when  her  coins 
Silver  and  gold,  circled  from  clime  to  clime ; 
From  Alexandria  southward  to  Sennaar, 
And  eastward,  through  Damascus  and  Cabul 
And  Samarcand,  to  thy  great  wall,  Cathay. 

Then  were  the  nations  by  her  wisdom  sway'd 
And  every  crime  on  every  sea  was  judged 
According  to  her  judgments.     In  her  port 
Prows  strange,  uncouth,  from  Nile  and  Niger  met 
People  of  various  feature,  various  speech ; 
And  in  their  countries  many  a  house  of  prayer, 
And  many  a  shelter,  where  no  shelter  was. 
And  many  a  well,  like  Jacob's  in  the  wild. 
Rose  at  her  bidding.     Then  in  Palestine, 
By  the  way-side,  in  sober  grandeur  stood 
An  hospital,  that,  night  and  day,  received 
The  pilgrims  of  the  west ;  and,  when  'twas  ask'd. 
"  Who  are  the  noble  founders  ?"  every  tongue 
At  once  replied,  "  The  merchants  of  Amalfi." 
That  hospital,  when  Godfrey  scaled  the  walls. 
Sent  forth  its  holy  men  in  complete  steel ; 
And  hence,  the  cowl  relinquish'd  for  the  helm, 
That  chosen  band,  valiant,  invincible. 
So  long  renown'd  as  champions  of  the  cross. 
In  Rhodes,  in  Malta. 

For  three  hundred  years, 
There,  unapproach'd  but  from  the  deep,  they  dwelt 
Assail'd  for  ever,  yet  from  age  to  age 
Acknowledging  no  master.     From  the  deep 
They  gather'd  in  their  harvests  ;  bringing  home, 
In  the  same  ship,  relics  of  ancient  Greece, 
That  land  of  glory  where  their  fathers  lay, 
Grain  from  the  golden  vales  of  Sicily, 
And  Indian  spices.     When  at  length  they  fell. 
Losing  their  liberty,  they  left  mankind 
A  legacy,  comparixl  Tritli  which  the  wealth 
Of  eastern  kings — what  is  it  in  the  scale  ? — 
The  mariner's  compass. 

They  are  now  forgot, 
And  with  them  all  they  did,  all  they  endured. 
Struggling  with  fortune.     When  Sicardi  stood. 
And,  with  a  shout  like  thunder,  cried, "  Come  fortl^, 
And  serve  me  in  Salerno  !"  forth  they  came, 
Covering  the  sea,  a  mournful  spectacle  ; 
The  women  wailing,  and  the  heavy  oar 
Falling  unheard.     Not  thus  did  they  return. 
The  tyrant  slain  ;  though  then  the  grass  of  years 
Grew  in  their  streets. 

There  now  to  him  who  sailfl 
Under  the  shore,  a  few  white  villages, 
Scatter'd  above,  below,  some  in  the  clouds. 
Some  on  the  margin  of  the  dark  blue  sea. 
And  glittering  through  their  lemon  groves,  annoimci 


276 


ROGERS. 


The  region  of  Amalfi.     Then,  half-fallen, 

A  lonely  watch  tower  on  the  precipice. 

Their  ancient  land-mark,  comes.    Long  may  it  last ; 

And  to  the  seaman  in  a  distant  age, 

Though  now  he  little  thinks  how  large  his  debt, 

Serve  for  their  monument ! 

XIX. 

P^STUM. 
They  stand  between  the  mountains  and  the  sea 
Awful  memorials,  but  of  whom  we  know  not  !* 
The  seaman,  passmg,  gazes  from  the  deck. 
The  buffalo  driver,  in  his  shaggy  cloak, 
Points  to  the  work  of  magic  and  moves  on. 
Time  was  they  stood  along  the  crowded  street, 
Temples  of  gods  !  and  on  their  ample  steps 
What  various  habits,  various  tongues  beset 
The  brazen  gates  for  prayer  and  sacrifice  ! 
Time  was  perhaps  the  third  was  sought  for  justice  ; 
And  here  the  accuser  stood,  and  there  the  accused ; 
And  here  the  judges  sate,  and  heard,  and  judged. 
All  silent  now  ! — as  in  the  ages  past. 
Trodden  under  foot  and  mingled,  dust  with  dust. 

How  many  centuries  did  the  sun  go  round 
From  Mount  Alburnus  to  the  Tyrrhene  sea. 
While,  by  some  spell  render'd  invisible. 
Or,  if  approach 'd,  approach'd  by  him  alone 
Who  saw  as  though  he  saw  not,  they  remain 'd 
As  in  the  darkness  of  a  sepulchre. 
Waiting  the  appointed  time  !     All,  all  within 
Proclaims  that  nature  had  resumed  her  right. 
And  taken  to  herself  what  man  renounced  ; 
No  cornice,  triglyph,  or  worn  abacus. 
But  with  thick  ivy  hung  or  branching  fern  ; 
Their  iron-brown  o'erspread  with  brightest  verdure ! 

From  my  youth  upward  have  I  longed  to  tread 
This  classic  ground — And  am  I  here  at  last  ? 
Wandering  at  will  through  the  long  porticoes,- 
And  catching,  as  through  some  majestic  grove. 
Now  the  blue  ocean,  and  now,  chaos-like, 
Moimtains  and  mountain  gulfs,  and,  halfway  up. 
Towns  like  the  living  rock  from  which  they  grew  ? 
A  cloudy  region,  black  and  desolate. 
Where  once  a  slave  withstood  a  world  in  arms.f 

The  air  is  sweet  with  violets,  running  wild 
'Mid  broken  friezes  and  fallen  capitals  ; 
Sweet  as  when  Tully,  writing  down  his  thoughts. 
Those  thoughts  so  precious  and  so  lately  lost, 
(Turning  to  thee,  divine  philosophy. 
Ever  at  hand  to  calm  his  troubled  soul,) 
Sail'd  slowly  by,  two  thousand  years  ago. 
For  Athens ;  when  a  ship,  if  north-east  winds 
Blew  from  the  Paestan  gardens,  slack'd  her  course. 

On  as  he  moved  along  the  level  shore. 
These  temples,  in  their  splendour  eminent 
Mid  arcs  and  obelisks,  and  domes  and  towers, 
Reflecting  back  the  radiance  of  the  west. 
Well  might  Jie  dream  of  glory  ! — Now,  coil'd  up 
The  serpent  sleeps  within  them  ;  the  she-wolf 


♦  The  temples  of  Paestum  are  three  in  number;  and 
have  survived,  nearly  nine  centuries,  the  total  destruc- 
tion of  the  city.  Tradition  is  silent  concerning  them;  but 
they  must  have  existed  now  between  two  and  three  thou- 
sand years 

+  Spartacua.    See  Plutarch  in  the  life  of  Crassus. 


Suckles  her  young:  and,  as  alone  I  stand 

In  this,  the  nobler  pile,  the  elements 

Of  earth  and  air  its  only  floor  and  covering, 

How  solemn  is  the  stillness !     Nothing  stirs 

Save  the  shrill-voiced  cicala  flitting  round 

On  the  rough  pediment  to  sit  and  sing  ; 

Or  the  green  lizard  rustling  through  the  grass. 

And  up  the  fluted  shaft  with  short  quick  motion. 

To  vanish  in  the  chinks  that  time  has  made. 

In  such  an  hour  as  this,  the  sun's  broad  disk 
Seen  at  his  setting,  and  a  flood  of  light 
Filling  the  courts  of  these  old  sanctuaries, 
(Gigantic  shadows,  broken  and  confused. 
Across  the  innumerable  columns  flung,) 
In  such  an  hour  he  came,  who  saw  and  told. 
Led  by  the  mighty  genius  of  the  place.* 

Walls  of  some  capital  city  first  appear'd. 
Half  razed,  half  sunk,  or  scatter'd  as  in  scorn ; 
— And  what  within  them  ?  what  but  in  the  midst 
These  three  in  more  than  their  original  grandeur, 
And,  round  about,  no  stone  upon  another  ? 
As  if  the  spoiler  had  fallen  back  in  fear. 
And,  turning,  left  them  to  the  elements. 
'Tis  said  a  stranger  in  the  days  of  old, 
(Some  say  a  Dorian,  some  a  Sybarite ; 
But  distant  things  are  ever  lost  in  clouds,) 
'Tis  said  a  stranger  came,  and,  with  his  plough 
Traced  out  the  site  ;  and  Posidonia  rose. 
Severely  great,  Neptune  the  tutelar  god  ; 
A  Homer's  language  murmuring  in  her  streets. 
And  in  her  haven  many  a  mast  from  Tyre. 
Then  came  another,  an  unbidden  guest. 
He  knock'd  and  enter'd  with  a  train  in  arms  ; 
And  all  was  changed,  her  very  name  and  language, 
The  Tyrian  merchant,  shipping  at  his  door 
Ivory  and  gold,  and  silk,  and  frankincense, 
Sail'd  as  before,  but  sailing,  cried,  "  For  Paestum  !* 
And  now  a  Virgil,  now  an  Ovid  sung 
Paestum 's  twice-blowing  roses  ;  while,  within. 
Parents  and  children  mourn'd — and  every  year 
('Twas  on  the  day  of  some  old  festival) 
Met  to  give  way  to  tears,  and  once  again, 
Talk'd  in  the  ancient  tongue  of  things  gone  by.f 
At  length  an  Arab  climb 'd  the  battlements. 
Slaying  the  sleepers  in  the  dead  of  night ; 
And  from  all  e^^es  the  glorious  vision  fled  ! 
Leaving  a  place  lonely  and  dangerous. 
Where  whom  the  robber  spares,  a  deadlier  foe| 
Strikes  at  unseen — and  at  a  time  when  joy 
Opens  the  heart,  when  summer  skies  are  blue. 
And  the  clear  air  is  soft  and  delicate  ; 
For  then  the  demon  works — then  with  that  air 
The  thoughtless  wretch  drinks  in  a  subtle  poison 
Lulling  to  sleep  ;  and,  when  he  sleeps,  he  dies. 

But  what  are  these  still  standing  in  the  midst? 
The  earth  has  rock'd  beneath  ;  the  thunder-stone 
Pass'd  through  and  through,  and.  left  its  traces  there 
Yet  still  they  stand  as  by  some  unknown  charter  . 
0,  they  are  nature's  own  !  and,  as  allied 
To  the  vast  mountains  and  the  eternal  sea, 
They  want  no  written  history  ;  theirs  a  voice 
For  ever  speaking  to  the  heart  of  man  ! 


*  They  are  said  to  have  been  discovered  by  accident 
about  the  middle  of  the  last  century, 
t  Athenajus,  xiv.  t  The  Mal'aria. 


ITALY. 


277 


XX. 

MONTE  CASSINO. 
«  What  hangs  behind  that  curtain  ?" — «  Wouldst 
thou  learn  > 
If  thou  art  wise,  thou  wouldst  not.     'Tis  by  some 
Believed  to  be  his  master-work,  who  look'd 
Beyond  the  grave,  and  on  the  chapel  wall, 
As  though  the  day  were  come,  were  come  and  past, 
Drew  the  last  judgment.* — But  the  wisest  err. 
He  who  in  secret  wrought,  and  gave  it  life. 
For  life  is  surely  there  and  visible  change. 
Life,  such  as  none  could  of  himself  impart, 
(They  who  behold  it,  go  not  as  they  came. 
But  meditate  for  many  and  many  a  day,) 
Sleeps  in  the  vault  beneath.     We  know  not  much ; 
But  what  we  know,  we  will  communicate. 
'Tis  in  an  ancient  record  of  the  house  ; 
A.nd  may  it  make  thee  tremble,  lest  thou  fall ! 
Once — on  a  Christmas  eve — ere  yet  the  roof 
Rung  with  the  hymn  of  the  Nativity, 
There  came  a  stranger  to  the  convent  gate. 
And  ask'd  admittance ;  ever  and  anon. 
As  if  he  sought  what  most  he  fear'd  to  find 
Looking  behind  him.     When  within  the  walls. 
These  walls  so  sacred  and  inviolable. 
Still  did  he  look  behind  him ;  oft  and  long. 
With  haggard  eye,  and  curling,  quivering  lip, 
Catching  at  vacancy.     Between  the  fits. 
For  here,  'tis  said,  he  linger'd  while  he  lived. 
He  would  discourse,  and  with  a  mastery, 
A  charm  by  none  resisted,  none  explain'd, 
Unfelt  before  ;  but  when  his  cheek  grew  pale. 
All  was  forgotten.     Then,  howe'er  employ'd, 
He  would  break  off,  and  start  as  if  he  caught 
A  glimpse  of  something  that  would  not  be  gone 
And  turn  and  gaze,  and  shrink  into  himself. 
As  though  the  fiend  was  there,  and,  face  to  face, 
Scowl'd  o'er  his  shoulder. 

Most  devout  he  was ; 
Most  unremitting  in  the  services  ; 
Then,  only  then,  untroubled,  unassail'd ; 
And,  to  beguile  a  melancholy  hour. 
Would  sometimes  exercise  that  noble  art 
He  learnt  iu  Florence  ;  with  a  master's  hand. 
As  to  this  day  the  sacristy  attests. 
Painting  the  wonders  of  the  Apocalypse. 

At  length  he  sunk  to  rest,  and  in  his  cell 
Left,  when  he  went,  a  work  in  secret  done, 
The  portrait,  for  a  portrait  it  must  be. 
That  hangs  behind  the  curtain.     Whence  he  drew. 
None  here  can  doubt :  for  they  that  come  to  catch 
The  faintest  glimpse— to  catch  it  and  be  gone. 
Gaze  as  he  gazed,  then  shrink  into  themselves. 
Acting  the  selfsame  part.     But  why  'twas  drawn, 
Whether  in  penance,  to  atone  for  guilt. 
Or  to  record  the  anguish  guilt  inflicts. 
Or  haply  to  familiarize  his  mind 
With  what  he  could  not  fly  from,  none  can  say, 
For  none  could  learn  the  burden  of  his  soul." 

XXL 

THE  HARPER. 
It  was  a  harper,  wandering  with  his  harp, 
His  only  treasure  ;  a  majestic  man, 


Michael  Angelo. 


By  time  and  grief  ennobled,  not  subdued ; 
Though  from  his  height  descending,  day  by  day. 
And,  as  his  upward  look  at  once  betray'd, 
Blind  as  old  Homer.     At  a  fount  he  sate. 
Well-known  to  many  a  weary  traveller  ; 
His  little  guide,  a  boy  not  seven  years  old. 
But  grave,  considerate  beyond  his  years, 
Sitting  beside  him.     Each  had  ate  his  crust 
In  silence,  drinking  of  the  virgin  spring ; 
And  now  in  silence,  as  their  custom  was, 
The  sun's  decline  awaited. 

But  the  child 
Was  worn  with  travel.     Heavy  sleep  weigh'd  dowi 
His  eyelids ;  and  the  grandsire,  when  we  came. 
Embolden 'd  by  his  love  and  by  his  fear. 
His  fear  lest  night  o'ertake  them  on  the  road, 
Humbly  besought  me  to  convey  them  both 
A  little  onward.     Such  small  services 
Who  can  refuse  ? — Not  I ;  and  him  who  can, 
Blest  though  he  be  with  every  earthly  gift, 
I  cannot  envy.     He,  if  wealth  be  his. 
Knows  not  its  uses.     So  from  noon,  till  night. 
Within  a  crazed  and  tatter'd  vehicle. 
That  yet  display'd,  in  old  emblazonry, 
A  shield  as  splendid  as  the  Bardi  we«.r  ; 
We  lumber'd  on  together ;  the  old  man 
Beguiling  many  a  league  of  half  its  length. 
When  que?tion'd  the  adventures  of  his  life. 
And  all  the  dangers  he  had  undergone  ; 
His  shipwrecks  on  inhospitable  coasts. 
And  his  long  warfare. 

They  were  bound,  he  said, 
To  a  great  fair  at  Reggio  ;  and  the  boy, 
Believing  all  the  world  were  to  be  there, 
And  I  among  the  rest,  let  loose  his  tongue. 
And  promised  me  much  pleasure.     His  short  trance, 
Short  as  it  was,  had,  like  a  charmed  cup. 
Restored  his  spirit,  and,  as  on  we  crawl'd, 
Slow  as  the  snail,  (my  muleteer  dismounting. 
And  now  his  mules  addressing,  now  his  pipe. 
And  now  Luigi,)  he  pour'd  out  his  heart. 
Largely  repaying  me.     At  length  the  sun 
Departed,  setting  in  a  sea  of  gold  ; 
And,  as  we  gazed,  he  bade  me  rest  assured 
That  like  the  setting  would  the  rising  be. 

Their  harp — it  had  a  voice  oracular. 
And  in  the  desert,  in  the  crowded  street. 
Spoke  when  consulted.     If  the  treble  chord 
Twanged  shrill  and  clear,  o'er  hill  and  dale  thtT 

went. 
The  grandsire,  step  by  step,  led  by  the  child 
And  not  a  rain-drop  from  a  passing  cloud 
Fell  on  their  garments.     Thus  it  spoke  to-day 
Inspiring  joy,  and,  in  the  young  one's  mind, 
Brightening  a  path  already  full  of  sunshine. 

XXH. 
THE  FELUCA. 
Day  glimmer'd  ;  and  beyond  the  precipice 
(Which  my  mule  follow'd  as  in  love  with  fear 
Or  as  in  scorn,  yet  more  and  more  inclining 
To  tempt  the  danger  where  it  menaced  most 
A  sea  of  vapour  roll'd.    Methought  we  went 
Along  the  utmost  edge  of  this,  our  world; 
But  soon  the  surges  fled,  and  we  descried, 
Nor  dimly,  though  the  lark  was  silent  yet. 


278 


ROGERS. 


Thy  gulf,  La  Spezzia.    Ere  the  morning  gun, 
Ere  the  first  day-streak,  we  alighted  there ; 
And  not  a  breath,  a  murmur !     Every  sail 
Slept  in  the  offing.     Yet  along  the  shore 
Great  was  the  stir ;  as  at  the  noontide  hour, 
None  unemploy'd.    Where  from  its  native  rock 
A  streamlet,  clear  and  full,  ran  to  the  sea. 
The  maidens  knelt  and  sung  as  they  were  wont. 
Washing  their  garments.    Where  it  met  the  tide, 
Sparkling  and  lost,  an  ancient  pinnace  lay 
Keel  upward,  and  the  fagot  blazed,  the  tar 
Fumed  from  the  caldron ;  while,  beyond  the  fort, 
Whither  I  wander'd,  step  by  step  led  on. 
The  fishers  dragg'd  their  net,  the  fish  within 
At  every  heave  fluttering  and  full  of  life, 
At  every  heave  striking  their  silver  fins 
*Gainst  the  dark  meshes. 

Soon  a  boatman's  shout 
Re-echoed ;  and  red  bonnets  on  the  beach. 
Waving,  recall'd  me.    We  embark'd,  and  left 
That  noble  haven,  where,  when  Genoa  reign'd, 
A  hundred  galleys  shelter'd — ^in  the  day, 
When  k)fty  spirits  met,  and,  deck  to  deck, 
Doria,  Pisani  fought ;  that  narrow  field 
Ample  enough  for  glory.     On  we  went. 
Ruffling  with  many  an  oar  the  crystalline  sea> 
On  from  the  rising  to  the  setting  sun. 
In  silence — underneath  a  mountain  ridge, 
Untamed,  untameable,  reflecting  round 
The  saddest  purple  ;  nothing  to  be  seen 
Of  life  or  culture,  save  where,  at  the  foot. 
Some  village  aud  its  church,  a  scanty  line. 
Athwart  the  wave  gleam'd  faintly.     Fear  of  ill 
Narrow'd  our  course,  fear  of  the  hurricane. 
And  that  yet  greater  scourge,  the  crafty  Moor, 
Who,  like  a  tiger  prowling  for  his  prey. 
Springs  and  is  gone,  and  on  the  adverse  coast 
(Where  Tripoli  and  Tunis  and  Algiers 
Forge  fetters,  and  white  turbans  on  the  mole 
Gather,  whene'er  the  crescent  come?  display'd 
Over  the  cross)  his  human  merchandise 
•To  many  a  curious,  many  a  cruel  eye 
Exposes.     Ah,  how  oft  where  now  the  sun 
Slept  on  the  shore,  have  ruthless  cimeters 
Flash'd  through  the  lattice,  and  a  swarthy  crew 
Dragg'd  forth,  ere  long  to  number  them  for  sale. 
Ere  long  to  part  them  in  their  agony. 
Parent  and  child !     How  oft  where  now  we  rode 
Over  the  billow,  has  a  wretched  son. 
Or  yet  more  wretched  sire,  grown  gray  in  chains, 
Labour'd,  his  hands  upon  the  oar,  his  eyes 
Upon  the  land — the  land,  that  gave  him  birth ; 
And,  as  he  gazed,  his  homestall  through  his  tears 
Fondly  imagined ;  when  a  Christian  ship 
Of  war  appearing  in  her  bravery, 
A  voice  in  anger  cried,  "  Use  all  j'our  strength  !" 
But  when,  ah  when,  do  they  that  can,  forbear 
To  crush  the  unresisting  ?     Strange,  that  men. 
Creatures  so  frail,  so  soon,  alas  !  to  die. 
Should  have  the  power,  the  will  to  make  this  world 
A  dismal  prison-house,  and  life  itself. 
Life  in  its  prime,  a  burden  and  a  curse 
To  him  who  never  wrong'd  them !     Who  that 

breathes 
Would  not,  when  first  he  heard  it,  turn  away 
As  from  a  tale  monstrous,  incredible  ? 


Surely  a  sense  of  our  mortality, 
A  consciousness  how  soon  we  shall  be  gone, 
Or,  if  we  linger — but  a  few  short  years — 
How  sure  to  look  upon  our  brother's  grave. 
Should  of  itself  incline  to  pity  and  love, 
And  prompt  us  rather  to  assist,  relieve. 
Than  aggravate  the  evils  each  is  heir  to. 

At  length  the  day  departed,  and  the  moon 
Rose  like  another  sun,  illxmiining 
Waters  and  woods  and  cloud-capt  promontories, 
Glades  for  a  hermit's  cell,  a  lady's  bower. 
Scenes  of  elysium,  such  as  night  alone 
Reveals  below,  nor  often — scenes  that  fled 
As  at  the  waving  of  a  wizard's  wand. 
And  left  behind  them,  as  their  parting  gift, 
A  thousand  nameless  odours.    All  was  still ; 
And  now  the  nightingale  her  song  pour'd  forth 
In  such  a  torrent  of  heartfelt  delight. 
So  fast  it  flow'd,  her  tongue  so  voluble, 
As  if  she  thought  her  hearers  would  be  gone 
Ere  half  was  told.    'Twas  where  in  the  north-west 
Still  unassail'd  and  unassailable. 
Thy  pharos,  Genoa,  first  display'd  itself. 
Burning  in  stillness  on  its  craggy  seat ; 
That  guiding  star,  so  oft  the  only  one. 
When  those  now  glowing  in  the  azure  vault 
Are  dark  and  silent,     '"f  was  where  o'er  the  sea, 
For  we  were  now  within  a  cable's  length, 
Delicious  gardens  hung ;  green  galleries. 
And  marble  terraces  in  many  a  flight. 
And  fairy  arches  flung  from  cliff  to  cliff, 
Wildering,  enchanting ;  and,  above  them  all, 
A  palace,  such  as  somewhere  in  the  east. 
In  Zenastan  or  Araby  the  blest. 
Among  its  golden  groves  and  fruits  of  gold. 
And  fountains  scattering  rainbows  in  the  sun. 
Rose,  when  Aladdin  rubb'd  the  wondrous  lamp ; 
Such,  if  not  fairer ;  and,  when  we  shot  by. 
A  scene  of  revelry,  in  long  array 
The  windows  blazing.     But  we  now  approach'd 
A  city  far  renown'd  ;*  and  wonder  ceased. 

XXIIL 

GENOA. 

This  house  was  Andrea  Doria 's.    Here  he  lived 
And  here  at  eve  relaxing,  when  ashore. 
Held  many  a  pleasant,  many  a  grave  discourse 
With  them  that  sought  him,  walking  to  and  fro 
As  on  his  deck.     'Tis  less  in  length  and  breadth 
Than  many  a  cabin  in  a  ship  of  war ; 
But  'tis  of  marble,  and  at  once  inspires 
The  reverence  due  to  ancient  dignity. 

He  left  it  for  a  better ;  and  'tis  now 
A  houso  of  trade,  the  meanest  merchandise 
Cumbering  its  floors.    Yet,  fallen  as  it  is, 
'Tis  still  the  noblest  dwelling — even  in  Genoa .' 
And  hadst  thou,  Andrea,  lived  there  to  the  last. 
Thou  hadst  done  well ;  for  there  is  that  without. 
That  in  the  wall,  which  monarchs  could  not  give, 
Nor  thou  take  with  thee,  that  which  says  aloud. 
It  was  thy  country's  gift  to  her  deliverer. 

'Tis  in  the  heart  of  Genoa,  (he  who  comes. 
Must  come  on  foot,)  and  in  a  place  of  stir ; 


Genoa. 


9DE  TO  SUPERSTITION. 


2W 


Men  on  their  daily  "business,  early  and  late, 
Thronging  thy  very  threshold.     But  when  there, 
Thou  wert  among  thy  fellow  citizens, 
Thy  children,  for  they  hail'd  thee  as  their  sire ; 
And  on  a  spot  thou  must  have  loved,  for  there, 
Calling  them  round,  thou  gavest  them  more  than 

life. 
Giving  what  lost,  makes  life  not  worth  the  keeping. 
There  thou  didst  do  indeed  an  act  divine ; 
Nor  couldst  thou  leave  thy  door  or  enter  in. 
Without  a  blessing  on  thee. 

Thou  art  now 
Again  among  them.    Thy  brave  mariners. 
They  who  had  fought  so  often  by  thy  side. 
Staining  the  mountain  billows,  bore  thee  back; 
And  thou  art  sleeping  in  thy  funeral  chamber. 
Thine  was  a  glorious  course ;  but  couldst  thou 
there. 
Clad  in  thy  cere-cloth — in  that  silent  vault. 
Where  thou  art  gather'd  to  thy  ancestors — 
Open  thy  secret  heart  and  tell  us  all. 
Then  should  we  hear  thee  with  a  sigh  confess, 
A  sigh  how  heavy,  that  thy  happiest  hours 
Were  pass'd  before  these  sacred  walls  were  left, 
Before  the  ocean  wave  thy  wealth  reflected. 
And  pomp  and  power  drew  envy,  stirring  up 
Th*  ambitious  man,*  that  in  a  perilous  hour 
Fell  from  the  plank. 

A  FAREWELL.-t 

And  now  farewell  to  Italy — perhaps 
For  ever  !     Yet,  methinks,  I  could  not  go, 
I  could  not  leave  it,  were  it  mine  to  say, 
"Farewell  for  ever !" 

Many  a  courtesy. 
That  sought  no  recompense,  and  met  with  none 
But  in  the  swell  of  heart  with  which  it  came. 
Have  I  experienced ;  not  a  cabin  door. 
Go  where  I  would,  but  open'd  with  a  smile  ; 
From  the  first  hour,  when,  in  my  long  descent. 
Strange  perfumes  rose,  as  if  to  welcome  me. 
From  flowers  that  minister'd  like  unseen  spirits  ; 
From  the  first  hour,  when  vintage  songs  broke  forth, 
A  grateful  earnest,  and  the  southern  lakes, 
Dazzlingly  bright,  unfolded  at  my  feet ; 
They  that  receive  the  cataracts,  and  ere  long 
Dismiss  them,  but  how  changed — onward  to  roll 
From  age  to  age  in  silent  majesty, 
Blessing  the  nations,  and  reflecting  round 
The  gladness  they  inspire. 

Gentle  or  rude. 
No  scene  of  life  but  has  contributed 
Much  to  remember — from  the  Polesine, 
Where,  when  the  south  wind  blows,  and  clouds  on 

clouds 
Gather  and  fall,  the  peasant  freights  his  bark. 
Mindful  to  migrate  when  the  king  of  floods^ 
Visits  his  humble  dwelling,  and  the  keel, 
Slowly  uplifted  over  field  and  fence. 
Floats  on  a  world  of  waters — from  that  low. 
That  level  region,  where  no  echo  dwells. 
Or,  if  she  comes,  comes  in  her  saddest  plight, 
floarse,  inarticulate — on  to  where  the  path 


•  Flesco. 
ITheFo. 


t  Written  at  Susa,  May  1,  1822. 


Is  lost  in  rank  luxuriance,  and  to  breathe 
Is  to  inhale  distemper,  if  not  death ; 
Where  the  wild  boar  retreats,  when  hunters  chafe. 
And,  when  the  day-star  flames,  the  buffalo  herd, 
AflHicted,  plunge  into  the  stagnant  pool, 
Nothing  discern'd  amid  the  water  leaves. 
Save  here  and  there  the  likeness  of  a  head. 
Savage,  uncouth  ;  where  none  in  human  shape 
Come,  save  the  herdsman,  levelling  his  length 
Of  lance  with  many  a  cry,  or,  Tartar-like, 
Urging  his  steed  along  the  distant  hill 
As  from  a  danger.     There,  but  not  to  rest, 
I  travell'd  many  a  dreary  league,  nor  turn'd 
(Ah  then  least  willing,  as  who  had  not  been  ?) 
When  in  the  south,  against  the  azure  sky, 
Three  temples  rose  in  soberest  majesty. 
The  wondrous  wcrk  of  some  heroic  race.* 

But  now  a  long  fai-ewell !    Oft,  while  I  livo 
If  once  again  in  England,  once  again 
In  my  own  chimney  nook,  as  night  steals  on. 
With  half  shut  eyes  reclining,  oft,  methinks. 
While  the  wind  blusters,  and  the  pelting  rain 
Clatters  without,  shall  I  recall  to  mind 
The  scenes,  occurrences  I  met  with  here, 
And  wander  in  elysium  ;  many  a  note 
Of  wildest  melody,  magician-like. 
Awakening,  such  as  the  Calabrian  horn. 
Along  the  mountain  side,  when  all  is  still. 
Pours  forth  at  folding  time  ;  and  many  a  chant. 
Solemn,  sublime,  such  as  at  midnight  flows 
From  the  full  choir,  when  richest  harmonies 
Break  the  deep  silence  of  thy  glens,  La  Cavaj 
To  him  who  lingers  there  with  listening  ear, 
Now  lost  and  now  descending  as  from  heavev 


ODE  TO  SUPERSTITION.t 

I.  1. 

Hence,  to  the  realms  of  night,  dire  demon,  hence  > 
Thy  chain  of  adamant  can  bind 
That  little  world,  the  hunan  mind. 
And  sink  its  noblest  powers  to  impotence. 
Wake  the  lion's  loudest  roar. 
Clot  his  shaggy  mane  with  gore. 
With  flashing  fury  bid  his  eyeballs  shine  ; 
Meek  is  his  savage,  sullen  soul,  to  thine  ! 
Thy  touch,  thy  deadening  touch  has  steel'd  the 

breast. 
Whence,  through  her  April  shower,  soft  pity 

smiled ; 
Has  closed  the  heart  each  godlike  virtue  bless'd, 
To  all  the  silent  pleadings  of  his  child.|: 
At  thy  command  he  plants  the  dagger  deep. 
At  thy  command  exults,  though  nature  bids  him 
weep ! 

1.2. 
When,  with  a  frown  that  froze  the  peopled  earth,§ 
Thou  dartedst  thy  huge  head  from  high. 
Night  waved  her  banners  o'er  the  sk}'. 
And,  brooding,  gave  her  shapeless  shadows  birth. 


*  The  temples  of  Peestum.        +  Written  in  early  youth 
t  The  sacrifice  of  Iphigenia.     §  Lucretius,  L  L? 


280 


ROGERS. 


Rocking  on  the  billowy  air, 
Ha  !  what  withering  phantoms  glare  ! 
As  blows  the  blast  with  many  a  sudden  swell, 
At  each  dead  pause,  what  shrill-toned  voices  yell ! 
The  sheeted  spectre,  rising  from  the  tomb, 
Points  to  the  murderer's  stab,  and  shudders  by ; 
In  every  grove  is  felt  a  heavier  gloom. 
That  veils  its  genius  from  the  vulgar  eye  : 
The  spirit  of  the  water  rides  the  storm. 
And,  through  the  mist,  reveals  the  terrors  of  his 
form. 

1.3. 
O'er  solid  seas,  where  winter  reigns, 
And  holds  each  mountain  wave  in  chains, 
The  fur-clad  savage,  ere  he  guides  his  deer 
By  glistering  starlight  through  the  snow. 
Breathes  softly  in  her  wondering  ear 

Each  potenfspell  thou  badest  him  know. 
By  thee  inspired,  on  India's  sands, 
J      Full  in  the  sun  the  Brahmin  stands  ; 
And,  while  the  panting  tigress  hies 
To  quench  her  fever  in  the  stream, 
His  spirit  laughs  in  agonies, 
Smit  by  the  scorchings  of  the  noontide  beam. 

Mark  who  mounts  the  sacred  pyre,* 
Blooming  in  her  bridal  vest : 

She  hurls  the  torch  !  she  fans  the  fire  ! 

To  die  is  to  be  blest : 
She  clasps  her  lord  to  part  no  more. 
And,  sighing,  sinks  !  but  sinks  to  soar. 
O'ershadowing  Scotia's  desert  coast. 

The  sisters  sail  in  dusky  state,t 
And,  wrapt  in  clouds,  in  tempests  tost, 
Weave  the  airy  web  of  fate  ; 
While  the  lone  shepherd,  near  the  shipless  main,^ 
Sees  o'er  her  hills  advance  the  long-drawn  funeral 
train. 

II.  1. 
ihou  spakest,  and  lo  !  a  new  creation  giow'd. 
Each  unhewn  mass  of  living  stone 
Was  clad  in  horrors  not  its  own. 
And  at  its  base  the  trembling  nations  bow'd. 
Giant  Error,  darkly  grand, 
Grasp'd  the  globe  with  iron  hand. 
Circled  with  seats  of  bliss,  the  lord  of  light 
Saw  prostrate  worlds  adore  his  golden  height. 
The  statue,  waking  with  immortal  powers  ,§ 
Springs  from  its  parent  earth,  and  shakes   the 

sphere*  > 
Th'  indignant  pyramid  sublimely  towers. 
And  braves  the  efforts  of  a  host  of  years. 
Sweet  music  breathes  her  soul  into  the  wind  ; 
And  bright-eyed  painting  stamps  the  image  of  the 
mind. 

II.  2. 
Round  their  rude  ark  old  Egypt's  sorcerers  rise  ! 
A  timbrell'd  anthem  swells  the  gale, 
And  bids  the  god  of  thunders  hail  •,|1 
With  lowings  loud  the  captive  god  replies. 


Clouds  of  incense  woo  thy  smlxc, 
Scaly  monarch  of  the  Nile  !* 
But  ah !  what  myriads  claim  the  bended  knee ! 
Go,  count  the  busy  drops  that  swell  the  sea. 
Proud  land !  what  eye  can  trace  thy  mystic  lore 
Lock'd  up  in  characters  as  dark  as  night  ?^ 
What  eye  those  long,  long  labyrinths  dare  ex 

plore,§ 
To  which  the  parted  soul  oft  wings  her  flight  j 
Again  to  visit  her  cold  cell  of  clay, 
Charm'd  with  perennial  sweets,  and  smiling  ft 
decay. 

II.  3. 

On  yon  hoar  summit,  mildly  bright| 
With  purple  ether's  liquid  light, 
High  o'er  the  world,  the  white-robed  maj^i  gaze 

On  dazzling  bursts  of  heavenly  fire  ; 

Start  at  each  blue,  portentous  blaze, 

Each  flame  that  flits  with  adverse  spire. 

But  say,  what  sounds  my  ear  invade 

From  Delphi's  venerable  shade  ? 

The  temple  rocks,  the  laurel  waves  ! 

"  The  god  !  the  god  !"  the  sibyl  cries.l 

Her  figure  swells,  she  foams,  she  raves  ! 
Her  figure  swells  to  more  than  mortal  size  •. 

Streams  of  rapture  roll  along. 

Silver  notes  ascend  the  skies : 
Wake,  echo,  wake  and  catch  the  song, 

0  catch  it,  ere  it  dies  ! 
The  sibyl  speaks,  the  dream  is  o'er, 
The  holy  harpings  charm  no  more. 
In  vain  she  checks  the  god's  control ; 

His  madding  spirit  fills  her  frame, 
And  moulds  the  features  of  her  soul. 

Breathing  a  prophetic  flame. 
The  cavern  frowns  !  its  hundred  mouths  unciose  . 
And  in  the  thunder's  voice,  the  fate  of  empire 
flows ! 

III.  1. 

Mona,  thy  Druid  rites  awake  the  dead  ! 

Rites  thy  brown  oaks  would  never  dare 

E'en  whisper  to  the  idle  air ; 
Rites  that  have  chain'd  old  ocean  on  his  bed. 

Shiver'd  by  thy  piercing  glance, 

Pointless  falls  the  hero's  lance. 
Thy  magic  bids  th'  imperial  eagle  fly,** 
And  blasts  the  laureate  wreath  of  victory. 
Hark  !  the  bard's  soul  inspires  the  vocal  string ! 
At  every  pause  dread  silence  hovers  o'er: 
While  murky  night  sails  round  on  raven  wing, 
Deepening  the   tempest's  howl,  the  torrent's 

roar ; 
Chased  by  the  morn  from  Snowdon's  awful  brow, 
Where  late  she  sate  and  scowl 'd  on  the  black  wave 
below. 


♦  The  funeral  rite  of  the  Hindoos. 

t  The  fates  of  the  northern  mythology.  See  Mal'iet's 
Antiquities. 

t  An  allusion  to  the  second-sight. 

§  See  that  fine  description  of  the  sudden  animation  of 
»he  Palladium,  in  the  second  book  of  the  jEneid. 

U  The  bull,  Apis. 


*  The  crocodile. 

t  According  to  an  ancient  proverb,  it  was  less  difficult 
in  Egypt  to  find  a  god  than  a  man. 

t  The  hieroglyphics. 

§  The  catacombs. 

II  «  The  Persians,"  says  Herodotus,  "  have  no  templea, 
altars,  or  statues.  They  sacrifice  on  the  tops  of  the  high 
est  mountains."    I.  131. 

IT  JEn.  VI.  46,  etc. 

**  See  Tacitus.  1.  xiv.  c.  29. 


VERSES. 


281 


III.  2. 

Lo,  steel-clad  war  his  gorgeous  standard  rears  ! 

The  red  cross  squadrons  madly  rage,* 

And  mow  through  infancy  and  age  ; 
Then  kiss  the  sacred  dust  and  melt  in  tears. 

Veiling  from  the  eye  of  day, 

Penance  dreams  her  life  away ; 
In  cloister'd  solitude  she  sits  and  sighs, 
While  from  each  shrine  still,  small  responses  rise. 
Hear,  with  what  heartfelt  beat,  the  midnight  bell 
Swings   its  slow  summons  through  the  hollow 

pile  I 
The  weak,  wan  votarist  leaves  her  twilight  cell, 
To  walk,  with  taper  dim,  the  winding  aisle  ; 
With  choral  chantings  vainly  to  aspire, 
fivjond  this  nether  sphere,  on  rapture's  wing  of  fire. 

III.  3. 
Lord  of  each  pang  the  nerves  can  feel. 
Hence  with  the  rack  and  reeking  wheel. 
Faith  hits  the  soul  above  this  little  ball ! 
While  gieams  of  glory  open  round. 
And  circjlnp  choirs  of  angels  call, 
Canst  thou,  with  all  thy  terrors  crown'd, 
Hope  to  obo-cure  that  latent  spark, 
Destined  to  rinme  when  suns  are  ^dark  ? 
Thy  triumphs  cease  !  through  evexy  land, 
Hark  !  truth  proclaims,  thy  triumphs  cease  ! 
Her  heavenly  ibrm,  with  glowing  hand, 
Benignly  points  to  piety  and  peace. 
Flush 'd  with  youih,  her  looks  impart 

Eacri  fine  feeling  as  it  flows  j 
Her  voice  the  echo  of  a  heart 

Pure  as  the  mountain  snows : 
Celestial  transports  round  her  play 
And  softly,  sweetly  die  away. 
She  smiles  !  and  where  is  now  the  cloud 

That  blacken'd  o'er  thy  baleful  reign  ? 
Grim  darkness  furls  his  leaden  shroud. 

Shrinking  from  her  glance  in  vain. 
Her  touch  unlocks  the  day-spring  from  above, 
And  lo  !  it  visits  man  with  beams  of  light  and  love. 


VERSES 

WRITTEN   TO   BE   SPOKEN   BY   MRS.   SIDDONS.f 

Yes,  'tis  the  pulse  of  life  !  my  fears  were  vain  ; 
1  wake,  I  breathe,  and  am  myself  again. 
Still  in  this  nether  world  ;  no  seraph  yet ! 
Nor  walks  my  spirit,  when  the  sun  is  set, 
With  troubled  step  to  haunt  the  fatal  board, 
W^iere  I  died  last— by  poison  or  the  sword ; 
B.anching  each  honest  cheek  with  deeds  of  night. 
Done  here  so  oft  by  dim  and  doubtful  light. 

— To  drop  all  metaphor,  that  little  bell 
Call'd  back  reality,  and  broke  the  spell. 
No  heroine  claims  your  tears  with  tragic  tone  ; 
A  very  woman — scarce  restrains  her  own  ! 


*  This  remarkable  event  happened  at  the  siege  and 
•ack  of  Jerusalem,  in  the  last  year  of  the  eleventh  century. 
Matth.  Paris,  p.  34. 

t  After  a  tragedy,  performed  for  her  benefit,  at  the 
Theatre  Royal  in  Drury-lane,  April  27, 1795. 


Can  she,  with  fiction,  charm  the  cheated  mm(^ 
When  to  be  grateful  is  the  part  assign'd  ? 
Ah  no  !  she  scorns  the  trappings  of  her  art ; 
No  theme  but  truth,  no  prompter  but  the  hear 

But,  ladies,  say.  must  I  alone  unmask  ? 
Is  here  no  other  actress  ?  let  me  ask. 
Believe  me,  those,  who  best  the  heart  dissect, 
Know  every  woman  studies  stage  effect. 
She  moulds  her  manners  to  the  part  she  fills, 
As  instinct  teaches,  or  as  humour  wills  ; 
And  as  the  grave  or  gay  her  talent  calls, 
Acts  in  the  drama  till  the  curtain  falls. 

First,  how  her  little  breast  with  triumph  STfells 
When  the  red  coral  rings  its  golden  bells  ! 
To  play  in  pantomime  is  then  the  I'age, 
Along  the  carpet's  many-colour'd  stage  ; 
Or  lisp  her  merry  thoughts  with  loud  endeavour, 
Now  here,  now  there — in  noise  and  mischief  ever  . 
A  school-girl  next,  she  curls  her  hair  in  papers. 
And  mimics  father's  gout,  and  mother's  vapours ; 
Discards  her  doll,  bribes  Betty  for  romances  ; 
Playful  at  cliurch,  and  serious  when  she  dances  j 
Tramples  alike  on  customs  and  on  toes, 
And  whispers  all  she  hears  to  all  she  knows; 
Terror  of  caps,  and  wigs,  and  sober  notions  ! 
A  romp  !  that  longest  of  perpetual  motions  ! 
— Till  tamed  and  tortured  into  foreign  graces, 
Sne  :ports  her  lovely  face  at  public  places  ; 
And  with  blue,  laughing  eyes,  behind  her  fan, 
First  acts  her  part  with  that  great  actor,  man. 
Too  soon  a  flirt,  approach  her  and  she  flies  ! 
Frowns  when  pursued,  and,  when  entreated,  sight! 
Plays  with  unhappy  men  as  cats  with  mice ; 
Till  fading  beauty  hints  the  late  advice. 
Her  prudence  dictates  what  her  pride  disdain 'd. 
And  now  she  sues  to  slaves  herself  had  chain'd ! 

Then  comes  that  good  old  character,  a  wife. 
With  all  the  dear^  distracting  cg^-es  of  life ; 
A  thousand  cards  a  day  at  doors  to  leave. 
And,  in  return,  a  thousand  cards  receive  ; 
Rouge  high,  play  deep,  to  lead  the  ton  aspire. 
With  nightly  blaze  set  Portland-place  on  fire ; 
Snatch  half  a  glimpse  at  concert,  opera,  ball, 
A  meteor,  traced  by  none,  though  seen  by  all ; 
And,  when  her  shatter 'd  nerves  forbid  to  roam. 
In  very  spleen — rehearse  the  girls  at  home. 

Last,  the  gray  dowager,  in  ancient  flounces. 
With  snuff  and  spectacles  the  age  denounces  j 
Boasts  how  the  sires  of  this  degenerate  isle 
Knelt  for  a  look,  and  duell'd  for  a  smile. 
The  scourge  and  ridicule  of  Goth  and  Vandal, 
Her  tea  she  sweetens,  as  she  sips,  with  scandal  -, 
With  modern  belles  eternal  warfare  wages, 
Like  her  own  birds  that  clamour  from  their  cages  | 
And  shuffles  round  to  bear  her  tale  to  all, 
Like  some  old  ruin,  "  nodding  to  its  fall !" 

Thus  woman  makes  her  entrance  and  her  exit  j 
Not  least  an  actress,  when  she  least  suspects  it. 
Yet  nature  oft  peeps  out  and  mars  the  plot. 
Each  lesson  lost,  each  poor  pretence  forgot ; 
Full  oft,  with  energy  that  scorns  control, 
At  once  lights  up  the  features  of  the  soul ; 
Unlocks  each  thought  chain'd  down  by  coward  art. 
And  to  full  day  the  latent  passions  start ! 
— And  she,  whose  first,  best  wish  is  your  applause, 
Herself  exemplifies  the  truth  she  draws. 


ROGERS. 


Born  on  the  stage — through  every  shifting  scene, 
Obscure  or  bright,  tempestuous  or  serene, 
Still  has  your  smile  her  trembling  spirit  fired  ! 
And  can  she  act,  with  thoughts  like  these  inspired  ? 
TTius  from  her  mind  all  artifice  she  flings. 
All  skill,  all  practice,  now  unmeaning  things ! 
To  you,  uncheck'd,  each  genuine  feeling  flows ; 
For  all  that  life  endears — to  you  she  owes. 


ON 


ASLEEP. 


Sleep  on,  and  dream  of  heaven  a  while. 
Though  shut  so  close  thy  laughing  eyes, 
Thy  rosy  lips  still  wear  a  smile. 
And  move,  and  breathe  delicious  sighs  ! — 

Ah,  now  soft  blushes  tinge  her  cheeks. 
And  mantle  o'er  her  neck  of  snow. 
Ah,  now  she  murmurs,  now  she  speaks 
What  most  I  wish — and  fear  to  know. 

She  starts,  she  trembles,  and  she  weeps  ! 
Her  fair  hands  folded  on  her  breast. 
—And  now,  how  like  a  saint  she  sleeps  ! 
A  seraph  in  the  realms  of  rest ! 

Sleep  on  secure  !     Above  control. 
Thy  thoughts  belong  to  heaven  and  thee  I 
And  may  the  secret  of  thy  soul 
Remain  within  its  sanctuary ! 


TO 


Go — you  may  call  it  madness,  folly ; 
You  shall  not  chase  my  gloom  away. 
There's  such  a  charm  in  melancholy, 
I  would  not,  if  I  could,  be  gay. 

O,  if  you  knew  the  pensive  pleasure 
That  fills  my  bosom  when  I  sigh. 
You  would  not  rob  me  of  a  treasure 
Monarchs  are  too  poor  to  buy. 


FROM  EURIPIDES. 

There  is  a  streamlet  issuing  from  a  rock. 
The  village  girls,  singing  wild  madrigals. 
Dip  their  white  vestments  in  its  waters  clear, 
And  hang  them  to  the  sun.     There  first  I  saw 

her. 
Her  dark  and  eloquent  eyes,  mild,  full  of  fire, 
'Twas  heaven  to  look  upon ;  and  her  sweet  voice. 
As  tunable  as  harp  of  many  strings. 
At  once  spoke  joy  and  sadness  to  my  soul ! 


Dear  is  that  valley  to  the  murmuring  bees ; 
And  all,  who  know  it,  come  and  come  again. 
The   small  birds  build  there;   and,  at  summer 

noon, 
Oft  have  I  heard  a  child,  gay  among  flowers, 
As  in  the  shining  grass  she  sate  conceal'd, 
Sing  to  herself  **   .        *  * 


CAPTIVITY. 

Caged  in  old  woods,  whose  reverend  echoes  waUrt 
When  the  hern  screams  along  the  distant  lake. 
Her  little  heart  oft  flutters  to  be  free. 
Oft  sighs  to  turn  the  unrelenting  key. 
In  vain  !  the  nurse  that  rusted  relic  wears, 
Nor  moved  b}"-  gold — nor  to  be  moved  by  tears ) 
And  terraced  walls  their  black  reflection  throw- 
On  the  green  mantled  moat  that  sleeps  below. 


THE  SAILOR. 

The  sailor  sighs  as  sinks  his  native  shore. 
As  all  its  lessening  turrets  bluely  fade  ; 
He  climbs  the  mast  to  feast  his  eye  once  more. 
And  busy  fancy  fondly  lends  her  aid. 

Ah !  now  each  dear,  domestic  scene  he  knew 
Recall'd  and  cherish'd  in  a  foreign  clime. 
Charms  with  the  magic  of  a  moonlight  view  { 
Its  colours  mellow 'd,  not  impair 'd,  by  time. 

True  as  the  needle,  homeward  points  his  heart, 
Through  all  the  horrors  of  the  stormy  main ; 
This,  the  last  wish  that  would  with  life  depart,  , 
To  see  the  smile  of  her  he  loves  again. 

When  morn  first  faintly  draws  her  silver  line, 
Or  eve's  gray  cloud  descends  to  drink  the  wave  j 
When  sea  and  sky  in  midnight  darkness  join. 
Still,  still  he  views  the  parting  look  she  gave. 

Her  gentle  spirit,  lightly  hovering  o'er. 
Attends  his  little  bark  from  pole  to  pole ; 
And  when  the  beating  billows  round  him  roar, 
Whispers  sweet  hope  to  soothe  his  troubled  soul 

Carved  is  her  name  in  many  a  spicy  grove. 
In  many  a  plantain  forest,  waving  wide ; 
Where  dusky  youths  in  painted  plumage  rove. 
And  giant  palms  o'erarch  the  golden  tide. 

But  lo,  at  last  he  comes  with  crowded  sail ! 
Lo,  o'er  the  cliff  what  eager  figures  bend  ! 
And  hark,  what  mingled  murmurs  swell  the  gale  ! 
In  each  he  hears  the  welcome  of  a  friend. 

— 'Tis  she,  'tis  she  herself !  she  waves  her  hand ! 

Soon  is  the  anchor  cast,  the  canvass  furl'd ; 

Soon  through  the  whitening  surge  he  springs  U 

land. 
And  clasps  the  maid  he  singled  fiom  the  world. 


TO  AN  OLD  OAK. 


Immota  manet ;  multosque  ncpotes, 

Multir  virum  volvens  durando  ssecula,  vincit.- 


Round  thee,  alas,  no  shadows  move ! 
From  thee  no  sacred  murmurs  breathe  ! 
Yet  within  thee,  thyself  a  grove, 
Once  did  the  eagle  scream  above. 
And  the  wolf  howl  beneath. 


■Virg. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


28:-^ 


There  once  the  steel-clad  knight  reclined, 
His  sable  plumage  tempest  toss'd  ; 
And,  as  the  death-bell  smote  the  wind, 
From  towers  long  fled  by  human  kind 

His  brow  the  hero  cross 'd ! 
Then  culture  came,  and  days  serene ; 
And  village  sports,  and  garlands  gay. 
Full  many  a  pathway  cross'd  the  green  ; 
And  maids  and  shepherd  youths  were  seen 

To  celebrate  the  May. 
Father  of  many  a  forest  deep, 
Whence  many  a  navy  thunder  fraught 
Erst  in  thy  acorn-cells  asleep. 
Soon  destined  o'er  the  world  to  sweep, 

Opening  new  spheres  of  thought ! 
Wont  in  the  night  of  woods  to  dwell, 
The  holy  Druid  saw  thee  rise  ; 
And,  planting  there  the  guardian  spell. 
Sung  forth,  the  dreadful  pomp  to  swell 

Of  human  sacrifice  ! 
Thy  singed  top  and  branches  bare 
Now  straggle  in  the  evening  sky  ; 
And  the  wan  moon  wheels  round  to  glare 
On  the  long  coi-se  that  shivers  tliere 

Of  him  who  came  to  die  ! 


TO  TWO  SISTERS.* 

Well  may  you  sit  within,  and,  fond  of  grief, 
Look  in  each  other's  face,  and  melt  in  tears. 
Well  may  you  shun  all  counsel,  all  relief. 
0,  she  was  great  in  mind,  though  young  in  years  ! 

Changed  is  that  lovely  countenance,  which  shed 
Light  when  she  spoke,  and  kindled  sweet  surprise, 
As  o'er  her  frame  each  warm  emotion  spread, 
Play'd  round  her  lips,  and  sparkled  in  her  eyes. 

Those  lips  so  pure,  that  moved  but  to  persuade. 
Still  to  the  last  enliven'd  and  endear'd. 
Those  eyes  at  once  her  secret  soul  convey'd, 
And  ever  beam'd  delight  when  you  appear'd. 

Yet  has  she  fled  the  life  of  bliss  below. 
That  youthful  hope  in  bright  perspective  drew  ? 
False  were  the  tints  !  false  as  the  feverish  glow 
That  o'er  her  burning  cheek  distemper  threw  ! 

And  now  in  joy  she  dwells,  in  glory  moves  .' 
(Glory  and  joy  reserved  for  you  to  share.) 
Far,  far  more  blest  in  blessing  those  she  loves 
Than  they,  alas  !  unconscious  of  her  care. 


ON  A  TEAR. 

0  !  THAT  the  chymist's  magic  art 
Could  crystallize  this  sacred  treasure  J 
Long  should  it  glitter  near  my  heart 
A  secret  source  of  pensive  pleasure. 

The  little  brilliant,  ere  it  fell. 
Its  lustre  caught  from  Chloe's  eye ; 
The)i,  trembling,  left  its  coral  cell — 
The  sprmg  of  sensibility  ! 

*  On  the  death  of  a  younger  sister. 


Sweet  drop  of  pure  and  pearly  light ! 
In  thee  the  rays  of  virtue  shine ; 
More  calmly  clear,  more  mildly  bright. 
Than  any  gem  that  gilds  the  mine. 

Benign  restorer  of  the  soul ! 
Who  ever  fly'st  to  bring  relief. 
When  first  we  feel  the  rude  control 
Of  love  or  pity,  joy  or  grief. 

The  sage's  and  the  poet's  theme, 
In  every  clime,  in  every  age  ; 
Thou  charm'st  in  fancy's  idle  dream, 
In  reason's  philosophic  page. 

That  very  law*  which  moulds  a  tear. 
And  bids  it  trickle  from  its  source, 
That  law  preserves  the  earth  a  sphere. 
And  guides  the  planets  in  their  course. 


TO  A  VOICE  THAT  HAD  BEEN  L0ST.1 

Vane,  quid  affectas  facIemTnihi  ponere,  pictor  ? 

Aeris  el  linguae  sum  filia; 

Et,  si  vis  slmilem  pingere,  pinge  sonum. — Ansoniux 

OxcE  more,  enchantress  of  the  soul. 
Once  more  we  hail  thy  soft  control. 
— ^Yet  whither,  whither  didst  thou  fly  ? 
To  what  bright  region  of  the  sky  ? 
Say,  in  what  distant  star  to  dwell  ? 
(Of  other  worlds  thou  seem'st  to  tell) 
Or  trembling,  fluttering  here  below, 
Resolved  and  unresolved  to  go. 
In  secret  didst  thou  still  impart 
Thy  raptures  to  the  pure  in  heart  ? 

Perhaps  to  many  a  desert  shore. 
Thee,  in  his  rage,  the  tempest  bore  ; 
Thy  broken  murmurs  swept  along, 
'Mid  echoes  yet  untuned  by  song  ; 
Arrested  in  the  realms  of  frost. 
Or  in  the  wilds  of  ether  lost. 

Far  happier  thou  !  'twas  thine  to  soar 
Careering  on  the  winged  wind. 
Thy  triumphs  who  shall  dare  explore  ? 
Suns  and  their  systems  left  behind. 
No  tract  of  space,  no  distant  star, 
No  shock  of  elements  at  war. 
Did  thee  detain.     Thy  wing  of  fire 
Bore  thee  amidst  the  cherub-choir  ; 
And  there  a  while  to  thee  'twas  given 
Once  more  that  voice:}:  beloved  to  join. 
Which  taught  thee  first  a  flight  divine, 
And  nursed  thy  infant  years  with  many  a  strain 

from  heaven  ! 


FROM  A  GREEK   EPIGRAM. 

While  on  the  cliff  with  calm  delight  she  kneels^ 
And  the  blue  vales  a  thousand  joys  recall. 
See,  to  the  last,  last  verge  her  infant  steals  ! 
0  fly — yet  stir  not,  speak  not,  lest  it  fall. 
Far  better  taught,  she  lays  her  bosom  bare. 
And  the  fond  boy  springs  back  to  nestle  there. 


♦  The  law  of  gravitation. 
t  Mrs.  Sheridan's. 


t  In  the  winter  of  1805 


384 


ROGERS. 


TO   THE 

FRAGMENT  OF  A  STATUE  OF  HERCULES, 
COMMONLY  CALLED  THE  TORSO. 

And  dost  thou  still,  thou  mass  of  breathing  stone, 
(Thy  giant  limbs  to  night  and  chaos  hurl'd,) 
Still  sit  as  on  the  fragment  of  a  world ; 
Surviving  all,  majestic  and  alone  ? 
What  though  the  spirits  of  the  north,  that  swept 
Rome  from  the  earth,  when  in  her  pomp  she  slept. 
Smote  thee  with  fury,  and  thy  headless  trunk 
Deep  in  the  dust  *mid  tower  and  temple  sunk ; 
Soon  to  subdue  mankind  'twas  thine  to  rise. 
Still,  still  unquell'd  thy  glorio.B  energies  I 
Aspiring  minds,  with  thee  conversing,  caught*    * 
Bright  revelations  of  the  good  they  sought ; 
By  thee  that  long-lost  spellf  in  secret  given. 
To  draw  down  gods,  and  lift  the  soul  to  heaven ! 


TO 


Ah  !  little  thought  she,  when,  with  mild  delight, 
By  many  a  torrent's  shining  track  she  flew. 
When  mountain-glens  and  caverns  full  of  night 
O'er  her  young  mind  divine  enchantment  threw, 

That  in  her  veins  a  secret  horror  slept. 
That  her  light  footsteps  should  be  heard  no  more, 
That  she  should  die — nor  watch'd,  alas  !  nor  wept 
By  thee,  unconscious  of  the  pangs  she  bore. 

Yet  round  her  couch  indulgent  fancy  drew 
The  kindred  forms  her  closing  eye  required. 
There  didst  thou  stand — there,  with  the  smile  she 

knew. 
She  moved  her  lips  to  bless  thee,  and  expired. 

And  now  to  thee  she  comes ;  still,  still  the  same 
As  in  the  hours  gone  unregarded  by  ! 
To  thee,  how  changed  !  comes  as  she  ever  came 
Health  on  her  cheek,  and  pleasure  in  her  eye  ! 

Nor  less,  less  oft,  as  on  that  day,  appears. 
When  lingering,  as  prophetic  of  the  truth, 
By  the  way-side  she  shed  her  parting  tears— 
For  ever  lovely  in  the  light  of  youth ! 


WRITTEN  IN  A  SICK  CHAMBER. 

There,  in  that  bed  so  closely  curtain'd  round, 
Worn  to  a  shade,  and  wan  with  slow  decay, 
A  father  sleeps  !    0  hush'd  be  every  sound  ! 
Soft  may  we  breathe  the  midnight  hours  away  ! 

He  stirs — yet  still  he  sleeps.    May  heavenly  dreams 
Long  o'er  his  smooth  and  settled  pillow  rise  ; 
Till  through  the  shutter'd  pane  the  morning  streams 
And  on  the  hearth  the  glimmering  rushlight  dies. 

*  In  the  gardens  of  the  Vatican,  where  it  was  placed  by 
Julius  II.,  it  was  long  the  favourite  study  of  those  great 
men  to  whom  we  owe  the  revival  of  tne  arts,  Michael 
Angelo,  Raphael,  and  the  Carracci. 

t  Once  in  the  possession  of  Praxiteles,  If  we  may  be- 
lieve an  c,ncient  epigram  on  the  Guidian  Venus.— Ana- 
lects Vet  Poetarum,  III,  200. 

t  On  ths  death  of  her  sister. 


THE  BOY  OF  EGREMOND.* 
"  Say,  what  remains  when  hope  is  fled  ?" 
She  answer 'd,  "  Endless  weeping  !" 
For  in  the  herdsman's  eye  she  read 
Who  in  his  shroud  lay  sleeping. 

At  Embsay  rung  the  matin-bell. 
The  stag  was  roused  on  Barden  fell ; 
The  mingled  sounds  were  swelling,  dying, 
And  down  the  Wharfe  a  hern  was  flying  j 
When  near  the  cabin  in  the  wood. 
In  tartan  clad  and  forest  green, 
W^ith  hound  in  leash  and  hawk  in  hood. 
The  Boy  of  Egremond  was  seen. 
Blithe  was  his  song,  a  song  of  yore ; 
But  where  the  rock  is  rent  in  two. 
And  the  river  rushes  through. 
His  voice  was  heard  no  more  ! 
'Twas  but  a  step  !  the  gulf  he  pass'd 
But  that  step — it  was  his  last ! 
As  through  the  mist  he  wing'd  his  way, 
(A  cloud  that  hovers  night  and  day,) 
The  hound  hung  back,  and  back  he  drew 
The  master  and  his  merlin  too. 
That  narrow  place  of  noise  and  strife 
Received  their  little  all  of  life  ! 

There  now  the  matin-bell  is  rung ; 
The  "  Miserere  !"  duly  sung  ; 
And  holy  men  in  cowl  and  hood 
Are  wandering  up  and  down  the  wood. 
But  what  avail  they  ?     Ruthless  lord. 
Thou  didst  not  shudder  when  the  sword 
Here  on  the  young  its  fury  spent, 
The  helpless  and  the  innocent. 
Sit  now  and  answer  groan  for  groan, 
The  child  before  thee  is  thy  own. 
And  she  who  wildly  wanders  there 
The  mother  in  her  long  despair. 
Shall  oft  remind  thee,  waking,  sleepmg, 
Of  those  wlio  by  the  Wharfe  were  weeping ; 
Of  those  who  would  not  be  consoled 
When  red  with  blood  the  river  roll'd. 


TO   A  FRIEND  ON  HIS  MARRIAGE. 

On  thee,  blest  youth,  a  father's  hand  confers 
The  maid  thy  earliest,  fondest  wishes  knew. 
Each  soft  enchantment  of  the  soul  is  hers  ; 
Thine  be  the  joys  to  firm  attachment  due. 

As  on  she  moves  with  hesitating  grace, 
She  wins  assurance  from  his  soothing  voice  j 
And,  with  a  look  the  pencil  could  not  trace. 
Smiles  through  her  blushes,  and  confirms  the  choice. 


♦  In  the  twelfth  century  William  Fitz-Duncan  laid 
waste  the  valleys  of  Craven  with  fire  and  sword ;  and 
was  afterward  established  there  by  his  uncle,  David, 
King  of  Scotland. 

He  was  the  last  of  the  race  ;  his  son,  commonly  called 
the  Boy  of  Egremond,  dying  before  him  in  the  manner  here 
related;  when  a  priory  was  removed  fiom  Embsay  to 
Bolton,  that  it  might  be  as  near  as  possible  to  the  place 
where  the  accident  happened.  That  place  is  still  known 
by  the  name  of  the  Strid  ;  and  the  mother's  answer,  as 
given  in  the  first  stanza,  is  to  this  day  often  repeated  in 
WharfeiVale.— See  Wliittaker's  Hist,  of  Craven. 


!  ICK     C  53 AMTttlB  M. . 


C     C       C  CI 

e    e     c    e« 
c     •     c   e « 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


28S 


Spare  the  fine  tremors  of  her  feeling  frame  ! 
To  thee  she  turns — forgive  a  virgin's  fears  ! 
To  thee  she  turns  with  surest,  tenderest  claim : 
Weakness  that  charms,  reluctance  that  endears  ! 

At  each  response  the  sacred  rite  requires. 
From  her  full  bosom  bursts  th'  unbidden  sigh. 
A  strange,  mysterious  awe  the  scene  inspires ; 
And  on  her  lips  the  trembling  accents  die. 

O'er  her  fair  face  what  wild  emotions  play ! 
What  lights  and  shades  in  sweet  confusion  blend  ! 
Soon  shall  they  fly,  glad  harbingers  of  day, 
And  settled  sunshine  on  her  soul  descend  ! 

Ah  soon,  thine  own  confest,  ecstatic  thought ! 
That  hand  shall  strew  thy  summer  path  with  flowers ; 
And  those  blue  eyes,  with  mildest  lustre  fraught, 
Gild  the  calm  current  of  domestic  hours  ! 


THE  ALPS  AT  DAYBREAK. 

The  sunbeams  streak  the  azure  skies. 
And  line  with  light  the  mountain's  brow : 
With  hounds  and  horns  the  hunters  rise. 
And  chase  the  roe-buck  through  the  snow. 

From  rock  to  rock,  with  giant  bound. 
High  on  their  iron  poles  they  pass ; 
Mute,  lest  the  air,  convulsed  by  sound, 
Rend  from  above  a  frozen  mass.* 

The  goats  wind  slow  their  wonted  waj^, 
Up  craggy  steeps  and  ridges  rude ; 
Mark'd  by  the  wild  wolf  for  his  prey. 
From  desert  cave  or  hanging  wood. 

And  while  the  torrent  thunders  loud. 
And  as  the  echoing  cliffs  reply. 
The  huts  peep  o'er  the  morning  cloud, 
Perch'd,  like  an  eagle's  nest,  on  high. 


IMITATION  OF  AN  ITALIAN  SONNET. 

Love,  under  friendship's  vestnre  white. 
Laughs,  his  little  limbs  concealing ; 
And  oft  in  sport,  and  oft  in  spite. 
Like  pity  meets  the  dazzled  sight, 
femiles  through  his  tears  revealing. 

But  now  as  rage  the  god  appears  ! 
He  frowns,  and  tempests  shake  his  frame  ! — 
Frowning,  or  smiling,  or  in  tears, 
'Tis  love :  and  love  is  still  the  same. 


A  CHARACTER. 

As  through  the  hedge-row  shade  the  violet  steals. 
Arid  the  sweet  air  its  modest  leaf  reveals  ; 
Her  softer  charms,  but  by  their  influence  known. 
Surprise  all  hearts,  and  mould  them  to  her  own. 


*  There  are  passes  in  the  Alps,  where  the  guides  tell 
you  to  move  on  with  speed,  and  say  nothingj  lest  the  agi- 
«atlon  of  the  air  should  loosen  the  sncws  aoove. 


TO    THE 

YOUNGEST  DAUGHTER  OF  LADY  ***♦. 

Ah,  why  with  tell-tale  tongue  reveal* 
What  most  her  blushes  would  conceal  ? 
Why  lift  that  modest  veil  to  trace 
The  seraph  sweetness  of  her  face  ? 
Some  fairer,  better  sport  prefer ; 
And  feel  for  us,  if  not  for  her. 

For  this  presumption,  soon  or  late, 
Know  thine  shall  be  a  kindred  fate. 
Another  shall  in  vengeance  rise — 
Sing  Harriet's  cheeks,  and  Harriet's  eyes  ; 
And,  echoing  back  her  wood-notes  wild, 
— Trace  all  the  motner  in  the  child ! 


AN  EPITAPHt   ON  A  ROBIN-REDBREAST 

Tread  lightly  here  ;  for  here,  'tis  said, 
When  piping  winds  are  hush'd  around, 
A  small  note  wakes  from  under  grotmd, 
Where  now  his  tiny  bones  are  laid. 
No  more  in  lone  and  leafless  groves, 
With  ruffled  wing  and  faded  breast, 
His  friendless,  homeless  spirit  roves  ; 
— Gone  to  the  world  where  birds  are  blest ! 
Where  never  cat  glides  o'er  the  green. 
Or  schoolboy's  giant  form  is  seen  ; 
But  love,  and  joy,  and  smiling  spring. 
Inspire  their  little  souls  to  sing ! 


TO  THE  GNAT. 

When  by  the  greenwood  side,  at  summer  eve. 
Poetic  visions  charm  my  closing  eye ;  ' 

And  fairy  scenes,  that  fancy  loves  to  weave. 
Shift  to  wild  notes  of  sweetest  minstielsy ; 
'Tis  thine  to  range  in  busy  quest  of  prey, 
Thy  feathery  antlers  quivering  with  delight. 
Brush  from  my  lids  the  hues  of  heaven  away, 
And  all  is  solitude,  and  all  is  night ! 
— Ah  now  thy  barbed  shaft,  relentless  fly, 
Unsheathes  its  terrors  in  the  sultry  air : 
No  guardian  sylph,  in  golden  panoply. 
Lifts  the  broad  shield,  and  points  the  glittering  spear. 
Now  near  and  nearer  rush  thy  whirring  wings. 
Thy  dragon  scales  still  wet  with  human  gore. 
Hark,  thy  shrill  horn  its  fearful  larum  flings  ! 
— I  wake  in  horror,  and  dare  sleep  no  more  ! 


A  WISH 


Mine  be  a  cot  beside  the  hill, 
A  bee-hive's  hum  shall  soothe  my  ear  ; 
A  willowy  brook,  that  turns  a  mill, 
With  many  a  fall,  shall  linger  near. 

*  Alluding  to  seme  verses  which  she  had  written  on  a 
elder  sister. 
t  Inscribed  on  an  urn  in  the  flower-garden  at  Hafod. 


286 


ROGERS. 


The  swallow,  oft,  beneath  my  thatch 
Shall  twitter  from  her  clay-built  nest ; 
Oft  shall  the  pilgrim  lift  the  latch, 
And  share  my  meal,  a  welcome  guest. 

Around  my  ivied  porch  shall  spring 
Each  fragrant  flower  that  drinks  the  dew  j 
And  Lucy,  at  her  wheel,  shall  sing 
In  russet  gown  and  apron  blue. 

The  village  church,  among  the  trees, 
Where  first  our  marriage  vows  were  given, 
With  merry  peals  shall  swell  the  breeze, 
And  point  with  taper  spire  to  heaven. 


WRITTEN  AT  MIDNIGHT,  1786. 

While  trough  the  broken  pane  the  tempest  s.^hs, 
And  my  step  falters  on  the  faithless  floor. 
Shades  of  departed  joys  around  me  rise. 
With  many  a  face  that  smiles  on  nje  no  more ; 
With  many  a  voice  that  thrills  of  transport  gave, 
Now;  silent  as  the  grass  that  tufts  their  grave  ! 


AN  ITALIAN  SONG. 

Dear  is  my  little  native  vale. 

The  ring-dove  builds  and  murmurs  there ; 

Close  by  my  cot  she  tells  her  tale 

To  every  passing  villager. 

The  squirrel  leaps  from  tree  to  tree, 

And  shells  his  nuts  at  liberty. 

In  orange  groves  and  myrtle  bowers, 
That  breathe  a  gale  of  fragrance  round, 
I  ch^rm  the  fairy-footed  hours 
With  my  loved  lute's  romantic  sound ; 
Or  crowns  of  living  laurel  weave, 
For  those  that  win  the  race  at  eve. 

The  shepherd's  horn  at  break  of  day. 
The  ballet  danced  in  twilight  glade, 
The  canzonet  and  roundelay 
Sung  in  the  silent  greenwood  shade, 
These  simple  joys,  that  never  fail, 
Shall  bind  me  to  my  native  vale. 


AN  INSCRIPTION. 

Shepherd,  or  huntsman,  or  worn  mariner, 
Whate'er  thou  art,  who  wouldst  allay  thy  thirst. 
Drink  and  be  glad.    This  cistern  of  white  stone, 
Arch'tl,  and  /erwrought  with  many  a  sacred  verse, 
This  iron  c*p  chain'd  for  the  general  use. 
And  these  rude  seats  of  earth  within  the  grove, 
Were  given  by  Fatima.    Borne  hence  a  bride, 
*Twas  here  she  turn'd  from  her  beloved  sire. 
To  see  his  face  no  more.*    0,  if  thou  canst, 
('Tis  not  far  off,)  visit  his  tomb  with  flowers ; 
And  with  a  drop  of  this  sweet  water  fill 
The  two  small  cells  scoop'd  in  the  marble  there. 

See  an  anecdote  related  by  Pausanias,  iii.20. 


That  birds  may  come  and  drink  upon  his  grave, 
Making  it  holy  !* 


WRITTEN  IN  THE  HIGHLANDS  OF  SCOT 
LAND,  SEPTEMBER  2,  1812. 

Blue  was  the  loch,  the  clouds  were  gone, 
Ben  Lomond  in  his  glory  shone, 
When,  Luss,  I  left  thee ;  when  the  breeze 
Bore  me  from  thy  silver  sands. 
Thy  kirk-yard  wall  among  the  trees. 
Where,  gray  with  age,  the  dial  stands  ; 
That  dial  so  well  known  to  me  ; 
—Though  many  a  shadow  it  had  shed. 
Beloved  sister,  since  with  thee 
The  legend  on  the  stone  was  read. 

The  fairy  isles  fled  far  away ; 
That  with  its  woods  and  uplands  greet 
Where  shepherd  huts  are  dimly  seen, 
And  songs  are  heard  at  close  of  day ; 
That,  too,  the  deer's  wild  covert,  fled. 
And  that,  th'  asylum  of  the  dead : 
While,  as  the  boat  went  merrily, 
Much  of  Rob  Royt  the  boatman  told  ; 
His  arm,  that  fell  below  his  knee. 
His  cattle  ford  and  mountain  hold. 

Tarbatj|:  thy  shore  I  climb 'd  at  last. 
And,  thy  shady  region  pass'd. 
Upon  another  shore  I  stood. 
And  look'd  upon  another  flood  ;§ 
Great  ocean's  self !     ('Tis  he  who  fills 
That  vast  and  awful  depth  of  hills  ;) 
Where  many  an  elf  was  playing  round, 
Who  treads  unshod  his  classic  ground ; 
And  speaks,  his  native  rocks  among. 
As  Fingal  spoke,  and  Ossian  sung. 

Night  fell ;  and  dark  and  darker  grew 
That  narrow  sea,  that  narrow  sky. 
As  o'er  the  glimmering  waves  we  flew ; 
The  sea-bird  rustling,  wailing  by. 
And  now  the  grampus,  half  descried. 
Black  and  huge  above  the  tide. 
The  cliffs  and  promontories  there, 
Front  to  front,  and  broad  and  bare  ; 
Each  beyond  each,  with  giant  feet 
Advancing  as  in  haste  to  meet ; 
The  shatter'd  fortress,  whence  the  Dane 
Blew  his  shrill  blast,  nor  rush'd  in  vain. 
Tyrant  of  the  drear  domain  : 
All  into  midnight  shadow  sweep. 
When  day  springs  upward  from  the  deep  !| 
Kindling  the  waters  in  its  flight. 
The  prow  wakes  splendour  ;  and  the  oar, 
That  rose  and  fell  unseen  before. 
Flashes  in  a  sea  of  ?ight ! 
Glad  sign,  and  sure     for  now  we  hail 
Thy  flowers,  Glenfinnart,  in  the  gale ; 
And  bright  indeed  the  path  .>hould  be 
That  leads  to  friendship  and  to  thee  ! 

*  A  Turkish  superstition. 

t  A  famous  outlaw. 

t  Signifying,  in  the  Erse  language,  an  isthmuB. 

§  Loch  Long. 

II  A  phenomenon  described  by  many  navigators. 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


287 


O  blest  retreat,  and  sacred  too  ! 
Sacred  as  when  the  bell  of  prayer 
Toll'd  duly  on  the  desert  air, 
And  crosses  deck'd  thy  summits  blue. 
Oft,  like  some  loved  romantic  tale. 
Oft  shall  my  weary  mind  recall. 
Amid  the  hum  and  stir  of  men, 
Thy  beechen  grove  and  waterfall. 
Thy  ferry  with  its  gliding  sail. 
And  her — the  lady  of  the  glen  ! 


A  FAREWELL. 

Once  more,  enchanting  maid,  adiev  ! 
I  must  be  gone  while  j-et  I  may ; 
Oft  shall  I  weep  to  think  of  you. 
But  here  I  will  not,  cannot  stay. 

The  sweet  expression  of  that  face. 
For  ever  changing,  yet  the  same. 
Ah  no,  I  dare  not  turn  to  trace — 
It  melts  my  soul,  it  fires  my  frame  ! 

Yet  give  me,  give  me,  ere  I  go. 
One  little  lock  of  those  so  blest. 
That  lend  your  cheek  a  warmer  glow, 
And  on  j'our  white  neck  love  to  rest. 

—-Say,  when  to  kindle  soft  delight. 
That  hand  has  chanced  with  mine  to  meet. 
How  could  its  thrilling  touch  excite 
A  sigh  so  short,  and  3-et  so  sweet  ? 

O  say — but  no,  it  must  not  be. 
Adieu  !  a  long,  a  long  adieu  ! 
—Yet  still,  methinks,  you  frown  on  me. 
Or  never  could  I  fly  from  you. 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  TEMPLE. 

DEDICATED   TO    THE    GRACES.* 

Approach  with  reverence.    There  are  those  within 
Whose  dwelling-place   is   heaven.     Daughters   of 

Jove, 
From  them  flow  all  the  decencies  of  life ; 
Without  them  nothing  pleases,  virtue's  self 
Admired,  not  loved  ;  and  those  on  whom  they  smile. 
Great  though  they  be,  and  wise,  and  beautiful. 
Shine  forth  with  double  lustre. 


TO  THE  BUTTERFLY. 

Child  of  the  sun  !  pursue  thy  rapturous  flight, 
Mingling  with  her  thou  lovest  in  fields  of  light ; 
And,  where  the  flowers  of  paradise  unfold, 
Quaff  fragrant  nectar  from  their  cups  of  gold. 
There  shall  thy  wings,  rich  as  an  evening  sky. 
Expand  and  shut  with  silent  ecstasy  ! 
— Yet  wert  thou  once  a  worm,  a  thing  that  crept 
On  the  bare  earth,  then  wrought  a  tomb  and  slept. 
And  such  is  man ;  soon  from  his  cell  of  clay 
To  burst  a  seraph  in  the  blaze  of  day ! 

*At  WoburnAtcfy. 


WRITTEN  IN  WESTMINSTER  ABBEY. 
OCTOBER  10,  1806.* 

Whoe'er  thou  art,  approach,  and,  with  a  sigh, 
Mark  where  the  small  remains  of  greatness  lie.f 
There  sleeps  the  dust  of  Fox,  for  ever  gone: 
How  dear  the  place  where  late  his  glory  shone  ! 
And,  though  no  more  ascends  the  voice  of  prayer 
Though  the  last  footsteps  cease  to  linger  there. 
Still,  like  an  awful  dream  that  comes  again, 
Alas  !  at  best  as  transient  and  as  vain. 
Still  do  I  see  (while  through  the  vaults  of  night 
The  funeral  song  once  more  proclaims  the  rite) 
The  moving  pomp  along  the  shadowy  aisle, 
That,  like  a  darkness,  fill'd  the  solemn  pile  ; 
Th'  illustrious  line,  that  in  long  order  led. 
Of  those  that  loved  him  living,  mourn 'd  him  dead ; 
Of  those  the  few,  that  for  their  country  stood 
Round  him  who  dared  be  singularly  good  : 
All,  of  all  ranks,  that  claim 'd  him  for  their  own ; 
And  nothing  wanting — ^but  himself  alone  !^ 

O  say,  of  him  now  rests  there  but  a  name  ; 
Wont,  as  he  was,  to  breathe  ethereal  flame  ? 
Friend  of  the  absent,  guardian  of  the  dead  .'§ 
Who  but  would  here  their  sacred  sortows  shed  ? 
(Such  as  he  shed  on  Nelson's  closing  grave  ; 
How  soon  to  claim  the  sympathy  he  gave  !) 
In  him,  resentful  of  another's  wrong, 
The  dumb  were  eloquent,  the  feeble  strong. 
Truth  from  his  lips  a  charm  celestial  drew— 
Ah,  who  so  mighty  and  so  gentle  too  ?il 

What  though  with  war  the  madding  nations  rung, 
"  Peace,"  when  he  spoke,  was  ever  on  his  tongue  ! 
Amidst  the  frowns  of  power,  the  tricks  of  state, 
Fearless,  resolved,  and  negligently  great ! 
In  vain  malignant  vapours  gather'd  round; 
He  walk'd,  erect,  on  consecrated  ground. 
The  clouds,  that  rise  to  quench  the  orb  of  day. 
Reflect  its  splendour,  and  dissolve  away .' 

When  in  retreat  he  laid  his  thunder  by, 
For  letter'd  ease  and  calm  philosophy. 
Blest  were  his  hours  within  the  silent  grove, 
Where  still  his  godlike  spirit  deigns  to  rove  ; 
Blest  by  the  orphan's  smile,  the  widow's  prayer. 
For  many  a  deed,  long  done  in  secret  there. 
There  shone  his  lamp  on  Homer's  hallow'd  page  ; 
There,  listening,  sate  the  hero  and  the  sage 
And  they,  by  virtue  and  by  blood  allied. 
Whom  most  he  loved,  and  in  whose  arms  he  died. 

Friend  of  all  human  kind  !  not  here  alone 
(The  voice  that  speaks,  was  not  to  thee  unknown) 
Wilt  thou  be  miss'd.     O'er  every  land  and  sea, 
Long,  long  shall  England  be  revered  in  thee  ! 
And,  when  the  storm  is  hush'd — in  distant  years — 
Foes  on  thy  grave  shall  meet,  and  mingle  tears  ! 


*  After  the  funeral  of  the  Right  Hon.  Charles  Jamea 
Fox. 

t  Venez  voir  le  peu  qui  nous  reste  detant  de  grandeur, 
etc. — Bossuet.     Oraison/unibre  de  Louis  de  Bourbon. 

t  Et  rien  enfin  ne  manque  dans  tous  ces  honneurs,  ^ua 
celui  ii  qui  on  les  rend.— ibid. 

§  Alluding  particularly  to  his  speech  on  moving  a  new 
writ  for  the  borough  of  Tavistock,  March  16,  1S02. 

II  See  that  admirable  delineation  of  his  character  by  Sir 
Jam»s  Mackintosh,  which  first  appeared  in  the  Bombay 
Courier.  January  17, 1807. 


jAMES  grahame. 


The  poem  of  The  Sabbath  will  long  endear  the 
name  of  James  Grahame  to  all  who  love  the  due 
observance  of  Sunday,  and  are  acquainted  with  the 
devout  thoughts  and  poetic  feeling  which  it  inspires. 
Nor  will  he  be  remembered  for  this  alone  ;  his 
British  Georgics  and  his  Birds  of  Scotland,  rank 
with  those  productions  whose  images  and  sentiments 
take  silent  possession  of  the  mind,  and  abide  there 
when  more  startling  and  obtrusive  things  are 
forgotten.  There  is  a  quiet  natural  ease  about  all 
his  descriptions  ;  a  light  and  shade  both  of  land- 
scape and  character  in  all  his  pictures,  and  a  truth 
and  beauty  which  prove  that  he  copied  from  his 
own  emotions,  and  painted  with  the  aid  of  his  own 
eyes,  without  looking,  as  Dryden  said,  through  the 
spectacles  of  books.  To  his  fervent  piety  as  well 
as  poetic  spirit  the  public  has  borne  testimony,  by 
purchasing  many  copies  of  his  works.  The  Birds  of 
Scotland  is  a  fine  series  of  pictures,  giving  the  form, 
the  plumage,  the  haunts,  and  habits  of  each  individ- 
ual bird,  with  a  graphic  fidelity  rivalling  the  labours 
of  Wilson.  His  drama  of  Mary  Stuart  wants  that 
passionate  and  happy  vigour  which  the  stage  re- 
quires ;  some  of  his  songs  are  natural  and  elegant ; 
his  Sabbath  Walks,  Biblical  Pictures,  and  Rural 
Calendar,  are  all  alike  remarkable  for  accuracy  of 
description  and  an  original  turn  of  thought.  He 
was  born  at  Glasgow,  22d  April,  1765  ;  his  father, 
who  was  a  writer,  educated  him  for  the  bar,  but  he 
showed  an  early  leaning  to  the  Muses,  and  such  a 
love  of  truth  and  honour  as  hindered  him  from 
accepting  briefs  which  were  likely  to  lead  him  out 
of  the  paths  of  equity  and  justice.  His  Sabbath 
was  written  and  published  in  secret,  and  he  had  the 
pleasure  of  finding  the  lady  whom  he  had  married 
among  its  warmest  admirers  ;  nor  did  her  admira- 
tion lessen  when  she  discovered  the  author.  His 
health  declined ;  he  accepted  the  living  of  Sedge- 
ware,  near  Durham,  and  performed  his  duties 
diligently  and  well  till  within  a  short  time  of  his 
death,  which  took  place  14th  September,  1811. 

The  great  charm  of  Mr.  Grahame's  poetry,  (says  a 
writer  in  the  Edinburgh  Review,)  appears  to  us  to 
consist  in  its  moral  character ;  in  that  natural  ex- 
pression of  kindness  and  tenderness  of  heart,  which 
gives  such  a  peculiar  air  of  paternal  goodness  and  pa- 
triarchal simplicity  to  his  writings  ;  and  that  earnest 
and  intimate  sympathy  with  the  objects  of  his  com- 
passion, which  assures  us  at  once  that  he  is  not 
making  a  theatrical  display  of  sensibility,  but  merely 


giving  vent  to  the  familiar  sentiments  of  his  bosom. 
We  can  trace  here,  in  short,  and  with  the  same  pleas- 
ing effect,  that  entire  absence  of  art,  effort,  and  af- 
fectation, which  we  have  already  noticed  as  the  most 
remarkable  distinction  of  his  attempts  in  descrip- 
tion. Almost  all  the  other  poets  with  whom  we  are 
acquainted,  appear  but  too  obviously  to  put  their 
feelings  and  affections,  as  well  as  their  fancies  and 
phrases,  into  a  sort  of  studied  dress,  before  the}' 
venture  to  present  them  to  the  crowded  assembly 
of  the  public :  and  though  the  style  and  fashion  of 
this  dress  varies  according  to  the  taste  and  ability 
of  the  inventors,  still  it  serves  almost  equally  to 
hide  their  native  proportions,  and  Lo  prove  that 
they  were  a  little  ashamed  or  afraid  to  exhibit 
them  as  they  really  were.  Now,  Mr.  Grahame, 
we  think,  has  got  over  this  general  nervousness 
and  shyness  about  showing  the  natural  and  simple 
feelings  with  which  the  contemplation  of  human 
emotion  should  affect  us ;  or  rather,  has  been  too 
seriously  occupied,  and  too  constantly  engrossed 
with  the  feelings  themselves,  to  think  how  the 
confession  of  them  might  be  taken  by  the  gene- 
rality of  his  readers,  to  concern  himself  about  the 
contempt  of  the  fastidious,  or  the  derision  of  the 
unfeeling.  In  his  poetry,  therefore,  we  meet  nei- 
ther with  the  Musidoras  and  Damons  of  Thomson, 
nor  the  gipsy-women  and  Ellen  Orfords  of  Crabbe ; 
and  still  less  with  the  Matthew  SchooLnasters, 
Alice  Fells,  or  Martha  Raes  of  Mr.  Wordsworth ; — 
but  we  meet  with  the  ordinary  peasants  of  Scot- 
land in  their  ordinary  situations,  and  with  a  touch- 
ing and  simple  expression  of  concern  for  their  suf- 
ferings, and  of  generous  indulgence  for  their  faults. 
He  is  not  ashamed  of  his  kindness  and  condescen- 
sion, on  the  one  hand ;  nor  is  he  ostentatious  or 
vain  of  it,  on  the  other ;  but  gives  expression  in 
the  most  plain  and  unaffected  manner  to  sentiments 
that  are  neither  counterfeited  nor  disguised.  We 
do  not  know  any  poetry,  indeed,  that  lets  us  in  so 
directly  to  the  heart  of  the  writer,  and  produces  so 
full  and  pleasing  a  conviction  that  it  is  dictated  by 
the  genuine  feelings  which  it  aims  at  communicat- 
ing to  the  reader.  If  there  be  less  fire  and  eleva- 
tion than  in  the  strains  of  some  of  his  contempo- 
raries, there  is  more  truth  and  tenderness  than  is 
commonly  found  along  with  those  qualities,  and 
less  getting  up  either  of  language  or  of  sentiment 
than  we  recollect  to  have  met  with  in  any  modern 
composition. 

SS8 


THE  SABBATH. 


289 


THE  SABBATH. 


ARGUIMENT. 
Description  of  a  Sabbath  morning  in  the  country.  The 
labourer  at  home.  The  town  mechanic's  morning 
walk ;  his  meditation.  The  sound  of  bells.  Crowd 
proceeding  to  church.  Interval  before  the  service 
begins.  Scottish  service.  English  service.  Scriptures 
read.  The  organ,  with  the  voices  of  the  people.  The 
Bound  borne  to  the  sick  man's  couch  :  his  wish.  The 
worship  of  God  in  the  solitude  of  the  woods.  The 
shepherd  boy  among  the  hills.  People  seen  on  the 
heights  returning  from  church.  Contrast  of  the  present 
times  with  those  immediately  preceding  the  Revolu- 
tion. The  persecution  of  the  Covenanters:  A  Sabbath 
conventicle  :  Cameron ;  Renwick :  Psalms.  Night 
conventicles  during  storms.  A  funeral  according  to 
the  rites  of  the  church  of  England.  A  female  charac- 
ter.  The  suicide.  Expostulation.  The  incurab.e  of 
an  hospital.  A  prison  scene.  Debtors.  Divine  ser- 
vice in  the  prison  hall.  Persons  under  sentence  of 
death.  The  public  guilt  of  inflicting  capital  punish- 
ments on  persons  who  have  been  left  destitute  of  re- 
ligious and  moral  instruction.  Childrenproceeding  to 
a  Sunday-school.  The  father.  The  impress.  Appeal 
on  the  indiscriminate  severity  of  criminal  law.  Com- 
parative mildness  of  the  Jewish  law.  The  year  of  ju- 
bilee. Description  of  the  commencement  of  the  jubilee. 
The  sound  of  the  trumpets  through  the  land.  The  bond- 
man and  his  family  returning  from  their  servitude  to 
take  possession  of  their  inheritance.  Emigrants  to  the 
wilds  of  America.  Their  Sabbath  worship.  The  whole 
inhabitants  of  Highland  districts  who  have  emigrated 
together,  still  regret  their  country.  Even  the  blind 
man  regrets  the  objects  with  which  he  had  been  con- 
versant. An  emigrant's  contrast  between  the  tropical 
climates  and  Scotland.  The  boy  v-ho  had  been  born 
on  the  voyage.  Description  of  a  person  on  a  desert 
island.  His  Sabbath.  His  release.  Missionary  ship. 
The  Pacific  ocean.  Defence  of  missionaries.  Etfects 
of  the  conversion  of  the  primitive  Christians.  Transi- 
tion to  the  slave  trade.  The  Sabbath  in  a  slave  ship. 
Appeal  to  England  on  ihe  subject  of  her  encouragement 
to  this  horrible  complication  of  crimes.  Transition  to 
war.  Unfortunate  issue  of  the  late  war — in  France — 
in  Switzerland.  Apostrophe  to  Tell.  The  attempt  to 
resist  too  late.  The  treacherous  foes  already  in  pos- 
session of  the  passes.  Their  devastating  progress. 
Desolation.  Address  to  Scotland.  Happiness  of  seclu- 
sion from  the  world.  Description  of  a  Sabbath  evening 
in  Scotland.  Psalmody.  An  aged  man.  Description 
of  an  industrious  female  reduced  to  poverty  by  old  age 
and  disease.  Disinterested  virtuous  conduct  to  be  iound 
chiefly  in  the  lower  walks  of  life.  Test  of  charity  in  the 
opulent.  Recommendation  to  the  rich  to  devote  a  por- 
tion of  the  Sabbath  to  the  duty  of  vititing  the  sick.  In- 
vocation to  health— to  music.  The  Beguine  nuns.  Laza- 
rus. The  Resurrection.  Dawnings  of  faith— its  progress 
—consummation. 

How  still  the  morning  of  the  hallow'd  day ! 
Mute  is  the  voice  of  rural  labour,  hush'd 
The  ploughboy's  whistle,  and  the  milkmaid's  song. 
The  scythe  lies  glittering  in  the  dewy  wreath 
Of  tedded  grass,  mingled  with  fading  flowers. 
That  yester-morn  bloom'd  waving  in  the  breezo. 
Sounds  the  most  faint  attract  the  ear — the  hun> 
Of  early  bee,  the  trickling  of  the  dew, 
The  distant  bleating  midway  up  the  hill. 
Calmness  sits  throned  on  yon  unmoving  clo'id . 
To  him  who  wanders  o'er  the  upland  leas. 
The  blackbird's  note  comes  mellower  from  l\it  d  ,ie  ; 
And  sweeter  from  the  sky  the  gladsome  lark 
Warbles  his  heaven-tuned  song  ;  the  lulluig  Lrouk 
Vol.  ni.— 19 


Murmurs  more  gently  down  the  deep-worn  glen  ; 
"\Miile  from  yon  lowly  roof,  whose  curling  smoke 
O'ermounts  the  mist,  is  heard,  at  intervals. 
The  voice  of  psalms — the  simple  song  of  praise. 

With   dove-like  wings,  peace   o'er  yon   village 
broods ; 
The  dizzying  mill-wheel  rests  ;  the  anvil's  din 
Hath  ceased  ;  all,  all  around  is  quietness. 
Less  fearful  on  this  day,  the  limping  hare 
Stops,  and  looks  back,  and  stops,  and  looks  on  man. 
Her  deadliest  foe.     The  toil-worn  horse,  set  free, 
Unheedful  of  the  pasture,  roams  at  large  ; 
And,  as  his  stiff  unwieldy  bulk  he  rolls. 
His  iron-armed  hoofs  gleam  in  the  morning  ray. 

But  chiefly  man  the  day  of  rest  enjoys. 
Hail,  Sabbath  !  thee  I  hail,  the  poor  man's  day. 
On  other  days  the  man  of  toil  is  doom'd 
To  eat  his  joyless  bread,  lonely  ;  the  ground 
Both  seat  and  board ;  screen'd  from  the  winter's  cold 
And  summer's  heat,  by  neighbouring  hedge  or  tree; 
But  on  this  day,  imbosom'd  in  his  home. 
He  shares  the  frugal  meal  with  those  he  loves  ; 
With  those  he  loves  he  shares  the  heartfelt  joy 
Of  giving  thanks  to  God — not  thanks  of  form, 
A  word  and  a  grimace,  but  reverently. 
With  cover'd  face  and  upward  earnest  eye. 

Hail,  Sabbath  !  thee  I  hail,  the  poor  man's  day. 
The  pale  mechanic  now  has  leave  to  breathe 
The  morning  air,  pure  from  the  city's  smoke ; 
While,  wandering  slowly  up  the  river-side. 
He  meditates  on  Him,  whose  power  he  marks 
In  each  green  tree  that  proudly  spreads  the  bough, 
As  in  the  tiny  dew-bent  flowers  that  bloom 
Around  its  roots ;  and  while  he  thus  surveys. 
With  elevated  joy,  each  rural  charm. 
He  hopes,  yet  fears  presumption  in  the  hope. 
That  heaven  may  be  one  Sabbath  without  end. 

But  now  his  steps  a  welcome  sound  recalls  : 
Solemn  the  knell,  from  yonder  ancient  pile, 
Fills  all  the  air,  inspiring  joyful  awe  : 
Slowly  the  throng  moves  o'er  the  tomb-paved  ground. 
The  aged  man,  the  bowed  down,  the  bli':d 
Led  by  the  thoughtless  boy,  and  he  wno  breathes 
With  pain,  and  eyes   the   pew-made   grave  well 

pleased  ; 
These,  mingled  with  the  voung,  tlic  giy,  approach 
The  house  of  God ;  the?2,  spitb  of  «.il  tlieir  ills, 
A  glow  of  gladnes*-.  feel  -,  With  silent  praise 
They  enter  in.     A  placiw  stillness  reigns. 
Until  the  man  of  (Jod,  -Ar;,i-thy  the  name. 
Arise  and  read  th*  a.iolatcd  shepherd's  lays. 
His  locks  of  snow,  Lis  Lrow  serene,  his  look 
Of  love,  it  sptaks,  •  Ye  are  my  children  all ; 
The  gray-hair  d  .n-n,  stooping  upon  his  staff. 
As  well  as  he,  th<j  giddy  child,  whose  eye 
Pursues  the  wW  allow  flitting  thwart  the  dome." 
Loud  swel.s  ;he  song :  0  how  that  simple  song. 
Though  .udely  chanted,  how  it  melts  the  hearC, 
Cor,imlnglir.g  soul  with  soul  in  one  full  tide 
Of  praise,  of  thankfulness,  of  humble  trust ! 
Next  comes  the  unpremeditated  praj'er, 
Breathed  from  the  inmost  heart,  in  accents  loT" 
But  earnest. — Alter'd  is  the  tone ;  to  man 
Are  now  address'd  the  sacred  speaker's  word*.. 
Instruction,  admonition,  comfort,  peace. 
Flow  from  h;s  tongue :  0  chief  let  cemfort  U*' 


290 


GRAHAME. 


It  is  most  needed  in  this  vale  of  tears : 

yfes,  make  the  widow's  heart  to  sing  for  joy ; 

The  stranger  to  discern  th'  Almighty's  shield 

Held  o'er  his  friendless  head ;  the  orphan  child 

Feel,  'mid  his  tears,  I  have  a  father  still ! 

'Tis  done.     But  hark  that  infant  querulous  voice 

Plaint  not  discordant  to  a  parent's  ear ; 

And  see  the  father  raise  the  white-robed  babe 

In  solemn  dedication  to  the  Lord : 

The  holy  man  sprinkles  with  forth-stretch'd  hand 

The  face  of  innocence ;  then  earnest  turns. 

And  prays  a  blessing  in  the  name  of  Him 

Who  said,  Let  little  children  come  to  me  j 

Forbid  them  not  :*  the  infant  is  replaced 

Among  the  happy  band  :  they,  smilingly, 

In  gay  attire,  hie  to  the  house  of  mirth, 

The  poor  man's  festival,  a  jubilee  day, 

Hemember'd  long. 

Nor  would  I  leave  unsung 
The  lofty  ritual  of  our  sister  land  : 
In  vestment  white,  the  minister  of  God 
Opens  the  book,  and  reverentially 
The  stated  portion  reads.    A  pause  ensues. 
The  organ  breathes  its  distant  thunder-notes. 
Then  swells  into  a  diapason  full  : 
The  people  rising,  sing,  With  harp,  with  harp. 
And  voice  of  psalms  ;  harmoniously  attuned 
The  various  voices  blend  ;  the  long  drawn  aisles, 
At  every  close,  the  lingering  strain  prolong. 
And  now  the  tubes  a  mellow'd  stop  controls. 
In  softer  harmony  the  people  join. 
While  liquid  whispers  from  yon  orphan  band 
Recall  the  soul  from  adoration's  trance. 
And  fill  the  eye  with  pity's  gentle  tears. 
Again  the  organ-peal,  loud-rolling,  meets 
The  hallelujahs  of  the  choir  :  Sublime, 
A  thousand  notes  symphoniously  ascend. 
As  if  the  whole  were  one,  suspended  high 
In  air,  soaring  heavenward :  afar  they  float. 
Wafting  glad  tidings  to  the  sick  man's  couch: 
Raised  on  his  arm,  he  lists  the  cadence  close. 
Yet  thinks  he  hears  it  still :  his  heart  is  cheer'd  ; 
He  smiles  on  death  ;  but,  ah  !  a  wish  will  rise, — 
*'  Would  I  were  now  beneath  that  echoing  roof ! 
No  lukewarm  accents  from  my  lips  should  flow ; 
My  heart  would  sing ;  and  many  a  Sabbath-day 
My  steps  should  thither  turn  ;  or,  wandering  far 
In  solitary  paths,  where  wild  flowers  blow. 
There  would  I  bless  his  name,  who  led  me  forth 
from  death's  dark  vale,  to  wafjc  amid  those  sweets, 
Who  gives  the  bloom  of  health  once  more  to  glow 
Upon  this  cheek,  and  lights  this  languid  eye." 

It  is  not  only  in  the  sacred  fane 
That  homage  should  be  paid  to  the  Most  High  ; 
There  is  a  temple,  one  not  made  with  hands — 
The  vaulted  firmament :  Far  in  the  woods. 


*  "  And  they  brt;ught  young  children  to  him  that  he 
Bhould  touch  them ;  and  his  disciples  rebuked  those  that 
brought  them.  But  when  Jesus  saw  it,  he  was  much  dis- 
pleased, and  said  unto  them,  Suffer  the  little  children  to 
come  unto  me,  and  forbid  them  not ;  for  of  such  is  the 
kingdom  of  God.  Verily,  I  say  unto  you,  Whosoever 
shall  not  receive  the  kingdom  of  God  as  a  little  child,  he 
Bhftll  not  enter  therein.  And  he  took  them  up  sa  hia 
arms,  put  his  hands  upon  them,  and  bles»»^  t^-zo." 
Mark  x.  13-16. 


Almost  beyond  the  sound  of  city  chime. 

At  intervals  heard  through  the  breezeless  air ; 

When  not  the  limberest  leaf  is  seen  to  move, 

Save  where  the  linnet  lights  upon  the  spray  j 

When  not  a  floweret  bends  its  little  stalk. 

Save  where  the  bee  alights  upon  the  bloom  ;— 

There,  rapt  in  gratitude,  in  joy,  and  love, 

The  man  of  God  will  pass  the  Sabbath  noon  ; 

Silence  his  praise  ;  his  disembodied  thoughts, 

Loosed  from  the  load  of  words,  will  high  ascend 

Beyond  the  empyrean. — 

Nor  yet  less  pleasing  at  the  heavenly  throne, 

The  Sabbath-service  of  the  shepherd-boy. 

In  some  lone  glen,  where  every  sound  is  lull'd 

To  slumber,  save  the  tinkling  of  the  rill. 

Or  bleat  of  lamb,  or  hovering  falcon's  cry, 

Stretch'd  on  the  sward,  he  reads  of  Jesse's  son  ; 

Or  sheds  a  tear  o'er  him  to  Egypt  sold. 

And  wonders  why  he  weeps  ;  the  volume  closed. 

With  thyme-sprig  laid  between  the  leaves,  he  sings 

The  sacred  lays,  his  weekly  lesson,  conn'd 

With  meikle  care  beneath  the  lowly  roof, 

Where  humble  lore  is  learnt,  where  humble  worth 

Pines  unrewarded  by  a  thankless  state. 

Thus  reading,  hymning,  all  alone,  unseen. 

The  shepherd-boy  the  Sabbath  holy  keeps. 

Till  on  the  heights  he  marks  the  straggling  bands 

Returning  homeward  from  the  house  of  prayer. 

In  peace  they  home  resort.     0  blissful  days  I 

When  all  men  worship  God  as  conscience  wills. 

Far  other  times  our  fathers'  grandsires  knew, 

A  virtuous  race,  to  godliness  devote. 

What  though  the  skeptic's  scorn  hath  dared  to  soil 

The  record  of  their  fame  !  what  though  the  men 

Of  worldly  minds  have  dared  to  stigmatize 

The  sister-cause,  religion  and  the  law. 

With  superstition's  name  !  yet,  yet  their  deeds, 

Their  constancy  in  torture  and  in  death, — 

These  on  tradition's  tongue  still  live  ;  these  shall 

On  history's  honest  page  be  pictured  bright 

To  latest  times.     Perhaps  some  bard,  whose  muse 

Disdains  the  servile  strain  of  fashion's  quire. 

May  celebrate  their  unambitious  names. 

With  them  each  day  was  holy,  every  hour 

They  stood  prepared  to  die,  a  people  doom'd 

To  death ; — old  men,  and  youths,  and  simple  maids. 

With  them  each  day  was  holy  ;  but  that  morn 

On  which  the  angel  said.  See  where  the  Lord 

Was  laid,  joyous  arose  ;  to  die  that  day 

Was  bliss.     Long  ere  the  dawn,  by  devious  ways. 

O'er  hills,  through  woods,  o'er  dreary  wastes,  they 

sought 
The  upland  muirs,  where  rivers,  there  but  brooks, 
Dispart  to  different  seas  :  Fast  by  such  brooks 
A  little  glen  is  sometimes  scoop'd,  a  plat 
With  green  sward  gay,  and  flowers  that  strangeni 

seem 
Amid  the  heathery  wild,  that  all  around 
Fatigues  the  eye  ;  in  solitudes  like  these. 
Thy  persecuted  children,  Scotia,  foil'd 
A  tyrant's  and  a  bigot's  bloody  laws  : 
THere,  leaning  on  his  spear,  (one  of  the  arraj, 
Wnose  gleam,  in  former  days,  had  scathed  the  rose 
On  England's  banner,  and  had  powerless  struck 
Tke  mfatuate  monarch  and  his  wavering  host,) 
TUd  lyart  veteran  heard  the  word  of  God 


THE    SABBATH. 


29i 


By  Cameron  thunder'd,  or  by  Renwick  poiir'd 
In  gentle  stream ;  then  rose  the  song,  the  loud 
Acclaim  of  praise.     The  wheeling  plover  ceased 
Her  plaint ;  the  solitary  place  was  glad. 
And  on  the  distant  caii-ns  the  watcher's  ear* 
Caught  doubtfully  at  times  the  breeze-borne  note, 
But  years  more  gloomy  follow'd  ;  and  no  more 
Th'  assembled  people  dared,  in  face  of  day, 
To  worship  God,  or  even  at  the  dead 
Of  night,  save  when  the  wintry  storm  raved  fierce, 
And  thunder-peals  compell'd  the  men  of  blood 
To  couch  within  their  dens :  tlien  dauntlessly 
The  scatter'd  few  would  meet,  in  some  deep  dell 
By  rocks  o'er-canopied,  to  hear  the  "oice, 
Their  faithful  pastor's  voice :  He  by  Jie  gleam 
Of  sheeted  lightning  oped  the  sacred  book. 
And  words  of  comfort  spake :  Over  their  souls 
His  accents  soothing  came, — as  to  her  young 
The  heathfowl's  plumes,  when,  at  the  close  of  eve. 
She  gathers  in,  mournful,  her  brood  dispersed 
By  murderous  sport,  and  o'er  the  remnant  spreads 
Fondly  her  wings  ;  .close  nestling  'neath  her  breast, 
They,  cherish'd,  cower  amid  the  purple  blooms. 

But  wood  and  wild,  the  mountain  and  the  dale. 
The  house  of  prayer  itself, — no  place  inspires 
Emotions  more  accordant  with  the  day. 
Than  does  the  field  of  graves,  the  land  of  rest: — 
Oft  at  the  close  of  evening  pra^'er,  the  toll, 
The  solemn  funeral  toll,  pausing,  proclaims 
The  service  of  the  tomb  :  the  homeward  crowds 
Divide  on  either  hand  ;  the  pomp  draws  near  : 
The  choir  to  meet  the  dead  go  forth,  and  sing, 
/  am  the  resurrection  and  the  life. 
Ah  me  !  these  youthful  bearers  robed  in  white. 
They  tell  a  mournful  tale  ;  some  blooming  friend 
Is  gone,  dead  in  her  prime  of  years : — 'Twas  she, 
The  poor  man's  friend,  who,  when  she  could  not 

give, 
With  angel  tongue  pleaded  to  those  Avho  could  ; 
With  angel  tongue  and  mild  beseeching  eye. 
That  ne'er  besought  in  vain,  save  when  she  pray'd 
For  longer  life,  with  heart  resign'd  to  die, — 
Rejoiced  to  die  ;  for  happy  visions  bless'd 
Her  voyage's  last  days,t  and  hovering  round, 
Alighted  on  her  soul,  giving  presage 

That  heaven  was  nigh : 0  what  a  burst 

Of  rapture  from  her  lips  !  what  tears  of  joy 

Her  heavei.ward  eyes  suffused  !    Those  eyes  are 

clos<f  i ; 
But  all  her  ioveliness  is  not  yet  flown : 
She  smiled  in  death,  and  still  her  cold,  pale  face 
Retains  that  smile  ;  as  when  a  waveless  lake, 
In  which  the  wintry  stars  all  bright  appear. 
Is  sheeted  by  a  nightly  frost  with  ice, 
Still  it  reflects  the  face  of  heaven  unchanged. 
Unruffled  by  the  breeze  or  sweeping  blast. 
Again  that  knell !     The  slow  procession  stops : 
The  pall  withdrawn,  death's  altar,  thick  emboss'd 

♦  Sentinels  were  placed  on  the  surrounding  hills  to 
five  warning  of  the  approach  of  the  military. 

t  Towards  the  end  of  Columbus's  voyage  to  the  new 
World,  when  he  was  already  near,  but  not  in  sight  of  land, 
the  drooping  hopes  of  his  mariners  (for  his  own  confidence 
•eems  to  have  remained  unmoved)  were  revived  by  the 
appearance  of  birds,  at  first  hovering  round  the  ship,  and 
then  alighting  on  tlie  ringing. 


With  melanchcrly  ornaments — (the  name. 
The  record  of  her  blossoming  age) — appear! 
Unveil'd,  and  on  it  dust  to  dust  is  thrown. 
The  final  rite.     0  !  hark  that  sullen  sound  ! 
Upon  the  lower'd  bier  the  shovell'd  clay 
Falls  fast,  and  fills  the  void. — 

But  who  is  he 
That  stands  aloof,  with  haggard,  wistful  eye. 
As  if  he  coveted  the  closing  grave  i* 
And  he  does  covet  it — his  wish  is  death  : 
The  dread  resolve  is  fix'd ;  his  own  right-hand 
Is  sworn  to  do  the  deed :  The  day  of  rest 
No  peace,  no  comfort  brings  his  wo-worn  spirit : 
Self-cursed,  the  hallow'd  dome  he  dreads  to  enter 
He  dares  not  pray  ;  he  dares  not  sigh  a  hope  ; 
Annihilation  is  his  only  heaven. 
Loathsome  the  converse  of  his  friends :  he  shuns 
The  human  face ;  in  every  careless  eye 
Suspicion  of  his  purpose  seems  to  lurk. 
Deep  pinj^  shades  he  loves,  where  no  sweet  note 
Is  warbled,  where  the  rook  unceasing  caws: 
Or  far  in  moors,  remote  from  house  or  hut. 
Where  animated  nature  seems  extinct. 
Where  e'en  the  hum  of  wandering  bee  ne'er  breaks 
The  quiet  slumber  of  the  level  waste ; 
Where  vegetation's  traces  almost  fail. 
Save  where  the  leafless  cannachs  wave  their  tufts 
Of  silky  white,  or  massy  oaken  trunks 
Half  buried  lie,  and  tell  where  greenwoods  grew,— 
There  on  the  heathless  moss  outstretch'd  he  broods 
O'er  all  his  ever-changing  plans  of  death: 
The  time,  place,  means,  sweep  like  a  stormy  rack, 
In  fleet  succession,  o'er  his  clouded  soul ; — 
The  poniard, — and  the  opium  draught,  that  brings 
Death  by  degrees,  but  leaves  an  awful  chasm 
Between  the  act  and  consequence, — the  flash 
Sulphureous,  fraught  with  instantaneous  death  ;, — 
The  ruin'd  tower  perch 'd  on  some  jutting  rock. 
So  high  that,  'tween  the  leap  and  dash  below, 
The  breath  might  take  its  flight  in  midway  air,— 
This  pleases  for  a  while  ;  but  on  the  brink. 
Back  from  the  toppling  edge  his  fancy  shrinks 
In  horror:  sleep  at  last  his  breast  becalms, — ■ 
He  dreams  'tis  done  ;  but  starting  wild  awakes. 
Resigning  to  despair  his  dream  of  joy. 
Then  hope,  faint  hope,  revives — hope,  that  deepaii 
May  to  his  aid  let  loose  the  demon  frenzy. 
To  lead  scared  conscience  blindfold  o'er  the  brink 
Of  self-destruction's  cataract  of  blood. 
Most  miserable,  most  incongruous  wretch  ! 
Darest  thou  to  spurn  thy  life,  the  boon  of  God, 
Yet  dreadest  to  approach  his  holy  place  ? 
0  dare  to  enter  in  I  maybe  som.e  word. 
Or  sweetly  chanted  strain,  will  in  thy  heart 
Awake  a  chord  in  unison  with  life. 
What  are  thy  fancied  woes  to  his,  whose  fate 
Is  (sentence  dire  !)  incurable  disease, — 
The  outcast  of  a  lazar  house,  homeless. 
Or  with  a  home  where  eyes  do  scowl  on  him ! 
Yet  he,  e'en  he,  with  feeble  steps  draws  near. 
With  trembling  voice  joins  in  the  song  of  praise. 
Patient  he  waits  the  hour  of  his  release  ; 
He  knows  he  has  a  home  beyond  the  grave. 

Or  turn  thee  to  that  house  with  studded  doors. 
And  iron-visor'd  windows  ;  even  there 
The  Sabbath  sheds  a  beam  of  bliss,  thovgh  faint  | 


292 


GRAHAME 


The  debtor's  friends  (for  still  he  haS  some  friends) 

Have  time  to  visit  hi;;  ;  the  blossoming  pea, 

That  climbs  the  rust-vo..jj  bars,  seems  fresher  tinged; 

And  on  the  little  turf,  this  day  renew'd. 

The  lark,  his  prison  mate,  quivers  the  wing 

With  more  than  wonted  joy.    See,  through  the  bars 

That  pallid  face  retreating  from  the  view, 

That  glittering  eye  following,  with  hopeless  look, 

The  friends  of  former  years,  now  passing  by 

In  peaceful  fellowship  to  worship  God : 

With  them,  in  days  of  youthful  years,  he  roam'd 

O'er  hill  and  dale,  o'er  broomy  knowe ;  and  wist 

As  little  as  the  blithest  of  the  band 

Of  this  his  lot ;  condemn'd,  condemn'd  unheard, 

The  party  for  his  judge ; — among  the  throng, 

The  Pharisaical  hard-hearted  man 

He  sees  pass  on,  to  join  the  heaven-taught  prayer, 

Forgive  our  debts  as  we  forgive  our  debtors : 

From  unforgiving  lips  most  impious  prayer  ! 

O  happier  far  the  victim  than  the  hand 

That  deals  the  legal  stab  !     The  injured  man 

Enjoys  internal,  settled  calm ;  to  him 

The  Sabbath  bell  sounds  peace  ;  he  loves  to  meet 

His  fellow  sufferers  to  pray  and  praise : 

And  many  a  prayer,  as  pure  as  e'er  was  breathed 

In  holy  fanes,  is  sigh'd  in  prison  halls. 

Ah  me  !  that  clank  of  chains,  as  kneel  and  rise 

The  death-doom'd  row.     But  see,  a  smile  illumes 

The  face  of  some  ;  perhaps  they're  guiltless  :  0  ! 

And  must  high-minded  honesty  endure 

The  ignominy  of  a  felon's  fate  ! 

No,  'tis  not  ignominious  to  be  wrong'd  :^ 

No  ;  conscious  exultation  swells  their  hearts 

To  think  the  day  draws  nigh,  when  in  the  view 

Of  angels,  and  of  just  men  perfect  made. 

The  mark  which  rashness  branded  on  their  names 

Shall  be  effaced  ; — when  v/afted  on  life's  storm. 

Their  souls  shall  reach  the  Sabbath  of  the  skies  ; — 

As  birds  from  bleak  Norwegia's  wintry  coast 

Blown  out  to  sea,  strive  to  regain  the  shore, 

But,  vainly  striving,  yield  them  to  the  blast. — 

Swept  o'er  the  deep  to  Albion's  genial  isle. 

Amazed  they  light  amid  the  bloomy  sprays 

Of  some  green  vale,  there  to  enjoy  new  loves. 

And  join  in  harmony  unheard  before. 

The  land  is  groaning  'neath  the  guilt  of  blood 
Spilt  wantonly :  for  every  death-doom'd  man. 
Who,  in  his  boyhood,  has  been  left  untaught 
That  wisdorn's  ways  are  ways  of  pleasantness ^ 
And  all  her  paths  are  peace,  unjustly  dies. 
But,  ah  !  how  many  are  thus  left  untaught, — 
How  many  would  be  left,  but  for  the  band 
United  to  keep  holy  to  the  Lord 
A  portion  of  his  day,  by  teaching  those 
Whom  Jesus   loved  with  forth-stretch'd  hand  to 

bless ! 
Behold  yon  motley  train,  by  two  and  two, 
Each  with  a  Bible  'neath  its  little  arm. 
Approach  well  pleased,  as  if  they  went  to  play, 
The  dome  where  simple  lore  is  learnt  unbought : 
And  mark  the  father  'mid  the  sideway  throng ; 
Well  do  I  know  him  by  his  glistening  eye. 
That  follows  steadfastly  one  of  the  line, 
A  dark  seafaring  man  he  looks  to  be ; 
And  much  it  glads  his  boding  heart  to  think. 
That  when  once  more  he  sails  the  valley'd  deep, 


His  child  shall  still  receive  instruction's  boon. 
But  hark, — a  noise, — a  cry, — a  gleam  of  swords  !-* 
Resistance  is  in  vain, — he's  borne  away, 
Nor  is  allow'd  to  clasp  his  weeping  child. 

My  innocent,  so  helpless,  yet  so  gay  ! 
How  could  I  bear  to  be  thus  rudely  torn 
From  thee ; — to  see  thee  lift  thy  little  arm, 
And  impotently  strike  the  ruffian  man, — 
To  hear  thee  bid  him  chidingly — ^begone  ! 

O  ye  who  live  at  home,  and  kiss  each  eve 
Your  sleeping  infants  ere  you  go  to  rest. 
And,  waken'd  by  their  call,  lift  up  your  eyes 
Upon  their  morning  smile, — think,  think  of  those, 
W^ho,  torn  away  without  one  farewell  word 
To  wife  or  children,  sigh  the  day  of  life 
In  banishment  from  all  that's  dear  to  man ; — 
0  raise  your  voices  in  one  general  peal 
Remonstrant,  for  th'  oppress'd.    And  ye,  who  sit 
Month  after  month  devising  impost  laws, 
Give  some  small  portion  of  your  midnight  vigils 
To  mitigate,  if  not  remove,  the  wrong. 

Relentless  justice  !  with  fate-furrow'd  brow ; 
Wherefore  to  various  crimes  of  various  guilt. 
One  penalty,  the  most  severe,  allot  ? 
Why,  pall'd  in  state,  and  mitred  with  a  wreath 
Of  nightshade,  dost  thou  sit  portentously, 
Beneath  a  cloudy  canopy  of  sighs. 
Of  fears,  of  trembling  hopes,  of  boding  doubts  ; 
Death's  dart  thy  mace  ! — Why  are  the  laws  of  God. 
Statutes  promulged  in  characters  of  fire,* 
Despised  in  deep  concerns,  where  heavenly  guidan  •■ 
Is  most  required  ?     The  murderer — let  him  die, 
And  him  who  lifts  his  arm  against  his  parent, 
His  country, — or  his  voice  against  his  God. 
Let  crimes  less  heinous  dooms  less  dreadful  meet 
Than  loss  of  life  !  so  said  the  law  divine : 
That  law  beneficent,  which  mildly  stretch'd, 
To  men  forgotten  and  forlorn,  the  hand 
Of  restitution :   Yes,  the  trumpet's  voice 
The  Sabbath  of  the  jubileef  announced : 
The  freedom-freighted  blast,  through  all  the  land 
At  once,  in  every  city,  echoing  rings. 
From  Lebanon  to  Carmel's  woody  cliffs. 
So  loud,  that  far  within  the  desert's  verge 
The  couching  lion  starts,  and  glares  around. 
Free 'is  the  bondman  now,  each  one  returns 
To  his  inheritance :  The  man,  grown  old 
In  servitude  far  from  his  native  fields, 
Hastes  joyous  on  his  way ;  no  hills  are  steep, 
Smooth  is  each  rugged  path ;  his  little  ones 


♦  "  And  it  came  to  pass,  on  the  third  day  in  the  morning 
that  there  were  thunders  and  lightnings,  and  a  thick 
cloud  upon  the  mount,  and  the  voice  of  the  trumpet  ex 
ceeding  loud ;  so  that  all  the  people  that  was  in  the  camp 
trembled."    Exod.  xix.  16. 

t  "  And  thou  shall  number  seven  Sabbaths  of  years 
unto  thee,  seven  times  seven  years ;  and  the  space  of  the 
seven  Sabbaths  of  years  shall  be  unto  thee  forty  and  nine 
years.  Then  shalt  thou  cause  the  trumpet  of  the  jubilee 
to  sound  on  the  tenth  day  of  the  seventh  month ;  in  the 
day  of  atonement  shall  ye  make  the  trumpet  sound 
throughout  all  your  land.  And  ye  shall  hallow  the  fiftieth 
year,  and  proclaim  liberty  throughout  all  the  land  unto 
all  the  inhabitants  thereof:  it  shall  be  a  jubilee  unto  you ; 
and  ye  shall  return  every  man  unto  his  possession,  and 
ye  shall  return  every  man  unto  his  family."  Lev.  \xv 
8-10. 


THE   SABBATH. 


293 


Sport  as  they  go,  while  oft  the  mother  chicles 

The  lingering  step,  lured  by  the  waj'-side  flowers  : 

At  length  the  hill,  from  which  a  farewell  look, 

And  still  another  parting  look,  he  cast 

On  his  paternal  vale,  appears  in  view  : 

The  summit  gain'd,  throbs  hard  his  heart  with  joy 

And  sorrow  blent,  to  see  that  vale  once  more ; 

Instant  his  eager  eye  darts  to  the  roof 

Where  first  he  saw  the  light ;  his  youngest  bom 

He  lifts,  and,  pointing  to  the  much-loved  spot, 

Says — "There  thy  fathers   lived,  and  there  they 

sleep." 
Onward  he  wends ;  near  and  more  near  he  draws : 
How  sweet  the  tinkle  of  the  palm-bower'd  brook  ! 
The  sunbeam  slanting  through  the  cedar  grove 
How  lovely,  and  how  mild  !     But  lovelier  still 
The  welcome  in  the  eye  of  ancient  friends, 
Scarce  known  at  first  !~and  dear  the  fig-tree  shade 
'Neath  which  on  Sabbath  eve  his  father  told* 
Of  Israel  from  the  house  of  bondage  freed, 
Led  through  the  desert  to  the  promised  land ; — 
With  eager  arms  the  aged  stem  he  clasps, 
And  with  his  tears  the  furrow'd  bark  bedews : 
And  still,  at  midnight  hour,  he  thinks  he  hears 
The  blissful  sound  that  brake  the  bondman's  chains. 
The  glorious  peal  of  freedom  and  of  joy  ! 

Did  ever  law  of  man  a  power  like  this 
Display  ?  power  marvellous  as  merciful. 
Which,  though  in  other  ordinances  still 
Most  plainly  seen,  is  yet  but  little  mark'd 
For  what  it  truly  is, — a  miracle  ! 
Stupendous,  ever  new,  perform 'd  at  once 
In  every  region, — yea,  on  every  sea 
Which  Europe's  navies  plough ; — yes,  in  all  lands 
From  pole  to  pole,  or  civilized  to  rude, 
People  there  are,  to  whom  the  Sabbath  morn 
Dawns,  shedding  dews  into  their  drooping  hearts : 
Yes,  far  beyond  the  high-heaved  western  wave, 
Amid  Columbia's  wildernesses  vast. 
The  words  which  God  in  thunder  from  the  mount 
Of  Sinai  spake,  are  heard,  and  are  obey'd. 
Thy  children,  Scotia,  in  the  desert  land. 
Driven  from  their  homes  by  fell  monopoly, 
Keep  holy  to  the  Lord  the  seventh  day. 
Assembled  under  loftiest  canopy 
Of  trees  primeval,  soon  to  be  laid  low 
They  sing,  By  BaheVs  streams  we  sat  an-f  ^t-ept. 

What  strong  mysterious  links  enchain  the  heart 
To  regions  where  the  morn  of  life  is  spent ! 
In  foreign  lands,  though  happier  be  the  clime. 
Though  round  our  board  smile  all  the  friends  we 

love. 
The  face  of  nature  wears  a  stranger's  look. 
Yea,  though  the  valley  which  we  loved  be  swept 
Of  its  inhabitants,  none  left  behind. 
Not  e'en  the  poor  blind  man  who  sought  his  bread 
From  door  to  door,  still,  still  there  is  a  want  j 
Yes,  even  he,  round  whom  a  night  that  knows 

♦  "And  these  words  which  I  command  thee  this  day 
ahall  be  in  thine  heart:  And  thou  shalt  teach  them  dili- 
gently unto  thy  children,  and  shalt  talk  of  them  when 
thou  sitlest  in  thy  house,  and  when  thou  walkest  by  the 
way,  and  when  thou  liest  down,  and  when  thou  risest  up. 
Thou  shalt  say  unto  thy  son,  We  were  Pharaoh's  bond- 
men in  Egypt ;  and  the  Lord  brought  us  out  of  Egypt  with 
»  mighty  hand."    Dent.  vi.  6, 7.  21. 


No  dawn  is  ever  spread,  whose  native  vale 
Presented  to  his  closed  eyes  a  blank, 
Deplores  its  distance  now.     There  well  he  knew 
Each  object,  though  unseen  ;  there  could  he  wend 
His  way,  guideless,  through  wilds  and  mazy  woods  { 
Each  aged  tree,  spared  when  the  forest  fell, 
Was  his  familiar  friend,  from  the  smooth  birch. 
With  rind  of  silken  touch,  to  the  rough  elm : 
The  three  gray  stones  that  mark'd  where  heroes  laj 
Mourn 'd  by  the  harp,  mourn'd  by  the  melting  voice 
Of  Cona,  oft  his  resting-place  had  been  ; 
Oft  had  they  told  him  that  his  home  was  near : 
The  tinkle  of  the  rill,  the  murmuring 
So  gentle  of  the  brooit  the  torrent's  rush, 
The  cataract's  din,  the  ocean's  distant  roar. 
The  echo's  answer  to  lis  foot  or  voice, — 
All  spoke  a  language  which  he  understood. 
All  warn'd  him  of  his  way.     But  most  he  feels. 
Upon  the  hallow'd  morn,  the  saddening  change : 
No  more  he  hears  the  gladsome  village  bell 
Ring  the  bless'd  summons  to  the  house  of  God : 
And — for  the  voice  of  psalms,  loud,  solemn,  grand, 
That  cheer 'd  his  darkling  path,  as  with  slow  step 
And  feeble,  he  toil'd  up  the  spire-topt  hill, — 
A  few  faint  notes  ascend  among  the  trees. 

What  though  the  cluster'd  vine  there  hardly 
tempts 
The  traveller's  hand ;  though  birds  of  dazzling  plume 
Perch  on  the  loiaded  boughs  ; — "  Give  me  thy  woods, 
(Exclaims  the  banish'd  man,)  thy  barren  woods. 
Poor  Scotland  !    Sweeter  there  the  reddening  haw, 
The  sloe,  or  rowan's*  bitter  bunch,  than  here 
The  purple  grape  ;  dearer  the  redbreast's  note. 
That  mourns  the  fading  year  in  Scotia's  vales, 
Than  Philomel's,  where  spring  is  ever  new ; 
More  dear  to  me  the  redbreast's  sober  suit. 
So  like  a  wither'd  leaflet,  than  the  glare 
Of  gaudy  wings,  that  make  the  iris  dim." 

Nor  is  regret  exclusive  to  the  old  : 
The  boy,  whose  birth  was  midway  o'er  the  main, 
A  ship  his  cradle,  by  the  billows  rock'd, — 
"  The  nursling  of  the  storm," — although  he  claims 
No  native  land,  yet  does  he  wistful  hear 
Of  some  far  distant  country  still  call'd  home. 
Where  lambs  of  whitest  fleece  sport  on  the  hills  ; 
Where  gold-speck'd  fishes  wanton  in  the  streams : 
Where  little  birds,  when  snow-flakes  dim  the  air, 
Light  on  the  floor,  and  peck  the  table  crumbs, 
And  with  their  singing  cheer  the  winter  day. 

But  what  the  loss  of  country  to  the  woes 
Of  banishment  and  solitude  combined  ! 
0  !  my  heart  bleeds  to  think  there  now  may  live 
One  hapless  man,  the  remnant  of  a  wreck. 
Cast  on  some  desert  island  of  that  main 
Immense,  which  stretches  from  the  Cochin  shore 
To  Acapulco.    Motionless  he  sits. 
As  is  the  rock  his  seat,  gazing  whole  days, 
With  wandering  eye,  o'er  all  the  watery  waste  • 
Now  striving  to  believe  the  albatross 
A  sail  appearing  on  the  horizon's  verge ; 
Now  vowing  ne'er  to  cherish  other  hope 
Than  hope  of  death.     Thus  pass  his  weary  houri^ 
Till  welcome  evening  warn  him  that  'tis  time 
Upon  the  shell-notch'd  calendar  to  mark 


*  Mountain  ash. 


294 


GRAHAME. 


Another  day,  another  dreary  day, — 
Changeless ; — for,  in  these  regions  of  the  sun, 
The  wholesome  law  that  dooms  mankind  to  toil, 
Bestowing  grateful  interchange  of  rest 
And  labour,  is  annuU'd ;  for  there  the  trees, 
Adorn'd  at  once  with  bud,  and  flower,  and  fruit, 
Drop,  as  the  breezes  blow,  a  shower  of  bread 
Awi  blossoms  on  the  ground.     But  yet  by  him, 
The  hermit  of  the  deep,  not  unobserved 
The  Sabbath  passes.     'Tis  his  great  delight. 
Each  seventh  eve  he  marks  the  farewell  ray, 
And  loves,  and  sighs  to  think, — that  setting  sun 
Is  nov/  impurpling  Scotland's  mountain  tops. 
Or,  higher  risen,  slants  athwart  her  vales, 
Tinting  with  yellow  light  the  quivering  throat 
Of  day-spring  lark,  while  woodland  birds  below 
Chant  in  the  dewy  shade.     Thus  all  night  long 
He  watches,  while  the  rising  moon  describes 
The  progress  of  the  day  in  happier  lands. 
And  now  he  almost  fancies  that  he  hears 
The  chiming  from  his  native  village  church ; 
And  now  he  sings,  and  fondly  hopes  the  strain 
May  be  the  same  that  sweet  ascends  at  home 
In  congregation  full, — where,  not  without  a  tear 
They  are  remember'd  who  in  ships  behold 
The  wonders  of  the  deep  :*  he  sees  the  hand. 
The  widow'd  hand,  that  veils  the- eye  suffused ; 
He  sees  his  orphan'd  boy  look  up,  and  strive 
The  widow'd  heart  to  soothe.     His  spirit  leans 
On  God.    Nor  does  he  leave  his  weekly  vigil 
Though  tempests  ride  o'er  welkin-lashing  waves 
On  winds  of  cloudless  wing;t  though  lightnings 

burst 
So  vivid,  that  the  stars  are  hid  and  seen 
In  awful  alternation  :  Calm  he  views 
The  far  exploding  firmament,  and  dares 
To  hope — one  bolt  in  mercy  is  reserved 
For  his  release:  and  yet  he  is  resign'd 
To  live ;  because  full  well  he  is  assured, 
Thy  hand  does  lead  him,  thy  right  hand  upholds,:}: 

And  thy  right  hand  does  lead  him.     Lo  !  at  last, 
iOne  sacred  eve,  he  hears,  faint  from  the  deep. 
Music  remote,  swelling  at  intervals, 
As  if  th'  imbodied  spirit  of  such  sounds 
Came  slowly  floating  on  the  shoreward  wave  : 
The  cadence  well  he  knows, — a  hymn  of  old. 
Where  sweetly  is  rehearsed  the  lowly  state 
Of  Jesus,  when  his  birth  was  first  announced. 
In  midnight  music,  by  an  angel  choir. 
To  Bethlehem's  shepherds,^  as  they  wat.-^'d  their 
flocks. 


*  "  They  thai  go  down  to  the  sea  in  ships,  that  do  busi- 
ness in  great  waters;  these  see  the  works  of  the  Lord, 
and  his  wonders  in  the  deep."    Psal.  evil. 

t  In  the  tropical  regions,  the  sky  during  storrr.e  is  often 
without  a  cloud. 

J  "  If  I  lake  the  wings  of  the  morning,  and  dv/ell  in  the 
uttermost  parts  of  the  sea,  even  there  shall  thy  hand  lead 
mc,  and  thy  right  hand  shall  hold  me."    Fsal.  cxxxix. 

§  "And  there  were  in  the  same  country  shepherds 
abiding  in  the  field,  keeping  watch  over  their  flocks  by 
night.  And  lo !  the  angel  of  the  Lord  came  upon  them, 
and  the  glory  of  the  Lord  shone  round  about  them,  and 
\hey  were  sore  afraid.  And  the  angel  said  unto  them, 
Fear  not,  for,  behold !  I  bring  you  good  tidings  of  great 
joy,  which  shnll  be  to  all  people.  For  unto  you  is  born 
this  day  in  the  city  of  David,  a  Saviour,  who  is  Christ  the 
Lord.    And  this  shall  be  a  sign  unto  you,  Ye  shall  find 


Breathless,  the  man  forlorn  listens,  and  thinks 
It  is  a  dream.     Fuller  the  voices  swell. 
He  looks,  and  starts  to  see,  moving  along, 
A  fiery  wave,*  (so  seems  it,)  crescent  form'd, 
Approaching  to  the  land :  straightway  he  sees 
A  towering  whiteness  ;  'tis  the  heaven-fill'd  sail? 
That  waft  the  mission'd  men,  who  have  renounce?! 
Their  homes,  their  country,  nay,  almost  the  world 
Bearing  glad  tidings  to  the  farthest  isl-es 
Of  ocean,  that  the  dead  shall  rise  again. 
P'orward  the  gleam-girt  castle  coastwise  glides ; 
It  seems  as  it  would  pass  away.     To  cry 
The  wretched  man  in  vain  attempts,  in  vain, 
Powerless  his  voice  as  in  a  fearful  dream : 
Not  so  his  hand :  he  strikes  the  flint, — a  blaze 
Mounts  from  the  ready  heap  of  wither'd  leaves : 
The  music  ceases,  accents  harsh  succeed, 
Harsh,  but   most  grateful:  'downward  drop   tb« 

sails ; 
Ingulf'd  the  anchor  sinks  ;  the  boat  is  launch'd ; 
But  cautious  lies  aloof  till  morning  dawn : 
0  then  the  transport  of  the  man  unused 
To  other  human  voice  besides  his  own, — 
His  native  tongue  to  hear !  he  breathes  at  home. 
Though  earth's  diameter  is  interposed. 
Of  perils  of  the  sea  he  has  no  dread. 
Full  well  assured  the  mission'd  bark  is  safe. 
Held  in  the  hollow  of  th'  Almighty's  hand. 
(And  signal  thy  deliverances  have  been 
Of  these  thy  messengers  of  peace  and  joy.) 
From  storms  that  loudly  threaten  to  unfix 
Islands  rock-rooted  in  the  ocean's  bed. 
Thou  dost  deliver  them, — and  from  the  calm. 
More  dreadful  than  the  storm,  when  motionless 
Upon  the  purple  deep  the  vessel  lies 
For  days,  for  nights,  illumed  b;^  phosphor  lamps 
When  sea-birds  seem  in  nests  of  flame  to  float 
When  backward  starts  the  boldest  mariner 
To  see,  while  o'er  the  side  he  leans,  his  facp 
As  if  deep  tinged  with  blood. — 

Let  worldly  men 
The  cause  and  combatants  contemptuous  scorn. 
And  call  fanatics  them  who  hazard  health 
And  life  in  testifying  of  the  truth. 
Who  joy  and  glory  in  the  cross  of  Christ ! 
What  were  the  Galilean  fishermen 
But  messengers,  commission 'd  to  announce 
The  resurrection,  and  the  life  to  come  ! 
They  too,  though  clothed  with  power  of  mighvy 

works 
Miraculous,  were  oft  received  with  scorn  ; 
Oft  did  their  words  fall  powerless,  though  enforced 
B}'  deeds  that  mark'd  Omnipotence  their  friend: 
B'at,  when  their  efforts  fail'd,  unweariedly 
They  onward  went,  rejoicing  in  their  course. 


the  babe  wrapped  in  swaddling-clothes,  lying  in  a  manger. 
And  suddenly  there  was  with  the  angel  a  multitude  of 
the  heavenly  host,  praising  God,  and  saying,  Gloiy  tc 
God  in  the  highest,  and  on  earth  peace,  good  ivill  toward 
men."    Luke  ii.  8 — 14. 

*  "  In  some  seas,  as  particularly  about  the  coast  ol 
Malabar,  as  a  ship  floats  along,  it  seems  during  the  night 
to  be  surrounded  with  fire,  and  to  kave  a  long  track  of 
light  behind  it.  Whenever  the  sea  is  gently  agitated,  it 
seems  converted  into  little  stars :  every  drop  as  it  breaki 
emits  light,  like  bodies  electrified  in  the  dark." — Durwin      j 


THE    SABBATH. 


^§ 


Like  helianthus,*  borne  on  downy  wings 
To  distant  realms,  they  frequent  fell  on  soils 
Barren  and  thankless  ;  yet  oft-times  they  saw 
Their  labours  crown'd  with  fruit  a  hundred  fold, 
Saw  the  new  converts  testify  their  faith 
By  works  of  love, — the  slave  set  free,  the  sick 
Attended,  prisoners  visited,  the  poor 
Received  as  brothers  at  the  rich  man's  board. 
Alas  I  how  different  now  the  deeds  of  men 
Nursed  in  the  faith  of  Christ ! — The  free  made  slaves  ! 
Torn  from  their  country,  borne  across  the  deep. 
Enchain 'd,  endungeon'd,  forced  by  stripes  to  live, 
Doom'd  to  behold  their  wives,  their  little  ones. 
Tremble  beneath  the  white  man's  fiend-like  frown  ! 
Yet  e'en  to  scenes  like  these  the  Sabbath  brings 
Alleviation  of  th'  enormous  wo : — 
The  oft  reiterated  stroke  is  still ; 
The  clotted  scourge  hangs  hardening  in  the  shrouds. 
But  see,  the  demon  man,  whose  trade  is  blood. 
With  dauntless  front  convene  his  ruffian  crew 
To  hear  the  sacred  service  read.     Accursed, 
The  wretch's  bile-tinged  lips  profane  the  word 
Of  God  :  Accursed,  he  ventures  to  pronounce    , 
The  decalogue,  nor  falters  at  that  law 
Wherein  'tis  written,  Thou  shalt  do  no  mxt,rder : 
Perhaps,  while  yet  the  words  are  on  his  lips. 
He  hears  a  dying  mother's  parting  groan  ; 
fae  hears  her  orphan'd  child,  with  lisping  plaint. 
Attempt  to  rouse  her  from  the  sleep  of  death. 

0  England  !  England  !  wash  thy  purpled  hands 
Of  this  foul  sin,  and  never  dip  them  more 
In  guilt  so  damnable  !  then  lift  them  up 
In  supplication  to  that  God,  whose  name 
Is  Mercy ;  then  thou  maycst,  without  the  risk 
Of  drawing  vengeance  from  the  surcharged  clouds. 
Implore  protection  to  thy  menaced  shores  ; 
Then  God  will  blast  the  tj'rant's  arm  that  grasps 
The  thunderbolt  of  ruin  o'er  thy  head  : 
Then  will  he  turn  the  wolvish  race  to  prey 
Upon  each  other ;  then  will  he  arrest 
The  lava  torrent,  causmg  it  regorge 
Back  to  its  source  with  fiery  desolation. 

Of  all  the  murderous  trades  by  mortals  plied, 
*Tis  war  alone  that  never  violates 
The  hallow'd  day  by  simulate  respect, — 
By  hypocritic  rest :  No,  no,  the  work  proceeds. 
From  sacred  pinnacles  are  hun^  the  flags,t 
That  give  the  sign  to  slip  the  leash  from  slaughter. 
The  bells,  whose  knoll  a  ho  '  calmness  pour'd 
Into  the  good  man's  breast, —  :yhose  sound  solaced 
The  sick,  the  poor,  the  old — perversion  dire — 
Pealing  with  sulphurous   tongues,  speak    death- 
fraught  words : 
From  morn  to  eve  destruction  revels  frenzied. 
Till  at  the  hour  when  peaceful  vesper-chimes 
Were  wont  to  soothe  the  ear,  the  trumpet  sounds 
Pursuit  and  flight  altern  ;  and  for  the  song 
Of  larks,  descending  to  their  grass-bower'd  homes, 
The  croak  of  flesh-gorged  ravens,  as  they  slake 
Their  thirst  in  hoof-prints  fill'd  with  gore,  disturbs 
The  stupor  of  the  dying  man  ;  while  death 

♦  Sunflower.  "  The  seeds  of  many  plants  of  this  kind 
are  furnished  with  a  plume,  by  which  admirable  mecha- 
nism they  are  disseminated  far  from  their  parent  stem." 
~~Daru:in. 

t  (Church  steeples  are  frequently  used  as  signal  posts. 


Triumphantly  sails  down  th'  ensanguined  stream. 
On  corses  throned,  and  crown'd  with  shiver'd  boughg 
That  erst  hung  imaged  in  the  crystal  tide.* 

And  what  the  harvest  of  these  bloody  fields  ? 
A  double  weight  of  fetters  to  the  slave, 
And  chains  on  arms  that  wielded  freedom's  sworc^ 
Spirit  of  Tell !  and  art  thou  doom'd  to  see 
Thy  mountains,  that  confess'd  no  other  chains 
Than  what  the  wintry  elements  had  forged, — 
Thy  vales,  where  freedom,  and  her  stern  compeer, 
Proud,  virtuous  poverty,  their  noble  state 
Maintain 'd,  amid  surrounding  threats  of  wealth. 
Of  superstition,  and  tyrannic  sway — 
Spirit  of  Tell !  and  art  thou  doom'd  to  see 
That  land  subdued  by  slavery's  basest  slaves  ; 
By  men,  whose  lips  pronounce  the  sacred  name 
Of  liberty,  then  kiss  the  despot's  foot  ? 
Helvetia  !  hadst  thou  to  thyself  been  true, 
Thy  dying  sons  had  triumph 'd  as  they  fell : 
But  'twas  a  glorious  effort,  though  in  vain. 
Aloft  thy  genius,  'mid  the  sweeping  clouds. 
The  flag  of  freedom  spread ;  bright  in  the  storm 
The  streaming  meteor  waved,  and  far  it  gleam'd : 
But,  ah  !  'twas  transient,  as  the  Iris'  arch. 
Glanced  from  leviathan's  ascending  shower, 
When  'mid  the  mountain  waves  heaving  his  head. 
Already  had  the  friendly-seeming  foe 
Possess'd  the  snos^  piled  ramparts  of  the  land : 
Down  like  an  avalanclie  they  roll'd,  they  crush'd 
The  temple,  palace,  cottage,  every  work 
Of  art  and  nature,  in  one  common  ruin. 
The  dreadful  crash  is  o'er,  and  «»eace  ensues,— 
The  peace  of  desolation, gloomy,  still: 
Each  day  is  hush'd  as  Sabbath ;  but,  alas  ! 
No  Sabbath  service  glads  the  seventh  day ! 
No  more  the  happy  villagers  are  seen 
Winding  adown  the  rock-hewn  paths,  that  wont 
To  lead  their  footsteps  to  the  house  of  prayer ; 
But,  far  apart,  assembled  in  the  depth 
Of  solitudes,  perhaps  a  little  group 
Of  aged  men,  and  orphan  boys,  and  maids. 
Bereft,  list  to  the  breathings  of  tlie  holy  man, 
Who  spurns  an  oath  of  fealty  to  the  power 
Of  rulers  chosen  by  a  tyrant's  nod. 
No  more,  as  dies  the  rustling  of  the  breeze, 
Is  heard  the  distant  vesper  hymn  ;  no  more 
At  gloamin  hour,  the  plaintive  strain,  that  links 
His  country  to  the  Switzer's  heart,  delights 
The  loosening  team  ;  or  if  .v)me  shepherd  boy 
Attempt  the  strain,  his  voice  soon  faltering  stops ; 
He  feels  his  country  now  a  foreign  land. 

O  Scotland  !  canst  thou  for  a  moment  brook 
The  mere  imagination,  that  a  fate 
Like  this  should  e'er  be  thine  !  that  o'er  these  hills 
And  dear-bought  vales,  whence  Wallace,  Douglas, 

Bruce, 
Repell'd  proud  Edward's  multitudinous  hordes, 
A  Gallic  foe,  that  abject  race,  should  rule  ! 
No,  no  !  let  never  hostile  standard  touch 
Thy  shore:  rush,  rush  into  the  dashing  brine, 
And  crest  each  wave  with  steel ;  and  should  the 
stamp 


♦  After  a  heavy  cannonade,  the  shivered  iranches  of 
trees,  and  the  corpses  of  the  killed,  are  »een  floating 
together  down  the  rivers. 


296 


GRAHAME. 


Of  slavery's  footstep  violate  the  strand, 
Let  not  the  tardy  tide  efface  the  mark ; 
Sweep  off  the  stign^a  with  a  sea  of  blood  ! 

Thrice  happy  he,  who,  far  in  Scottish  glen 
Retired,  (yet  ready  at  his  country's  call,) 
Has  left  the  restless  emmet-hill  of  man : 
He  never  longs  to  read  the  saddening  tale 
Of  endless  wars ;  and  seldom  does  he  hear 
The  tale  of  wo  ;  and  ere  it  reaches  him. 
Rumour,  so  loud  when  new,  has  died  away 
Into  a  whisper,  on  the  memory  borne 
Of  casual  traveller : — as  on  the  deep. 
Far  from  the  sight  of  land,  when  all  around 
Is  waveless  calm,  the  sudden  tremulous  swell, 
That  gently  heaves  the  ship,  tells,  as  it  rolls. 
Of  earthquakes  dread,  and  cities  overthrown. 

O  Scotland  !  much  I  love  thy  tranquil  dales : 
But  most  on  Sabbath  eve,  when  low  the  sun 
Slants  through  the  upland  copse,  'tis  my  delight, 
Wandering,  and  stopping  oft,  to  hear  the  song 
Of  kindred  praise  arise  from  humble  roofs  ; 
Or,  when  the  simple  service  ends,  to  hear 
The  lifted  latch,  and  mark  the  gray-hair'd  man. 
The  father  and  the  priest,  walk  forth  alone 
Into  his  garden-plat,  or  little  field. 
To  commune  with  his  God  in  secret  prayer,— 
To  bless  the  Lord,  that  in  hi"*  downward  years 
His  children  are  about  him:  Sweet,  meantime. 
The  thrush,  that  sings  upon  the  a{^ed  thorn^, 
Brings  to  his  view  the  days  of  vouthful  years, 
When  that  same  aged  thorn  was  but  a  bush. 
Nor  is  the  contrast  between  youth  jvn'l  age 
To  him  a  painful  thought ;  he  joys  to  thirk 
His  journey  near  a  close, — heaven  is  his  home. 
More  happy  far  that  man,  though  bowed  dowp» 
Though  feeble  be  his  gait,  and  dim  his  eye, 
Than  they,  the  favourites  of  youth  and  health. 
Of  riches,  and  of  fame,  who  have  renounced 
The  glorious  promise  of  the  life  to  come, 
Clinging  to  death.-— 

Or  mark  that  female  face. 
The  faded  picture  of  its  former  self, — 
The  garments  coarse,  but  clean ; — frequent  at  church 
I've  noted  such  a  one,  i'eeble  and  pale. 
Yet  standing,  with  a  I;ok  of  mile  content, 
Till  beckon'd  by  some  kindly  hand  to  sit. 
She  had  seen  better  days ;  there  was  a  time 
Her  hands  could  earn  her  bread,  and  freely  give 
To  those  who  were  in  want ;  but  now  old  age. 
And  lingering  disease,  have  made  her  helpless. 
Yet  she  is  happy,  ay,  and  she  is  wise, 
(Philosophers  may  sneer,  and  pedants  frown,) 
Although  her  Bible  is  her  only  book  ; 
And  she  is  rich,  although  her  only  wealth 
Is  recollection  of  a  well-spent  life — ■ 
Is  expectation  of  the  life  to  come. 
Examine  here,  explore  the  narrow  path 
In  which  she  walks  ;  look  not  for  virtuous  deeds 
In  history's  arena,  where  the  prize 
Of  fame,  or  power,  prompts  to  heroic  acts. 
Peruse  the  lives  themselves  of  men  obscure  :— 
There  charity,  that  robs  itself  to  give  ; 
There  fortitude  in  sickness,  nursed  by  want ; 
There  courage,  that  expects  no  tongue  to  praise; 
There  virtue  lurks,  like  purest  gold  deep  hid, 
With  no  allov  of  selfish  motive  mix'd. 


The  poor  man's  boon,  that  stints  him  of  his  bread, 
Is  prized  more  highly  in  the  sight  of  Him 
Who  sees  the  heart,  than  golden  gifts  from  hands 
That  scarce  can  know  their  countless  treasures 

less:* 
Yea,  the  deep  sigh  that  heaves  the  poor  man's  breast 
To  s(  e  distress,  and  feel  his  willing  arm 
Palsit  d  by  penury,  ascends  to  heaven ; 
While  ponderous  bequests  of  lands  and  goods 
Ne'er  rise  above  their  earthly  origin. 

And   should  all  bounty  that    is    clothe!   -with 
power 
Be  deem'd  unworthy  ? — Far  be  such  a  thought ! 
E'en  when  the  rich  bestow,  there  are  sure  tests 
Of  genuine  charity ; — Yes,  yes,  let  wealth 
Give  other  alms  than  silver  or  than  gold, — 
Time,  trouble,  toil,  attendance,  watchfulness, 
Exposure  to  disease  ; — yes,  let  the  rich 
Be  often  seen  beneath  the  sick  man's  roof; 
Or  cheering,  with  inquiries  from  the  heart. 
And  hopes  of  health,  the  melancholy  range 
Of  couches  in  the  public  wards  of  wo : 
There  let  them  often  bless  the  sick  man's  bed, 
With  kind  assurances  that  all  is  well 
At  home,  that  plenty  smiles  upon  the  board, — 
The  while  the  hand  that  earn'd  the  frugal  meal 
Can  hardly  raise  itself  in  sign  of  thanks. 
Above  all  duties,  let  the  rich  man  search  • 

Into  the  cause  he  knoweth  not,  nor  spurn 
The  suppliant  wretch  as  guilty  of  a  crime. 

Ye,  bless'd  with  wealth!   (another  naipf   for 
power 
Of  doing  good,)  O  would  ye  but  devote 
A  little  portion  of  each  seventh  day 
To  acts  of  justice  to  your  fellow  men  ! 
The  house  of  mourning  silently  invites : 
Shun  not  the  crowded  alley ;  prompt  descend 
Into  the  half-sunk  cell,  darksome  and  damp  ; 
Nor  seem  impatient  to  be  gone :  Inquire, 
Console,  instruct,  encourage,  soothe,  assist ; 
Read,  pray,  and  sing  a  new  song  to  the  Lord ; 
Make  tears  of  joy  down  grief-worn  furrows  flow. 

0  health  !  thou  sun  of  life,  without  whose  beam 
The  fairert  scenes  of  nature  seem  involved 
In  darkness,  shine  upon  my  dreary  path 
Once  more  ;  or,  with  thy  faintest  dawn,  give  hope, 
That  I  may  yet  enjoy  thy  vital  ray  ! 
Though    transient  be    the   hope,   'twill  be  most 

sweet. 
Like  midnight  music,  stealing  on  the  ear, 
Then  gliding  past,  and  dying  slow  away. 
Music  !  thou  soothing  power,  thy  charm  is  prf  ved 
Most  vividly  when  clouds  o'ercast  the  soul ; 
So  light  its  loveliest  effect  displays 
In  lowering  skies,  when  through  the  murky  rack 
A  slanting  sunbeam  shoots,  and  instant  limns 


*  "  And  Jesus  sat  over  agamst  the  litasury,  and  De- 
held  how  the  people  cast  money  into  the  treasury:  and 
many  that  were  rich  cast  in  much.  And  there  came  a 
certain  poor  widow,  and  she  threw  hi  two  mites,  which 
make  a  farthing.  And  he  called  unto  him  his  disciples, 
and  saith  unto  them,  Venly,  I  say  unto  you,  that  this  poor 
widow  hath  cast  more  in  than  all  they  which  have  cast 
into  the  treasury :  For  all  they  did  cast  in  of  their  abun 
dance,  but  she  of  her  want  did  cast  in  all  that  she  had, 
even  all  her  living."    Mark  xii.  41—41 


SABBATH  WALKS. 


297 


The  ethereal  curve  of  seven  harmonious  dyes. 

Eliciting  a  splendour  from  the  gloom : 

O  music  !  still  vouchsafe  to  tranquillize 

This  breast  perturb'd  ;  thy  voice,  though  mournful, 

soothes ; 
And  mournful  aye  are  thy  most  beauteous  lays. 
Like  fall  of  blossoms  from  the  orchard  boughs, — 
The  autumn  of  the  spring.     Enchanting  power ! 
Who,  by  thy  airy  spell,  canst  whirl  the  mind 
Far  from  the  busy  haunts  of  men,  to  vales 
Where    Tweed   or   Yarrow  flows ;    or,   spurning 

time 
Recall  red  Flodden  field  ;  or  suddenly 
Transport,  with  alter'd  strain,  the  deafen'd  ear 
To  Linden's  plain  ! — But  what  the  pastoral  lay, 
The  melting  dirge,  the  battle's  trumpet  peal, 
Compared  to  notes  with  sacred  numbers  link'd 
In  union,  solemn,  grand  !     O  then  the  spirit, 
Upborne  on  pinions  of  celestial  sound, 
Soars  to  the  throne  of  God,  and  ravish'd  hears 
Ten  thousand  times  ten  thousand  voices  rise 
In  hallelujahs ; — voices,  that  erewhile 
Were  feebly  tuned  perhaps  to  low-breathed  hymns 
Of  solace  in  the  chambers  of  the  poor, — 
The  Sabbath  worship  of  the  friendless  sick. 

Bless'd  be  the  female  votaries,  whose  days 
No  Sabbath  of  their  pious  labours  prove. 
Whose  lives  are  consecrated  to  the  toil 
Of  ministering  around  the  uncurtainM  couch 
Of  pain  and  poverty  !     Bless'd  be  the  hands. 
The  lovely  hands,  (for  beauty,  youth,  and  grace, 
Are  oft  conceal'd  by  pity's  closest  veil,) 
That  mix  the  cup  medicinal,  that  bind 
The  wounds  which  ruthless  warfare  and  disease 
Have  to  the  loathsome  lazar-house  consign'd. 

Fierce  superstition  of  the  mitred  king  ! 
Almost  I  could  forget  thy  torch  and  stake. 
When  I  this  blessed  sisterhood  survey, — 
Compassion's  priestesses,  disciples  true 
Of   him  whose  touch  was  health,  whose  single 

word 
Electrified  with  life  the  palsied  arm, — 
Of  him  who  said,  Take  up  thy  led  and  ivalk, — 
Of  him  who  cried  to  Lazarus,  Come  forth. 

And  he  who  cried  to  Lazarus,  Come  forth. 
Will,  when  the  Sabbath  of  the  tomb  is  past. 
Call  forth  the  deaa,  and  reunite  the  dust 
(Transform'd  and  purified)  to  angel  souls. 
Ecstatic  hope  !  belief  !  conviction  firm  ! 
How  grateful  'tis  to  recollect  the  time 
When  hope  arose  to  faith  !     Faintly  at  first 
The  heavenly  voice  is  heard  ;  then,  by  degrees, 
Its  music  sounds  perpetual  in  the  heart. 
Thus  he,  who  all  the  gloomy  winter  long 
Has  dwelt  in  city  crowds,  wandering  a  field 
Betimes  on  Sabbath  morn,  ere  yet  the  spring 
Unfold  the  daisy's  bud,  delighted  hears 
The  first  lark's   note,  faint  yet,  and  short   the 

song, 
Check'd  by  the  chill  ungenial  northern  breeze  ; 
But,  as  the  sun  ascends,  another  springs, 
And  still  another  soars  on  loftier  wing. 
Till  all  o'erhead,  the  joyous  choir  unseen. 
Poised  welkin  high,  harmonious  fills  the  air, 
A.S  if  it  were  a  link  'tween  earth  and  heaven. 


SABBATH  WALKS. 


A  SPRING  SABBATH  WALK. 

Most  earnest  was  his  voice  !  most  mild  his  look, 
As  with  raised  hands  he  bless'd  his  parting  flock. 
He  is  a  faithful  pastor  of  the  poor ; — 
He  thinks  not  of  himself;  his  Master's  words, 
Feed,  feed  my  sheep*  are  ever  at  his  heart. 
The  cross  of  Christ  is  aye  before  his  eyes. 
0,  how  I  love,  with  melted  soul,  to  leave 
The  house  of  prayer,  and  wander  in  the  fields 
Alone  !     What  though  the  opening  spring  be  chill^ 
Although  the  lark,  check'd  in  his  airy  path 
Eke  out  his  song,  perch'd  on  the  fallow  clod, 
That  still  o'ertops  the  blade  !    Although  no  branch 
Have  spread  its  foliage,  save  the  willow  wand 
That  dips  its  pale  leaves  in  the  swollen  stream  ! 
What  though  the  clouds  oft  lower  I     Their  threats 

but  end 
In  sunny  showers,  that  scarcely  fill  the  folds 
Of  moss-couch'd  violet,  or  interrupt 
The  merle's  dulcet  pipe, — melodious  bird  ! 
He,  hid  behind  the  milk-white  slow-thorn  spray, 
(Whose  early  flowers  anticipate  the  leaf,) 
Welcomes  the  time  of  buds,  the  infant  year. 

Sweet  is  the  sunny  nook,  to  which  my  steps 
Have  brought  me,  hardly  conscious  where  I  roait  d 
Unheeding  where, — so  lovely  all  around 
The  works  of  God,  array'd  in  vernal  smile  ! 

Oft  at  this  season,  musing,  I  prolong 
My  devious  range,  till,  sunk  from  view,  the  sun 
Emblaze,  with  upward-slanting  ray,  the  breast, 
And  wing  unquivering  of  the  wheeling  lark. 
Descending,  vocal,  from  her  latest  flight ; 
While,  disregardful  of  yon  lonely  star,— 
The  harbinger  of  chill  night's  glittering  host, — 
Sweet  Redbreast,  Scotia's  Philomela,  chants, 
In  desultory  strains,  his  evening  hymn. 


A  SUMIMER  SABBATH  WALK. 
Delightful  is  this  loneliness  :  it  calms 
My  heart :  pleasant  the  cool  beneath  these  elms. 
That  throw  across  the  stream  a  moveless  shade. 
Here  nature  in  her  midnoon  whisper  speaks  ; 
How  peaceful  every  sound  ! — the  ring-dove's  plaint, 
Moan'd  from  the  twilight  centre  of  the  grove. 
While  every  other  woodland  lay  is  mute, 
Save  when  the  wren  flits  from  her  down-coved  nest, 
And  from  the  root-sprig  trills  her  ditty  clear, — 
The  grasshopper's  oft  pausing  chirp, — the  buzz. 
Angrily  shrill,  of  moss-entangled  bee. 


♦  "  So  when  he  had  dined,  Jesus  sailh  to  Simon  Peter, 
Simon,  son  of  Jonas,  lovest  thou  ir.e  more  than  the^e  1 
He  flaithunto  him,  Yea,  Lord,  thou  knowest  that  I  love 
thee.  He  sailh  unto  him,  Feed  my  lambs.  He  saith  to 
him  again  the  second  time.  Simon,  son  of  Jonas,  loveat 
thou  me  1  He  saith  unto  him,  Yea,  Lord,  thou  knowest 
that  I  love  thee.  He  saith  unto  him,  Feed  my  sheep.  He 
saith  uiito  him  the  third  time,  Simon,  son  of  Jonas,  lovest 
thou  me  ?  Peter  was  grieved,  because  he  said  unto  hira 
the  third  time,  Lovest  thou  me  ]  And  he  said  unto  him, 
Lord,  thou  knowest  all  tnmgs,  thoii  knowest  that  1  lovt 
thee.  Jesus  sailh  unto  him,  Feed  my  slieep."  Johnxxl 
13—17, 


298 


GRAHAME. 


That,  soon  as  loosed,  booms  with  full  twang  away, 
The  sudden  rushing  of  the  minnow  shoal, 
Scared  from  the  shallows  by  my  passing  tread. 
Dimpling  the  water  glides,  with  here  and  there 
A  glossy  fly,  skimming  in  circlets  gay 
The  treacherous  surface,  while  the  quick-eyed  trout 
Watches  his  time  to  spring ;  or  from  above. 
Some  feather'd  dam,  surveying  midst  the  boughs, 
Darts  from  her  perch,  and  to  her  plumeless  brood 
Bears  off"  the  prize : — Sad  emblem  of  man's  lot ! 
He,  giddy  insect,  from  his  native  leaf, 
(Where  safe  and  happily  he  might  have  lurk'd,) 
Elate  upon  ambition's  gaudy  wings. 
Forgetful  of  his  origin,  and,  worse. 
Unthinking  of  his  end,  flies  to  the  stream ; 
And  if  from  hostile  vigilance  he  'scape, 
Buoyant  he  flutters  but  a  little  while, 
Mistakes  th'  inverted  image  of  the  sky 
For  heaven  itself,  and,  sinking,  meets  his  fate. 
Now  let  me  trace  the  stream  up  to  its  source 
Among  the  hills  ;  its  runnel  by  degrees 
Diminishing,  the  murmur  turns  a  tinkle. 
Closer  and  closer  still  the  banks  approach, 
Tangled  so  thick  with  pleaching  bramble  shoots. 
With  brier,  and  hazel  branch,  and  hawthorn  spray, 
That,  fain  to  quit  the  dangle,  glad  I  mount 
Into  the  open  air :  Grateful  the  breeze 
That  fans  my  throbbing  temples  !  smiles  the  plain 
Spread  wide  below :  how  sweet  the  placid  view  ! 
But,  0!   more  sweet  the  thought,  heart-soothing 

thought, 
That  thousands,  and  ten  thousands  of  the  sons 
Of  toil,  partake  this  day  the  common  joy 
Of  rest,  of  peace,  of  viewing  hill  and  dale, 
Of  breathing  in  the  silence  of  the  woods. 
And  blessing  Him  who  gave  the  Sabbath  day. 
Yes,  my  heart  flutters  with  a  freer  throb. 
To  think  that  now  the  townsman  wanders  forth 
Among  the  fields  and  meadows  to  enjoy 
The  coolness  of  the  day's  decline  ;  to  see 
His  children  sport  around,  and  simply  pull 
The  flower  and  weed  promiscuous,  as  a  boon. 
Which  proudly  in  his  breast  they  smiling  fix. 

Again  I  turn  me  to  the  hill,  and  trace 
The  wizard  stream,  now  scarce  to  be  discern'd  ; 
Woodless  its  banks,  but  green  wfth  ferny  leaves^ 
And  thinly  strew 'd  with  heath-bells  up  and  down. 
Now,  when  the  downward  sun  iias  left  the  glens. 
Each  mountain's  rugged  lineaments  are  tracCv. 
Upon  the  adverse  slope,  where  stalks  gigantic 
The  shepherd's  shadow  thrown  athwart  the  chasm, 
As  on  the  topmost  ridge  he  homeward  hies. 
How  deep  the  hush !  the  torrent's  channel  dry. 
Presents  a  stony  steep,  the  echo's  haunt. 
But,  hark,  a  plaintive  sound  floating  along ! 
'Tis  from  yon  heath-roof'd  shielin  ;  now  it  dies 
Away,  now  rises  full ;  it  is  clie  song 
Which  He, — who  listens  to  the  hallelujahs 
Of  choiring  seraphim, — delights  to  hear ; 
It  is  the  music  of  the  heart,  the  voice 
Of  venerable  age, — of  guileless  youth, 
In  kindly  circle  seated  on  the  ground 
Before  their  wicker  door.    Behold  the  man  ! 
The  grandsire  and  the  saint ;  his  silvery  locks 
Beam  in  the  parting  ray :  before  him  lies, 
Upon  the  smooth  cropt  sward,  the  open  book. 


His  comfort,  stay,  and  ever  new  delight ! 
While,  heedless,  at  his  side,  the  lisping  boy 
Fondles  the  lamb  that  nightly  shares  his  couch. 


AN  AUTUMN  SABBATH  WALK. 
When  homeward  bands  their  several  ways  disperse, 
I  love  to  linger  in  the  narrow  field 
Of  rest,  to  wander  round  from  tomb  to  tcmb, 
And  think  of  some  who  silent  sleep  below. 
Sad  sighs  the  wind,  that  from  those  ancient  elms 
Shakes  showers  of  leaves  upon  the  wither'd  grass  t 
The  sere  and  yellow  wreaths,  with  eddying  sweep, 
Fill  up  the  furrows  'tween  the  hillock'd  graves. 
But  list  that  moan  !  'tis  the  poor  blind  man's  dog, 
His  guide  for  many  a  day,  now  come  to  mourn 
The  master  and  the  friend — conjunction  rare  ! 
A  man  indeed  he  was  of  gentle  soul, 
Though  bred  to  brave  the  deep :  the  lightning's  flash 
Had  dimm'd,not  closed,  his  mild,  but  sightless  eyes 
He  was  a  welcome  guest  through  all  his  range 
(It  was  not  wide ;)  no  dog  would  bay  at  him ; 
Children  would  run  to  meet  him  on  his  way. 
And  lead  him  to  a  sunny  seat,  and  climb 
His  knee,  and  wonder  at  his  oft-told  tales. 
Then  would  he  teach  the  elfins  how  to  plait 
The  rushy  cap  and  crown,  or  sedgy  ship  ; 
And  I  have  seen  him  lay  his  tremulous  hand 
Upon  their  heads,  while  silent  moved  his  lips. 
Peace  to  thy  spirit !  that  now  looks  on  me 
Perhaps  with  greater  pity  than  I  felt 
To  see  thee  wandering  darkling  on  thy  way. 

But  let  me  quit  this  melancholy  spot. 
And  roam  where  nature  gives  a  parting  smile. 
As  yet  the  blue-bells  linger  on  the  sod 
That  copes  the  sheepfold  ring  ;  and  in  the  woods 
A  second  blow  of  many  flowers  appears  ; 
Flowers  faintly  tinged,  and  breathing  no  perfume. 
But  fruits,  not  blossoms,  form  the  woodland  wreata 
That  circles  Autumn's  brow:  the  ruddy  haws 
Now  clothe  the  half-ieaved  thorn;  the  bramble 

bends 
Beneath  its  jetty  load ;  the  hazel  hangs 
With  auburn  branches,  dipping  in  the  stream 
That  sweeps  along,  and  threatens  to  o'erflow 
The  leaf-strewn  banks :  oft,  statue-like,  I  gaze, 
In  vacancy  of  thought,  upon  that  stream. 
And  chase,  with  dreaming  eye,  the  eddying  foam  ; 
Or  rowan's  cluster'd  branch,  or  harvest  sheaf. 
Borne  rapidly  adown  the  dizzying  flood. 


A  WINTER  SABBATH  WALK. 

How  dazzling  white  the  snowy  scene  !  deep,  deep 
The  stillness  of  the  winter  Sabbath  day, — 
Not  even  a  foot-fall  heard. — Smooth  are  the  fields, 
Each  hollow  patlr/ray  level  with  the  plain : 
Hid  are  the  bushes,  save  that,  here  and  there. 
Are  seen  the  topmost  shoots  of  brier  or  broom. 
High-ridged,  the  whirled  drift  has  almost  reach'd 
The  powder'd  key-stone  of  the  churchyard  porch 
Mute  hangs  the  hooded  bell  ;  the  tombs  lie  buried, 
No  step  approaches  to  the  house  of  prayer. 

The  flickering  fall  is  o'er ;  the  clouds  disperse, 
And  show  the  sun,  hung  o'er  the  welkin's  verge  j 
Shooting  a  Irright  but  VnefFectual  beam 


BIBLICAL    PICTURES. 


299 


On  all  the  sparkling  waste.    Now  i^  the  time, 
To  visit  nature  in  her  grand  attire  ; 
Though  perilous  the  mountainous  ascent, 
A.  noble  recompense  the  danger  brings. 
How  beautiful  the  plain  stretch'd  far  below ! 
Unvaried  though  it  be,  save  by  yon  otream 
With  azure  windings,  or  the  leafless  wood. 
But  what  the  beauty  of  the  plain,  compared 
To  that  sublimity  which  reigns  inthroned. 
Holding  joint  rule  with  solitude  divine. 
Among  yon  rocky  fells,  that  bid  defiance 
To  steps  the  most  adventurously  bold  ! 
Ttsre  silence  dwells  profound  ;  or  if  the  cry 
Of  high-poised  eagle  break  at  times  the  calm, 
The  mantled  echoes  no  response  return. 

But  let  me  now  explore  the  deep  sunk  dell. 
No  foot-print,  save  the  covey's  or  the  flock's. 
Is  seen  along  the  rill,  where  marshy  springs 
Still  rear  the  grassy  blade  of  vivid  green. 
Beware,  ye  shepherds,  of  these  treacherous  haunts, 
Nor  linger  there  too  long:  the  wintry  day 
Soon  closes ;  and  full  oft  a  heavier  fall 
Heap'd  by  the  blast,  fills  up  the  shelter'd  glen. 
While,  gurgling  deep  below,  the  buried  rill 
Mines  for  itself  a  snow-coved  way.     0  !  then. 
Your  helpless  charge  drive  from  the  tempting  spot, 
And  keep  them  on  the  bleak  hill's  stormy  side. 
Where   night-winds    sweep    the    gathering   drift 

away  :— 
So  the  great  Shepherd  leads  the  heavenly  flock 
From  faithless  pleasures,  full  into  the  storms 
Of  life,  where  long  they  bear  the  bitter  blast. 
Until  at  length  the  vernal  sun  looks  forth, 
Bedimm'd  with  showers:     Then  to  the  pastures 

green 
He  brings  them,  where  the  quiet  waters  glide, 
The  streams  of  life,  the  Siloah  of  the  soul. 


BIBLICAL  PICTURES. 

THE  FIRST  SABBATH. 
Six  days  the  heavenly  host,  in  circle  vast. 
Like  that  untouching  cincture  which  enzones 
The  globe  of  Saturn,  compass'd  wide  this  orb, 
And  with  the  forming  mass  floated  along. 
In  rapid  course,  through  yet  untravell'd  space. 
Beholding  God's  stupendous  power, — a  world 
Bursting  from  chaos  at  the  omnific  will, 
And  perfect  ere  the  sixth  day's  evening  star 
On  Paradise  arose.     Blessed  that  eve  ! 
The  Sabbatn-s  harbinger,  when,  all  complete. 
In  freshest  beauty  from  Jehovah's  hand, 

xeation  bloom 'd  ;  when  Eden's  twilight  face 
Smiled  like  a  sleeping  babe.     The  voice  divine 
A  holy  calm  breathed  o'er  the  goodly  work ; 
Mildly  the  sun,  upon  the  loftiest  trees, 
biiei  mellowly  a  sloping  beam.     Peace  reign'd. 
And  love,  and  gratitude  5  the  human  pair 
Their  orisons  pour'd  forth  ;  love,  concord,  reign'd 
The  falcon,  perch'd  upon  the  blooming  bough 
With  Philomela,  listen'd  to  her  lay ; 
Among  the  antler'd  herd,  the  tiger  couch'd 
Harmless  ;  the  lion's  mane  no  terror  spread 
Araot  ^  the  careless  rummating  flock. 


Silence  was  o'er  tne  Jeep  ;  the  noiseless  surge, 
The  last  subsiding  wave, — of  that  dread  tumult 
Which  raged,  when  ocean,  at  the  mute  command, 
Rush'd  furiously  into  his  new-cleft  bed, — 
Was  gently  rippling  on  the  pebbled  shore ; 
While,  on  the  swell,  the  sea-bird  with  her  head 
Wing-veil'd,  slept  tranquilly.     The  host  of  heaven, 
Entranced  in  new  delight,  speechless  adored  ; 
Nor  stopp'd   their  fleet  career,  nor  changed  their 

form 
Encircular,  till  on  that  hemisphere. 
In  which  the  blissful  garden  sweet  exhaled 
Its  incense,  odorous  clouds, — the  Sabbath  dawn 
Arose  ;  then  wide  the  flying  circle  oped. 
And  soar'd,  in  semblance  of  a  mighty  rainbow 
Silent  ascend  the  choirs  of  seraphim  ; 
No  harp  resounds,  mute  is  each  voice  ;  the  burst 
Of  joy  and  praise  reluctant  they  repress, — 
For  love  and  concord  all  things  so  attuned 
To  harmony,  that  earth  must  have  received 
The  grand  vibration,  and  to  the  centre  shook: 
But  soon  as  to  the  starry  altitudes 
They  reach'd,  then  what  a  storm  of  sound  tremen 

dous 
Swell'd  through  the  realms  of  space  !     The  morn- 
ing stars 
Together  sang,  and  all  the  sons  of  God 
Shouted  for  joy  !  Loud  was  the  peal ;  so  loud 
As  would  have  quite  o'erwhelm'd  the  human  sense  ; 
But  to  the  earth  it  came  a  gentle  strain, 
Like  softest  fall  breathed  from  JEolian  lute, 
When  'mid  the  chords  the  evening  gale  ejipires. 
Day  of  the  Lord !  creation's  hallow'd  close  .' 
Day  of  the  Loid  !  (prophetical  they  sang,) 
Benignant  mitigation  of  that  doom 
Which  must,  ere  long,  consign  the  fallen  race, 
Dwellers  in  yonder  star,  to  toil  and  wo  ! 


THE  FINDING  OF  MOSES. 

Slow  glides  the  Nile :  amid  the  margin  flags, 
Closed  in  a  bulrush  ark,  the  babe  is  left, — 
Left  by  a  mother's  hand.     His  sister  waits 
Far  off;  and  pale,  'tween  hope  and  fear,  beholds 
The  royal  maid,  surrounded  by  her  train. 
Approach  the  river  bank, — approach  the  spot 
Where  sleeps  the  innocent :  She  sees  them  stoop 
With  meeting  plumes  ;  the  rushy  lid  is  oped, 
And  wakes  the  infant,  smiling  in  his  tears. 
As  when  along  a  little  mountain  lake 
The  summer  south-wind  breathes,  with  gentle  sigb^ 
And  parts  the  reeds,  unveiling,  as  they  bend, 
A  water-lily  floating  on  the  wave. 


JACOB  AND  PHARAOH. 
Pharaoh  upon  a  gorgeous  throne  of  state 
Was  seated  ;  while  around  him  stood  submiss 
His  servants,  watchful  of  his  lofty  looks. 
The  patriarch  enters,  leaning  on  the  arm 
Of  Benjamin.     Unmoved  by  all  the  glare 
Of  royally,  he  scarcely  throws  a  glance 
Upon  the  pageant  show  ;  for  from,  his  youth 
A  shepherd's  life  he  led,  and  view'd  each  night 
The  starry  host ;  and  still,  where'er  he  went. 
He  felt  himself  in  presence  of  the  Lord 


300 


GRAHAME. 


His  eye  is  bent  on  Joseph,  him  pursues. 
Sudden  the  king  descends  ;  and,  bending,  kneels 
Before  the  aged  man,  and  supplicates 
A  blessing  from  his  lips  !  the  aged  man  • 

Lays  on  the  ground  his  staff,  and  stretching  forth 
His  tremulous  hand  o'er  Pharaoh's  uncrown 'd  head, 
Prays  that  th*  Lord  would  bless  him  and  his  land. 


JKPHTHAH'S  VOW.     • 
From  conquest  Jephthah  came,  with  faltering  step 
And  troubled  eye  ;  his  home  appears  in  view  ; 
He  trembles  at  the  sight.    Sad  he  forbodes, — 
His  vow  will  meet  a  victim  in  his  child  : 
For  well  he  knows,  that,  from  her  earliest  years, 
She  still  was  first  to  meet  his  homeward  steps  : 
Well  he  remembers,  how,  with  tottering  gait, 
She  ran,  and  clasp'd  his  knees,  and  lisp'd,and  look'd 
Her  joy ;  and  how,  when  garlanding  with  flowers 
His  helm,  fearful,  her  infant  hand  would  shrink 
Back  from  the  lion  couch'd  beneath  the  crest. 
What  sound  is'  that,  which,  from  the  palm-tree 

grove. 
Floats  now  with  choral  swell,  now  fainter  falls 
Upon  the  ear  ?    It  is,  it  is  the  song 
He  loved  to  hear, — a  song  of  thanks  and  praise, 
Sung  by  the  patriarch  for  his  ransom'd  son. 
Hope  from  the  omen  springs  :  0  blessed  hope  ! 
It  may  not  be  her  voice  ! — Fain  would  he  think 
'Twas  not  his  daughter's  voice  that  still  approach 'd, 
Blent  with  the  timbrel's  note.  Forth  from  the  grove 
She  foremost  glides  of  all  the  minstrel  band : 
Moveless  he  stands ;  then  grasps  his  hilt,  still  red 
With  hostile  gore,  but,  shuddering,  quits  the  hold : 
And  clasps  in  agony  his  hands,  and  cries, 
**  Alas,  my  daughter  !  thou  hast  brought  me  low." — 
The  timbrel  at  her  rooted  feet  resounds. 

SAUL  AND  DAVir . 
Deep  was  the  furrow  in  the  royal  brow. 
When  David's  hand,  lightly  as  vernal  gales 
Rippling  the  brook  of  Kedron,  skimm'd  the  lyre : 
He  sung  of  Jacob's  youngest  born, — the  child 
Of  his  old  age, — sold  to  the  Ishmaelite  ; 
His  exaltation  to  the  second  power 
In  Pharaoh's  realm  ;  his  brethren  thither  sent ; 
Suppliant  they  stood  before  his  face,  well  known, 
Unknowing, — till  Joseph  fell  upon  the  neck 
Of  Benjamin,  his  mother's  son,  and  wept. 
Unconsciously  the  warlike  shepherd  paused  ; 
But  when  he  saw,  down  the  yet  quivering  string. 
The  tear-drop  trembling  glide,  abash'd,  he  check'd, 
Indignant  at  himself,  the  bursting  flood. 
And,  with  a  sweep  impetuous,  struck  the  chords : 
From  side  to  side  his  hands  transversely  glance, 
Like  lightning  'thwart  a  stormy  sea ;  his  voice 
Arises  'mid  the  clang,  and  straightway  calms 
The  harmonious  tempest,  to  a  solemn  swell 
Majestical,  triumphant ;  for  he  sings 
Of  Arad's  mighty  host  by  Israel's  arm 
Subdued ;  of  Israel  through  the  desert  Jed 
He  sings  ;  of  him  who  was  their  leader,  call'd 
By  God  himself,  from  keeping  Jethro's  flock, 
To  be  a  ruler  o'er  the  chosen  race. 
Kindles  the  eye  of  Saul ;  his  arm  is  poised ; — 
Harmless  the  javelin  quivers  in  the  wall. 


ELUAH  FED  BY  RAVENS. 
Sore  was  the  famine  throughout  all  the  bounds 
Of  Israel,  when  Elijah,  by  command 
Of  God,  journeyed  to  Cherith's  failing  brook. 
No  rain-drops  fall,  no  dew-fraught  cloud,  at  more 
Or  closing  eve,  creeps  slowly  up  the  vale  ; 
The  withering  herbage  dies  ;  among  the  palms 
The  shrivell'd  leaves  send  to  the  summer  gale 
An  autumn  rustle  ;  no  sweet  songster's  lay 
Is  warbled  from  the  branches  ;  scarce  is  heard 
The  rill's  faint  brawl.     The  prophet  looks  around 
And  trusts  in  God,  and  lays  his  silver'd  head 
Upon  the  flowerless  bank  ;  serene  he  sleeps, 
Nor  wakes  till  dawning :  then  with  hands  enclasp'd, 
And  heavenward  face,  and  eyelids  closed,  he  prays 
To  Him  who  manna  on  the  desert  shower'd, 
To  Him  who  from  the  rock  made  fountains  gush : 
Entranced  the  man  of  God  remains  :  till  roused 
By  sound  of  wheeling  wings,  with  grateful  heart. 
He  sees  the  ravens  fearless  by  his  side 
Alight,  and  leave  the  heaven-provided  food. 


THE  BIRTH  OF  JESUS  ANNOUNCED. 
Deep  was  the  midnight  silence  in  the  fields 
Of  Bethlehem;  hush'd  the  folds  ;  save  that  at  times 
Was  heard  the  lamb's  faint  bleat :  the  shepherds, 

stretch'd 
On  the  greea  sward,  survey'd  the  starry  vault. 
The  heavens  declare  the  glory  of  the  Lord, 
The  firmament  shows  forth  thy  handy-work : 
Thus  they,  their  hearts  attuned  to  the  Most  High— ' 
When  suddenly  a  splendid  cloud  appear'd. 
As  if  a  portion  of  the  milky  way 
Descended  slowly  in  the  spiral  course. 
Near  and  more  near  it  draws  ;  then,  hovering,  floats 
High  as  the  soar  of  eagle,  shedding  bright. 
Upon  the  folded  flocks,  a  heavenly  radiance, 
From  whence  was  utter 'd  loud,  yet  sweet,  a  voice,— 
Fear  not,  I  bring  good  tidings  of  great  joy  ; 
For  unto  you  is  born  this  day  a  Saviour .' 
And  this  shall  he  a  sign  to  you, — the  bdbe^ 
Laid  lowly  in  a  manger,  ye  shall  find. — 
The  angel  spake  ;  when,  lo  !  upon  the  cloud, 
A  multitude  of  seraphim,  enthroned. 
Sang  praises,  saying,^— G^^ri/  to  the  Lord 
On  high  ;  on  earth  be  peace,  good  will  to  men. 
With  sweet  response  harmoniously  they  choir'd. 
And  while,  with  heavenly  harmony,  the  song 
Arose  to  God,  more  bright  the  buoyant  throne 
Illumed  the  land :  the  prowling  lion  stops, 
Awe-struck,  with  mane   uprear'd,  and   flatten »d 

head ; 
And,  without  turning,  backward  on  his  steps 
Recoils,  aghast,  into  the  desert  gloom. 
A  trembling  joy  th'  astonish'd  shepherds  prove, 
As  heavenward  reascends  the  vocal  blaze 
Triumphantly ;  while  by  degrees  the  strain 
Dies  on  the  ear,  that,  self-deluded,  listens — 
As  if  a  sound  so  sweet  could  never  die. 


BEHOLD  MY  MOTHER  AND  MY  BRETHREN. 

Who  is  my  mother,  or  my  brethren  ? 

He  spake,  and  look'd  on  them  who  sat  around, 

With  a  meek  smile  of  pity  blent  with  love, 


BIBLICAL   PICTURES. 


301 


More  melting  than  e'er  gleam'd  from  human  face, — 

As  when  a  sunbeam,  through  a  summer  shower, 

Shines  mildly  on  a  little  hill-side  flock  ; 

And  with  that  look  of  love  he  said,  Behold 

My  mother  and  my  brethren  ;  for  I  say, 

That  whosoe'er  shall  do  the  will  of  God, 

He  is  my  brother,  sister,  mother,  all. 


BARTDIEUS  RESTORED  TO  SIGHT. 

Blind,  poor,  and  helpless  Bartimeus  sat. 

Listening  the  foot  of  the  wayfaring  man. 

Still  hoping  that  the  next,  and  still  the  next. 

Would  put  an  alms  into  his  trembling  hand. 

He  thinks  he  hears  the  coming  breeze  faint  rustle 

Among  the  sycamores  ;  it  is  the  tread 

Of  thousand  steps  ;  it  is  the  hum  of  tongues 

Innumerable  :  But  when  the  sightless  man 

Heard  that  the  Nazarene  was  passing  by 

He  eried,  and  said, — "  Jesus,  thou  Son  of  David, 

Have  mercy  upon  me  .'"  and,  when  rebuked. 

He  cried  the  more,  "  Have  mercy  upon  me  !" — 

Thy  faith  has  made  thee  ichole,  so  Jesus  spake. 

And  straight  the  blind  beheld  the  f.^  ce  or  God. 


LITTLE  CHILDREN  BROUGHT  TO  JESUS. 
Suffer  that  little  children  come  to  me, 
Forbid  them  not.     Imbolden'd  by  his  words. 
The  mothers  onward  press  ;  but  finding  vain 
Th'  attempt  to  reach  the  Lord,  they  trust  their 

babes 
To  strangers'  hands  ;     The  innocents,  alarm'd 
Amid  the  throng  of  faces  all  unknown. 
Shrink,  trembling, — till  iheir  wandering  eyes  dis- 
cern 
The  countenance  of  Jesus,  beaming  love 
And  pity ;  eager  then  they  stretch  their  arms. 
And,  cowering,  lay  their  heads  upon  his  breast. 


JESUS  CALMS  THE  TEMPEST. 
The  roaring  tumult  of  the  billow'd  sea 
Awakes  him  not :  high  on  the  crested  surge 
Now  heaved,  hh  locks  flow  streaming  in  the  blast. 
And  now,  descending  'tween  the  sheltering  waves. 
The  falling  tresses  veil  the  face  divine  ; 
Meek  through  that  veil,  a  momentary  gleam 
Benignant  shines  ;  he  dreams  that  he  beholds 
The  opening  eyes, — that  long  hopeless  had  roll'd 
In  darkness, — look  around  bedimm'd  with  tears 
Of  joy  ;  but  suddenly  the  voice  of  fear 
Dispell'd  the  happy  vision  ;  Awful  he  rose, 
Rebuked  the  wind,  and  said  unto  the  sea. 
Peace,  be  thou  still  !  and  straight  there  was  a  calm. 
With  terror-mingled  gladness  in  their  looks. 
The  manners  exclaim, — What  man  is  this, 
That  c'e/t  the  xuind  and  sea  obey  his  voice  ! 


JESUS  WALKS  ON  THE  SEA,  AND  CALMS  THE 

STORM. 
Lo\jD  blew  the  storm  of  night ;  the  thwarting  surge 
Dash'd,  boiling,  on  the  labouring  bark  :  dismay. 
From  face  to  face  reflected,  spread  around  : — 
When,  lo  !  upon  a  towering  wave  is  seen 
The  semblance  of  a  foamy  wreath,  upright. 
Move  onward  to  the  shtp :  The  helmsman  starts, 


And  quits  his  hold  ;  the  voyagers,  appall'd. 

Shrink  from  the  fancied  Spirit  of  the  Flood ; 

But  when  the  voice  of  Jesus  with  the  storm 

Soft  mingled.  It  is  1,  be  not  afraid  ; 

Fear  fled,  and  joy  lighten'd  from  eye  to  eye. 

Up  he  ascends,  and,  from  the  rolling  side, 

Surveys  the  tumult  of  the  sea  and  rky 

With  transient  look  severe  :  the  tempest,  awed. 

Sinks  to  a  sudden  calm ;  the  clouds  disperse  j 

The  moonbeam  trembles  on  the  face  divine, 

Reflected  mildly  in  th'  unruffled  deep. 


THE  DUMB  CURED. 
His  eyes  uplifted,  and  his  hands  close  clasp'd. 
The  dumb  man,  with  a  supplicating  look, 
Turn'd  as  the  Lord  pass'd  by  :     Jesus  beheld, 
And  on  him  bent  a  pitying  look,  and  spake  : 
His  moving  lips  are  by  the  suppliant  seen, 
And  the  last  accents  of  the  healing  sentence 
Ring  in  that  ear  which  never  heard  before. 
Prostrate  the  man  restored  falls  to  the  earth. 
And  uses  first  the  gift,  the  gift  sublime 
Of  speech,  in  giving  thanks  to  him,  whose  voice 
Was  never  utter 'd  but  in  doing  good. 


THE  DEATH  OF  JESUS. 
'Tis  finished :  he  spake  the  words,  and  bow'd 
His  head,  and  died. — Beholding  him  far  off. 
They  who  had  minister'^  unto  him  hope. 
'Tis  his  last  agony :  The  temple's  vail 
Is  rent ;  revealing  the  most  holy  place. 
Wherein  the  cherubim  their  wings  extend, 
O'ershadowing  the  mercy-seat  of  God. 
Appall'd  the  leaning  soldier  feels  the  spear 
Shake  in  his  grasp  ;  the  planted  standard  falls 
Upon  the  heaving  ground ;  the  sun  is  dimm'd, 
And  darkness  shrouds  the  body  of  the  Lord. 


THE  RESURRECTION. 

The  setting  orb  of  night  her  level  ray 
Shed  o'er  the  land,  and  on  the  dewy  sward 
The  lengthen'd  shadows  of  the  triple  cross 
Were  laid  far-stretch'd, — when  in  the  east  arose. 
Last  of  the  stars,  day's  harbinger :     No  sound 
Was  heard,  save  of  the  watching  soldier's  foot: 
Within  the  rock-barr'd  sepulchre,  the  gloom 
Of  deepest  midnight  brooded  o'er  the  dead. 
The  Holy  One :  but,  lo  !  a  radiance  faint 
Began  to  dawn  around  his  sacred  brow  : 
The  linen  vesture  seem'd  a  snowy  wreath. 
Drifted  by  storms  into  a  mountain  cave : 
Bright  and  more  bright,  the  circling  halo  beam'd 
Upon  that  face,  clothed  in  a  smile  benign. 
Though  yet  exanimate.     Nor  long  the  reign 
Of  death  ;  the  eyes  that  wept  for  human  griefs 
Unclose,  and  look  around  with  conscious  'py. 
Yes  ;  with  returning  life,  the  first  emotion 
That  glow'd  in  Jesus'  breast  of  love  was  joy 
At  man's  redemption,  now  complete  ;  at  death 
Disarmed  ;  the  grave  transform'd  into  the  couch 
Of  faith ;  the  resurrection  and  the  life, 
Majestical  he  rose :'  trembled  the  earth  ; 
The  ponderous  gate  of  stone  was  roll'd  away; 
i  The  keepers  fell ;  the  angel,  awe-struck,  sunk 


GRAHAME. 


Into  invisibility,  while  forth 
The  Saviour  of  the  world  walk'd,  and  stood 
Before  the  sepulchre,  and  view'd  the  clouds 
Impurpled  glorious  by  the  rising  sun. 


JESUS  APPEARS  TO  THE  DISCIPLES. 
The  evening  of  that  day,  which  saw  the  Lord 
Rise  from  the  chambers  of  the  dead,  was  come. 
His  faithful  followers,  assembled,  sang 
A  hymn,  low-breathed ;  a  hymn  of  sorrow,  blent 
With  hope  ;  when,  in  the  midst,  sudden  he  stood ; 
The  awe-struck  circle  backward  shrink ;  he  looks 
Around  with  a  benignant  smile  of  love, 
And  says.  Peace  be  unto  you  :  Faith  and  /py 
Spread  o'er  each  face,  amazed ;  as  when  the  moon, 
Pavilion'd  in  dark  clouds,  mildly  comes  forth, 
Silvering  a  circlet  in  the  fleecy  ranks. 


PAUL  ACCUSED  BEFORE  THE  TRIBUNAL  OF 
THE  AREOPAGUS. 

Listen  that  voice  I  upon  the  hill  of  Mars, 
Rolling  in  bolder  thunders  than  e'er  peal'd 
From  lips  that  shook  the  Macedonian  throne  ; 
Behold  his  dauntless  outstretch'd  arm,  bis  face 
Illumed  of  heaven : — he  knoweth  not  the  fear 
Of  man,  of  principalities,  of  powers. 
The  stoic's  moveless  frown  ;  the  vacant  stare 
Of  Epicurus'  herd ;  the  scowl  and  gnash  malign 
Of  superstition,  stopping  both  her  ears  ; 
The  Areopagite  tribunal  dread. 
From  whence  the  doom  of  Socrates  was  utter'd  ;— 
This  hostile  throng  dismays  him  not :  he  seems 
As  if  no  worldly  object  could  inspire 
A  terror  in  his  soul ;  as  if  the  vision, 
Which,  wlien  he  journey'd  to  Damascus,  shone 
From  heaven,  still  swam  before  his  eyes, 
Outdazzling  all  things  earthly ;  as  if  the  voice, 
That  spake  from  out  th'  effulgence,  ever  rang 
Within  his  ear,  inspiring  him  with  words. 
Burning,  majestic,  lofty,  as  his  theme, — 
The  resurrection,  and  the  life  to  come. 


PAUL  ACCUSED  BEFORE  THE  ROMAN 
GOVERNOR  OF  JUDEA. 

The  judge  ascended  to  the  judgment-seat ; 
Amid  a  gleam  of  spears  th'  apostle  stood. 
Dauntless  he  forward  came,  and  look'd  around. 
And  raised  his  voice,  at  first  in  accents  low. 
Yet  clear ;  a  whisper  spread  among  the  throng : — 
So  when  the  thunder  mutters,  still  the  breeze 
Is  heard,  at  times,  to  sigh  ;  but  when  the  peal 
Tremendous,  louder  rolls,  a  silence  dead 
Succeeds  each  pause, — moveless  the  aspen  leaf. 
Thus  fix'd  and  motionless,  the  listening  band 
Of  soldiers  forward  lean'd,  as  from  the  man 
Inspired  of  God,  truth's  awful  thunders  roll'd. 
No  more  he  feels,  upon  his  high-raised  arm, 
The  ponderous  chain,  than  does  the  playful  child 
The  bracelet,  form'd  of  many  a  flowery  link. 
Heedless  of  self,  forgetful  that  his  life 
Is  now  to  be  defended  by  his  words, 
He  only  thinks  of  doing  good  to  them 
Who  seek  his  life  ;  and  while  he  reasons  high 


Of  justice,  temperance,  and  the  life  to  cone. 

The  judge  shrinks  trembling  at  the  prisoner's  voice* 


PARAPHRASE. 

Who  healeth  all  thy  diseases :  who  redeemeth  thy  l^ 
from  destruction :  who  crowneik  thee  with  loving-kind 
ness  and  tender  mercies.— PsALUi  ciii.  3,  4. 

These  eyes,  that  were  half-closed  in  death. 

Now  dare  the  noontide  blaze  ; 
My  voice,  that  scarce  could  speak  my  wants, 

Nov/  hymns  Jehovah's  praise. 

How  pleasant  to  my  feet  unused. 

To  tread  the  daisied  ground  ! 
How  sweet  to  my  unwonted  ear 

The  streamlet's  lulling  sound. 

How  soft  the  first  breath  of  the  breeze 

That  on  my  temples  play'd  ! 
How  sweet  the  woodland  evening  song. 

Full  floating  down  the  glade  ! 

But  sweeter  far  the  lark  that  soars 
Through  morning's  blushing  ray  ; 

For  then  unseen,  unheard,  I  join 
His  lonely  heavenward  lay. 

And  sweeter  still  that  infant  voice, 
'  With  all  its  artless  charms  j — - 
'Twas  such  as  he  that  Jesus  took. 
And  cherish'd  in  his  arms. 

0  Lord  my  God  !  all  these  delights 

I  to  thy  mercy  owe  ; 
For  thou  hast  raised  me  from  the  couch 

Of  sickness,  pain,  and  wo. 

'Twas  thou  that  from  the  whelnung  wave 

My  sinking  soul  redeem'd ; 
'Twas  thou  that  o'er  destruction's  storm 

A  calming  radiance  beam'd. 


ON  VISITING  MELROSE, 

AFTER   AN   ABSENCE   OF   SIXTEEN   YEAKS. 

Y.  >  se.tting  sun,  that  slowly  disappear?, 
Gleams  a  memento  of  departed  years : 
Ay,  many  a  year  is  gone,  and  many  a  friend. 
Since  here  I  saw  the  autumn  sun  descend. 
Ah  !  one  is  gone,  whose  hand  was  lock'd  in  minOj 
In  this,  that  traces  now  the  sorrowing  line : 
And  now  alone  I  scan  the  mouldering  tombs. 
Alone  I  wander  through  the  vaulted  glooms. 
And  list,  as  if  the  echoes  might  retain 
One  lingering  cadence  of  her  varied  strain. 
Alas  !  I  heard  that  melting  voice  decay. 
Heard  seraph  tones  in  whispers  die  away ; 
I  mark'd  the  tear  presageful  fill  her  eye, 
And  quivering  speak, — I  am  resign'd  to  die. 
Ye  stars  that  through  the  fretted  windows  she* 
A  glimmering  beam  athwart  the  mighty  dead, 
Say  to  what  sphere  her  sainted  spirit  flew. 
That  thither  I  may  turn  my  longing  view, 
And  wish,  and  hope,  some  tedious  seasons  o'er. 
To  join  a  long  lost  friend,  to  part  no  more 


MISCELLANEOUS. 


303 


THE  WILD  DUCK  AND  HER  BROOD. 

How  calm  that  little  lake !  no  breath  of  wind 
Sighs  through  the  reeds  ;  a  clear  abyss  it  seems. 
Held  in  the  concave  of  th'  inverted  sky, — 
In  which  is  seen  the  rook's  dull  flagging  wing 
Move  o'er  the  silvery  clouds.    How  peaceful  sails 
Yon  little  fleet,  the  wild  duck  and  her  brood ! 
Fearless  of  harm,  they  row  their  easy  way ; 
The  water-lily  neath  the  plumy  prows, 
Dips,  reappearing  in  their  dimpled  track. 
Yet,  e'en  amid  that  scene  of  peace,  the  noise 
Of  war,  unequal,  dastard  war,  intrudes. 
Yon  revel  rout  of  men,  and  boys,  and  dogs. 
Boisterous  approach ;  the  spaniel  dashes  in ; 
Quick  he  descries  the  prey ;  and  faster  swims. 
And  eager  barks  ;  the  harmless  flock  dismay 'd, 
Hasten  to  gain  the  thickest  grove  of  reeds. 
All  but  the  parent  pair  ;  they,  floating,  wait 
To  lure  the  foe,  and  lead  him  from  their  young ; 
But  soon  themselves  are  forced  to  seek  the  shore. 
Vain  then  the  buoyant  wing ;  the  leaden  storm 
Arrests  their  flight ;  they,  fluttering,  bleeding,  fall, 
And  tinge  the  troubled  bosom  of  the  lake. 


TO  A  REDBREAST,  THAT  FLEW  IN  AT  MY 
WINDOW. 

From  snowy  plains,  and  icy  sprays, 

From  moonless  nights,  and  sunless  days. 

Welcome,  poor  bird  !  I'll  cherish  thee ; 

I  love  thee,  for  thou  trustest  me. 

Thrice  welcome,  helpless,  panting  guest ! 

Fondly  I'll  warm  thee  in  my  breast: — 

How  quick  thy  little  heart  is  beating ! 

As  if  its  brother  flutterer  greeting. 

Thou  need'st  not  dread  a  captive's  doom ; 

No :  freely  flutter  round  my  room  ; 

Perch  on  my  lute's  remaining  string, 

And  sweetly  of  sweet  summer  sing. 

That  note,  that  summer  note,  I  know ; 

It  wakes  at  once,  and  soothes  my  wo ; 

I  see  those  woods,  I  see  that  stream, 

I  see, — ah,  still  prolong  the  dream  ! 

Still  with  thy  song  those  scenes  renew, 

Though  through  my  tears  they  reach  my  view. 

No  more  now,  at  my  lonely  meal. 
While  thou  art  by,  alone  I'll  feel ; 
For  soon,  devoid  of  all  distrust, 
Thou'lt  nibbling  share  my  humble  crust ; 
Or  on  my  finger,  pert  and  spruce, 
Thou'lt  learn  to  sip  the  sparkling  juice ; 
And  when  (our  short  collation  o'er) 
Some  favourite  volume  I  explore, 
Be't  work  of  poet  or  of  sage. 
Safe  thou  shalt  hop  across  the  page ; 
Uncheck'd,  shall  flit  o'er  Virgil's  groves, 
Or  flutter  'mid  Tibullus'  loves. 
Thus,  heedless  of  the  raving  blast, 
Thou'lt  dwell  with  me  till  winter's  past ; 
And  when  the  primrose  tells  'tis  spring, 
And  when  the  thrush  begins  to  sing. 
Soon  as  I  hear  the  woodland  song, 
Freed,  thou  shalt  join  the  vocal  throng. 


EPITAPH  ON  A  BLACKBIRD  KILLED  BY  A 

HAWK. 
Winter  was  o'er,  and  spring-flowers  deck'd  the 
glade ; 
The  blackbird's  note  among  the  wild  woods  rung: 
Ah,  short-lived  note  !  the  songster  now  is  laid 
Beneath  the  bush  on  which  so  sweet  he  sung. 

Thy  jetty  plumes,  by  ruthless  falcon  rent, 

Are  now  all  soil'd  among  the  mouldering  clay ; 

A  primrosed  turf  is  all  thy  monument, 
And  for  thy  dirge  the  redbreast  lends  his  lay. 


THE  POOR  MAN'S  FUNERAL. 
Yo:v  motley,  sable-suited  throng,  that  wait 
Around  the  poor  man's  door,  announce  a  tale 
Of  wo ;  the  husband,  parent,  is  no  more. 
Contending  with  disease,  he  labour'd  long. 
By  penury  compell'd ;  yielding  at  last, 
He  laid  him  down  to  die ;  but,  lingering  on 
From  day  to  day,  he  from  his  sick-bed  saw. 
Heart-broken  quite,  his  children's  looks  of  want 
Veil'd  in  a  clouded  smile  ;  alas  !  he  heard 
The  elder  lispingly  attempt  to  still 
The  younger's  plaint, — languid  he  raised  his  head 
And  thought  he  yet  could  toil,  but  sunk 
Into  the  arms  of  death,  the  poor  man's  friend ! 

The  coffin  is  borne  out ;  the  humble  pomp 
Moves  slowly  on  ;  the  orphan  mourner's  hand 
(Poor  helpless  child  !)  just  reaches  to  the  pall. 
And  now  they  pass  into  the  field  of  graves. 
And  now  around  the  narrow  house  they  stand. 
And  view  the  plain  black  board  sink  from  the  sight. 
Hollow  the  mansion  of  the  dead  resounds. 
As  falls  each  spadeful  of  the  bone-mix'd  mould. 
The  turf  is  spread ;  uncover'd  is  each  head, — 
A  last  farewell :  all  turn  their  several  ways. 

Wo's  me  !  those  tear-dimm'd  eyes,  that  sobbing 
breast ! 
Poor  child  !  thou  thinkest  of  the  kindly  hand 
That  wont  to  lead  thee  home  :  No  more  that  hand 
Shall  aid  thy  feeble  gait,  or  gentle  stroke 
Thy  sun-bleach'd  head  and  downy  cheek. 
But  go,  a  mother  waits  thy  homeward  steps  ; 
In  vain  her  eyes  dwell  on  the  sacred  page, — 
Her  thoughts  are  in  the  grave  ;  'tis  thou  alone. 
Her  first-born  child,  canst  rouse  that  statue  gaze 
Of  wo  profound.     Haste  to  the  widow'd  arms ; 
Look  with  thy  father's  look,  speak  with  his  voice, 
And  melt  a  heart  that  else  will  break  with  grief. 


THE  THANKSGIVING  OFF  CAPE  TRA- 
FALGAR. 

Upon  the  high,  yet  gently  rolling  wave. 
The  floating  tomb  that  heaves  above  the  brave, 
Soft  sighs  the  gale,  that  late  tremendous  roar'd, 
V/helming  the  wretched  remnants  of  the  sword. 
And  now  the  cannon's  peaceful  thunder  calls 
The  victor  bands  to  mount  their  wooden  walls. 
And  from  the  ramparts,  while  their  comrades  fell, 
The  mingled  strain  of  joy  and  grief  to  swell : 


304 


GRAHAME. 


Fast  they  ascend,  from  stem  to  stem  they  spread. 
And  crowd  the  engines,  whence  the  lightnings  sped : 
The  white-robed  priest  his  upraised  hands  extends : 
Hush'd  is  each  voice,  attention  leaning  bends ; 
Then  from  each  prow  the  grand  hosannas  rise. 
Float  o'er  the  deep,  and  hover  to  the  skies. 
Heaven  fills  each  heart ;  yet  home  will  oft  intrude. 
And  tears  of  love  celestial  joys  exclude. 
The  wounded  man,  who  hears  the  soaring  strain, 
Lifts  his  pale  visage,  and  forgets  his  pain  ; 
While  parting  spirits,  mingling  with  the  lay, 
On  hallelujahs  wing  their  heavenward  way. 


TO  MY  SON. 
Twice  has  the  sun  commenced  his  annual  round, 
Since  first  thy  footsteps  totter'd  o'er  the  ground. 
Since  first  thy  tongue  was  tuned  to  bless  mine  ear, 
I^y  faltering  out  the  name  to  fathers  dear. 
C» !  nature's  language,  with  her  looks  combined 
More  precious  far  than  periods  thrice  refined ! 
O !  sportive  looks  of  love,  devoid  of  guile, 
I  prize  you  more  than  beauty's  magic  smile : 
Yes,  m  that  face,  unconscious  of  its  charm 
I  gaze  with  bliss,  unmingled  with  alarm. 


Ah,  no  !  full  oft  a  boding  horror  flies 
Athwart  my  fancy,  uttering  fateful  cries. 
Almighty  Power !  his  harmless  life  defend, 
And  if  we  part,  'gainst  me  the  mandate  send. 
And  yet  a  wish  will  rise, — would  I  might  live 
Till  added  years  his  memory  finnness  give  ' 
For,  0 !  it  would  a  joy  in  death  impart. 
To  think  I  still  survived  within  his  heart ; 
To  think  he'll  cast,  midway  the  vale  of  years, 
A  retrospective  look,  bedimm'd  with  tears ; 
And  tell,  regretful,  how  I  look'd  and  spoke ; 
What  walks  I  loved ;  where  grew  my  favourite  oak 
How  gently  I  would  lead  him  by  the  hand ; 
How  gently  use  the  accent  of  command ; 
What  lore  I  taught  him,  roaming  wood  and  wild. 
And  how  the  man  descended  to  the  child ; 
How  well  I  loved  with  him,  on  Sabbath  morn. 
To  hear  the  anthem  of  the  vocal  thorn ; 
To  teach  religion,  unallied  to  strife. 
And  trace  to  him  the  way,  the  truth,  the  life. 
But  far  and  farther  still  my  view  I  bend,— 
And  now  I  see  a  child  thy  steps  attend ; — 
To  yonder  churchyard  wall  thou  takest  thy  way. 
While  round  thee,  pleased,  thou  seest  the  infant  play* 
Then  lifting  him,  while  tears  suffuse  thine  eyes. 
Pointing,  thou  tell'st  him,  There  thy  grandsire  liei 


JOANNA   BAILLIE. 


Joanna  Baillie,  sister  of  the  celebrated  Dr.  ! 
Matthew  Baillie,  was  born  at  Bothwell,  in  Scotland,  | 
about  the  jear  1765.     We  have  been  unable  to  i 
collect  any  particulars  of  her  life,  but  she  is  well 
known  to  the  public  as  one  of  the  most  successful  i 
female  writers   of  the   present    age.      Her   most  } 
celebrated  production  is  her  Plays  of  the  Passions ;  ! 
a  ijeries  in  which  each  passion  is  made  the  subject 
of  a  tragedy  and  a  comedy.     These  procured  her 
great  reputation,  particularly  her  tragedies,  which 
evince    strong    conceptions    of    character,    vivid 
imagery,  and  a  masterly  delineation  of  the  various 


passions.  Her  plays,  however,  have  not  the  tran« 
scendent  dramatic  merit  which  has  been  claimed 
for  them  by  some  of  her  admirers.  She  is  by  nc 
means  a  Shakspeare.  One  of  her  most  recent  pub- 
lications is,  A.  View  of  the  general  Tenor  of  the  Ncajv 
Testament,  regarding  the  Nature  and  Dignity  of 
Jesus  Christ.  She  is  also  the  author  of  The  Family 
Legend,  a  tragedy  ;  Metrical  Legends,  or  Exalted 
Characters ;  two  dramas,  entitled,  respectively, — 
The  Martyr,  and  The  Bride ;  and  a  volume  of 
dramas,  very  recently  published. 


BASIL. 


PERSONS  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

MEN. 


Count  Basil, 
Count  Rosinberg, 
DuKB  OF  Mantua. 
Gauriceio, 

VALTOJrER, 

Frederick, 
Geoffry, 

MlRANDO, 


a  general  in  the  emperor-s  service, 
his  friend. 

his  minister. 

>  T\oo  officers  of  Basil's  troops. 

C  an  old  soldier  very  much  maimed 
X     in  the  wars, 
a  little  boy,favouritc  to  Victoria. 


WOMEN. 

Victoria,  daughter  to  the  Duke  of  Mantua. 

Countess  op  Albini,  friend  and  governess  to  Victoria. 
Isabella,  a  lady  attending  %ipon  Victoria. 

Officers,  soldiers,  and  attendants,  masks,  dancers,  ^c. 

***  The  scene  is  in  Mantua  and  its  environs.  THme 
supposed  to  be  the  sixteenth  century,  when  Charles  the 
Fifth  defeated  Francis  the  First,  at  the  battle  o/"  Pa  via. 


ACT  L 

BCENE  I. AN  OPEN  STREET,  CROWDED  WITH  PEOPLE 

WHO   SEEM   TO    BE  WAITING   IN    EXPECTATION    OF 
SOME   SHOW. 

Enter  a  Citizen. 
First  Man.    Well,  friend,  what  tidings  of  the 

grand  procession  ? 
at.  I  left  it  passing  by  the  northern  gate. 
Second  Man.  I've  waited  long,  I'm  glad  it  comes 

at  last. 
Young  Man.  And  does  the  princess  look  so  won- 
drous fair 
As  fame  reports  ? 

at.  She  is  the  fairest  lady  of  the  train, — 
Yet  all  the  fairest  beauties  of  the  court 
Are  »t>  her  train. 

Vol.  III.— 20 


Old  Man.  Bears  she  such  offerings  to  Si.  Francis' 
shrine. 
So  rich,  so  marvellous  rich,  as  rumour  says  ? 
— 'Twill  drain  the  treasury  ! 

at.  Since  she,  in  all  this  splendid  pomp,  returns 
Her  public  thanks  to  the  good  patron  saint, 
V/ho  from  his  sick-bed  hath  restored  her  father. 
Thou  wouldst  not  have  her  go  with  empty  hands  ? 
She  loves  magnificence — 

(Discovering  among  the  crowd  old  Geoffry,) 
Ha  !  art  thou  here,  old  remnant  of  the  wars  ? 
Thou  art  not  come  to  see  this  courtly  show. 
Which  sets  the  young  agape  ? 

Geof.  I  come  not  for  the  show ;  and  yet,  methinks, 
It  w?re  a  better  jest  upon  me  still. 
If  thou  didst  truly  know  mine  errand  here. 

at.  I  prithee  say. 

Geof.  W^hat,  must  I  tell  it  thee  ? 

As  o'er  my  evening  fire  I  musing  sat, 
Some  few  days  since,  my  mind's  eye  backward  turn'd 
Upon  the  various  changes  I  have  pass'd — 
How  in  my  youth,  with  gay  attire  allured. 
And  all  the  grand  accoutrements  of  war, 
I  left  my  peaceful  home :    Then  my  first  battles. 
When  clashing  arms  and  sights  of  blood  were  new : 
Then  all  the  after  chances  of  the  war : 
Ay,  and  that  field,  a  well-fought  field  it  was. 
When  with  an  arm  (I  speak  not  of  it  oft) 
Which  now  [pointing   to  his  empty  sleeve)   thoo 

seest  is  no  arm  of  mine. 
In  a  straight  pass  I  stopp'd  a  thousand  foes, 
And  turn'd  my  flying  comrades  to  the  chuige, 
For  which  good  service,  in  his  tented  court, 
My  prince  bestow'd  a  mark  of  favour  on  me; 
Whilst  his  fair  consort,  seated  by  his  side, 
The  fairest  lady  e'er  mine  eyes  beheld. 
Gave  me  what  more  than  all  besides  I  prized — 
Methinks  1  see  her  still — a  gracious  smile — 


306 


BAILLIE. 


'Twas  a  heart-kindhng  smile, — a  smile  of  praise — 

Well,  musing  thus  on  all  my  fortunes  past, 

A  neighbour  drew  the  latchet  of  my  door, 

And  full  of  news  from  town,  in  many  words 

Big  with  rich  names,  told  of  this  grand  procession ; 

E'en  as  he  spoke  a  fancy  seized  my  soul 

To  see  the  princess  pass,  if  in  her  looks 

I  yet  might  trace  some  semblance  of  her  mother. 

This  is  the  simple  truth ;  laugh  as  thou  wilt. 

-  came  not  for  the  show. 

Enter  an  Officer. 

Officer  to  Geof.  Make  way  that  the  procession 
may  have  room : 
Stand  you  aside,  and  let  this  man  have  place. 
{Pushing  Geof.  and  endeavouring  to  put  another 
in  his  place.) 

Geof.  But  that  fhou  art  the  prince's  officer, 
I'd  give  thee  ^ack  thy  push  with  better  blows. 

Officer.   What,  wilt  thou  not  give  place  ?   the 
prince  is  near: 
I  will  complain  to  him,  and  have  thee  caged. 

Geof.  Yes,  do  complain,  I  pray ;  and  when  thou 
dost. 
Say  that  the  private  of  the  tenth  brigade, 
Who  saved  his  army  on  the  Danube's  bank. 
And  since  that  time  a  private  hath  remain'd. 
Dares,  as  a  citizen,  his  right  maintain 
Against  thy  insolence.     Go  tell  him  this. 
And  ask  him  then  what  dungeon  of  his  tower 
He'll  have  me  thrust  into. 

at.  to  Officer.   This  is  old  Geoffry  of  the  tenth 
brigade. 

Offi.  I  knew  him  not :  you  should  have  told  me 
sooner.         [exit,  looking  much  ashamed. 
Martial  music  heard  at  a  distance. 

at.  Hark,  this  is  music  of  a  warlike  kind. 
Enter  Second  Citizen, 

To  Sec.  at.  What  sounds  are  these,  good  friend, 
which  this  way  bear  ? 

Sec.  at.  The  brave  Count  Basil  is  upon  his  march. 
To  join  the  emperor  with  some  chosen  troops, 
And  as  an  ally  doth  through  Mantua  pass. 

Geof.  I've  heard  a  good  report  of  this  young  soldier. 

Sec.  at.  'Tis  said  he  disciplines  his  men  severely, 
And  over-much  the  old  commander  is. 
Which  seems  ungracious  in  so  young  a  man. 

Geof.  I  know  he  loves  not  ease  and  revelry ; 
He  makes  them  soldiers  at  no  dearer  rate 
Than  he  himself  hath  paid.    What,  dost  thou  think, 
That  e'en  the  very  meanest  simple  craft 
Cannot  without  due  diligence  be  learn'd, 
And  yet  the  noble  art  of  soldiership 
May  be  attain'd  by  loitering  in  the  sun  ? 
Some  men  are  born  to  feast,  and  not  to  fight ; 
Whose  sluggish  mi«ds,  e'en  in  fair  honour's  field, 
Still  on  thei;-  dinner  turn — 
Let  such  pot-boiling  varlets  stay  at  home, 
And  wield  a  flesh-hook  rather  than  a  sword. 
In  'times  of  easy  service,  true  it  is. 
An  easy,  careless  chief  all  soldiers  love  ; 
But  O  !  how  gladly  in  the  day  of  battle 
Would  they  their  jolly  bottle-chief  desert, 
And  follow  such  a  leader  as  Count  Basil ! 
So  gathering  herds,  at  pressing  danger's  call, 
Confess  the  master  deer. 


[Music  is  heard  again,  and  nearer.   G  eolFr  j  walki 
up  and  down  with  a  military  triumphant  step.) 
at.  What  moves  thee  thus  ? 
Geof.  I've  march'd  to  this  same  tune  in  glorious 
days. 
My  very  limbs  catch  motion  from  the  sound. 
As  they  were  young  again. 

Sec.  at  But  here  they  come. 

Enter  Count  Basil,  officers  and  soldiers  in  procession, 
with  colours  flying,  and  martial  music.  When  they 
have  marched  halfway  over  the  stage,  an  officer  of  the 
duke's  enters  from  the  opposite  side,  and  speaks  to  Basil, 
upon  which  he  gives  a  sign  with  his  hand,  and  the 
martial  music  ceases ;  soft  music  is  heard  at  a  little 
distance,  and  Victoria,  with  a  long  procession  of  ladies, 
enters  from  the  opposite  side.  General,  &c.  pay  obei- 
sance to  her,  as  she  passes  ;  she  stops  to  return  it,  and  , 
then  goes  off  with  her  train.  After  which,  the  military 
procession  moves  on,  and  exeunt. 

at.  to  Geof.  What  think'st  thou  of  the  princess  ? 
Geof.  She  is  fair, 

But  not  so  fair  as  her  good  mother  was.    [Exeunt, 

Scene  II. — a  public  walk  on  the  eamparts  or 

THE   town. 

Enter  Count  Rosinbero,  Valtomer,  and  Frederick.— 
.  Valtomer  enters  by  the  opposite  side  of  the  stage,  and 

meets  them. 

Valt.  O  what  a  jolly  town  for  way-worn  soldiers  ! 
Rich  steaming  pots,  and  smell  of  dainty  fare, 
From  every  house  salutes  you  as  you  pass  : 
Light  feats  and  juggler's  tricks  attract  the  eye ; 
Music  and  merriment  in  every  street ; 
Whilst  pretty  damsels,  in  their  best  attire. 
Trip  on  in  wanton  groups,  then  look  behind. 
To  spy  the  fools  a  gazing  after  them. 

Fred.  But  short  will  be  the  season  of  our  ease, 
For  Basil  is  of  flinty  matter  made, 
And  cannot  be  allured — 

'Faith,  Rosinberg,  I  would  thou  didst  command  usl 
Thou  art  his  kinsman,  of  a  rank  as  noble. 
Some  years  his  elder  too — How  has  it  been 
That  he  should  be  preferr'd  .?    I  see  not  why. 

Ros.  Ah  !  but  I  see  it,  and  allow  it  well ; 
He  is  too  much  my  pride  to  wake  my.envy. 

Fred.  Nay,  count,  it  is  thy  foolish  admiration 
Which  raises  him  to  such  superior  height ; 
And  truly  thou  hast  so  infected  us. 
That  I  at  times  have  felt  me  awed  before  him, 
I  knew  not  why.     'Tis  cursed  folly  this. 
Thou  art  as  brave,  of  as  good  parts  as  he. 

Ros.  Our  talents  of  a  different  nature  are ; 
Mine  for  the  daily  intercourse  of  life, 
And  his  for  higher  things. 

Fred.  Well,  praise  him  as  thou  wilt ;  I  see  it  not 
I'm  sure  I  am  as  brave  a  man  as  he. 

Ros.    Yes,  brave   thou  art,  but   'tis   subaltert 
bravery. 
And  doth  respect  thyself.    Thou'lt  bleed  as  well. 
Give  and  receive  as  deep  a  wound  as  he. 
When  Basil  fights  he  wields  a  thousand  swords ; 
For  'tis  their  trust  in  his  unshaken  mind, 
O'erwatching  all  the  changes  of  the  field, 
Calm  and  inventive  midst  the  battle's  storm. 
Which  makes  his  soldiers  bold. — 
There  have  been  those,  in  early  manhood  slain. 
Whose  great  heroic  souk  have  yet  inspired 


BASIL. 


307 


With  such  a  noble  zeal  their  generous  troops, 
That  to  their  latest  day  of  bearing  arms, 
Their  gray-hair*d  soldiers  have  all  dangers  braved 
Of  desperate  service,  claim 'd  with  boastful  pride, 
As  those  who  fought  beneath  them  in  their  youth. 
Such  men  have  been  ;  of  whom  it  may  be  said. 
Their  spirits  conquer'd  when  their  clay  was  cold. 

Valt.  Yes,  I  have  seen  in  the  eventful  field, 
When  new  occasion  mock'd  all  rules  of  art, 
E'en  old  commanders  hold  experience  cheap, 
And  look  to  Basil  ere  his  chin  was  dark. 

Ros.  One  fault  he  has  ;  I  know  but  only  one  ; 
Hi;  too  great  love  of  military  fame 
Absorbs  his  thoughts,  and  makes  him  oft  appear 
Unsocial  and  severe. 

Fred.  Well,  feel  I  not  undaunted  in  the  field  ? 
As  much  enthusiastic  love  of  glory  ? 
Why  am  I  not  as  good  a  man  as  he  ? 

Ros.  He's   form'd  for  great  occasions,  thou  for 
small. 

Valt.  But  small  occasions  in  the  path  of  life 
Lie  thickly  sown,  while  great  are  rarely  scatter'd. 

Ros.  By  which  you  would  infer  that  men  like 
Frederick 
Should  on  the  whole  a  better  figure  make, 
Than  men  of  higher  parts.     It  is  not  so  ; 
For  some  show  well,  and  fair  applauses  gain, 
Where  want  of  skill  in  other  men  is  graceful. 
Pray  do  not  frown,  good  Frederick,  no  offence  : 
Thou  canst  not  make  a  great  man  of  thyself; 
Yet  wisely  deign  to  use  thy  native  powers. 
And  prove  an  honour'd  courtly  gentleman. 
But  hush  !  no  more  of  this ;  here  Basil  comes. 

Enter  BisiL,  who  returns  their  salute  without  speaking. 

Ros.  What  think'st  thou,  Valtomer,  of  Mantua's 
princess  ? 

Valt.    Fame   praised  her  much,   but  hath  not 
praised  her  more 
Than  on  a  better  proof  the  eye  consents  to. 
With  all  that  grace  and  nobleness  of  mien. 
She  might  do  honour  to  an  emperor's  throne ; 
She  is  too  noble  for  a  petty  court.  [assent.) 

Is  it  not  so,  my  lord  ? — ( To  Basil,  who  only  boxvs 
Nay,  she  demeans  herself  with  so  much  grace. 
Such  easy  state,  such  gay  magnificence. 
She  should  be  queen  of  revelry  and  show. 

Fred.  She's  charming  as  the  goddess  of  delight. 

Valt.  But  after  her,  she  most  attracted  me 
Who  wore  the  yellow  scarf  and  walk'd  the  last ; 
For  though  Victoria  is  a  lovely  woman— 

Fred.  Nay,  it  is  treason  but  to  call  her  woman ; 
She's  a  divinity,  and  should  be  worshipp'd. 
But  on  my  life,  since  now  we  talk  of  worship. 
She  worshipp'd  Francis  with  right  noble  gifts  ! 
They  sparkled  so  with  gold  and  precious  gems — 
Their  value  must  be  great ;  some  thousand  crowns. 

Ros.  I  would  not  rate  them  at  a  price  so  mean  ; 
The  cup  alone,  with  precious  stones  beset. 
Would  fetch  a  sum  as  great.     That  olive  branch 
The  princess  bore  herself,  of  fretted  gold. 
Was  exquisitely  wrought.     I  mark'd  it  more, 
Because  si  e  held  it  in  so  white  a  hand. 

Bos.  {in  a  quick  voice.)    Mark'd  you  her  hand  ? 
I  did  not  see  her  hand. 
And  yet  she  waved  it  twice. 


Ros.  It  is  a  fair  one,  though  you  mark'd  it  not. 

Valt.  I  wish  some  painter's  eye  had  view'd  the 
group. 
As  she  and  all  her  lovely  damsels  pass'd  ; 
He  would  have  found  wherewith  t*  enrich  his  art. 

Ros.  I  wish  so  too  ;  for  oft  their  fancied  beauties 
Have  so  much  cold  perfection  in  their  parts, 
'Tis  plain  they  ne'er  belong'd  to  flesh  and  blood. 
This  is  not  truth,  and  doth  not  please  so  well 
As  the  varieties  of  liberal  nature, 
Where  every  kind  of  beauty  charms  the  ej  3  ; 
Large  and  small  featured,  flat  and  prominent. 
Ay,  by  the  mass  !  and  snub-nosed  beauties  too. 
'Faith,  every  woman  hath  some  witching  charm. 
If  that  she  be  not  proud,  or  captious. 

V^alt.  Demure,  or  over-wise,  or  given  to  freaks. 

Ros.  Or  given  to  freaks  !  hold,  hold,  good  Valto- 
mer ! 
Thou'lt  leave  no  woman  handsome  under  heaven. 

Valt.  But  I  must  leave  you  for  an  hour  or  so  ; 
I  mean  to  view  the  town. 

Fred.  I'll  go  with  thee. 

Ros.  And  so  will  I. 

[Exeunt  Valt.  Fred,  and  Ros, 
Re-enter  Rosinberg. 

Ros.  I  have  repented  me,  I  will  not  go  ; 
They  will  be  too  long  ubsent.'— [Pauses,  and  looks 
at  Basil,  who  remains  still  musing  without 
seeing  him.) 
What  mighty  thoughts  engage  my  pensive  friend  ? 

Bas.  O  it  is  admirable  ! 

Ros.  How  runs  thy  fancy  ?  what  is  admirable  ? 

Bas.  Her  form,  her  face,  her  motion,  every  thing ! 

Ros.  The  princess  ?  yes,  have  we  not  praised  hei 

much  ? 
Bas.  I  know  you  praised  her,  and  her  offerings 
too  ! 
She  might  have  given  the  treasures  of  the  east. 
Ere  I  had  known  it. 

0  !  didst  thou  mark  her  when  she  first  appear'd  ? 
Still  distant,  slowly  moving  v/ith  her  train  ; 
Her  robe  and  tresses  floating  on  the  v/ind, 
Like  some  light  figure  in  a  morning  cloud  ? 
Then,  as  she  onward  to  the  eye  became 
The  more  distinct,  how  lovelier  still  she  grew! 
That  graceful  bearing  of  her  slender  form  ; 
Her  roundly  spreading  breast,  her  towering  neck. 
Her  face  tinged  sweetly  with  the  bloom  of  youth— 
But  when  approaching  near,  she  towards  us  turn'd, 
Kind  mercy  !  what  a  countenance  was  there  ! 
And  when  to  our  salute  she  gently  bow'd. 
Didst  mark  ^hat  smile  rise  from  her  parting  Hps  ? 
Soft  swell'd  her  glowing  cheek,  her  eyes  smiled 
tod: 

0  how  they  smiled !   'twas   like  the  beams  of 

heaven  !   , 

1  felt  my  roused  soul  within  me  start. 
Like  something  waked  from  sleep. 

Ros.  The  beams  of  heaven  do  many  slumberers 
wake 
To  care  and  misery  I 

Bas.   There's   something  grave  and  solemn  in 
your  voice 
As  3  ou  pronounce  these  words.    What  do? t  thon 

mean  ? 
Thou  wouldst  not  sound  my  knell .? 


308 


BAILLIE. 


Ros.  No,  not  for  all  beneath  the  vaulted  sky  ! 
But  to  he  plain,  thus  warmly  from  your  lips, 
Her  praise  displeases  me.     To  men  like  you, 
If  love  should  come,  he  proves  no  easy  guest. 

Bas.  What,  dost  thou  think  I  am  beside  myself. 
And  cannot  view  the  fairness  of  perfection 
"With  that  delight  which  lovely  beauty  gives. 
Without  tormenting  me  with  fruitless  wishes. 
Like  the  poor  child  who  sees  its  brighten 'd  face. 
And  whimpers  for  the  moon  ?    Thou  art  not  serious. 
From  early  youth,  war  has  my  mistress  been, 
And  though  a  rugged  one,  I'll  constant  prove. 
And  not  forsake  her  now.     There  may  be  joys 
Which,  to  the  strange  o'erwhelming  of  the  soul, 
Visit  the  lover's  breast  beyond  all  others  ; 
E'en  now,  how  dearly  do  I  feel  there  may  ! 
But  what  of  them  ?  they  are  not  made  for  me — 
The  hasty  flashes  of  contending  steel 
Must  serve  instead  of  glances  from  my  love, 
And  for  soft  breathing  sighs  the  cannon's  roar. 
Ros.  [taking  his  hand.)    Now  I   am   satisfied. 

Forgive  me,  Basil. 
Jias.  I'm  glad  thou  art ;  we'll  talk   of  her  no 
more  ; 
Why  should  I  vex  my  friend  ? 

Ros.  Thou  hast  not  issued  orders  for  the  march. 
Bas.  I'll  do  it  soon  ;  thou  need'st  not  be  afraid. 
To  morrow's  sun  shall  bear  us  far  from  hence, 
Never  perhaps  to  pass  these  gates  again. 

Ros.  With  last  night's  close,  did  you  not  curse 
this  town 
That  would  one  single  day  your  troops  retard  ? 
And  now,  methinks,  you  talk  of  leaving  it. 
As  though  it  were  the  place  that  gave  you  birth  ; 
As  though  you  had  around  these  strangers'  walls 
Your  infant  gambols  play'd. 

Bas.  The  sight  of  what  may  be  but  little  prized, 
Doth  cause  a  solemn  sadness  in  the  mind, 
When  view'd  as  that  we  ne'er  shall  see  again. 

Ros.  No,  not  a  whit  to  wandering  men  like  us. 
No,  not  a  whit !     What  custom  hath  endear'd 
We  part  with  sadly,  though  we  prize  it  not : 
But  what  is  new  some  powerful  charm  must  own. 
Thus  to  affect  the  mind. 

Bas.   (hastily.)   We'll   let  it  pass— It  hath  no 
consequence  : 
Thou  art  impatient. 

Ros.  I'm  not  impatient.     'Faith,  I  only  wish 
Some  other  route  our  destined  march  had  been. 
That  still  thou  mightst  thy  glorious  course  pursue 
With  an  untroubled  mind. 

Bas.  0  !  wish  it,  wish  it  not !  bless'd  be  that 
route  ! 
What  we  have  seen  to-day,  I  must  remember — 
I  should  be  brutish  if  I  could  forget  it. 
Oft  in  the  watchful  post,  or  weary  march, 
Oft  in  the  nightly  silence  of  my  tent. 
My  fixed  mind  shall  gaze  upon  it  still ; 
But  it  will  pass  before  my  fancy's  eye. 
Like  some  delightful  vision  of  the  soul, 
To  soothe,  not  trouble  if. 

Ros.  What !  midst  the  dangers  of  eventful  war, 
Still  let  thy  mind  be  haunted  by  a  woman  ? 
Who  would,  perhaps,  hear  of  thy  fall  in  battle, 
As  Dutchmen  read  of  earthquakes  in  Calabria, 
Aad  never  stop  to  cry  *  alack-a-day  !' 


For  me  there  is  but  one  of  all  the  sex. 
Who  still  shall  hold  her  station  in  my  breast. 
Midst  all  the  changes  of  inconstant  fortune  ; 
Because  I'm  passing  sure  she  loves  me  well. 
And  for  my  sake  a  sleepless  pillow  finds 
When  rumour  tells  bad  tidings  of  the  war  i 
Because  I  know  her  love  will  never  change, 
Nor  make  me  prove  uneasy  jealousy. 

Bas.   Happy  art  thou  !    ivho   is   this  wondioaa 

woman  ? 
Ros.    It  is  mine   own  i^ood  mother,  faith  and 
truth  ! 

Bas.  [smiling.)  Give  n.e  thy  hand  ;  I  love  liei 
dearly  too. 
Rivals  we  are  not,  thougi  our  love  is  one. 

Ros.  And  yet  I  might  be  jealous  of  her  love. 
For  she  bestows  too  mut,h  of  it  on  thee. 
Who  hast  no  claim  but  to  a  nephew's  share. 

Bas.  [going.)   I'll  )fteet  thee  some  time  hence. 
I  must  to  CO  jrt. 

Ros.  A  private  co.'Jerence  will  not  stay  thee  long 
I'll  wait  thy  coming  near  the  palace  gate. 

Bas.  'Tis  to  tho  public  court  I  mean  to  go. 

Ros.  I  thought  you  had  determined  otherwise. 

Bas.  Yes,  but  on  farther  thought  it  did  appear 
As  though  it  would  be  failing  in  respect 
At  such  a  time — That  look  doth  wrong  me.  Rosin 

b^rg ! 
For  on  my  life,  I  had  determined  thus, 
Ere  I  beheld — before  we  enter'd  Mantua. 
But  wilt  thou  change  that  soldier's  dusty  garb. 
And  go  with  me  thyself  ? 

Ros.  Yes,  I  will  go. 

[As  they  are  going  Ros.  stops,  and  looks  at  Basil.) 

Bas.  Why  dost  thou  stop  ? 

Ros.  'Tis  for  my  wonted  caution. 

Which  first  thou  gavest  me — I  shall  ne'er  forget  it . 
'Twas  at  Vienna,  on  a  public  day  ; 
Thou  but  a  youth,  I  then  a  man  full  form'd ; 
Thy  stripling's  brow  graced  with  its  first  cockade, 
Thy  mighty  bosom  swell'd  with  mighty  thoughts. 
"  Thou'rt  for  the   court,  dear  Rosinberg,"  quoth 

thou  ! 
"  Now  pray  thee  be  not  caught.with  some  gay  dame. 
To  laugh  and  ogle,  and  befool  thyself: 
It  is  offensive  in  the  public  eye. 
And  suits  not  with  a  man  of  thy  endowments." 
So  said  your  serious  lordship  to  me  then. 
And  have  on  like  occasions,  often  since. 
In  other  terms  repeated. — 
But  I  must  go  to-day  without  my  caution. 

Bas.  Nay,  Rosinberg,  I  am  impatient  now: 
Did  I  not  say  we'd  talk  of  her  no  more  ? 

Ros.  Well,  my  good  friend,  God  grant  we  keep 
our  word  ! 

[Exeunt. 
End  of  the  First  Act. 


iVofc— My  first  idea,  when  I  wrote  this  play,  was  to 
represent  Basil  as  having  seen  Victoria  for  the  first  time 
in  the  procession,  tliat  I  might  show  more  perfectly  tlie 
passion  from  its  first  beginning,  and  also  its  sudden  i>o\ver 
over  the  mind  ;  but  I  was  induced  from  the  criticism  of 
one,  wliose  judgment  I  very  much  respect,  to  alter  it,  and 
represent  him  as  having  formRrly  seen  and  loved  Iter.  The 
first  review  that  t(X)k  notice  of  this  work  objected  to 
Basil's  having  seen  her  before  as  a  defect ;  and,  as  we  are 
all  easily  determined  to  follovy  our  ojvn  opinion,  I  hav* 


BASIL. 


309 


upon  after-consideration,  given  the  play  in  this  edition, 
^third,']  as  far  as  this  is  concerned,  exactly  in  its  original 
Btate.  Strong  internal  evidence  of  this  will  be  discovered 
3y  any  one,  who  will  take  the  trouble  of  reading  atten- 
tively the  second  scenes  of  the  first  and  second  acts  in  the 
present  and  former  editions  of  this  book.  Had  Basil  seen 
and  loved  Victoria  before,  his  first  speech,  in  which  he 
describes  her  to  Rosinberg  as  walking  in  the  procession, 
would  not  be  natural;  and  there  are,  I  think, other  little 
things  besides,  which  will  show  that  the  circumstance  of 
bis  former  meeting  with  her  is  an  interpolation. 

The  blame  of  this,  however,  I  take  entirely  upon  myself: 
the  criticc,  whose  opinion  I  have  mentioned,  judged  of  the 
piece  entirely  as  an  unconnected  play,  and  knew  nothing 
of  the  general  plan  of  this  work,  which  ought  to  have  been 
communicated  to  him.  Had  it  been,  indeed,  an  uncon- 
nected play,  and  had  I  put  this  additional  circumstance  to 
it  with  proper  judgment  and  skill,  I  am  inclined  to  think 
ft  would  have  been  an  improvement. 


ACT  II. 
Scene  I. — a  room  of  state. 

nife  Duke  of  Mantua,  Basil,  Rosinbero,  and  a  number 
of  Courtiers,  Attendants,  &c.  The  Duke  and  Basil 
appear  talking  together  on  the  front  of  the  stage. 

Duke.  But  our  opinions  diflfer  widely  there  ; 
From  the  position  of  the  rival  armies, 
I  cannot  think  they'll  join  in  battle  soon. 

Bas.  1  am  indeed  beholden  to  your  highness, 
But  though  unwillingly,  we  rrwst  depart. 
The  foes  are  near,  the  time  is  critical ; 
A  soldier's  reputation  is  too  fine 
To  be  exposed  e'en  to  the  smallest  cloud, 

Duke.  An   untried   soldier''s  is  ;   but  yours,  my 
lord, 
Nursed  with  the  bloody  showers  of  many  a  field, 
And  brightest  sunshine  of  successful  fortune, 
A  plant  of  such  a  hardy  stem  hath  grown, 
E'en  envy's  sharpest  blasts  assail  it  not. 
Yet  after  all,  by  the  bless'd  holy  cross  ! 
1  feel  too  warm  an  interest  in  the  cause    ' 
To  stay  your  progress  here  a  single  hour, 
Did  I  not  know  your  soldiers  are  fatigued, 
And  two   days'  rest  would  much    recruit    their 
strength. 

Bas.  Your  highness  will  be  pleased  to  pardon  me ; 
My  troops  are  not  o'ermarch'd,  and  one  day's  rest 
.i  all  our  needs  require. 

Duke.  Ah  !  hadst  thou  come 

Unfetter'd  with  the  duties  of  command, 
I  then  had  well  retained  thee  for  my  guest, 
With  claims  too  strong,  too  sacred  for- denial. 
Thy  noble  sire  my  fellow  soldier  was  ; 
Together  many  a  rough  campaign  we  served ; 
I  loved  him  well,  and  much  it  pleases  me 
A  son  of  his  beneath  my  roof  to  see. 

Bas.  Were  I  indeed  free  master  of  myself, 
Strong  inclination  would  detain  me  here ; 
No  other  tie  were  wanting. 
These  gracious  tokens  of  your  princely  favour 
I'll  treasure  with  my  best  remembrances  ; 
For  he  who  shows  them  for  my  father's  sake, 
Does  something  sacred  in  his  kindness  bear. 
As  though  he  shed  a  blessing  on  my  head, 

Duke.  Well,  bear  my  greetings  to  the  brave  Pis- 
caro, 
And  say  how  warmly  I  embrace  the  cause. 


Your  third  day's  marc't",  will  to  his  presence  bring 
Your  valiant  troops :  said  you  not  so,  my  lord  ? 

Enter  Victoria,  the  Countess  of  Albini,  Isabeixa,  and 
Ladies. 
Bas.  {who    changes    countenance  upon   seeing 
them.) 
Yes,  I  believe — I  think^ — I  know  not  well — 
Yes,  please  your  grace,  we  march  by  break  of  day. 
Duke.  Na}^,  that   I  know.     I   ask'd  you,  noble 
count, 
When  you  expect  th'  imperial  force  to  join. 

Bas.  When  it  shall  please  your  grace — I  crave 
your  pardon — 
I  somewhat  l^ve  mistaken  of  your  words. 

Duke.  You  are  not  well :  your  colour  changes, 
What  is  the  matter  ? 

Bas.  A  dizzy  mist  that  swims  before  my  sight— 
A  ringing  in  my  ears — 'tis  strange  enough — 
'Tis  slight — 'tis  nothing  worth — 'tis  gone  already. 
Duke.  I'm  glad  it  is.     Look  to  your  friend.  Count 
Rosinberg, 
It  may  return  again. — [To  Rosinberg,  ttfto  stands  at 
a  little  distance,  looking  earnestly  at  Basil. 
Duke  leaves   them,  and  joins  Victoria's 
party.) 
Ros.  Good  heavens,  Basil,  is  it  thus  with  thee  ! 
Thy  hand  shakes  too  :  [taking  his  hand.) 

Would  we  were  far  from  hence  ! 
Bas.  I'm  well  again,  thou  need'st  not  be  afraid. 
'Tis  like  enough  my  frame  is  indisposed 
With  some  slight  weakness  from  our  weary  march. 
Nay,  look  not  on  me  thus,  it  is  unkindly — 
I  cannot  bear  thine  eyes. 

The  Duke,  with  Victoria  and  her  Ladies,  advance  to  the 
»    front  of  the  stage  to  Basil. 

Duke.  Victoria,  welcome  here  the  brave  Count 
Basil. 
His  kinsman  too,  the  gallant  Rosinberg. 
May  you,  and  these  fair  ladies  so  prevail. 
Such  gentle  suitors  cannot  plead  in  vain. 
To  make  them  grace  my  court  another  day. 
I  shall  not  be  offended  when  I  see 
Your  power  surpasses  mine, 

Vict.  Our  feeble  efforts  will  presumptuous  seem 
Attempting  that  in  which  your  highness  fails. 

Duke.  Tliere's  honour  in  th'  attempt;  success 
attend  ye. — (Duke  retires  and  mixes  with 
the  Courtiers  at  the  bottom  of  the  stage.) 

Vict.  I  fear  we  incommoded  you,  my  lord. 
With  the  slow  "tedious  length  of  our  procession. 
E'en  as  I  pass'd,  against  my  heart  it  went 
To  stop  so  long  upon  their  weary  way 
Your  tired  troops. — 

Bas.  Ah  !  madam,  all  too  short! 

Time  never  bears  such  moments  on  his  wing, 
But  when  he  flies  too  swiftly  to  be  mark'd, 

Vict.  Ah  I  surely  then  you  make  too  good  amends 
By  marking  now  his  after-progress  well. 
To-day  must  seem  a  weary  length  to  him 
Who  is  so  eager  to  be  gone  to-morrow. 

Ros.  They  must  not  linger  who  would  quit  these 
walls ; 
For  if  they  do,  a  thousand  masked  foes  ; 
Some  under  show  of  rich  luxurious  feasts, 
Gay,  sprightly  pastime,  and  high-zested  game ; — 


310 


BAILLIE 


Nay,  some,  my  gentle  ladies,  true  it  is, 
The  very  worst  and  fellest  of  the  crew. 
In  fair  alluring  shape  of  beauteous  dames. 
Do  such  a  barrier  form  to  oppose  their  way 
As  few  men  may  o'ercome. 

Isab.  From  this  last  wicked  foe  should  we  infer 
Yourself  have  suffer'd  much  ? 

Alhin.  No,  Isabella,  these  are  common  words. 
To  please  you  with  false  notions  of  your  power. 
So  all  men  talk  of  ladies  and  of  love. 

Vict,  'Tis  even  so.     If  love  a  tyrant  be. 
How  dare  his  humble  chained  votaries 
To  tell  such  rude  and  wicked  tales  of  him  r 

Bas.  Because  they  most  of  lover's  il^  complain 
Who  but  affect  it  as  a  courtly  grace, 
Whilst  he  who  feels  is  silent. 

Ros.  But  there  you  wrong  me  ;  I  have  felt  it  oft. 
Oft  has  it  made  me  sigh  at  ladies'  fee 
Soft  ditties  sing,  and  dismal  sonnets  scrawl. 

Alhin.  In  all  its   strange  eifects,  most  worthy 
Rosinberg, 
Has4t  e'er  made  thee  in  a  corner  sit. 
Sad,  lonely,  moping  sit,  and  hold  thy  tongue  ? 

Ros.  No,  'faith,  it  never  has. 

Albin.  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  I   then  thou   hast  never 
loved. 

Ros.  Nay,  but  I  have,  and  felt  love's  bondage  too. 

Vict.  Fy  !  it  is  pedantry  to  call  it  bondage ! 
Love-marring  wisdom,  reason  full  of  bars. 
Deserve,  methinks,  that  appellation  more. 
Is  it  not  so,  my  lord  ? — [To  Basil.) 

Bas,  0  surely,  madam  ! 

That  '3  not  bondage  which  the  soul  inthrall'd 
So  gladly  bears,  and  quits  not  but  with  anguish. 
E^ern  honour's  laws,  the  fair  report  of  men. 
These  are  the  fetters  that  enchain  the  mind. 
But  such  as  must  not,  cannot  be  unloosed. 

Vict.  No,  not  unloosed,  but  yet  one  day  relax'd, 
To  grant  a  lady's  suit,  unused  to  sue. 

Ros.  Your  highness  deals  severely  with  us  now. 
And  proves  indeed  our  freedom  is  but  small. 
Who  are  constrain'd  when  such  a  lady  sues, 
To  say,  It  cannot  be. 

Vict.  It  cannot  be  !     Count  Basil  says  not  so. 

Ros.  For  that  I  am  his  friend,  to  save  him  pain 
I  take  th'  ungracious  office  on  myself. 

Vict.  How  ill  thy  face  is  suited  to  thine  office  ! 

Ros.  [smiling.)  Would  I  could  suit  mine  office 
to  my  face, 
If  that  would  please  your  highness. 

Vict.  No,  you  are  obstinate  and  perverse  all, 
And  would  not  grant  it  if  you  had  the  power. 
Albini,  I'll  retire  ;  come,  Isabella. 

Bas.  [aside  to  Ros.)  Ah,  Rosinberg!  thoU  hast 
too  far  presumed  ; 
She  is  offended  with  us. 

Ros.  No,  she  is  not — 

What  dost  thou  fear  ?    Be  firm,  and  let  us  go. 

Vict,  [pointing  to  a  door  leading  to  other  apart- 
ments, by  which  she  is  ready  to  go  out.) 

These  are  apartments  strangers  love  to  see: 
Some  famous  paintings  do  their  walls  adorn : 
They  lead  you  also  to  the  palace  court 
As  quickly  as  the  way  by  which  you  came. 

[Exit  Vict,  led  out  by  Ros.  and  followed 
by  Isab. 


Bas.  (aside,  looking  after  thent.)     0 !  what  s 
fool  am  I !  where  fied  my  thoughts  ? 
I  might  as  well  as  he,  now,  by  her  side. 
Have  held  her  precious  hand  enclosed  in  mire 
As  well  as  he,  who  cares  not  for  it  neither. 

0  but  he  does  !  that  were  impossible .' 
Albin.  You  stay  behind,  my  lord. 

Bas.  Your  pardon,  madam  ;  honour  me  so  far — 
[Exeunt,  handing  :ut  Albini 

Scene  II. — a  gallery  hung  with  pictubes. 

Victoria  discovered  in  conversation  with  Rosinbero 
Basil,  Albini,  and  Isabella. 

Vict,  [to  Ros.)  It  is  indeed  a  work  of  wondrous 
art. 
[To  Isab.)  You  call'd  Francisco  here  ? 
Isab.  He  comes  even  now. 

Enter  Attendant. 
Vict,  [to  Ros.)  He  will  conduct  you  to  the  north- 
ern gallery  ; 
Its  striking  shades  will  call  upon  the  eye, 
To  point  its  place  there  needs  no  other  guide. 

[Exeunt  Ros.  and  Attendant 
[To  Bas.)  Loves  not  Count  Basil  too  this  charm- 
ing art  ? 
It  is  in  ancient  painting  much  admired. 

Bas.  Ah !  do  not  banish  me  these  few  short  mo- 
ments : 
Too  soon  they  will  be  gone  !  for  ever  gone  ! 

Vict.  If  they  are  precious  to  you,  say  not  so, 
But  add  to  them  another  precious  day. 
A  lady  asks  it. 
Bas.  Ah,  madam !   ask  the  life-blood  from  my 
heart . 
Ask  all  but  wnat  a  soldier  may  not  give. 

Vict.  'Tis  ever  thus  when  favours  are  denied ; 
All  had  been  granted  but  the  thing  we  beg  ; 
And  still  some  great  unlikely  substitute. 
Your  life,  your  soul,  your  all  of  earthly  good, 
Is  profFer'd  in  the  room  of  one  small  boon. 
So  keep  your  life-blood,  generous,  valiant  lord. 
And  may  it  long  your  noble  heart  enrich. 
Until  I  wish  it  shed.  (Bas.  attempts  to  speak.) 

Nay  frame  no  new  excuse ; 

1  will  not  hear  it. 

(  She  puts  out  her  hand  as  if  she  would  shut 
his  mouth,  but  at  a  distance  from  tt  / 
Bas.  runs  eagerly  up  to  her,  and  presses 
it  to  his  lips.) 
Bas.  Let  this  sweet  hand  indeed  its  threat  per- 
form. 
And  make  it  heaven  to  be  for  ever  dumb  ! 
(Vict,  looks  stately  and  offended. — Basil  kneels.) 

0  pardon  me  !     I  know  not  what  I  do. 
Frown  not,  reduce  me  not  to  wretchedness ; 
But  only  grant — 

Vict.  What  should  I  grant  to  him, 

Who  has  so  oft  my  earnest  suit  denied 

Bas.  By  heaven  I'll  grant  it !     I'll  do  any  thing 
Say  but  thou  art  no  more  offended  with  me. 

Vict,  [raising  him.)  Well,  Basil,  this  good  pro 
mise  is  thy  pardon. 

1  will  not  wait  your  noble  friend's  return 
Since  we  shall  meet  again. — ■ 

You  will  perform  your  word  ? 


BASIL. 


311 


Bos.  I  will  perform  it. 

Vict.  Farewell,  my  lord. 

[Exit,  with  her  ladies. 

Bus.  {alone.)  "Farewell,  my  lord."    0!     what 
delightful  sweetness  ! 
The  music  of  that  voice  dwells  on  the  ear ! 
« Farewell,  my  lord!" — Ay,  and  then  look'd  she 

so — 
The  slightest  glance  of  her  bewitching  eye, 
Tnose  dark  blue  eyes,  commands  the  inmost  soul. 
Well,  there  is  yet  one  day  of  life  before  me. 
And,  whatsoe'er  betide,  I  will  enjoy  it. 
Though  but  a  partial  sunshine  in  my  lot, 
I  will  converse  with  her,  gaze  on  her  still, 
If  all  behind  were  pain  and  misery. 
Pam  !     Were  it  not  the  easing  of  all  pain. 
E'en  in  the  dismal  gloom  of  after-years. 
Such  dear  remembrance  on  the  mind  to  wear 
Like  silvery  moonbeams  on  the  'nighted  deep. 
When  heaven's  blest  sun  is  gone  ? 
Kind  mercy  !  how  my  heart  within  me  beat 
When  she  so  sweetly  plead  the  cause  of  love  ! 
Can  she  have  loved  ?  why  shrink  I  at  the  thought  ? 
Why  should  she  not !  no,  no,  it  cannot  be— 
No  man  on  earth  is  worthy  of  her  love. 
Ah  !  if  she  could,  how  blest  a  man  were  he  ! 
Where  rove  my  giddy  thoughts  ?  it  must  not  be. 
Yet  might  she  well  some  gentle  kindness  bear ; 
Think  of  him  oft,  his  absent  fate  inquire, 
And,  should  he  fall  in  battle,  mourn  his  fall. 
Yes,  she  would  mourn — such  love  might  she  bestow  ; 
And  poor  of  soul  the  man  who  would  exchange  it 
For  warmest  love  of  the  most  loving  dame  ! 
But  here  comes  Rosinberg — have  I  done  well  ? 
He  will  not  say  I  have. 

Enter  Rosinberg. 

Ros.  Where  is  the  princess  ? 
I'm  sorry  I  return'd  not  ere  she  went 

Bas.  You'll  see  her  still. 

Ros.  What,  comes  she  forth  again  ? 

Bas.  She  does  to-morrow. 

Ros.  Thou  hast  yielded  then. 

Bas.  Come,  Rosinberg,  I'll  tell  thee  as  we  go  ; 
It  was  impossible  I  should  not  34eld. 

Ros.  O  Basil  !  thou  art  weaker  than  a  child. 

Bas.  Yes,  yes,  my  friend,,  but  'tis  a  noble  weak- 
ness ; 
A  weakness  which  hath  greater  things  achieved 
Than  all  the  firm  determined  strength  of  reason. 
By  heaven  !  I  feel  a  new-born  power  within  me. 
Shall  make  me  twenty-fold  the  man  I've  been 
Before  this  fated  day. 

Ros.  Fated,  indeed  !  but  an  ill-fated  day. 
That  makes  thee  other  than  thy  former  self. 
Yet  let  it  work  its  will ;  it  cannot  change  thee  ' 
To  aught  I  shall  not  love. 

Bas.  Thanks,  Rosinberg  !  thou  art  a  noble  heart ! 
I  would  not  be  the  man  thou  couldst  not  love 
For  an  imperial  crown.  [Exeunt. 

Scene  III. — a  small  apartment  in  the  palace. 
Enter  Duke  and  Gauriecio. 
Duke.   The   point  is   gain'd ;    my  daughter    is 
successful ; 
And  Basil  is  detain 'd  another  day. 


Gaur.  But  does  the  princess  know  your  secret 
aim  ? 

Duke.  No,  that  had  marr'd  the  whole ;  she  is  a 
woman  ; 
Her  mind,  as  suits  the  sex,  too  w^eak  and  narrow 
To  relish  deep-laid  schemes  of  policy. 
Besides,  so  far  unlike  a  child  of  mine. 
She  holds  its  subtle  arts  in  high  derision, 
And  wnll  not  serve  us  but  with  bandaged  eyes. 
Gauriecio,  could  I  trusty  servants  find. 
Experienced,  crafty,  close,  and  unrestrain'd 
By  silly,  superstitious,  child-learnt  fears. 
What  migi.    I  not  effect  ? 

Gaur.  O  any  thing  ! 

The  deep  and  piercing  genius  of  your  highness, 
So  ably  served,  might  e'en  achieve  the  empire. 

Duke.  No,  no,  my  friend,  thou  dost  o'erprize  my 
parts  ; 
Yet  mighty  things  might  be — deep  subtle  wits 
In  truth,  are  master  spirits  in  the  world. 
The  brave  man's  courage,  and  the  student's  lore. 
Are  but  as  tools  his  secret  ends  to  work, 
Who  hath  the  skill  to  use  them. 
This  brave  Count  Basil,  dost  thou  know  him  well? 
Much  have  we  gain'd,  but  for  a  single  day. 
At  such  a  time,  to  hold  his  troops  detain'd  ; 
When,  by  that  secret  message  of  our  spy, 
The  rival  powers  are  on  the  brink  of  action  : 
But  might  we  more  effect  ?     Knowest  thou  this 

1-asil? 
Might  he  oe  tamper'd  with  ? 

Gaur.  That  were  most  dangerous.— 

He  is  a  man,  whose  sense  of  right  and  wrong 
To  such  a  high  romantic  pitch  is  wound. 
And  all  so  hot  and  fiery  is  his  nature,  . 

The  slightest  hint,  as  though  you  did  suppose 
Baseness  and  treachery  in  him,  so  he'll  deem  it. 
Would  be  to  rouse  a  flame  that  might  destroy. 

Duke.  But  interest,  interest ;  man's   all-ruling 
power. 
Will  tame  the  hottest  spirit  to  your  service, 
And  skilfully  applied,  mean  service  too  ; 
E'en  as  there  is  an  element  in  nature 
Which,  when  subdued,  will  on  your  hearth  fulfil 
The  lowest  uses  of  domestic  wants. 

Gaur.  Earth-kindled  fire,  which  from  a  little 
spark. 
On  hidden  fuel  feeds  his  growing  strength, 
Till  o'er  the  lofty  fabric  it  inspires 
And  rages  out  its  power,  may  be  subdued, 
And  in  your  base  domestic  service  bound  ; 
But  who  would  madly  in  its  wild  career 
The  fire  of  heaven  arrest  to  boil  his  pot  ? 
No,  Basil  will  not  serve  your  secret  schemes. 
Though  you  had  all  to  give  ambition  strives  for 
We  must  beware  of  hirn. 

Duke.  His  father  was  my  friend, — 1  wisTi'd  to 
gain  him : 
But  since  fantastic  fancies  bind  him  thus. 
The  sin  be  on  his  head  ;  I  stand  acquitted. 
And  must  receive  him,  even  to  his  ruin. 

Gaur.  1  have  prepared  Bernardo  for  your  service  { 
To-night  he  will  depart  for  th'  Austrian  camp. 
And  should  he  find  them  on  the  eve  of  battle, 
I've  bid  him  wait  the  issue  of  the  field. 
If  that  our  secret  friends  victorious  prove. 


312 


BAlLlilE. 


With  th'  arrow's  speed  he  will  return  again  ; 
But  should  fair  fortune  crown  Piscaro's  arms, 
Then  shall  your  soothing  message  greet  his  ears  ; 
For  till  our  friends  some  sound  advantage  gain, 
Our  actions  still  must  wear  an  Austrian  face. 
Buke.  Well  hast  thou  school'd  him.     Didst  thou 
add  withal. 
That  'tis  my  will  he  garnish  well  his  speech. 
With  honey'd  words  of  the  most  dear  regard. 
And  friendly  love  I  bear  him  ?     This  is  needful ; 
And  lest  my  slowness  in  the  promised  aid 
Awake  suspicion,  bid  him  e'en  rehearse 
The  many  favours  on  my  house  bestow'd 
By  his  imperial  master  as  a  theme 
On  which  my  gratitude  delights  to  dwell. 
Gaur.  I  have,  an'  please  your  highness. 
Duke.  Then  'tis  well. 

Gaur.  But  for  the  yielding  up  that  little  fort 
There  could  be  no  suspicion. 

Duke.  My  governor  I  have  severely  punish'd, 
As  a  most  daring  traitor  to  my  orders. 
He  cannot  from  his  darksome  dungeon  tell ; 
Why  then  should  they  suspect  ? 

Gaur.  He  must  not  live  should  Charles  prove 

victorious. 
Duke.  He's  done  me  service :  say  not  so,  Gau- 

riecio. 
Gaur.  A  traitor's  name  he  will  not  calmly  bear ; 
He'll  tell  his  tale  aloud — he  must  not  live. 
Duke.  Well,  if  it  must — we'll  talk  of  this  again. 
Gaur.  But  while  with  anxious  care  and  crafty 
wiles, 
You  would  enlarge  the  limits  of  your  state, 
Your  highness  must  beware  lest  inward  broils 
Bring  danger  near  at  hand  :  your  northern  subjects 
E'en  now  are  discontented  and  unquiet. 

Duke.  What,  dare  the  ungrateful  miscreants  thus 
return 
The  many  favours  of  my  princely  grace  ? 
'Tis  ever  thus  indulgence  spoils  the  base  ; 
Raising  up  pride,  and  lawless  turbulence. 
Like  noxious  vapours  from  the  fulsome  marsh 
When  morning  shines  upon  it. — 
Did  I  not  lately  with  parental  care. 
When  dire  invaders  their  destruction  threaten'd, 
Provide  them  all  with  means  of  their  defence  ? 
Did  I  not,  as  a  mark  of  gracious  trust, 
A  body  of  their  vagrant  youth  select 
To  guard  my  sacred  person  ?  till  that  day 
An  honour  never  yet  allowed  their  race. 
Did  I  not  suffer  them,  upon  their  suit, 
T'  establish  manufactures  in  their  towns  ? 
And  after  all  some  chosen  soldiers  spare 
To  guard  the  blessings  of  interior  peace  ? 

Gaur.  Nay,  please  your  highness,  they  do  well 
allow. 
That  when  your  enemies  in  fell  revenge 
Your  former  inroads  threaten'd  to  repay, 
Their  ancient  arms  you  did  to  them  restore. 
With  kind  permission  to  defend  themselves  : 
That  so  far  have  they  felt  your  princely  grace. 
In  drafting  from  their  fields  their  goodliest  youth 
To  be  your  servants  :    That  you  did  vouchsafe. 
On  paying  of  a  large  and  heavy  fine. 
Leave  to  apply  the  labour  of  their  hands 
As  best  might  profit  to  the  country's  weal : 


And  to  encourage  well  their  infant  trade, 
Quarter'd  your  troops  upon  them. — Please  you 

grace. 
All  this  they  do  most  readily  allow. 

Duke.  They  do  allow  it  then,  ungrateful  varlets  . 
What  would  they  have  ?  what  would  they  hava 
Gauriecio  ! 
Gaur.  Some  mitigation  of  their  grievous  burden 
Which,  like  an  iron  w^eight  around  their  necks. 
Do  bend  their  care-worn  faces  to  the  earth. 
Like  creatures  form'd  upon  its  soil  to  creep. 
Not  stand  erect,  and  view  the  sun  of  heaven. 
Duke.  But  they  beyond  their  proper  sphere  would 
rise  ; 
Let  them  their  lot  iuit  as  we  do  ours. 
Society  of  various  parts  is  form'd  ; 
They  are  its  grounds,  its  mud,  its  sediment, 
And  we  the  mantling  top  which  crowns  the  whole. 
Calm,  steady  labour  is  their  greatest  bliss  ; 
To  aim  at  higher  things  beseems  them  not. 
To  let  them  work  in  peace  my  care  shall  be  j 
To  slacken  labour  is  to  nourish  pride. 
Methinks  thou  art  a  pleader  for  these  fools  : 
What  may  this  mean,  Gauriecio  ? 

Gaur.  They  were   resolved   to   lay  their  cause 
before  you. 
And  would  have  found  some  other  advocate 
Less  pleasing  to  your  grace  had  I  refused. 

Duke.  Well,  let  them  know,  some  more  conve- 
nient season 
I'll  think  of  this,  and  do  for  them  as  much 
As  suits  the  honour  of  my  princely  state. 
Their  prince's  honour  should  be  ever  dear 
To  worthy  subjects  as  their  precious  lives. 

Gaur.  I  fear,  unless  you    give    some    special 
promise. 
They  will  be  violent  still 

Duke.  Then  do  it,  if  the  wretches  are  so  bold : 
AVe  can  retract  it  when  the  times  allow ; 
'Tis  of  small  consequence.     Go  see  Bernardo, 
And  come  to  rne  again.  [Exit 

Gaur.  (soZtis)  0  happy  people  !  whose  indulgeni 
lord 
From  every  care,  with  which  increasing  wealth. 
With  all  its  hopes  and  fears,  doth  ever  move 
The  human  breast,  most  graciously  would  free 
And  kindly  leave  you  naught  to  do  but  toil ! 
This  creature  now,  with  all  his  reptile  cunning. 
Writhing  and  turning  through  a  maze  of  wiles, 
Believes  his  genius  form'd  to  rule  mankind  ; 
And  calls  his  sordid  wish  for  territory 
That  noblest  passion  of  the  soul,  ambition. 
Born  had  he  been  to  follow  some  low  trade, 
A  petty  tradesman  still  he  had  remain'd. 
And  used  the  art  with  which  he  rules  a  state 
To  circumvent  his  brothers  of  the  craft. 
Or  cheat  the  buyers  of  his  paltry  ware. 
And  yet  he  thinks, — ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  ! — he  thinks 
I  am  the  tool  and  servant  of  his  will. 
Well,  let  it  be  ;  through  all  the  maze  of  trouble 
His  plots  and  base  oppression  must  create, 
I'll  shape  myself  a  way  to  higher  things : 
And  who  will  say  'tis  wiung  ? 
A  sordid  being,  who  expects  no  faith 
But  as  self-interest  binds  ;  who  would  not  trust 
The  strongest  tics  of  nature  on  the  soul, 


BASIL. 


313 


Deserves  no  faithful  service.     Perverse  fate  ! 
Were  I  like  him,  I  would  despise  this  dealing ; 
But  being  as  I  am,  born  low  in  fortune, 
Yet  with  a  mind  aspiring  to  be  great, 
I  must  not  scorn  the  steps  which  lead  to  it : 
And  if  they  are  not  right,  no  saint  am  I ; 
■  I  follow  nature's  passion  in  my  breast, 
Which  urges  me  to  rise  in  spite  of  fortune. 

[Exit. 

Scene  IV. — an  apartment  in  the  palace. 

YiCTORiA  and  Isabella  are  discovered  playing  at  chess; 
the  Countess  Albini  sitting  by  them  reading  to  herself. 

Vict.  Away  with  it,  I  will  not  play  again. 
May  men  no  more  be  foolish  in  my  presence 
If  thou  art  not  a  cheat,  an  arrant  cheat  ! 

Isab.  To  swear  that  I  am  false  by  such  an  oath. 
Should  prove  me  honest,  since  its  forfeiture 
Would  bring  your  highness  gain. 

Vict.  Thou'rt  wrong,  my  Isabella,  simple  maid  ; 
For  in  the  very  forfeit  of  this  oath. 
There's  death  to  all  the  dearest  pride  of  women. 
May  man  no  more  be  foolish  in  my  presence  ! 

Isab.  And  does  your  grace,  hail'd  by  applauding 
crowds. 
In  all  the  graceful  eloquence  address'd 
Of  most  accomplish'd,  noble,  courtly  youths. 
Praised  in-  the  songs  of  heaven-inspired  bards, 
Those  awkward  proofs  of  admiration  prize, 
Which  rustic  swains  their  village  fair  ones  pay ! 

Vict.  O,  love  will  master  all  the  power  of  art ! 
Ay,  all !  and  she  who  never  has  beheld 
The  polish'd  courtier,  or  the  tuneful  sage, 
Before  the  glances  of  her  conquering  eye 
A  very  native  simple  swain  become, 
Has  only  vulgar  charms. 
To  make  the  cunning  artless,  tame  the  rude, 
Subdue  the  haughty,  shake  th'  undaunted  soul ; 
Yea,  put  a  bridle  in  the  lion's  mouth. 
And  lead  him  forth  as  a  domestic  cur, 
These  are  the  triumphs  of  all-powerful  beauty  ! 
Did  naught  but  flattering  words  and  tuneful  praise, 
Sighs,  tender  glances,  and  obsequious  service, 
Attend  her  presence,  it  were  nothing  worth  : 
I'd  put  a  white  coif  o'er  my  braided  locks, 
And  be  a  plain,  good,  simple,  fireside  dame. 

Alb.  [raisig  her  head  from  her  book.)    And  is, 
indeed,  a  plain  domestic  dame, 
Who  fills  the  duties  of  a  useful  state, 
A  be^ng  of  less  dignity  than  she, 
Wh.  '•:iinly  on  her  transient  beauty  builds 
A  little  poor  ideal  tyranny  ? 

Isab.  Ideal  too  !  ^ 

■A-lb.  Yes,  most  unreal  power  ; 

For  she  who  only  finds  her  self-esteem 
In  others'  admiration,  begs  an  alms ; 
Depends  on  others  for  her  daily  food. 
And  is  the  very  servant  of  h,er  slaves ; 
Though  oftentimes,  in  a  fantastic  hour, 
O'er  men  she  may  a  childish  power  exert, 
Which  not  ennobles,  but  degrades  her  state. 

Vict.  You  are  severe,  Albini,  most  severe  ! 
Were  human  passions  placed  within  the  breast 
But  to  be  curb'd,  subdued,  pluck'd  by  the  roots  ! 
All  heaven's  gifts  to  some  good  end  were  given. 

Alb.  Yes,  for  a  noble,  for  a  generous  end. 


Vict.  Am  I  ungenerous  then  ? 

Alb.  Yes,  most  ungenerous 

Who,  for  the  pleasure  of  a  little  power, 
Would  give  most  unavailing  pain  to  those. 
Whose  love  you  ne'er  can  recompense  again. 
E'en  now,  to-day,  0  !  was  it  not  ungenerous 
To  fetter  Basil  with  a  foolish  tie. 
Against  his  will,  perhaps  against  his  duty  ? 

Vict.  What,  dost  thou  think  against  his  will,  my 
friend  ? 

Alb.  Full  sure  I  am  against  his  reason's  will. 

Vict.  Ah!  but  indeed  thou  must  excuse  me  here  ; 
For  duller  than  a  shelled  crab  was  she. 
Who  could  suspect  her  power  in  such  a  mind. 
And  calmly  leave  it  doubtful  and  unproved. 
But  wherefore  dost  thou  look  so  gravely  on  me  .? 
Ah  !  well  I  read  those  looks  !  methinks  they  say, 
"  Your  mother  did  no^so." 

Alb.  Your  highness  reads  them  true,  she  did  not  so. 
If  foolish  vanity  e'er  soil'd  her  thoughts, 
She  kept  it  low,  withheld  its  aliment ; 
Not  pamper'd  it  with  every  motley  food, 
From  the  fond  tribute  of  a  noble  heart 
To  the  lisp'd  flattery  of  a  cunning  child. 

Vict.  Nay,  speak  not  thus, — Albini,  speak  not 
tluis 
Of  little  blue-eyed,  sweet,  fair-hair'd  Mirando. 
He  is  the  orphan  of  a  hapless  pair  ; 
A  loving,  beautiful,  but  hapless  pair, 
Whose  story  is  so  pleasing,  and  so  sad, 
The  swains  have  turn'd  it  to  a  plaintive  lay. 
And  sing  it  as  they  tend  their  mountain  sheep. 
Besides,  {to  Isab.)  I  am  the  guardian  of  his  choice. 
When  first  I  saw  him — dost  thou  not  remember  ? 

Isab.  'Twas  in  the  public  garden. 

Vict.  Even  so ; 

Perch'd  in  his  nurse's  arms,  a  roughsome  quean, 
111  suited  to  the  lovely  charge  she  bore. 
How  steadfastly  he  fixed  his  looks  upon  me, 
His  dark  eyes  shining  through  forgotten  tears, 
Then  stretch'd  his  little  arms  and  call'd  me  mother  ! 
What  could  I  do  ?  I  took  the  bantling  home — 
I  could  not  tell  the  imp  he  had  no  mother. 

Alb.  Ah !  there,  my  child,  thou  hast  indeed  no 
•  blame. 

Vict.  Now  this   is   kindly  said :   thanks,  sweet 
Albini ! 
Still  caK  me  child,  and  chide  me  as  thou  wilt. 

0  !  would  that  I  were  such  as  thou  couldst  love  ! 
Couldst  dearly  love,  as  thou  didst  love  my  mother ! 

Alb.  (^pressing  her  to  her  breast.)  And  do  I  not? 
all  perfect  as  she  was, 

1  know  not  that  she  went  so  near  my  heart 
As  thou  with  all  thy  faults. 

Vict.  And  say'st  thou  so  ?  would  I  had  sooner 
known  ! 
I  had  done  any  thing  to  give  thee  pleasure. 

Alb.  Then  do  so  now,  and  put  thy  faults  away. 
Vict.  No,  saj--  not  faults  ;  the  freaks  of  thought- 
less youth. 
Alb.  Nay,  very  faults  they  must  indeed  be  call'd. 
Vict.  O  !  say  but  foibles  !  youthful  foibles  only ! 
Alb.  Faults,  faults,  real  faults  you  must  confess 

they  are. 
Vir.t.  In  truth  I  cannot  do  your  sense  the  wronj 
To  tl  ink  so  poorly  of  the  one  you  love. 


314 


BAILLEE. 


,ilb.  I  must  be  gone:  thou  hast  o'eicome  me  now: 
Another  time  I  will  not  yield  it  so.  [Exit. 

Isab.  The  countess  is  severe  ;  she's  too  severe : 
She  once  was  young,  though  now  advanced  in  years. 

Vict.  No,  I  deserve  it  all ;  she  is  most  worthy. 
Unlike  those  faded  beauties  of  the  court, 
But  now  the  wither'd  stems  of  former  flowers, 
With  all  their  blossoms  shed,  her  nobler  mind 
Procures  to  her  the  privilege  of  man, 
Ne'er  to  be  old  till  nature's  strength  decays. 
Some  few  years  hence,  if  I  should  live  so  long, 
I'd  be  Albini  rather  than  myself. 

Isab.  Here  comes  your  little  favourite. 

Vict.  I  am  not  in  the  humour  for  him  now. 

Enter  Mirando,  running  up  to  Victoria,  and  taking 
hold  of  her  gown,  while  she  takes  no  notice  of  him,  as 
he  holds  up  his  mouth  to  be  kissed. 

Isab.  [to  Mir.)  Thou  seest  the  princess  can't  be 
troubled  with  thee. 

Mir.  0  but  she  will !  I'll  scramble  up  her  robe, 
As  naughty  boys  do  when  they  climb  for  apples. 

Isab.  Come  here,  sweet  child ;  I'll  kiss  thee  in 
her  stead. 

Mir.  Nay,  but  I  will  not  have  a  kiss  of  thee. 
Would  I  were  tall !  0  were  I  but  so  tall ! 

Isab.  And  how  tall  wouldst  thou  be  ? 

Mir.  Thou  dost  not  know  ? 

Just  tall  enough  to  reach  Victoria's  lips. 

Vict.  {e7nb7-acing  him.)  0!  I  must  bend  to  this, 
thou  little  urchin. 
Who  taught  thee  all  this  wit,  this  childish  wit  ? 
Whom  does  Mirando  love  ?    [embraces  him  again.) 

Mir.  He  loves  Victoria. 

Vict.  And  wherefore  loves  he  her  ? 

Mir.  Because  she's  pretty. 

Isab.  Hast  thou  no  little  prate  to-day,  Mirando  ? 
No  tale  to  earn  a  sugar-plum  withal  ? 

Mir.  Ay,  that  I  have :   I  know  who  loves  her 
grace. 

Vict.  Who  is  it,  pray  ?  thou  shalt  have  comfits 
for  it. 

Mir.   (looking  slyly  at  her.)   It  is — it  is — it  is 
the  Count  of  Maldo. 

Vict.  Away,  thou  little  chit !  that  tale  is  old, 
And  was  not  worth  a  sugar-plum  when  new. 

Mir.  Well  then,  I  know  who  loves  her  highness 
well. 

Vict.  Who  is  it,  then  .? 

Isab.  Who  is.it,  naughty  boy  ? 

Mir.  It  is  the  handsome  Marquis  of  Carlatzi. 

Vict.  No,  no,  Mirando,  thou  art  naughty  still : 
Twice  have  I  paid  thee  for  that  tale  already. 

Mir.    Well  then,  indeed— I  know  who  loves 
Victoria. 

Vict.  And  who  is  he  .? 

Mir.  It  is  Mirando's  self. 

Vict.  Thou  little  imp  !  this  story  is  not  new, 
But  thou  shalt  have  thy  hire.  Come,  let  us  go. 
Go,  run  before  us,  boy.  [look'd, 

Mir.  Nay,  but  I'll  show  you  how  Count  Wolvar 
When  he  conducted  Isabel  from  court. 

Vict.  How  did  he  look  ? 

Mir.  Give  me  your  hand :  he  held  his  body  thus  ; 
(putting  hiinself  in  a  ridiculous  bowing  posture.) 
And  then  he  whisper'd  softly ;  then  look'd  so  ; 

{ogling  with  his  eyes  affectedly.) 


Then  she  look'd  so,  and  smiled  to  him  again. 

( Throwing  down  his  eyes  affectedly.') 
Isab.  Thou  art  a  little  knave,  and  must  be  whipp'd 
[ExEUKT,  Mirando  leading  out  Victoria 
affectedly. 


ACT  in. 

Scene  I. — an  open  street,  or  squake 

Enter  Rosinbebg  and  Frederick,  by  opposite  sideB  oC 

the  stage. 

Fred.  So  Basil,  from  the  pressing  calls  of  war. 
Another  day  to  rest  and  pastime  gives. 
How  is  it  now  ?  methinks  thou  art  not  pleased. 

Ros.  It  matters  little  if  I  am  or  not. 

Fred.  Now  pray  thee  do  confess  thou  art  ashamed x 
Thou,  who  art  wisely  wont  to  set  at  naught 
The  noble  fire  of  individual  courage. 
And  call  calm  prudence  the  superior  virtue, 
What  say'st  thou  now,  my  candid  Rosinberg, 
When  thy  great  captain,  in  a  time  like  this, 
Denies  his  weary  troops  one  day  of  rest 
Before  th'  exertions  of  approaching  battle, 
Yet  grants  it  to  a  pretty  lady's  suit  ? 

Ros.  Who  told  thee  this  ?  it  was  no  friendly  tale ; 
And  no  one  else,  besides  a  trusty  friend, 
Could  know  his  motives.    Then  thou  wrong'st  mp 

too; 
For  I  admire,  as  much  as  thou  dost,  Frederick, 
The  fire  of  valour,  e'en  rash,  heedless  valour ; 
But  not  like  thee  do  I  depreciate 
That  far  superior,  yea,  that  godlike  talent, 
Which  doth  direct  that  fire,  because  indeed 
It  is  a  talent  nature  has  denied  me. 

Fred.  Well,  well,  and  greatly  he  may  boast  his 
virtue. 
Who  risks  perhaps  th'  imperial  army's  fate. 
To  please  a  lady's  freaks — 

Ros.  Go,  go,  thou'rt  prejudiced : 

A  passion,  which  I  do  not  choose  to  name, 
Has  warp'd  thy  judgment. 

Fred.  No,  by  heaven  thou  wrong'st  me  ! 
I  do,  with  most  enthusiastic  warmth, 
True  valour  love :  wherever  he  is  found, 
I  love  the  hero  too  ;  but  hate  to  see 
The  praises  due  to  him  so  cheaply  earn'd. 

Ros.  Then  mayst  thou  now  these  generous  feel- 
ings prove. 
Behold  that  man,  whose  short  and  grizzly  hair 
In  clustering  locks  his  dark  brown  face  o'ershades 
Where  now  the  scars  of  former  sabre  wotmds, 
In  honourable  companionship  are  seen 
With  the  deep  lines  of  age  ;  whose  piercing  eye 
Beneath  its  shading  eyebrow  keenly  darts 
Its  yet  unquenched  beams,  as  though  in  age 
Its  youthful  fire  had  been  again  renew'd. 
To  be  the  guardian  of  its  darken'd  mate  : 
See  with  what  vigorous  steps  his  upright  form 
He  onward  bears  ;  nay,  e'en  that  vacant  sleeve 
Which  droops  so  sadly  by  his  better  side. 
Suits  not  ungracefully  the  veteran's  mien. 
This  is  the  man,  whose  glorious  acts  in  battle 
We  heard  to-day  related  o'er  our  wine. 
I  go  to  tell  the  general  he  is  come  : 
Enjoy  the  generous  feelings  of  thy  breast, 
And  make  an  old  man  happy.  [Exit 


BASIL. 


315 


Enter  Geoffry. 

Fred.  Brave  soldier,  let  me  profit  by  the  chance 
Tnat  led  me  here  ;  I've  heard  of  thy  exploits. 

Geqf.  Ah!  then  you  have  but  heard  an  ancient  tale, 
Which  has  been  long  forgotten. 

Fred.  But  true  it  is,  and  should  not  be  forgotten  ; 
Though  generals  jealous  of  their  soldiers'  fame, 
V.\y  dash  it  with  neglect. 

jeof.  There  are,  perhaps,  who  may  be  so  unge- 
nerous. 

Fred.  Perhaps,  say'st  thou  ?  in  very  truth  there 
are. 
How  art  thou  else  rewarded  with  neglect, 
Whilst  many  a  paltry  fellow  in  thy  corps 
Has  been  promoted  ?  it  is  ever  thus. 
Served  not  Mardini  in  your  company  ? 
He  was,  though  honour 'd  with  a  valiant  name, 
To  those  who  knew  him  well,  a  paltry  soldier. 

Geqf.  Your  pardon,  sir :  we  did  esteem  him  much. 
Although  inferior  to  his  gallant  friend, 
The  brave  Sebastian. 

Fred.  The  brave  Sebastian  ! 

He  was,  as  I  am  told,  a  learned  coxcomb, 
And  loved  a  goose-quill  better  than  a  sword. 
What,  dost  thou  call  him  brave  ? 
Thou,  who  dost  bear  about  that  war-worn  trunk. 
Like  an  old  target,  hack'd  and  rough  witii  wounds, 
W^hilst,  after  all  his  mighty  battles,  he 
Was  with  a  smooth  skin  in  his  coffin  laid, 
Unblemish'd  with  a  scar  ? 

Geof.  His  duty  call'd  not  to  such  desperate  service ; 
For  I  have  sought  where  few  alive  remain'd. 
And  none  unscath'd  ;  where  but  a  few  remain'd, 
Thus  marr'd  and  mangled  ;  [showing  his  tvounds.) 
as  belike  you've  seen, 
0'  summer  nights,  around  the  evening  lamp, 
Some  wretched  moths,  wingless,  and  half  consumed. 
Just  feebly  crawling  o'er  their  heaps  of  dead. — 
In  Savoy,  on  a  small,  though  desperate  post. 
Of  full  three  hundred  goodly  chosen  men, 
But  twelve  were  left,  and  right  dear  friends  were  we 
For  ever  after.     They  are  all  dead  now  : 
I'm  old  and  lonely. — We  were  valiant  hearts — 
Frederick  Dewalter  would  have  stopp'd  a  breach 
Against  the  devil  himself.     I'm  lonely  now  ! 

Fred.  I'm  sorry  for  thee.    Hang  ungrateful  chiefs ! 
Why  wert  thou  not  promoted  ? 

Geof.  After  that  battle,  where  my  happy  fate 
Had  led  me  to  fulfil  a  glorious  part. 
Chafed  with  the  gibing  insults  of  a  slave. 
The  worthless  favourite  of  a  great  man's  favourite, 
I  rashly  did  affront;  our  cautious  prince. 
With  narrow  policy  dependent  made. 
Dared  not,  as  I  am  told,  promote  me  then. 
And  now  he  is  ashamed,  or  has  forgot  it. 

F7-ed.  Fy,  fy  upon  it !  let  him  be  ashamed : 
Here  is  a  trifle  for  thee — [offering  him  money.) 

Geof.  No,  good  sir ; 

I  have  enough  to  live  as  poor  men  do. 
When  I'm  in  want  I'll  thankfully  receive. 
Because  I'm  poor,  but  not  because  I'm  bi-ave.- 

Fred.  You're  proud,  old  soldier. 

Geof.  No,  I  am  not  proud  ; 

For  if  I  were,  methinks  I'd  be  morose, 
A.nd  willing  to  depreciate  other  men. 


Enter  Rosinberg. 

Ros.  [dapping  Geof.  on  the  shoulder.)  How  goes 
it  with  thee  now,  my  good  field-marshal  ? 

Geof.  The  better  that  I  see  your  honour  well. 
And  in  the  humour  to  be  merry  with  me. 

Ros.  'Faith,  by  my  sword,  I've  rightly  named 
thee  too ; 
What  is  a  good  field-marshal  but  a  man, 
Whose  generous  courage  and  undaunted  mind 
Doth  marshal  others  on  in  glory's  way  ?  - 
Thou  art  not  one  by  princely  favour  dubb'd, 
But  one  of  nature's  making. 

Geof.  You  show,  my  lord,  such  pleasant  courtesy, 
I  know  not  how — 

Ros.  But  see,  the  general  comes. 

Enter  Basil. 

Ros.   [pointing  to   Geof.)   Behold    the  worthy 
veteran. 

Bas.  [taking'him  by  the  hand.)  Brave,  honourable 
man,  your  worth  I  know. 
And  greet  it  with  a  brother  soldier's  love. 

Geof.  [taking  away  his  hand  in  confusion.)   My 
general,  this  is  too  much,  too  much  honour. 

Bas.   [taking    his    hand    again.)    No,    valiant 
soldier,  I  must  have  it  so. 

Geof.   My   humble   state   agrees  not  with  such 
honour. 

Bas.  Think  not  of  it,  thy  state  is  not  thyself. 
Let  mean  souls,  highly  rank'd,  look  down  on  thee, 
As  the  poor  dwarf,  perch'd  on  a  pedestal, 
O'erlooks  the  giant :  'tis  not  worth  a  thought. 
Art  thou  not  Geoffry  of  the  tenth  brigade. 
Whose  warlike  feats,  child,  maid,  and  matron  know.' 
And  oft,  cross-elbow'd,  o'er  his  nightly  bowl. 
The  jolly  toper  to  his  comrade  tells  ? 
W^hose  glorious  feats  of  war,  by  cottage  door. 
The  ancient  soldier,  tracing  in  the  sand 
The  many  movements  of  the  varied  field, 
In  warlike  terms  to  listening  swains  relates ; 
Whose  bosoms  glowing  at  the  wondrous  tale 
First  learn  to  scorn  the  hind's  inglorious  life ; 
Shame  seize  me,  if  I  would  not  rather  be 
The  man  thou  art,  than  court-created  chief. 
Known  only  by  the  dates  of  his  promotion  ! 

Geof.  Ah  !  would  I  were,  would  I  were  young 
again. 
To  fight  beneath  your  standard,  noble  general ; 
Methinks  what  I  have  done  were  but  a  jest. 
Ay,  but  a  jest  to  what  I  now  should  do. 
Were  I  again  the  man  that  I  have  been. 
0  !  I  could  fight ! 

Bas.  And  would'st  thou  fight  for  me  ? 

Geof.  Ay,  to  the  death  ! 

Bas.  Then  come,  brave  man,  and  be  my  cham- 
pion still : 
The  sight  of  thee  will  fire  my  soldiers'  breasts  5 
Come,  noble  veteran,  thou  shalt  fight  for  me. 

[Exit  with  Geoffry. 

Fred.  What  does  he  mean  to  do  ? 

Ros.  We'll  know  ere  long, 

Fred.  Our  general  bears  it  with  a  careless  face. 
For  one  so  wise. 

Ros.  A  careless  lace  ?  on  what  ? 

Fred.  No^'  '^spi  not  ignorance,  we  know  it  all. 


316 


BAILLIE. 


News  which   have   spread  in  whispers   from   the 

court, 
Since  last  night's  messenger  arrived  from  Milan. 

Ros.  As  I'm  an  honest  man,  I  know  it  not ! 

Fred.  'Tis  said  the  rival  armies  are  so  near 
A.  battle  must  immediately  ensue. 

Ros.  It  cannot  be.     Our  general  knows  it  not. 
The  Duke  is  of  our  side  a  sworn  ally, 
And  had  such  messenger  to  Mantua  come, 
He  would  have  been  apprized  upon  the  instant. 
It  cannot  be,  it  is  some  idle  tale. 

Fred.  So  may  it  prove  till  we  have  join'd  them 
too — 
Then  Heaven  grant  they  may  be  nearer  still  ! 
For  O  !  my  soul  for  war  and  danger  pants, 
As  doth  the  noble  lion  for  his  prey. 
My  soul  delights  in  battle. 

Ros.  Upon  my  simple  word,  I'd  rather  see 
A  score  of  friendly  fellows  shaking  hands, 
Than  all  the  world  in  arms.     Hast  Jhou  no  fear  ? 

Fi-ed.  What  dost  thou  mean  ? 

Ros.  Hast  thou  no  fear  of  death  ? 

Fred.  Fear  is  a  name  for  something  in  the  mind, 
But  what,  from  inward  sense,  I  cannot  tell. 
I  could  as  little  anxious  march  to  battle, 
As  when  a  boy  to  childish  games  I  ran. 

Ros.  Then  as  much  virtue  hast  thou  in  thy  val- 
our, 
As  when  a  child  thou  hadst  in  childish  play. 
The  brave  man  is  not  he  who  feels  no  fear. 
For  that  were  stupid  and  irrational ; 
But  he,  whose  noble  soul  its  fear  subdues, 
And  bravely  dares  the  danger  nature  shrinks  from. 
As  for  your  youth,  whom  blood  and  blows  delight, 
Away  with  them  !  there  is  not  in  the  crew 
One  valiant  spirit. — Ha  !  what  sound  is  this  ? 

[Shouting  is  heard  without.) 

Fred.  The  soldiers  shout ;  I'll  run  and  learn  the 
cause. 

Ros.  But  tell  me  first,  how  didst  thou  like  the 
veteran  ? 

Fred.  He  is  too  proud  ;  he  was  displeased  with 
me, 
Because  I  offer'd  him  a  little  sura. 

Ros.  What,  money  !     0,  most  generous,  noble 
spirit ! 
Noble  rewarder  of  superior  worth  ! 
A  halfpenny  for  Belisarius  ! 

But  hark  !  they  shout  again — here  comes  Valtomer. 
[Shouting  heard  without.) 

Enter  Valtomer. 

What  does  this  shouting  mean  ? 

Valt.  0  !  I  have  seen  a  sight,  a  glorious  sight ! 
Thou  wouldst  have  smiled  to  see  it. 

Ros.  How  smile  ?  methinks  thine  eyes  are  wet 
with  tears. 

Valt.  [passing  the  back  of  his  hands  across  his 
eyes.) 
'Faith,  so  they  are  ;  well,  well,  but  I  smiled  too. 
You  heard  the  shouting. 

Ros.  and  Fred.  Yes. 

Valt.  0  had  you  seen  it ! 

Drawn  out  in  goodly  ranks,  there  stood  our  troops  5 
Here,  in  tho  graceful  state  of  manly  youth, 
His  dark  face  brighten 'd  with  a  generous  smile. 


Which  to  his  eyes  such  flashing  lustre  gave, 
As  though  his  soul,  like  an  unsheathed  sword, 
Had  through  them   gleam'd,  our    noble    genei   t 

stood. 
And  to  his  soldiers,  with  heart-moving  words 
The  veteran  showing,  his  brave  deeds  rehearsed^ 
Who  by  his  side  stood  like  a  storm-scath'd  oak. 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  some  noble  tree, 
In  the  green  honours  of  its  youthful  prime. 
Ros.  How  look'd  the  veteran  ? 
Valt.  I  cannot  tell  thee  ! 

At  first  he  bore  it  up  with  cheerful  looks. 
As  one  who  fain  would  wear  his  honours  bravely 
And  greet  the  soldiers  with  a  comrade's  face  : 
But  when  Count  Basil,  in  such  moving  speech, 
Told  o'er  his  actions  past,  and  bade  his  troops 
Great  deeds  to  emulate,  his  coimtenance  changed  ; 
High  heaved  his  manly  breast,  as  it  had  been 
By  inward  strong  emotion  half  convulsed  ; 
Trembled  his  nether  lip  ;  he  shed  some  tears : 
The  general  paused,  the  soldiers  shouted  loud ; 
Then  hastily  he  brush'd  the  drops  away, 
And  waved  his  hand,  and  clear'd  his  tear  choked 

voice, 
As  though  he  would  some  grateful  answer  make  ; 
When  back  with  double  force  the  whelming  tide 
Of  passion  came  ;  high  o'er  his  hoary  head 
His  arm  he  toss'd,  and  heedless  of  respect, 
In  Basil's  bosom  hid  his  aged  face. 
Sobbing  aloud.     From  the  admiring  ranks 
A  cry  arose  ;  still  louder  shouts  resound. 
I  felt  a  sudden  tightness  grasp  my  throat 
As  it  would  strangle  me ;  such  as  I  felt, 
I  knew  it  well,  some  twenty  years  ago. 
When  my  good  father  shed  his  blessing  on  me : 
I  hate  to  weep,  and  so  I  came  away. 
Ros.  [giving  Valt.   his  hand.)  And  there,  take 
thou  my  blessing  for  the  tale. 
Hark,  1  ow  they  shout  again  !  'tis  nearer  now. 
This  Way  they  march. 

Martial  music  heard.  Enter  Soldiers  marching  in  order, 
bearing  Geoffry  in  triumph  on  their  shoulders 
After  them  enter  Basil  ;  the  whole  preceded  by  a  band 
of  music.  They  cross  over  the  stage,  are  joined  by 
Ros.   &c.  and  Exeunt. 

Scene  II. 

Enter  Gaukiecio  and  a  Gentleman,  talking  as  they 
enter. 

Gaur.  So  slight  a  tie  as  this  we  cannot  trust: 
One  day  her  influence  may  detain  him  here. 
But  love  a  feeble  agent  may  be  found 
With  the  ambitious. 

Gent.  And  so  you  think  this  boyish  odd  conceit 
Of  bearing  home  in  triumph  with  his  troops 
That  aged  soldier,  will  your  purpose  serve  r 

Gaur.  Yes,  I  will  make  it  serve ;  for  though  my 
prince 
Is  little  scrupulous  of  right  and  wrong, 
I  have  possess'd  his  mind,  as  though  it  were 
A  flagrant  insult  on  his  princely  state, 
To  honour  thus  the  man  he  has  neglected, 
Which  makes  him  relish,  with  a  keener  taste, 
My  purposed  scheme.    Come,  let  us  fall  to  work. 
With  all  their  warm  heroic  feelings  roused. 
We'll  spirit  up  his  troops  to  mutiny. 


BASIL. 


317 


Which  must  retard,  perliaps  undo  him  quite. 
Thanks  to  his  childish  love,  which  has  so  well 
Procured  us  time  to  tamper  with  the  fools. 

Gmt.   Ah  !  hut  those   feelings   he    has  waked 
within  them, 
Are  generous  feelings,  and  endear  himself. 

Gaur.  It  matters  not ;  though  generous  in  their 
nature, 
They  yet  may  serve  a  most  ungenerous  end  ; 
And  he  who  teaches  men  to  think,  though  nobly. 
Doth  raise  within  their  minds  a  busy  judge 
To  scan  his  actions.     Send  thine  agents  forth. 
And  sound  it  in  their  ears  how  much  Count  Basil 
Affects  all  difficult  and  desperate  service. 
To  raise  his  fortunes  by  some  daring  stroke ; 
Having  unto  the  emperor  pledged  his  word, 
To  make  his  troops  all  dreadful  hazards  brave ; 
For  which  intent  he  fills  their  simple  minds 
With  idle  tales  of  glory  and  renown  j 
Using  their  warm  attachment  to  himself 
For  most  unworthy  ends. 
This  is  the  busy  time  :  go  forth,  my  friend; 
Mix  with  the  soldiers,  now  in  jolly  groups 
Around   their  evening  cups.      There,  spare  no 

cost,       {^gives  him  a  purse.) 
Observe  their  words,  see  how  the  poison  takes 
And  then  return  again. 

Gent.  I  will,  my  lord. 

[Exeunt  severally. 

Scene  III. — a  suite  of  grand  apartments,  with 

THEIR  WIDE  DOORS  THROWN  OPEN,  LIGHTED  UP 
WITH  LAMPS,  AND  FILLED  WITH  COMPANY  IN 
MASKS. 

.  Enter  several  ]Masks,  and  pass  through  the  first  apartment 
to  the  other  rooms.  Then  enter  Basil  in  the  disguise 
of  a  wounded  soldier. 

Bas.  [alone.)  Now  am  I  in  the  region  of  delight ! 
Within  the  blessed  compass  of  these  walls 
She  is  ;  the  gay  light  of  those  blazing  lamps 
Doth  shine  upon  her,  and  this  painted  floor 
Is  with  her  footsteps  press'd.     E'en  now,  perhaps, 
Amidst  that  motley  rout  she  plays  her  part: 
There  will  I  go  ;  she  cannot  be  conceal'd  ; 
I'or  but  the  flowing  of  her  graceful  robe 
Will  soon  betray  the  lovely  form  that  wears  it. 
Though  in  a  thousand  masks.    Ye  homely  weeds, — 
[looking  at  his  habit.) 
Which  half  conceal,  and  half  declare  my  state, 
Beneath  your  kind  disguise,  0  !  let  me  prosper, 
And  boldly  take  the  privilege  ye  give : 
Follow  her  mazy  steps,  crowd  by  her  side ; 
Thus  near  her  face  my  listening  ear  incline. 
And  feel  her  soft  breath  fan  my  glowing  cheek, 
Her  fair  hand  seize,  j'ea,  press  it  closely  too  ! 
May  it  not  be  e'en  so  ?  by  heaven  it  shall ! 
This  once,  O  !  serve  me  well,  and  ever  after. 
Ye  shall  be  treasured  like  a  monarch's  robes  ; 
Lodged  in  my  chamber,  near  my  pillow  kept ; 
fVnd  oft  with  midnight  lamp  I'll  visit  yo, 
And,  gazing  wistfully,  this  night  recall. 
With  all  its  past  delights. — But  yonder  moves 
A  slender  form,  dress'd  in  an  azure  robe  ; 
't  moves  not  like  the  rest — it  must  be  she  ! 
(Goes  hastily  into  another  apartment,  and  mixes 
with  the  Masks.  \ 


Enter  Rosinbero,  fantastically  dressed,  with  a  willow 
upon  his  head,  and  scraps  of  sonnets,  and  torn  letters 
fluttering  round  his  neck;  pursued  by  a  group  of  Masks 
from  one  of  the  inner  apartments,  who  hoot  at  him,  and 
push  him  about  as  he  enters. 

1st  Mask.  Away,  thou  art  a  saucy,  jeering  knav«i 
And  fain  wouldst  make  a  jest  of  all  true  love. 

Res.  Nay,  gentle  ladies,  do  not  buffet  me: 
I  am  a  right  true  servant  of  the  fair ; 
And  as  this  woful  chaplet  on  my  brow, 
And  these  tear-blotted  sonnets  would  denote, 
A  poor  abandon 'd  lover,  out  of  place ; 
With  any  lover  ready  to  engage, 
Who  will  enlist  me  in  her  loving  service. 
Of  a  convenient  kind  my  talents  are. 
And  to  all  various  humours  may  be  shaped. 

2d  Mask.  W^hat  canst  thou  do  .? 

3d  Mask.  Ay,  what  besides  offending  t 

Ros.  0  !  I  can  sigh  so  deeply,  look  so  sad, 
Pule  out  a  piteous  tale  on  bended  knee  • 
Groan  like  a  ghost ;  so  very  wretched  be, 
As  would  delight  a  tender  lady's  heart 
But  to  behold. 

ist  Mask.        Poo,  poo,  insipid  fool ! 

Ros.  But  should  my  lady  brisker  mettle  ovm. 
And  tire  of  all  those  gentle,  dear  delights, 
Such  pretty  little  quarrels  I'd  inve»  * 
As  whether  such  a  fair  one  (some  dear  friend) 
Whose  squirrel's  tail  was  pinch'd,  or  the  soft  maid| 
With  favourite  lap-dog  of  a  surfeit  sick. 
Have  greatest  cause  of  delicate  distress 
Or  whether — 

Is^  Mask.     Go,  too  bad  thou  art  indeed  ! 
[aside.)    How  could  he  know  I  quarrell'd  with  the 
count  ? 

2d  Mask.  Wilt  thou  do  nothing  for  thy  lady's  fame.' 

Ros.  Yes,  lovely  shepherdess,  on  every  tree 
I'll  carve  her  name,  with  true-love  garlands  bound: 
Write  madrigals  upon  her  roseate  cheeks  ; 
Odes  to  her  eye  ;  'faith,  every  wart  and  mole 
That  spots  her  snowy  skin  shall  have  its  sonnet ! 
I'll  make  love  posies  for  her  thimble's  edge, 
Rather  than  please  her  not. 

3d  Mask.   But  for  her  sake  what  dangers  wilt 
thou  brave  ? 

Ros.  In  truth,  fair  nun,  I  stomach  dangers  less 
Than  other  service,  and  were  something  loath 
To  storm  a  convent's  walls  for  one  dear  glance? 
But  if  she'll  wisely  manage  this  alone. 
As  maids  have  done,  come  o'er  the  wall  herself, 
And  meet  me  fairly  on  the  open  plain, 
I  will  engage  her  tender  steps  to  aid 
In  all  annoyance  of  rude  brier  or  stone. 
Or  crossing  rill,  some  half  foot  wide  or  so. 
Which  that  fair  lady  should  unaided  pass. 
Ye  gracious  powers  forbid !  I  will  defend 
Against  each  hideous  fly,  whose  dreadful  buzz— 

4th  Mask.   Such  paltry  service  suits  thee  best, 
indeed. 
What  maid  of  spirit  would  not  spurn  thee  from  her  ? 

Ros.  Yes,  to  recall  me  soon,  sublime  sultana! 
For  I  can  stand  the  burst  of  female  passion. 
Each  change  of  humour  and  affected  storm ; 
Be  scolded,  frown'd  upon,  to  exile  sent, 
Recall'd,  caress'd,  chid,  and  disgraced  again  ; 
And  say  what  maid  of  spirit  would  forego 


318 


BAILLIE. 


Tfae  bliss  of  one  to  exercise  it  thus  ? 
0  !  I  can  bear  ill  treatment  like  a  lamb  I 

4th  Mask,  [beating  him.)  Well,  bear  it  then,  thou 
hast  deserved  it  well. 

Ros     'Zounds,  lady !   do  not  give   such  heavy 
blows ; 
I'm  not  your  husband,  as  belike  you  guess. 

dth  Mask.  Come,  lover,  I  enlist  thee  for  my  swain ; 
Therefore,  good  lady,  do  forbear  your  blows. 
Nor  thus  assume  my  rights. 

Ros.   Agreed.     Wilt  thou  a  gracious  mistress 
prove  ? 

5th  Mask.    Such  as  thou  wouldst,  such  as  thy 
genius  suits ; 
For  since  of  universal  scope  it  is, 
All  women's  humour  shalt  thou  find  in  me. 
I'll  gently  soothe  thee  with  such  winning  smiles — 
To  nothing  sink  thee  with  a  scornful  frown : 
Tease  thee  with  peevish  and  affected  freaks  ; 
Caress  thee,  love  thee,  hate  thee,  break  thy  pate ; 
But  still  between  the  whiles  I'll  careful  be. 
In  feigned  admiration  of  thy  parts. 
Thy  shape,  thy  manners,  or  thy  graceful  mien,  . 
To  bind  thy  giddy  soul  with  flattery's  charm  ; 
For  well  thou  know'st  that  flattery  ever  is 
The  tickling  spice,  the  pungent  seasoning 
Which  makes  this  motley  dish  of  monstrous  scraps 
So  pleasing  to  the  dainty  lover's  taste. 
Thou  canst  not  leave,  though  violent  in  extreme, 
And  most  vexatious  in  her  teasing  moods  ; 
Thou  canst  not  leave  the  fond  admiring  soul, 
Who  did  declare,  when  calmer  reason  ruled, 
Thou  hadst  a  pretty  leg. 

Ros.  Marry,  thou  hast  the  better  of  me  there. 

5th  Mask.    And  more ;   I'll  pledge  to  thee  my 
honest  word. 
That  when  your  noble  swainship  shall  bestow 
More  faithful  homage  on  the  simple  maid, 
Who  loves  you  with  sincerity  and  truth, 
Than  on  the  changeful  and  capricious  tyrant, 
Who  mocking  leads  you  like  a  trammel'd  ass. 
My  studied  woman's  wiles  I'll  lay  aside. 
And  such  a  one  become. 

Ros'.  Well  spoke,  brave  lady,  I  will  follow  thee. 
[Follows  her  to  the  corner  of  the  stage.) 
Now  on  my  life,  these  ears  of  mine  I'd  give. 
To  have  but  one  look  of  that  little  face. 
Where  such  a  biting  tongue  doth  hold  its  court 
To  keep  the  fools  in  awe.    Nay,  nay,  unmask : 
^  I'm  sure  thou  hast  a  pair  of  wicked  eyes, 
A  short  and  saucy  nose :  now  prithee  do. 

[Unmasking.) 

Alb.  [unmasking.)  Well,  hast  thou  guess'd  me 
right  ? 

Ros.   [bowing  low.)  Wild  freedom,  changed  to 
most  profound  respect. 
Doth  make  an  awkward  booby  of  me  now. 

Alb.  I've  joined  your  frolic  with  a  good  intent, 
For  much  I  wish'd  to  gain  your  private  ear. 
The  time  is  precious,  and  I  must  be  short. 

Ros.  On  me  your  slightest  word  more  power  will 
have. 
Most  honour'd  lady,  than  a  conn'd  oration. 
Thou  art  the  only  one  of  all  thy  sex. 
Who  wear'st  thy  years  with  such  a  winning  grace  ; 
Thou  art  the  more  admired  the  more  thou  fadest. 


Alb.  1  thank  your  lordship  for  these  courteou 
words ; 
But  to  my  purpose— You  are  Basil's  frier>d : 
Be  friendly  to  him  then,  and  warn  him  well 
This  court  to  leave,  nor  be  allured  to  stay ; 
For  if  he  does,  there's  mischief  waits  him  here 
May  prove  the  bane  of  all  his  future  days. 
Remember  this,  I  must  no  longer  stay. 
God  bless  your  friend  and  you ;  I  love  you  both. 

[Exit, 
Ros.  [alone.)  What  may  this  warning  mean  ?  1 
had  my  fears. 
There  %  something  hatching  which  I  know  not  of. 
I've  loot  all  spirit  for  this  masking  now. 

( Throwing  away  his  papers  and  his  willow^,) 
Away,  ye  scraps  !  I  have  no  need  of  you. 
I  would  I  knew  what  garment  Basil  wears: 
I  watch'd  him,  yet  he  did  escape  my  sight ; 
But  I  must  search  again  and  find  him  out.     [Exit. 

Enter  Basil  much  agitated,  with  his  mask  in  his  hand. 

Sas.  In  vain  I've  sought  her,  follow'd  every  foiin' 
Where  aught  appear'd  of  dignity  or  grace : 
I've  listen'd  to  the  tone  of  every  voice ; 
I've  watch'd  the  entrance  of  each  female  mask ; 
My  fluttering  heart  roused  like  a  startled  hare, 
With  the  imagined  rustling  of  her  robes. 
At  every  dame's  approach.     Deceitful  night, 
How  art  thou  spent !  where  are  thy  promised  joya  ? 
How  much  of  thee  is  gone  !  0  spiteful  fate  ! 
Yet  within  the  compass  of  these  walls 
Somewhere  she  is,  although  to  me  she  is  not. 
Some  other  eye  doth  gaze  upon  her  form, 
Some  other  ear  doth  listen  to  her  voice ; 
Some  happy  favourite  doth  enjoy  the  bliss 
My  spiteful  stars  deny. 

Disturber  of  my  soul !  what  veil  conceals  thee  ? 
What  devilish  spell  is  o'er  this  cursed  hour  ? 

0  heavens  and  earth  !  where  art  thou  ? 

Enter  a  Mask  in  the  dress  of  a  female  conjurer. 

Mask.    Methinks    thou   art    impatient,  valiant 
soldier : 
Thy  wound  doth  gall  thee  sorely;  is  it  so  ? 

Bos.  Away,  away,  I  cannot  fool  with  thee. 

Mask.  I  have  some  potent  drugs  may  ease  thy 
smart. 
Where  is  thy  wound  ?  is't  here  ? 

[Pointing  to  the  bandage  on  his  arnt.) 

Bas.  Poo,  poo,  begone  ! 

Thou  canst  do  naught — 'tis  in  my  head,  my  heart — 
'Tis  everywhere,  where  medicine  cannot  cure. 

Mask.  If  wounded  in  the  heart,  it  is  a  wound 
Which  some  ungrateful  fair  one  bath  inflicted. 
And  I  may  conjure  something  for  thy  good. 

Bas.   Ah  !   if  thou  couldst !   what,  must  I  foo) 
with  thee  ? 

Mask.  Thou  must  a  while,  and  be  examined  too, 
What  kind  of  woman  did  the  wicked  deed  ? 

Bas.  I  cannot  tell  thee.     In  her  presence  still 
My  mind  in  such  a  wild  delight  hath  been, 

1  could  not  pause  to  picture  out  her  beauty, 
Yet  naught  of  woman  e'er  was  forni'd  so  fail 

Mask.  Art  thou  a  soldier,  and  no  weapon  bear*st 
To  send  her  wound  for  wound  ? 

Bas.  Alas  !  she  shoots  from  such  a  hopeless  height« 


BASIL. 


319 


No  dart  of  mine  hath  plume  to  mount  so  far. 
None  but  a  prince  may  dare. 

Mask.  But,  if  thou  hast  no  hope,  thou  hast  no  love. 

Bus.  1  love,  and  yet  in  truth  I  had  no  hope, 
But  that  she  might  at  least  with  some  good  will, 
Some  gentle,  pure  regard,  some  secret  kindness, 
Within  her  dear  remembrance  give  me  place. 
This  was  my  all  of  hope,  but  it  is  flown : 
For  she  regards  me  not ;  despises,  scorns  me : 
Scorns,  I  must  say  it  too,  a  noble  heart. 
That  would  have  bled  for  her. 

Mask,  [discovering  herself  to  be  Victoria,  by  speak- 
ing in  her  true  voice.)  0  !  no,  she  does  not. 
[Exit  hastily  in  confusion. 

Bos.   [stands  for  a  moment  riveted  to  the  spot, 
then  holds  up  both  his  hands  in  an  ecstacy.) 
It  is  herself  !  it  is  her  blessed  self  ! 
O  !  what  a  fool  am  I,  that  had  no  power 
To  follow  her,  and  urge  th'  advantage  on. 
Begone,  unmanly  fears  !  I  must  be  bold. 

[Exit  after  her. 

A  Dance  of  Masks. 

Enter  Dcke  and  Gauriecio,  unmasked. 

Duke.  This  revelry,  methinks,  goes  gayly  on. 

The  hour  is  late,  and  yet  your  friend  returns  not. 

Gaur.  He  will  return  ere  long — nay,  there  he 

comes. 

Enter  Gentleman. 

Duke.  Does  all  go  well  ?  (going  close  up  to  him.) 

Gent.  All  as  your  grace  could  wish. 

For  now  the  poison  works,  and  the  stung  soldiers 

Rage  o'er  their  cups,  and,  with  fire-kindled  eyes. 

Swear  vengeance  on  the  chief  who  would  betray 

them. 
That  Frederick,  too,  the  discontented  man 
Of  whom  your  highness  was  so  lately  told. 
Swallows  the  bait,  and  does  his  part  most  bravely. 
Gauriecio  counsell'd  well  to  keep  him  blind, 
Nor  with  a  bribe  attempt  him.     On  my  soul  I 
He  is  so  fiery  he  had  spurn'd  us  else. 
And  ruin'd  all  the  plot. 

Duke.    Speak  softly,  friend — I'll  hear  it  all  in 
private. 
A  gay  and  careless  face  we  now  assume. 

Duke,  Gaur.  and  Gent,  retire  into  the  inner  apartment, 
appearing  to  laugh  and  talk  gayly  to  the  different  Masks 
as  they  pass  them. 

Re-enter  Victoria,  followed  by  Basil. 

Vict.  Forbear,  my  lord ;  these  words  offend  mine 
ear. 

Bas.  Yet  let  me  but  this  once,  this  once  offend, 
Nor  thus  with  thy  displeasure  punish  me  ; 
And  if  my  words  against  all  prudence  sin, 
O  !  hear  them,  as  the  good  of  heart  do  list 
To  the  wild  ravings  of  a  soul  distraught. 

Vict.  If  I  indeed  should  listen  to  thy  words, 
They  must  not  talk  of  love. 

Bas.  To  be  with  thee,  to  speak,  to  hear  thee  speak, 
To  claim  the  soft  attention  of  thine  eye, 
I'd  be  content  to  talk  of  any  thing, 
If  it  were  possible  to  be  with  thee. 
And  think  of  aught  but  love. 

Vtct.  I  fear,  my  lord,  ycu  have  too  much  presumed 
On  those  unguarded  words,  which  were  in  truth 


Utter'd  at  unawares,  with  ittle  heed, 

And  urge  their  meaning  far  beyond  the  right. 

Bas.  I  thought,  indeed,  that  they  were  kindly 
meant, 
As  though  thy  gentle  breast  did  kindly  feel 
Some  secret  pity  for  my  hopeless  pain. 
And  would  not  pierce  with  scorn,  ungenerous  scorn 
A  heart  so  deeply  stricken. 

Vict.  So  far  thou'st  read  it  Avell. 

Bas.  Ha  !  have  I  well  ? 

Thou  dost  not  hate  me,  then  ? 

Victy  My  father  comes 

He  were  displeased  if  he  should  see  thee  thus. 

Bas.  Thou  dost  not  hate  me,  then  ? 

Vict.  Away  !  he'll  be  displeased — I  cannot  say— 

Bas.  Well,  let  him  come  :  it  is  thyself  I  fear; 
For  did  destruction  thunder  o'er  my  head. 
By  the  dread  Power  of  heaven,  I  would  not  stir. 
Till  thou  hadst  answer'd  my  impatient  soul ! 
Thou  dost  not  hate  me  ? 

Vict.  Nay,  nay,  let  go  thy  hold — I  cannot  hate 
thee.  [Breaks  from  him  and  exit.) 

Bas.  [alone.)  Thou  canst  not  hate  me  !  no,  thou 
canst  not  hate  me  ! 
For  I  love  thee  so  well,  so  passing  v/ell, 
With  such  o'erflowing  heart,  lo  very  dearly. 
That  it  were  sinful  not  to  pay  me  back 
Some  small,  some  kind  return. 

Enter  Mirando,  dressed  like  Cupid. 

Mir.  Bless  thee,  brave  soldier. 

Bas.  What  say'st  thou,  pretty  child  ?  what  plaj'- 
ful  fair 
Has  deck'd  thee  out  in  this  fantastic  guise  ? 

Mir.  It  was  Victoria's  self;  it  was  the  princess. 

Bas.  Thou  art  her  favourite,  then  ? 

Mir.  They  say  I  am : 

And  now,  between  ourselves,  I'll  tell  thee,  soldier, 
I  think  in  very  truth  she  loves  me  well. 
Such  merry  little  songs  she  teaches  me — 
Sly  riddles  too,  and  when  I'm  laid  to  rest, 
Ofttimes  on  tip-toe  near  my  couch  she  steals, 
And  lifts  the  covering  so,  to  look  upon  me. 
And  oftentimes  I  leign  as  though  I  slept ; 
For  then  her  warm  iips  to  my  cheek  she  lays. 
And  pats  me  softly  with  her  fair  white  hands  ; 
And  then  I  laugh,  and  through  mine  eyelids  peep, 
And  then  she  tickles  me,  and  calls  me  cheat ; 
And  then  we  so  do  laugh,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 

Bas.  What !  does  she  even  so,  thou  happiest  child  ? 
And  have  those  rosy  cheeks  been  press'd  so  dearly  ? 
Delicious  urchin  !  I  will  kiss  thee  too. 
[Takes  him  eagerly  up  in  his  arms,  and  kisses  him.) 

Mir.  No,  let  me  down,  thy  kisses  are  so  rough. 
So  furious  rough — she  doth  not  kiss  me  so. 

Bas.  Sweet  boy,  where  is  thy  chamber  ?  by  Vic- 
toria's ? 

Mir.  Hard  by  her  own. 

Bas.  Then  will  I  come  beneath  thy  window  soon : 
And,  if  I  couldj  some  pretty  song  I'd  sing. 
To  lull  thee  to  thy  rest. 

Mir.  0  no,  thou  must  not !  'tis  a  frightful  place 
It  is  the  churchyard  of  the  neighbouring  dome. 
The  princess  loves  it  for  the  lofty  trees, 
Whose  spreading  branches  shade  her  chamber  walls  i 
So  do  not  I ;  for  when  'tis  dark  o'  nights. 


320 


BAILLIE, 


Goblins   howl   there,  and  ghosts  lise  through  the 

ground. 
I  hoar  them  many  a  time  when  I'm  a  bed, 
And  hide  beneath  the  clothes  my  cowering  head. 
0  !  is  it  not  a  frightful  thing,  my  lord, 
To  sleep  alone  i'  the  dark  ? 

Sas.  Poor  harmless  child  !  thy  prate  is  wondrous 
sweet. 

Enter  a  group  of  Masks, 
1st  Mask.  What  dost  thou  here,  thou  little  truant 
boy? 
Come,  play  thy  part  with  us. 

Masks  place  Mirando  in  the  middle,  and  ran^e  them- 
selves round  him. 

SONG.— A  GLEB. 

Child,  with  many  a  childish  wile, 
Timid  look,  and  blushing  smile, 
Downy  wings  to  steal  thy  way, 
Gilded  bow,  and  quiver  gay, 
Who  in  thy  simple  mien  would  trace 
The  tyrant  of  the  human  race  ? 

Who  is  he  whose  flinty  heart 

Hath  not  felt  the  flying  dart? 

WTio  is  he  that  from  the  wound 

Hath  not  pain  and  pleasure  found  1 

Who  is  he  that  hath  not  shed 

Curse  and  blessings  on  thy  head? 

Ah  love !  our  weal,  our  wo,  our  bliss,  our  bane, 

A  restless  life  have  they  who  wear  thy  chain ! 

Ah  love  !  our  weal,  our  wo,  our  bliss,  our  bane, 

More  hapless  still  are  they  who  never  felt  thy  pain ! 

(^All  the  Masks  dance  round  Cupid.  Then  enter 
a  band  of  Satyjs,  who  frighten  away  Love  and 
his  votaries ;  and  conclude  the  scene^  dancing 
in  a  grotesque  manner.^ 


ACT    IV. 

Scene  I. — the  street  before  basil's  lodgings. 
Enter  Rosinbero  and  two  Officers 
Ros.  [speaking  as  he  enters.)  Unless  we  find  him 

quickly,  all  is  lost. 
1st  Off.  His  very  guards,  methinks,  have  left 
their  post 
To  join  the  mutiny. 

Ros.  [knocking  very  loud.)    Holla !  who's  there 
within  ?  confound  this  door  ! 
It  will  not  yield.     0  for  a  giant's  strength  ! 
Holla,  holla,  within  !  will  no  one  hear  ? 

Enter  a  Porter  from  the  house. 
Ros.  [eagerly  to  the  porter.)    Is  hereturn'd  ?  is 
he  return'd  not  yet  ? 
Thy  face  doth  tell  me  so. 

Port.  Not  yet,  my  lord. 

Ros.  Then  let  him  ne'er  return  ! • 

Tumult,  disgrace,  and  ruin  have  their  way ! 
'11  search  for  him  no  more. 
Port.  He  hath  been  absent  all  the  night,  my  lord. 
Ros.  I  know  he  hath. 

2d  Off.  And  yet  'tis  possible 

e  may  have  entered  by  the  secret  door; 
And  now  perhaps,  in  deepest  sleep  entranced, 
Is  dead  to  every  sound. 

(Ros.  without  speaking,  rushes  into  the  house,  and 
the  rest  follow  him.) 


Enter  Basil 

Bas.  The  blue  air  of  the  morning  pinches  keeniv. 
Beneath  her  window  all  the  chilly  night, 
I  felt  it  not.     Ah  !  night  has  been  my  day  ; 
And  the   pale  lamp  which  from  her    chamber 

gleam'd    ■ 
Has  to  the  breeze  a  warmer  temper  lent 
Than  the  red  burning  east. 

Re-enter  Rosinberg,  &c.  from  the  house. 

Ros.  Himself !  himself  I    He's  here  !  he's  here  . 
O  Basil ! 
What  friend  at  such  a  time  could  lead  thee  fortlv' 

Bas.   What   is    the  matter  which   disturbs  yott 
thus  ? 

Ros.  Matter  that  would  a  wiser  man  disturb. 
Treason's  abroad  :  thy  men  have  mutinied. 

Bas.  It  is  not  so  ;  thy  wits  liave  mutinied. 
And  left  their  sober  station  in  thy  brain. 

1st  Off.   Indeed,  my   lord,  he   speaks   in   sober 
earnest. 
Some  secret  enemies  have  been  employed 
To  fill  your  troops  with  strange  imaginations. 
As  though  their  general  would,  for  selfish  gain, 
Their  generous  valour  urge  to  desperate  deeds. 
All  to  a  man  assembled  on  the  ramparts. 
Now  threaten  vengeance,  and  refuse  to  march. 

Bas.  What !  think  they  vilely  of  me  ?  threaten 
too  ! 
0  !  most  ungenerous,  most  unmanly  thought ! 
Didst  thou  attempt  [to  Ros.)  to  reason  with  their 

folly  ? 
Folly  it  is ;  baseness  it  cannot  be. 

Ros.  Yes,  truly,  I  did  reason  with  a  storm. 

And  bid  it  cease  to  rage. 

Their  eyes  look  fire  on  him  who  questions  them 
The  hollow  murmurs  of  their  mutter'd  wrath 
Sound  dreadful  through  the  dark  extended  ranks. 
Like  subterraneous  grumblings  of  an  earthquake. 
The  vengeful  hurricane 


Does  not  with  such  fantastic  writhings  toss 
The  wood's  green  boughs,  as  does  convulsive  rage 
Their  forms  with  frantic  gestures  agitate. 
Around  the  chief  of  hell  such  legions  throng'd 
To  bring  back  curse  and  discord  on  creation. 

Bas.   Nay,  they  are  men,  although  impassion'd 
ones. 
I'll  go  to  them — 

Ros.  And  we  will  stand  by  thee. 

My  sword  is  thine  against  ten  thousand  strong. 
If  it  should  come  to  this. 

Bas.  No,  never,  never  ! 

There  is  no  mean  :  I  with  my  soldiers  must 
Or  their  commander  or  their  victim  prove. 
But  are  my  ofl!icers  all  stanch  and  faithful  ? 

Ros.  All  but  that  devil,  Frederick — 

He,  disappointed,  left  his  former  corps. 
Where  he,  in  truth,  had  been  too  long  neglected, 
Thinking  he  should  all  on  the  sudden  rise. 
From  Basil's  well-known  love  of  valiant  men ; 
And  now,  because  it  still  must  be  deferr'd. 
He  thinks  you  seek  from  envy  to  depress  him. 
And  burns  to  be  revenged. 

Bas.  Well,  well This  grieves  me  too— 

But  let  us  go. 


BASIL. 


32] 


Scene  IL— the  kamfabts  of  the  town. 

The  Soldiers  are  discovered,  drawn  up  in  a  disorderly 
manner,  hollaing  and  speaking  big,  and  clashing  their 
arms  tumultuously. 

1st  Sol.  No,  comrade,  no  ;  hell  gape  and  swallow 
me, 
[f  I  do  budge  for  such  most  devilish  orders  ! 
2d  Sol.  Huzza !    brave    comrades !     Who    says 

otherwise  ? 
3d  Sol.  No  one,  huzza  !  confound  all  treacherous 
leaders ! 

{The  Soldiers  huzza  and  clash  their  arms.) 
5th  Sol.  Heaven  dart  its  fiery  lightning  on   his 
head ! 
We're  men,  we  are  not  cattle  to  be  flaughter'd  ! 

2d  Sol.  They  who  do  long  to  caper  high  in  air, 
Into  a  thousand  bloody  fragments  blown. 
May  follow  our  brave  general. 

\st  Sol.  Cvjse  his  name  ! 

I've  fought  for  him  till  my  strain'd  nerves  have 
crack'd ! 
2d  Sol.  We  will  command  ourselves :  for  Milan, 

comrades. 
5th  Sol.  Ay,  ay,  for  Milan,  valiant  hearts,  huzza. 
{All  the  Soldiers  cast  up  their  caps  in  the  air  and 

huzza.) 
2d  Sol.  Yes,  comrades,  tempting  booty  waits  us 
here, 
And  easy  service :  keep  good  hearts,  my  soldiers  I 
The  general  comes,  good  hearts  !    no    flinching, 

boys ! 
Look  bold  and  fiercely :  we're  the  masters  now. 
{They  all  clash  their  arms  and  put  on  a  fierce 
threatening  aspect  to  receive  their  general,  ivho 
now  enters, followed  by  Rosinberg  and  Officers. 
Basil  walks  close  along  the  front  ranks  of  the 
Soldiers,  looking  at  them  very  steadfastly  ;  then 
retires  a  few  paces  back,  and  raising  his  arm, 
speaks  with  a  very  full  loud  voice.) 
Bas.  How  is  it,  soldiers,  that  I  see  you  thus, 
Assembled  here  unsummon'd  by  command  ? 

{A  confuted  murmur  is  heard  amongst  the  Sol- 
diers ;  some  of  them  call  out) 
But  we  ourselves  command :  we  wait  no  orders. 
{A   confuted  noise  of  voices  is  heard,  and  one 
louder  than  the  rest  calls  out) 
Must  we  be  butcher'd  for  that  we  are  brave  ? 
{A  loud  clamour  and    clashing    of  arms,  then 
several  voices  call  out) 
Damn  hidden  treachery  !  we  defy  thy  orders. 

Frederick  shall  lead  us  now 

{Others  call  out) 
We'll  march  where'er  we  list ;  for  Milan  march. 
Bas.  {leaving  his  hand,  and  beckoning  them  to 
be  silent,  speaks  loith  a  very  loud  voice.) 
Yes,  march  where'er  ye  list :  for  Milan  march. 
Sol.  Hear  him,  hear  him  ! 

{The  murmur  ceases — a  sho7-t  pause.) 
Bas.  Yes,  march  where'er  ye   list;  for  Milan 
march: 
But  as  banditti,  not  as  soldiers  go ; 
For  on  this  spot  of  earth  I  will  disband. 
And  take  from  you  the  rank  and  name  of  soldiers. 
[A  great  clamour  amongst  the  ranks — some  call 
out) 

Vol.  III.— 21 


What  wear  we  arms  for .?  {Others  call  out) 

No,  he  dares  not  do  it. 
( One  voice  very  loud) 
Disband  us  at  thy  peril,  treacherous  Basil ! 

( Several  of  the  Soldiejs  bi-andish  their  arms,  and 
threaten  to  attack  him;   the  Officers  gather 
round  Basil,  and  draw  their  swords  to  defend 
him.) 
Bas.  Put  up  your  swords,  my  friends,  it  must  not 
be. 
I  thank  your  zeal,  I'll  deal  with  them  alone. 
Eos.  What,  shall  we  calmly  stand  and  see  thee 

butcher'd  ? 
Bas.    {very    earnestly.)   Put    up,    my    friends. 
{Officers    still  persist.)    What!  are  you 
rebels  too  ? 
Will  no  one  here  his  general's  voice  obcr  ? 
I  do  command  you  to  put  up  your  swords. 
Retire,  and  at  a  distance  wait  th'  event. 
Obey,  or  henceforth  be  no  friends  of  mine. 

Officers  retire  very  unwillingly.     Basil  waves 
them  off  with  his  hand  till  they  are  all  gone, 
then  walks  up  to  the  front  of  his  Soldiers^ 
who  still  hold   themselves  in   a   threatening 
posture.) 
Soldiers  !  we've  fougr.u  together  in  the  field, 
And  bravely  fought :  i'  the  face  of  horrid  death. 
At  honour's  call,  I've  led  you  dauntless  on ; 
Nor  do  I  know  the  man  of  all  yoyr  bands. 
That  ever  poorly  from  the  trial  shrunk, 
Or  jdelded  to  the  foe  contended  space. 
Am  I  the  meanest  then  of  all  my  troops, 
That  thus  ye  think,  with  base  unmanly  threats, 
To  move  me  now  ?    Put  up  those  paltry  weapons  ; 
They  edgeless  are  to  him  who  fears  them  not ; 
Rocks  have  been  shaken  from  the  solid  base  ; 
But  what  shall  move  a  firm  and  dauntless  mind .? 
Put  up  your  swords,  or  dare  the  threaten'd  deed — 

Obey,  or  murder  me. . 

{A  confused  murmur — some  of  the  Soldiers  call 
out) 
March  us  to  Milan,  and  we  will  obey  thee. 

( Others  call  out) 
Ay,  march  us  there,  and  be  our  leader  still. 

Bas.  Nay,  if  I  am  your  leader,  I'll  command  ye  j 
And  where  I  do  command,  there  shall  you  go, 
But  not  to  Milan.     No,  nor  shall  you  deviate 
E'en  half  a  furlong  from  your  destined  way. 
To  seize  the  golden  booty  of  the  east. 
Think  not  to  gain,  or  temporize  with  me  ; 
For  should  I  this  day's  mutiny  survive, 
Much  as  I've  loved  you,  soldiers,  ye  shall  find  me 
Still  more  relentless  in  pursuit  of  vengeance ; 
Tremendous,  cruel,  military  vengeance. 
There  is  no  mean — a  desperate  game  ye  play ; 
Therefore,  I  say,  obey,  or  murder  me. 
Do  as  ye  will,  but  do  it  manfully. 
He  is  a  coward  who  doth  threaten  me  : 
The  man  who  slays  me,  but  an  angry  soldier ; 
Acting  in  passion,  like  the  frantic  son, 
Who  struck  his  sire  and  wept. 

{Soldiers  call  out)  It  was  thyself  who  sought  lo 

murder  us. 
1st  Sol.  You  have  unto  the  emperor    pledged 
your  faith, 
To  lead  us  foremost  in  all  desperate  service  • 


322 


BAILLIE. 


You  have  agreed  to  sell  your  soldiers'  blood, 
And  we  have  shed  our  dearest  blood  for  you. 

Bos.  Hear  me,  my  soldiers 

2d  Sol.  No,  hear  him  not,  he  means  to  cozen  you. 
Frederick  will  do  you  right 

{Endeavouring  to  stir  up  a  noise  and  confusion 
amongst  them.) 

Bos.  What  cursed  fiend  art  thou,  cast  out  from 
hell 
To  spirit  up  rebellion  ?  damned  villain 

( Seizes  upon  2d  Soldier,  drags  him  out  from  the 
ranks,  and  wrests  his  arms  from  him  ;   then 
takes  a  pistol  from  his  side,  and  holds  it  to  his 
head.) 
Stand  there,  damn'd  meddling  villain,  and  be  silent ; 
For  if  thou  utterest  but  a  single  word, 
A  cough  or  hem,  to  cross  me  in  my  speech, 
I'll  send  thy  cursed  spirit  from  the  earth. 
To  bellow  with  the  damn'd  ! 

( The  Soldiers  keep  a  dead  silence — after  a  pause, 
Basil  resumes  his  speech.) 

Listen  to  me,  my  soldiers. 

You  say  that  I  am  to  the  emperor  pledged 

To  lead  you  foremost  in  all  desperate  service, 

For  now  you  call  it  not  the  path  of  glory ; 

And  if  in  this  I  have  offended  you, 

I  do  indeed  repent  me  of  the  crime. 

But  new  from  battles,  where  my  native  troops 

So  bravely  foughj,  I  felt  me  proud  at  heart, 

And  boasted  of  you,  boasted  foolishly. 

I  said,  fair  glory's  palm  ye  would  not  yield 

To  e'er  the  bravest  legion  train'd  to  arms. 

I  swore  the  meanest  man  of  all  my  troops 

Would  never  shrink  before  an  armed  host. 

If  honour  bade  him  stand.    My  royal  master 

Smiled  at  the  ardour  of  my  heedless  words, 

And  promised,  when  occasion  claim'd  our  arms, 

To  put  them  to  the  proof. 

But  ye  do  peace,  and  ease,  and  booty  eve, 

Safe  and  ignoble  service — be  it  so — 

Forgive  me  that  I  did  mistake  you  tins  . 

But  do  not  earn  with  savage  mutiny. 

Your  own  destruction.     We'll  for  Pavia  march, 

To  join  the  royal  army  near  its  walls  ; 

And  there  with  blushing  forehead  will  I  plead. 

That  ye  are  men  with  warlike  service  worn. 

Requiring  ease  and  rest.     Some  other  chief, 

Whose  cold  blood  boils  not  at  the  trumpet's  sound. 

Will  in  your  rearward  station  head  you  then, 

And  so,  my  friends,  we'll  part.     As  for  mj'self, 

A  volunteer,  unheeded  in  the  ranks, 

I'll  rather  flight,  with  brave  men  for  my  fellows, 

Than  be  the  leader  of  a  sordid  band. 

{A  great  murmur  rises  amongst  the  ranks,  Sol- 
diers call  out) 
We  will  not  part !  no,  no,  we  will  not  part ! 

{All  call  out  together) 
We  will  not  part !  be  thou  our  general  still. 

Bas   How  can  I  be  your  general  ?  ye  obey 
As  capijce  moves  you  ;  I  must  be  obey'd 
As  honest  men  against  themselves  perform 
A.  sacred  oath. — 

Some  other  chief  will  more  indulgent  prove — 
You're  weary  grown — I've  been  too  hard  a  master — 

Soldiers.  Thyself,  and  only  thee,  will  we  obey. 

Bas.  But  if  you  follow  me,  yourselves  ye  pledge 


Unto  no  easy  service : — hardships,  toils. 
The  hottest  dangers  of  most  dreadful  fight 
Will  be  your  portion  ;  and  when  all  is  o'er. 
Each,  like  his  general,  must  contented  be 
Home  to  return  again,  a  poor  brave  soldier. 
How  say  ye  now  ?  I  spread  no  tempting  lure — 
A  better  fate  than  this,  I  promise  none. 
Soldiers.  We'll  follow  Basil. 
Bas.  What  token  of  obedience  will  ye  give  t 

(A  deep  patue.) 
Soldiers,  lay  down  your  arms  ! 

( They  all  lay  down  their  arms.) 
If  any  here  are  weary  of  the  service. 
Now  let  them  quit  the  ranks,  and  they  shall  have   , 
A  free  discharge,  and  passport  to  their  homes  ; 
And  from  my  scanty  fortune  I'll  make  good 
The  well-earn'd  pay  their  royal  master  owes  them. 
Let  those  who  follow  me  their  arms  resume. 

( They  all  resume  their  arms.) 
Bas.  [holding  up  his  hands.)    High  heaven  be 
praised  ! 
I  had  been  grieved  to  part  with  you,  my  soldiers. 
Here  is  a  letter  from  my  gracious  master, 
With  offers  of  preferment  in  the  north, 
Most  high  preferment,  which  I  did  refuse. 
For  that  I  would  not  leave  my  gallant  troops. 
(Takes  out  a  letter,  and  throws  it  amongst  them.) 
[A  great  commotion  amongst  the  Soldiers  ;  many 
of  them  quit  their  ranks,  and  crowd  about  Afw, 
calling  out) 
Our  gallant  general !  (  Others  call  out) 

We'll  spend    our  hearts'  blood   for    thee,  noble 
Basil ! 
Bas.  And  so  you  thought  me  false  ?  this  bites  to 
the  quick  ! 
My  soldiers  thought  me  false  ! 

[They  all  quit  their  ranks,  and  crowd  eagerly 
around  him.     Basil,  waving  them  off  with  his 
hands.) 
Away,  away,  you  have  disgusted  me  ! 

( Soldiers  retire  to  their  ranks.) 
'Tis  well — retire,  and  hold  yourselves  prepared 
To  march  upon  command,  nor  meet  again 
Till  you  are  summon 'd  by  the  beat  of  drum. 
Some  secret  enemy  has  tamper'd  with  you. 
For  yet  I  will  not  think  that  in  these  ranks 
There  moves  a  man  who  wears  a  traitor's  heart. 
(The  Soldiers   begin   to   march   off,  and  music 

strikes  up.) 
Bas.    (^holding   up    his    hand.)      Cease,    cease, 
triumphant  sounds. 
Which  our  brave  fathers,  men  without  reproach. 
Raised  in  the  hour  of  triumph  !  but  this  hour 
To  us  no  glory  brings — 
Then  silent  be  your  march — ere  that  again 
Our  steps  to  glorious  strains  like  these  shall  move, 
A  day  of  battle  o'er  our  heads  ra  ast  pass. 
And  blood  be  shed  to  wash  out  this  day's  stain. 

[Exeunt  Soldiers,  silent  and  dejected. 

Enter  Frederick,   who  starts  back  on   seeing  Basix 
alone, 
Bas.  Advance,  lieutenant ;  wherefore  shrink  ye 
back  ? 
I've  even  seen  you  bear  your  head  erect. 
And  front  your  man  though  arm'd  with  frowning 
death. 


BASIL. 


323 


Have  you  done  aught  the  valiant  should  not  do  ? 
I  fear  you  have.  (Fred,  looks  confused.) 

With  secret  art,  and  false  insinuation, 
The  simple  untaught  soldiers  to  seduce 
From  their  sworn  duty,  might  become  the  base, 
Become  the  coward  well ;  but  0  !  what  villain 
Had  the  dark  power  to  engage  thy  valiant  worth 
In  such  a  work  as  this  I 

Fred.  Is  Basil,  then,  so  lavish  of  his  praise 
Otz  i  neglected  pitiful  subaltern  ? 
It  were  a  libel  on  his  royal  master  ; 
A  foul  reproach  upon  fair  fortune  cast, 
To  call  me  valiant : 

And  surely  he  has  been  too  much  their  debtor 
To  mean  them  this  rebuke. 

Bas.  Is  nature  then  so  sparing  of  her  gifts, 
That  it  is  wonderful  when  they  are  found 
Where  fortune  smiles  not  ? 
Thou  art  by  nature  brave  and  so  am  I ; 
But  in  those  distant  ranks  moves  there  not  one 

[pointing  off  the  stage.) 
Of  high  ennobled  soul,  by  nature  form'd 
A  hero  and  commander,  who  will  yet 
In  his  untrophied  grave  forgotten  lie 
With  meaner  men  ?     I  dare  be  sworn  there  does. 

Fred.  What  need  of  words  ?     I  crave  of  thee  no 
favour, 
I  have  offended  'gainst  arm'd  law,  offended. 
And  shrink  not  from  my  doom. 

Bas.  I  know  thee  well,  I  know  thou  fear'st  not 
death  ; 
On  scaffold  or  in  field  with  dauntless  breast 
Thou  wilt  engage  him :  and  if  thy  proud  soul, 
In  sullen  obstinacy,  scorns  all  grace. 
E'en  be  it  so.     But  if  with  manly  gratitude 
Thou  truly  canst  receive  a  brave  man's  pardon. 
Thou  hast  it  freely. 

Fred.  It  must  not  be.     I've  been  thine  enemy — 
I've  been  unjust  to  thee — 

Bas.  I  know  thou  hast ; 

But  thou  art  brave,  and  I  forgive  thee  all. 

Fred.    My    lord !    my    general !      0    I    cannot 
speak  ! 
I  cannot  live  and  be  the  wretch  I  am. 

Bas.  But  thou  canst  live  and  be  an  honest  man 
From  error  turn'd, — canst  live  and  be  my  friend. 

(Raising  Fred,  from  the  ground.) 
Forbear,  forbear  !  see  where  our  friends  advance  : 
They  must  not  think  thee  suing  for  a  pardon  ; 
That  would  disgrace  us  both.     Yet,  ere  they  come 
Tell  me,  if  that  thou  mayst  with  honour  tell, 
What  did  seduce  thee  from  thy  loyal  faith  ? 

Fred.  No  cunning  traitor  did  my  faith  attempt, 
For  then  I  had  withstood  him  :  but  of  late, 
I  know  not  how — a  bad  and  restless  spirit 
Has  work'd  within    my  breast,  and    made    me 

wretched. 
l*ve  lent  mine  ear  to  foolish  idle  tales. 
Of  very  zealous,  though  but  recent  friends. 

Bas.  Softly,  our  friends  approach — of  this  again. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene  III. — an  apartment  in  basil's  lodgings. 

Enter  Basil  and  Rosinberg. 

Ros.  Thank  heaven  I  am  now  alone  w^ith  thee. 

night  I  sought  thee  with  an  anxious  mind, 


And  cursed  thiie  ill-timed  absence. — 
There's  treason  in  this  most  deceitful  court. 
Against  thee  plotting,  and  this  morning's  tumult, 
Hath  been  its  damn'd  effect. 

Bas.  Nay,  nay,  my  friend  ! 

The  nature  of  man's  mind  too  well  thou  knowest. 
To  judge  as  vulgar  hoodwink'd  statesmen  do  ; 
Who,  ever  with  their  own  poor  wiles  misled. 
Believe  each  popular  tumult  or  commotion 
JMust  be  the  work  of  deep-laid  policy. 
Poor,  mean,  mechanic  souls,  who  little  know 
A  few  short  words  of  energetic  force. 
Some  powerful  passion  on  the  sudden  roused, 
The  animating  sight  of  something  noble, 
Some  fond  trait  of  the  memory  finely  waked, 
A  sound,  a  simple  song  without  design, 
In  revolutions,  tumults,  wars,  rebellions. 
All  grand  events,  have  oft  effected  more 
Than  deepest  cunning  of  their  paltry  art. 
Some  drunken  soldier,  eloquent  with  wine. 
Who  loves  not  fighting,  hath  harangued  his  mat«, 
For  they  in  truth  some  hardships  have  endured : 
Wherefore  in  this  should  we  suspect  the  court  ? 

Ros.  Ah!  there  is  something,  friend,  in  Mantua's 
cotirt. 
Will  make  the  blackest  trait  of  barefaced  treason, 
Seem  fair  and  guiltless  to  thy  partial  eye. 

Bas.  Nay,  'tis  a  weakness  in  thee,  Rosinberg, 
jWhich  makes  thy  mind  so  jealous  and  distrustful. 
Why  should  the  Duke  be  false  ? 

Ros.  Because  he  is  a  double,  crafty  prince — 
Because  I've  heard  it  rumour'd  secretly, 
That  he  in  some  dark  treaty  is  engaged. 
E'en  with  our  master's  enemy,  the  Frank. 

Bas.  And  so  thou  thinkest — 

Ros.  Nay,  hear  me  to  the  end. 

Last  night  that  good  and  honourable  dame, 
Noble  Albini,  with  most  friendly  art. 
From  the  gay  clamorous  throng  my  steps  beguiled, 
Unmask'd  before  me,  and  with  earnest  grace 
Entreated  me,  if  T  were  Basil's  friend. 
To  tell  him  hidden  danger  waits  him  here. 
And  warn  him  earnestly  this  court  to  leave. 
She  said  she  loved  thee  much  ;  and  hadstthou  seen 
How  anxiously  she  urged — 

Bas.  [interrupting  him.)    By  heaven  and  earth 
There  is  a  ray  of  light  breaks  through  thy  tale. 
And  I  could  leap  like  madmen  in  their  freaks. 
So  blessed  is  the  gleam  !  Ah  !  no,  no,  no  ! 
It  cannot  be  !  alas,  it  cannot  be  ! 
Yet  didst  thou  say,  she  urged  it  earnestly  ? 
She  is  a  woman,  who  avoids  all  share 
In  secret  politics  ;  one  only  charge 
Her  interest  claims,  Victoria's  guardian  friend— 
And  she  would  have  me  hence — it  must  be  so. 
0  !  would  it  were  !  how  saidst  thou,  gentle  Rosin 

berg  ? 
She  urged  it  earnestly — how  did  she  urge  it  f 
Nay,  prithee  do  not  stare  upon  me  thus, 
But  tell  me  all  her  words  !    What  said  she  ? 

Ros.  0  Basil  !  I  could  laugh  to  see  thy  folly, 
But  that  thy  weakness  doth  provoke  me  so. 
Most  admirable,  brave,  determined  man  ! 
So  well,  so  lately  tried,  what  irt  thou  now  ? 
A  vain  deceitful  thought  transports  thee  thus. 
Thinkst  thou- 


324 


BAILLIE. 


Bas.  I  will  not  tell  thee  what  I  think. 

Ros   Bat  I  can  guess  it  well,  and  it  deceives  thee. 
Leave  this  detested  place,  this  fatal  court. 
Where  dark  deceitful  cunning  plots  thy  ruin. 
A  soldier's  duty  calls  thee  loudly  hence. 
The  time  is  critical.     How  wilt  thou  feel 
When  they  shall  tell  these  tidings  in  thine  ear, 
That  brave  Piscaro,  and  his  royal  troops. 
Our  valiant  fellows,  have  the  enemy  fought, 
Whilst  we,  so  near  at  hand,  lay  loitering  here  P 

Bas.  Thou  dost  disturb  thy  brain  with  fancied 
fears. 
Our  fortunes  rest  not  on  a  point  so  nice, 
That,one  short  day  should  be  of  all  this  moment ; 
And  yet  this  one  short  day  will  be  to  me 
Worth  years  of  other  time. 

Ros.  Nay,  rather  say, 

A  day  to  darken  all  thy  days  beside. 
Confound  the  fatal  beauty  of  that  woman. 
Which  hath  bewitch'd  thee  so  ! 

Bas.  'Tis  most  ungenerous 

To  push  me  thus  with  rough  unsparing  hand. 
Where  but  the  slightest  touch  is  felt  so  dearly. 
It  is  unfriendly. 

Ros.  God  knows  my  heart  !   I  would   not  give 
thee  pain  ; 
But  it  disturbs  me,  Basil,  vexes  me 
To  see  thee  so  inthralled  by  a  woman. 
If  she  is  fair,  others  are  fair  as  she. 
Some  other  face  will  like  emotions  raise, 
When  thou  canst  better  play  a  lover's  part : 
But  for  the  present, — fy  upon  it,  Basil ! 

Bas.  What,  is  it  possible  thou  hast  beheld. 
Hast  tarried  by  her  too,  her  converse  shared. 
Yet  talk'st  as  though  she  were  a  common  fair  one. 
Such  as  a  man  may  fancy  and  forget  ? 
Thou  art  not,  sure,  so  dull  and  brutish  grown  : 
It  is  not  so  ;  thou  dost  belie  thy  thoughts. 
And  vainly  try'st  to  gain  me  with  the  cheat. 

Ros.  So  thinks  each  lover  of  the  maid  he  loves, 
Yet,  in  their  lives,  some  many  maidens  love. 
Fy  on  it !  leave  this  town,  and  be  a  soldier  ! 

Bas.  Have  done,  have  done  !  why  dost  thou  bate 
me  thus  ? 
Thy  words  become  disgusting  to  me,  Rosinberg. 
What  claim  hast  thou  my  actions  to  control  ? 
I'll  Mantua  leave  when  it  is  fit  I  should. 

Ros.  Then,  'faith  !  'tis  fitting  thou  shouldst  leave 
it  now  ; 
Ay,  on  the  instant.     Is't  not  desperation 
To  stay,  and  hazard  ruin  on  thy  fame. 
Though  yet  uncheer'd  e'en  by  that  tempting  lure. 
No  lover  breathes  without  ?  thou  hast  no  hope. 

Bas.  What,  dost  thou  mean — curse  on  the  paltry 
thought ! 
That  I  should  count  and  bargain  with  my  heart, 
Upon  the  chances  of  unstinted  favour. 
As  little  souls  their  base-bred  fancies  feed  ? 

0  !  were  I  conscious  that  within  her  breast 

1  held  some  portion  of  her  dear  regard, 
Though  pent  for  life  within  a  prison's  walls. 
Where  through  my  grate  I  yet  might  sometimes  see 
E'en  but  her  shadow  sporting  in  the  sun  ; 
Though  placed  by  fate  where  some    obstructing 

bound, 
Tome  deep  impassable  between  us  roll'd. 


And  I  might  yet  from  some  high  towering  cliff 
Perceive  her  distant  mansion  from  afar, 
Or  mark  its  blue  smoke  rising  eve  and  morn  j 
Nay,  though  within  the  circle  of  the  moon 
Some  spell  did  fix  her,  never  to  return. 
And  I  might  wander  in  the  hours  of  nigjht, 
And  upward  turn  my  ever-gazing  eye. 
Fondly  to  mark  upon  its  varied  disk 
Some  little  spot  that  might  her  dwelling  be  j 
My  fond,  my  fixed  heart  would  still  adore. 
And  own  no  other  love.     Away,  away  ! 
How  canst  thou  say  to  one  who  loves  like  me. 
Thou  hast  no  hope  ? 

Ros.  But  with  such  hope,  my  friend,  how  stani 
thy  fears  ? 
Are  they  so  well  refined  ?  how  wilt  thou  bear 
Ere  long  to  hear,  that  some  high-favour'd  prince 
Has  won  her  heart,  her  hand,  has  married  her? 
Though  now  unshackled,  will  it  always  be  ? 
^     Bas.  By  heaven  thou  dost  contrive  but  to  tor* 

ment, 
And  hast  a  pleasure  in  the  pain  thou  givest ! 
There  is  malignity  in  what  thou  sayest. 

Ros.  No,  not  malignity,  but  kindness,  Basil, 
That  fain  would  save  thee  from  the  yawning  gulf. 
To  which  blind  passion  guides  thy  heedless  steps. 

Bas.  Go,  rather  save  thyself 
From  the  weak  passion  which  has  seized  thy  breast, 
T'  assume  authority  with  sage-like  brow, 
And  shape  my  actions  by  thine  own  caprice. 
I  can  direct  myself. 

Ros.  Yes,  do  thyself. 

And  let  no  artful  woman  do  it  for  thee. 

Bas.  I  scorn  thy  thought :  it  is  beneath  my  scorn  i 
It  is  of  meanness  sprung — an  artful  woman ! 

0  !  she  has  all  the  loveliness  of  heaven 
And  all  its  goodness  too  ! 

Ros.  I  mean  not  to  impute  dishonest  arts, 

1  mean  not  to  impute — 

Bas.  No,  'faith  thou  canst  not 

Ros.  What,  can  I  not  ?  their  arts   all  women 
have. 
But  now  of  this  no  more  ;  it  moves  thee  greatly. 
Yet  once  again,  as  a  most  loving  friend, 
Let  me  conjure  thee,  if  thou  prizest  honour, 
A  soldier's  fair  repute,  a  hero's  fame. 
What  noble  spirits  love,  and  well  I  know 
Full  dearly  dost  thou  prize  them,  leave  this  place, 
And  give  thy  soldiers  orders  for  the  march. 

Bas.  Nay,  since  thou  must  assume  it  o'er   mc 
thus. 
Be  general,  and  command  my  soldiers  too. 

Ros.  What,  hath  this  passion  in  so  short  a  space, 
0  !  curses  on  it !  so  far  changed  thee,  Basil, 
That  thou  dost  take  with  such  ungentle  warmth. 
The  kindly  freedom  of  thine  ancient  friend  r 
Methinks  the  beauty  of  a  thousand  maids 
Would  not  have  moved  me  thus  to  treat  my  friend, 
My  best,  mine  earliest  friend ! 

Bas.  Say  kinsman  rather  ;  chance  has  link'd  us 
so: 
Our  blood  is  near,  our  hearts  are  sever'd  far ) 
No  act  of  choice  did  e'er  unite  our  souls. 
Men  most  unlike  we  are ;  our  thoughts  unlike ; 
My  breast  disowns    thee — thou'rt    no  friend    ol 
mine. 


BASIL. 


325 


Rot.  Ah !  have  I  then  so  long,  so  dearly  loved 
thee ; 
So  often,  with  an  elder  brother's  care, 
Thy  childish  rambles  tended,  shared  thy  sports ; 
Fill'd  up  by  stealth  thy  weary  school-boy's  task ; 
Taught  thy  young  arms  thine  earliest  feats  of 

strength ; 
With  boastful  pride  thine  early  rise  beheld 
In  glorj^'s  paths,  contented  then  to  fill 
A  second  place,  so  I  might  serve  with  thee ; 
And  say'st  thou  flow,  I  am  no  friend  of  thine  ? 
Well,  be  it  so  ;  I  am  thy  kinsman  then. 
And  by  that  title  will  I  save  thy  name, 
From  danger  of  disgrace.     Indulge  thj'  will. 
I'll  lay  me  down  and  feign  that  I  am  sick  : 
And  yet  I  shall  not  feign — I  shall  not  feign  ; 
For  thy  unkindness  makes  me  so  indeed. 
It  will  be  said  that  Basil  tarried  here 
To  save  his  friend,  for  so  they'll  call  me  still ; 
Nor  will  dishonour  fall  upon  thy  name 
For  such  a  kindly  deed. — 
(Basil  icalks  up  and  down  in  great  agitation,  then 
stops,  covers  his  face  with  his  hands,  and  seems 
to  be  overcome,    Rosinberg  looks  at  him  ear- 
nestly.) 

O  blessed  heaven,  ne  weeps  ! 
[Runs  up  to  him,  and  catches  him  in  his  arms,) 

0  Basil !  I  have  been  too  hard  upon  thee. 
A.nd  is  it  possible  I've  moved  thee  thus  ? 

Bas,  [in  a  convulsed,  broken  voice,)     I  will  re- 
nounce— I'll  leave — 

Ros,  What  says  my  Basil  ? 

Bas.  I'll  Rlantua  leave — I'll  leave  this  seat  of 
bliss — 
This  lovely  woman — tear  my  heart  in  twain — 
Cast  off  at  once  my  little  span  of  joy — 
Be  wretched — miserable — whate'er  thou  wilt — 
Dost  thou  forgive  me  ? 

Ros,  0  my  friend !  my  friend  ! 

1  love  thee  now  more  than  I  ever  loved  thee, 
must  be  cruel  to  thee  to  be  kind : 

Each  pang  I  see  thee  feel  strikes  through    my 

heart ; 
Then  spare  us  both,  call  up  thy  noble  spirit. 
And  meet  the  blow  at  once.    Thy  troops    are 

ready — 
Let  us  depart,  nor  lose  another  hour. 

(Basil  shrinks  from  his  arms,  and  looks  at  him 
with  somewhat  of  an  upbraiding,  at  the  sam£ 
time  a  sorrowful  look,) 
Bas,  Nay,  put  me  not  to  death  upon  the  instant ; 
I'll  see  her  once  again,  and  then  depart. 

Ros,  See  her  but  once  again,  and  thou  art  ruin'd  ! 
It  must  not  be — if  thou  regardest  me — 
Bas.  Well  then,  it  shall  not  be.     Thou  hast  no 

mercy  ! 
Ros,  Ah  !  thou  wilt  bless  me  all  thine  after-life 
For  what  now  seems  to  thee  so  merciless. 

Bas,  [sitting  doxun  very  dejectedly,)    Mine  after- 
life !  what  is  mine  after-life  ? 
My  day  is  closed  !  the  gloom  of  night  is  come  ! 
A  hopeless  darkness  settles  o'er  my  fate. 
I've  seen  the  last  look  of  her  heavenly  eyes ; 
I've  heard  the  last  sounds  of  her  blessed  voice  j 
I've  seen  her  fair  form  from  my  sight  depart 
My  doom  is  closed  ' 


Ros,  [hanging  over  him  with  pity  and  affection,) 

Alas  !  my  friend  ! 
Bas,  In  all  her  lovely  grace  she  disappear'd, 
Ah  !  little  thought  I  never  to  return  ! 

Ros,  Why  so  desponding  ?  think  of  warlike  glorj. 
The  fields  of  fair  renown  are  still  before  thee  ; 
Who  would  not  burn  such  noble  fame  to  earn  ? 

Bas,  What  now  are  arms,  or  fair  renown  to  me  ? 
Strive  for  it  those  who  will — and  yet,  a  while. 
Welcome  rough  war  ;  with  all  thy  scenes  of  blood ; 
[starting  from  his  seat,) 
Thy  roaring  thunders,  and  thy  clashing  steel ! 
Welcome  once  more  !  what  have  I  now  to  do 
But  play  the  brave  man  o'er  again,  and  die  ? 
Enter  Isab^la. 
Isab.  [to  Bas.)    My  princess  bids  me  greet  yox: 
noble  count : — 
Bas.  [starting.)    What  dost  the  j  say  ? 
Ros.  Damn  this  untimely  message  I 

Isab.  The  princess  bids   me    greet  you,  noble 
count: 
In  the  cool  grove,  hard  by  the  southern  gate 
She  with  her  train — 
Bas.  What,  she  indeed,  herself? 

Isab,  Herself,  my  lord,  and  she  requests  to  see 

you. 
Bas,  Thank  heaven  for  this  !  I  will  be  there  anon. 
Ros,  [taking  hold  of  him,)     Stay,  stay,  and  do 

not  be  a  madman  still. 
Bas,  Let  go  thy  hold :  what,  must  I  be  a  brute, 
A  very  brute  to  please  thee  ?  no,  by  heaven  ! 

[Breaks  from  him,  and  Exit.) 
Ros,  [striking  his  forehead.)    All  lost  again  !  ill 
fortune  light  upon  her  ! 

(Turning- eager/y  ^0  Isab.) 
And  so  thj--  virtuous  mistress  sends  thee  here 
To  make  appointments,  honourable  dame  ? 

Isab.  Not  so,  my  lord,  you  must  not  call  it  so : 
The  court  will  hunt  to-morrow,  and  Victoria 
Would  have  your  noble  general  of  her  train. 
Ros.  Confound  these  women,  and  their  artful 
snares, 
Since  men  will  be  such  fools  ! 
Isab.  Yes,  grtimble  at  our  empire  as  you  will — 
Ros.  What,  boast  ye  of  it  ?  empire  do  ye  call  it  ? 
It  is  your  shame  !  a  short-lived  tyranny. 
That  ends  at  last  in  hatred  and  contempt. 

Isab.  Nay,  but  some  women  do  so  wisely  rule, 
Their  subjects  never  from  the  yoke  escape. 

Ros.  Some  women  do,  but  they  are  rarely  found. 
There  is  not  one  in  all  your  paltry  court 
Hath  wit  enough  for  the  ungenerous  task. 
'Faith  I  of  you  all,  not  one,  but  brave  Albini, 
And  she  disdains  it — Good  be  with  you,  lady  ! 

[Going.] 
Isab.  0  would  I  could  but  touch  that  stubborn 
heart ! 
How  dearly  should  he  pay  for  this  hour's  scorn  ! 

[Exeunt  severally. 

Scene  IV. — a  summer  apartment  in  the  couif  • 

TRY,  THE  WINDOWS  OF  WHICH  LOOK  TO  A  FOREST. 

Enter  Victoria  in  a  hunting  dress,  followed  by  Albdo 
and  Isabella,  speaking  as  they  enter. 
Vict,  [to  Alb.)    And  so  you  will  not  share  our 
sport  to-day  ? 


326 


BAILLIE. 


Alb.  My  days  of  frolic  should  ere  this  be  o'er, 
But  thou,  my  charge,  hast  kept  me  youthful  still. 
I  should  most  gladly  go ;  but  since  the  dawn, 
A  heavy  sickness  hangs  upon  my  heart ; 
I  cannot  hunt  to-day. 

Vict.  I'll  stay  at  home  and  nurse  thee,  dear  Al- 
bini. 

4.1b.  No,  no,  thou  shalt  not  stay. 

Vict.  Nay,  but  I  will. 

I  cannot  follow  to  the  cheerful  born 
Whilst  thou  art  sick  at  home. 

Alb.  Not  very  sick. 

R'.vther  than  thou  shouldst  stay,  my  gentle  child, 
I'll  Tiount  my  horse,  and  go  e'en  as  I  am. 

Vzct.  Nay,  then  I'll  go,  and  soon  return  again. 
Meanwhile,  do  thou  be  careful  of  thyself. 

Isab.  Hark,  hark  !  the  shrill  horns  call  us  to  the 
field : 
Your  highness  hears  it  ?  {Music  without.) 

Vict.  Yes,  ray  Isabella ; 

I  hear  it,  and  methinks  e'en  at  the  sound 
I  vault  already  on  my  leathern  seat, 
And  feel  the  fiery  steed  beneath  me  shake 
His  mantled  sides,  and  paw  the  fretted  earth 
Whilst  I  aloft,  with  gay  equestrian  grace. 
The  low  salute  of  gallant  lords  return. 
Who  waiting  round  with  eager  watchful  eye. 
And  reined  steeds,  the  happy  moments  seize. 
O  !  didst  thou  never  hear,  my  Isabel, 
How  nobly  Basil  in  the  field  becomes 
His  fiery  courser's  back  r 

Isab.  They  say  most  gracefully. 

Alb.  What,  is  the  valiant  count  not  yet  departed  ? 

Vict.  You  would  not  have  our  gallant  Basil  go 
When  I  have  bid  him  stay  ?  not  so,  Albini. 

Alb.  Fy  !  reigns  that  spirit  still  so  strongly  in 
thee. 
Which  vainly  covets  all  men's  admiration, 
And  is  to  others  cause  of  cruel  pain  ? 

0  !  would  thou  couldst  subdue  it ! 

Vict.  My   gentle   friend,  thou  shouldst  not  be 
severe  : 
For  now  in  truth  I  love  not  admiration 
As  I  was  wont  to  do ;  in  truth  I  do  not. 
But  yet,  this  once  my  woman's  heart  excuse. 
For  there  is  something  strange  in  this  man's  love, 

1  never  met  before,  and  I  must  prove  it. 

Alb.  Well,  prove  it  then,  be  stricken  too  thyself. 
And  bid  sweet  peace  of  mind  a  sad  farewell. 
Vict.  0  no !  that  will  not  be !  'twill  peace  re- 
store : 
For  after  this,  all  folly  of  the  kind 
Will  quite  insipid  and  disgusting  seem  ; 
And  so  I  shall  become  a  prudent  maid. 
And  passing  wise  at  last.       (Music  heard  without.) 

Hark,  hark  !  again  ! 
All  good  be  with  you  !  I'll  return  ere  long. 

[Exeunt  Victoria  and  Isabella. 
Alb.  [sola.)  Ay,  go,  and  every  ble&wing  with  thee 

go. 
My  most  tormenting,  and  most  pleasing  charge  ! 
Like  vapour,  from  the  mountain  stream  art  thou, 
Which  lightly  rises  on  the  morning  air. 
And  shifts  its  fleeting  form  with  every  breeze,         I 
For  ever  varying,  and  for  ever  graceful. 
Endearing,  generous,  bountiful  and  kind ;  | 


Vain,  fanciful,  and  fond  of  worthless  praise  ; 

Courteous  and  gentle,  proud  and  magnificent: 

And  yet  these  adverse  qualities  in  thee. 

No  dissonance,  nor  striking  contrast  make  ; 

For  still  thy  good  and  amiable  gifts 

The  sober  dignity  of  virtue  wear  not. 

And  such  a  'witching  mien  thy  follies  show, 

They  make  a  very  idiot  of  reproof. 

And  smile  it  to  disgrace. — 

What  shall  I  do  with  thee  ? — It  grieves  me  much, 

To  hear  Count  Basil  is  not  yet  departed. 

When  from  the  chase  he  comes,  I'll  watch  his  steps 

And  speak  to  him  myself. — 

0  !  I  could  hate  her  for  that  poor  ambition 
Which  silly  adoration  only  claims, 

But  that  I  well  remember,  in  my  youth 

1  felt  the  like — I  did  not  feel  it  long : 

I  tore  it  soon,  indignant  from  my  breast. 

As  that  which  did  degrade  a  noble  mind.        [Exit 

Scene   V. — a  very  beautieul   grove    in    the 

FOREST. 

Music  and  horns  heard  afar  off,  whilst  huntsmen  and 
dogs  appear  passing  over  the  stage,  at  a  great  distance- 
Enter  Victoria  und  Basil,  as  if  just  alighlqd  from 
their  horses. 

Vict,  [speaking  to  attendants  without.)  Lead  on 
our  horses  to  the  further  grove. 
And  wait  us  there. — 

(To  Bas.)  This  spot  so  pleasing,  and  so  fragrant  JS, 
'Twere  sacrilege  with  horses'  hoofs  to  wear 
Its  velvet  turf,  where  little  elfins  dance. 
And  fairies  sport  beneath  the  summer's  moon  ; 
I  love  to  tread  upon  it, 

Bas.  0  !  I  would  quit  the  chariot  of  a  god 
For  such  delightful  footing  ! 

Vict.  I  love  this  spot. 

Bas.  It  is  a  spot  where  one  would  live  and  die 

Vict.  See,  through  the  twisted  boughs  of  those 
high  elms. 
The  sunbeams  on  the  bright'ning  foliage  play, 
And  tinge  the  scaled  bark  with  ruddy  brown. 
Is  it  not  beautiful  ? 

Bas.  As  though  an  angel,  in  his  upward  flight, 
Had  left  his  mantle  floating  in  mid  air. 

Vict.  Still  most  unlike  a  garment ;  small  and 
sever'd : 

[Turning   round,  and  perceiving  that    he    ii 
gazing  at  her.) 
But  thou  regard'st  them  not. 

Bas.  Ah  !  what  should  I  regard,  where  should  I 
gaze  ? 
For  in  that  far  shot  glance,  so  keenly  waked, 
That  sweetly  rising  smile  of  admiration. 
Far  better  do  I  learn  how  fair  heaven  is. 
Than  if  I  gazed  upon  the  blue  serene. 

Vict.   Remember    you    have    promised,  gentle 
count. 
No  more  to  vex  me  with  such  foolish  words. 

Bas.  Ah  !  wherefore  should  my  tongue  ahme  t€ 
mute  ? 
When  every  look  and  every  motion  tell. 
So  plainly  tell,  and  will  not  be  forbid, 
That  I  adore  thee,  love  thee,  worship  thee  ! 

(Victoria  looks  haughty  and  displeasetQ 
Ah  !  pardon  me,  I  know  not  what  I  say. 


BASIL. 


32r 


Ah  !  frown  not  thus  !  I  cannot  see  thee  frown. 
I'll  do  whate'er  thou  wilt,  I  will  be  silent  : 
But  0  !  a  reined  tongue,  and  bursting  heart, 
Are  hard  at  once  to  bear. — Wilt  thou  forgive  me  ? 
Vict.  We'll  think  no  more  of  it ;  we'll  quit  this 
spot; 
I  do  repent  me  that  I  led  thee  here. 
But  'twas  the  favourite  path  of  a  dear  friend  : 
Here  many  a  time  we  wander'd,  arm  in  arm  : 
We  loved  this  grove,  and  now  that  he  is  absent, 
I  love  to  haunt  it  still.  (Basil  starts.) 

Bos.  His  favourite  path — a  friend — here  arm  in 

arm — 
^Clasping  his  hands,  and  raising  them,  to  his 
head.) 
Then  there  is  such  a  one  ! 

{^Drooping  his  head,  and  looking  distractedly 
upon  the  ground.) 

I  dream 'd  not  of  it. 
Vict,  [pretending  not  to  see  him.)   That  little 
lane,  with  woodbine  all  o'ergrown, 
He  loved  so  well  I  it  is  a  fragrant  path. 
Is  it  not,  count  ? 

Bas.  It  is  a  gloomy  one  ! 

Vict.  I  have,  my  lord,  been  wont  to  think  it 

cheerful. 
Bas.  I  thought  your  highness  meant  to  leave  this 

spot  ? 
Vict.  I  do,  and  by  this  lane  we'll  take  our  way ; 
For  here  he  often  walk'd  with  sauntering  pace, 
And  listen'd  to  the  woodlark's  evening  song. 

Bas.  What,  must  I  on  his  very  footsteps  go : 
Accursed  be  the  ground  on  which  he  trod ! 

Vict.  And  is  Count  Basil  so  uncourtly  grown, 
That  he  would  curse  my  brother  to  my  face  ? 
Bas.  Your  brother  !   gracious   God,  is  it  your 
brother  ? 
That  dear,  that  loving  friend  of  whom  you  spoke, 
Is  he  indeed  your  brother  ? 

Vict.  He  is  indeed,  my  lord. 

Bas.  Then   heaven  bless  him!   all  good  angels 
bless  him  ! 
I  could  weep  o'er  him  now,  shed  blood  for  him ! 
I  could — 0  what  a  foolish  heart  have  I ! 

{Walks  up  and  down  with  a  hurried  step,  tossing 
about  his  arms  in  transport ;  then  stops  short 
and  runs  up  to  Victoria.) 
Is  it  indeed  your  brother  ? 

Vict.  It  is  indeed :  what  thoughts  disturb'd  thee 

so  ? 
Bas.  I  will  not  tell  thee  ;  foolish  thoughts  they 
were. 
Heaven  bless  your  brother ! 

Vict.  Ay,  heaven  bless  him  too  ! 

I  have  but  him ;  would  I  had  two  brave  brothers, 
And  thou  wert  one  of  them ! 
Bas.  I  would  fly  from  thee  to  earth's  utmost 
bounds, 
Were  I  thy  brother — 
And  yet  methinks,  I  would  I  had  a  sister. 
Vict.  And  wherefore  would  ye  so  ? 
Bas.  To  place  her  near  thee. 

The  soft  companion  of  thy  hours  to  prove, 
And,  when  far  distant,  sometimes  talk  of  me. 
Thou  couldst  not  chide  a  gentle  sister's  cares. 
Perhaps,  when  rumour  from  the  distant  war. 


Uncertain  tales  of  dreadful  slaughter  bore, 
Thou'dst  see  the  tear  hang  on  her  pale  wan 

cheek. 
And  kindly  say.  How  does  it  fare  with  Basil .' 

Vict.  No  more  of  this — indeed  there  must  no 
more. 
A  friend's  remembrance  I  will  ever  bear  thee. 
But  see  where  Isabella  this  way  comes  : 
I  had  a  wish  to  speak  with  her  alone ; 
Attend  us  here,  for  soon  will  we  return. 
And  then  take  horse  again.  [Exit 

Bas.  [looking  after  her  for  some  time.)  See  with 
what  graceful  steps  she  moves  along, 
Her  lovely  form,  in  every  action  lovely  ! 
If  but  the  wind  her  ruffled  garment  raise. 
It  twists  it  into  some  light  pretty  fold, 
Which  adds  new   grace.     Or  should  some  small 

mishap. 
Some  tangled  branch,  her  fair  attire  derange. 
What  would  in  others  strange,  or  awkward  seem. 
But  lends  to  her  some  wild  bewitching  charm. 
See,  yonder  does  she  raise  her  lovely  arm 
To  pluck  the  dangling  hedge-flower  as  she  goes ; 
And  now  she   turns   her  head   as   though  she 

view'd 
The  distant  landscape ;  now  methinks  she  walks 
With  doubtfii   lingering   steps — will    she    look 

back  ? 
Ah  no  !  yon  thicket  hides  her  from  my  sight. 
Bless 'd  are  the  eyes  that  may  behold  her  still, 
Nor  dread  that  every  look  shall  be  the  last ! 
And  yet  she  said  she  would  remember  me. 
I  will  believe  it:    Ah  !  I  must  believe  it. 
Or  be  the  saddest  soul  that  sees  the  light ! 
But  lo,  a  messenger,  and  from  the  army  ! 
He  brings  me  tidings ;  grant  they  may  be  good  ! 
Till  now  I  never  fear'd  what  man  might  uticr ; 
I  dread  his  tale,  God  grant  it  may  be  good  I 

Enter  Messenger. 
From  the  army  ? 

Mess.  Yes,  my  lord. 

Bas.  What  tidings  bring'st  thou  r 

Mess.  Th'  imperial  army,  under  brave  Piscaro, 
Have  beat  the  enemy  near  Pavia's  walls. 

Bas.  Ha  !  have  they  fought  ?  and  is  the  battle 
o'er  ? 

Mess.  Yes,  conquer'd  ;  taken   the  French  king 
prisoner. 
Who,  like  a  noble,  gallant  gentleman, 
Fought  to  the  last,  nor  yielded  up  his  sword 
Till,  being  one  amidst  surrounding  foes. 
His  arm  could  do  no  more.  " 

Bas.  What  dost  thou  say  ?  who  is   made    pri- 
soner ? 
What  king  did  fight  so  well  ? 

Mess.  The  King  of  France. 

Bas.  Thou  saidst — thy  words  do  ring  so  in  mic« 
ears, 
I  cannot  catch  their  sense — the  battle's  o'er  ? 

Mess.  It  is,  my  lord.    Piscaro  stayed  your  coming» 
But  could  no  longer  stay.     His  troops  were  bold, 
Occasion  press 'd  him,  and  they  bravely  fought— 
They  bravely  fought,  my  lord  I 

Bas.  I  hear,  I  hear  theek 

Accursed  am  I,  that  it  should  wring  my  heart 
To  hear  they  bravely  fought ! — 


328 


BAILLIE 


They  bravely  fought,  whilst  we  lay  lingering 
here. 

0  !  what  a  fated  blow  to  strike  me  thus  ! 
Perdition !  shame  !  disgrace  !  a  damned  blow ! 

Mess.  Ten  thousand  of  the  enemy  are  slain  ; 
We  too  have  lost  full  many  a  gallant  soul. 

1  view'd  the  closing  armies  from  afar ; 

Their  close-piked  ranks  in  goodly  order  spread, 
Which  seem'd,  alas  !  when  that  the  fight  was  o'er, 
Like  the  wild  marshes'  crop  of  stately  reeds, 
Laid  with  the  passing  storm.     But  wo  is  me  ! 
When  to  the  field  I  came,  what  dismal  sights  ! 
What  waste  of  life  !    What  heaps   of  bleeding 
slain  I 
Bas.  Would  I  were  laid  a  red,  disfigured  corse. 
Amid  those  heaps  !  they  fought,  and  we  were  ab- 
sent ! 
(Walks  about  distractedly,  then  stops  short.) 
Who  sent  thee  here  ? 

Mess.  Piscaro  sent  me  to  inform  Count  Basil, 
He  needs  not  now  his  aid,  and  gives  him  leave 
To  march  his  tardy  troops  to  distant  quarters. 
Bas.  He  says  so,  does  he  ?  well,  it  shall  be  so. 
[Tossing  his  arms  distractedly.) 
I  will  to  quarters,  narrow  quarters  go. 
Where  voice  of  war  shall  rouse  me  forth  no  more. 

[Exit. 
Mess.  I'll  follow  after  him  ;  he  is  distracted  : 
And  yet  he  looks  so  wild  I  dare  not  do  it. 

Enter  Victoria  as  if  frightened,  followed  by  Isabella. 

Vict,  [to  Isab.)  Didst  thou  not  mark  him  as  he 

pass'd  thee  too  ? 
Isab.  I  saw  him  pass,  but  with  such  hasty  steps  I 

had  no  time. 
Vict.  I  met  him  with  a  wild  disorder'd  air. 
In  furious  haste  ;  he  stopp'd  distractedly. 
And  gazed  upon  me  with  a  mournful  look. 
But  pass'd  away,  and  spoke  not.     Who  art  thou  ? 
[To  the  Messenger.) 
I  fear  thou  art  a  bearer  of  bad  tidings. 
Mess.   No,  rather  good  as   I    should  deem  it, 
madam, 
Although  unwelcome  tidings  to  Count  Basil. 
Our  army  hath  a  glorious  battle  won, ; 
Ten  thousand  French  are  slain,  their  monarch  cap- 
tive. 
Vict,  [to  Mess.)  Ah,  there  it  is  !  he  was  not  in 
the  fight. 
Run  after  him  I  pray — nay,  do  not  so — 
Run  to  his  kinsman,  good  Count  Rosinberg, 
And  bid  him  follow  him — I  pray  thee  run  ! 
Mess.  Nay,  lady,  by  your  leave,  you  seem  not 
well: 
I  will  conduct  you  hence,  and  then  I'll  go. 

Vict.  No,  no,  I'm  well  enough  ;  I'm  very  well ; 
Go,  hie  thee  hence,  and  do  thine  errand  swiftly. 

[Exit  Messenger. 

0  what  a  wretch  am  I  ?  I  am  to  blame  ! 

1  only  am  to  blame  ! 

Isab.  Nay,  wherefore  say  so  ? 

What  have  you  done  that  others  would  not  do  ? 
Vict.  What  have  I  done  ?  I've  fool'd  a  noble 
heart — 
I've  wrcck'd  a  brave  man's  honour ! 

Exit,  leaning  upon  Isabella. 


ACT    V. 

Scene  I. — a  dark  night  ;  no  moon,  but  a  few 

STARS  GLIMMERING  ;  THE  STAGE  REPRESENTS  (A8 
MUCH  AS  CAN  BE  DISCOVERED  FOR  THE  DARKNESS) 
A  CHURCHYARD  WITH  PART  OF  A  CHAPEL,  AND 
A  WING  OF  THE  DUCAL  PALACE  ADJOINING  TO   IT. 

Enter  Basil  with  his  hat  off,  his  hair  and  his  dress  Itl 
disorder,  stepping  slowly,  and  stopping  several  limes  to 
listen,  as  if  he  was  afraid  of  meeting  any  one. 

Bas.  No  sound  is  here :  man  is  at  rest,  and  I 
May  near  his  habitations  venture  forth, 
Like  some  unblessed  creature  of  the  night. 
Who   dares   not  meet  his  face. — Her  window*s 

dark; 
No  streaming  light  doth  from  her  chamber  beam. 
That  I  once  more  may  on  her  dwelling  gaze. 
And  bless  her  still.     All  now  is  dark  for  me  ! 

[Pauses  for  some  time  and  looks  upon  the  graves.) 
How  happy  are  the  dead,  who  quietly  rest 
Beneath  these  stones  I  each  by  his  kindred  laid, 
Still  in  a  hallow'd  neighbourship  with  those, 
Who  v/hen  alive  his  social  converse  shared : 
And  now  perhaps  some  dear  surviving  friend 
Doth  here  at  times  the  grateful  visit  pay. 
Read  with  sad  eyes  his  short  memorial  o'er. 
And  bless  his  memory  still ! — 
But  I,  like  a  vile  outcast  of  my  kind. 
In  some  lone  spot  must  lay  my  unburied  corse 
To  rot  above  the  earth  ;  where,  if  perchance 
The  steps  of  human  wanderer  e'er  approach. 
He'll  stand  aghast,  and  flee  the  horrid  place, 
With  dark  imaginations  frightful  made 
The  haunt  of  damned  sprites.    0  cursed  wretch  ! 
In  the  fair  and  honour'd  field  shouldst  thou  ha 

died. 
Where  brave  friends,  proudly  smiling  through  theil 

tears, 
Had  pointed  out  the  spot  where  Basil  lay ! 

[A  light  seen  in  Victoria's  window.) 
But  ha  !  the  wonted,  welcome  light  appears. 
How  bright  within  I  see  her  chamber  wall ! 
Athwart  it  too,  a  darkening  shadow  moves, 
A  slender  woman's  form  :  it  is  herself ! 
What  means  that  motion  of  its  clasped  hands  ? 
That  drooping  head  ?  alas  !  is  she  in  sorrow  ? 
Alas  !  thou  sweet  enchantress  of  the  mind,  » 

Whose  voice  was  gladness,  and  whose  presence 

bliss. 
Art  thou  unhappy  too  ?    I've  brought  thee  wo  j 
It  is  for  me  thou  weepest.    Ah !  were  it  so, 
Fall'n  as  I  am,  I  yet  could  life  endure, 
In  some  dark  den  from  human  sight  conceal'd. 
So,  that  I  sometimes  from  my  hamit  might  steal. 
To  see  and  love  thee  still.    No,  no,  poor  wretch ! 
She  weeps  thy  shame,  she  weeps,  and  scorns  thee 

too. 
She  moves  again ;  e'en  darkly  imaged  thus. 
How  lovely  is  that  form  ! 

[Pauses,  still  looking  at  the  window.) 
To  be  so  near  thee,  and  for  ever  parted  ! 
For  ever  loBt !  what  art  thou  now  to  me  ? 
Shall  the  departed  gaze  on  thee  again  ? 
Shall  I  glide  past  thee  in  the  midnight  hour. 
Whilst  thou   perceivest    it    not,  and    think'st 

perhaps 


BASIL. 


329 


*Tis  but  the  mournful  breeze  that  passes  by  ? 
(^Pauses  again,  and  gazes  at  the  windoia,  till  the 
light  disappears.) 
'Tis  gone,  'tis  gone  !   these  eyes  have  seen  their 

last! 
Tht  last  impression  of  her  heavenly  form: 
The  last  sight  of  those  walls  wherein  she  lives  : 
The  last  blest  ray  of  light  from  human  dwelling. 
I  am  no  more  a  being  of  this  world. 
Farewell !  farewell !  all  now  is  dark  for  me  1 
Come  fated  deed  !  come  horror  and  despair  ! 
Here  lies  my  dreadful  way. 

Enter  Geoffry  from  behind  a  tomh 
Geof.  0  !  stay,  my  general ! 
Bas.  Art  thou  from  the  grave  ? 

Geof.  0  my  brave  general !   do  you  know  me 
not  ? 
I  am  old  GeofFiy,  the  old  maim'd  soldier. 
You  did  so  nobly  honour. 

Bas.  Then  go  thy  way,  for  thou  art  honourable : 
Thou  hast  no  shame,  thou  need'st  not  seek  the 

dark 
Like  fall'n,  fameless  men.     I  pray  th.ee  go  ! 

Geof.  Nay,  speak  not  thus,  my  noble  general ! 
Ah!  speak  not  thus  !  thou'rt  brave,  thou 'rthonour'd 

still. 
Thy  soldier's  fame  is  far  too  surely  raised  i 

To  be  o'erthrown  with  one  unhappy  chance.  i 

I've  heard  of  thy  brave  deeds  with  swelling  heart. 
And  yet  shall  live  to  cast  my  cap  in  air 
At  glorious  tales  of  thee. — 

Bas.  Forbear,  forbear  !  thy  words  but  wring  my 

soul. 
Geof.  0  !  pardon  me  !  I  am  old  maim'd  Geoffry. 
0 !  do  not  go  !  I've  but  one  hand  to  hold  thee. 
(Laying  hold  of  Basil  as  he  attempts  to  go  away. 
Basil  stops,  and  looks  around  upon  him  with 
softness.) 
Bas.  Two  would  not  hold  so  well,  old  honour'd 
veteran  ! 
What  wouldst  thou  have  me  do  ? 

Geof.  Return,    my   lord ;  for   love     of  blessed 
heaven, 
Seek  not  such  desperate  ways  !  where  would  you 
go? 
Bas.  Does  GeofFry  ask  where  should  a  soldier  go 
To  hide  disgrace  ?  there  is  no  place  but  one. 

{Struggling  to  get  free.) 
Let  go  thy  foolish  hold,  and  force  me  not 
To  do  some  violence  to  thy  hoary  head — 
What,  wilt  thou  not  ?  nay,  then  it  must  be  so. 

{Breaks  violently  from  him,  and  Exit.) 
Geof.  Cursed  feeble  hand  !   he's  gone  to  seek 
perdition  ! 
I  canoot  run.     Where  is  that  stupid  hind  ? 
He  should  have  met  me  here.    Holla,  Fernando  ! 

Enter  Fernando. 
We've  lost  him,  he  is  gone,  he's  broke  from  me  ! 
Did  I  not  bid  thee  meet  me  early  here. 
For  that  he  has  been  known  to  haunt  this  place  ? 
Fer.  Which  way  has  he  gone  ? 
Geof.  Towards  the  forest,  if  I  guess  aright. 
But  do  thou  run  with  speed  to  Rosinberg, 
And  he  will  follow  him  ;  run  swiftly,  man ! 

[Exeunt. 


Scene  II. — a  wood,  wild  and  savage  ;  an  entrt 
TO  a  cave,  very  much  tangled  with  brush 
WOOD,  is  seen  in  the  background,  the  time 
represents  the  dawn  of  morning,  basil  is 
discovered  standing  near  the  front  of  the 
stage,  in  a  thoughtful  posture,  with  a  cou- 
ple of  pistols  laid  by  him  on  a  piece  of  pro- 
JECTING ROCK  ;    HE  PAUSES  FOR  SOME  TIME. 

Bas.  {alone.)     What  shall  I  be  some  few  short 

moments  hence  ? 
Why  ask  I  now  ?  who  from  the  dead  will  rise 
To  tell  me  of  that  awful  state  unknown  ? 
But  be  it  what  it  may,  or  bliss,  or  torment, 
Annihilation,  dark  and  endless  rest. 
Or  some  dread  thing,  man's  wildest  range  of  thought 
Hath  never  yet  conceived,  that  change  I'll  dare 
Which  makes  me  any  thing  but  what  I  am. 
I  can  bear  scorpions'  stings,  tread  fields  of  fire. 
In  frozen  gulfs  of  cold  eternal  lie. 
Be  toss'd  aloft  through  tracks  of  endless  void. 
But  cannot  live  in  shame— (Pauses.)  0  impious 

thought  ! 
Will  the  great  God  of  mercy,  mercy  have 
On  all  but  those  who  are  most  miserable  ? 
Will  he  not  punish  with  a  pitying  hand 
The  poor,  fall'n,  fro  ward  child  ?  {Pauses.) 

And  shall  I  then  against  his  will  offend, 
Because  he  is  most  good  and  merciful  ? 

0  !  horrid  baseness  !  what,  what  shall  I  do  ? 
I'll  think  no  more — it  turns  my  dizzy  brain — 

It  is  too  late  to  think — what  must  be,  must  be — 

1  cannot  live,  therefore  I  needs  must  die. 

{Takes  up  the  pistols,  and  icalks  up  and  down, 
looking  wildly  around  him,  then  discovering 
the  cavers  mouth,) 
Here  is  an  entry  to  some  darksome  cave, 
Where  an  uncofBn'd  corse  may  rest  in  peace, 
And  hide  its  foul  corruption  from  the  earth. 
The  threshold  is  unmark'd  by  mortal  foot. 
I'll  do  it  here. 

{Enters  the  cave  and  Exit  ;  a  deep  silence  ;  then 
the  report  of  a  pistol  is  heard  from  the  cave, 
*and  soon  after.  Enter  Rosinberg,  Valtomer, 
two  Officers  and  Soldiers,  almost  at  the  same 
moment  by  different  sides  of  the  stage.) 
Ros.  This  way  the  sound  did  come. 
Valt.  How   came  ye,  soldiers  ?   heard  ye  that 

report .? 
Is^  Sol.  We  heard  it,  and  it  seem'd  to  come  from 
hence. 
Which  made  us  this  way  hie. 
Ros.  A  horrid  fancy  darts  across  my  mind. 

{A  groan  heard  from  the  cave.) 
{To  Valt.)  Ha  !  heard'st  thou  that  ? 

Valt.  Methinks  it  is  the  groan  of  one  in  pain. 

{A  second  groan.) 
Ros.  Ha  !  there  again  ! 

Valt.  From   this   cave's    mouth,  so    dark    and 
choaked  with  weeds. 
It  seems  to  come. 
Ros.  I'll  enter  first.  [briers : 

1st  Off.  My  lord,  the  way  is  tangled  o'er  witi 
Hard  by,  a  few  short  paces  to  the  left. 
There  is  another  mouth  of  easier  access  ; 
I  pass'd  it  even  now. 
Ros.  Then  shew  the  way.     [Exeunt 


330 


BAILLIE. 


Scene  III. — the  inside  of  the  cave. 
Basil  discovered  lying  on  the  ground,  witli  his  head 
raised  a  little  upon  a  few  stones  and  earth,  the  pistols 
lying  beside  him,  and  blood  upon  his  breast.  Enter 
RosiNBERG,  Valtomer,  and  Officers.  Rosinberg, 
upon  seeing  Basil,  stops  short  with  horror,  and  remains 
motionless  for  some  time. 

Valt.  Great  God  of  heaven  !  what  a  sight  is  this  ! 
(Rosinberg  runs  to  Basil,  and  stoops  down,  by  his 

tide.) 
Ro&   O  Basil !  0  my  friend  !    what  hast  thou 

done  ? 
Bos.  [covering  his  face  with  his  hand.)    Why 
art  thou  come  ?  I  thought  to  die  in  peace. 
Ros.  Thou  know'st  me  not — I  am  thy  Rosinherg, 
Thy  dearest,  truest  friend,  thy  loving  kinsman  ! 
Thou  dost  not  say  to  me,  Why  art  thou  come  ? 
Bas.  Shame  knows  no  kindred  :  I  am  fall'n,  dis- 
graced ; 
My  fame  is  gone,  I  cannot  look  upon  thee. 

Ros.  My  Basil,  noble  spirit !  talk  not  thus  ! 
The  greatest  mind  untoward  fate  may  prove  : 
Thou  art  our  generous,  valiant  leader  still, 
Fall'n  as  thou  art — and  yet  thou  art  not  fall'n  ; 
Who  says  thou  art,  must  put  his  harness  on. 
And  prove  his  words  in  blood. 

Bas.  Ah  Rosinberg  !  this  is  no  time  to  boast ! 
I  once  had  hopes  a  glorious  name  to  gain  ; 
Too  proud  of  heart,  I  did  too  much  aspire  : 
The  hour  of  trial  came,  and  found  me  wanting  . 
Talk  not  of  me,  but  let  me  be  forgotten. — 
And  0  !  my  friend  !  something  upbraids  me  here, 
[laying  Jiis  hand  on  his  breast.) 
For  that  I  now  remember  how  oft-times 
1 1  have  ursurp'd  it  o'er  thy  better  worth, 
Most  vainly  teaching  where  I  should  have  learnt ; 
But  thou  wilt  pardon  me. — 

Ros.  [taking  Basil's  hand,  and  pressing  it  to  his 
breast.)     Rend  not  my  iRart  in  twain  !  0  talk 
not  thus  ! 
I  knew  thou  wert  superior  to  myself, 
And  to  all  men  beside :  thou  wert  my  pride  ; 
I  paid  thee  deference  with  a  willing  heart. 

Bas.  It  was  delusion,  all  delusion,  Rosinberg  ' 
I  feel  my  weakness  now,  I  own  my  pride. 
Give  me  thy  hand,  my  time  is  near  the  close : 
Do  this  for  me  :  thou  know'st  my  love,  Victoria — 

Ros.  O  curse  that  woman  !  she  it  is  alone — 
She  has  undone  us  all ! 

Bas.  It  doubles  unto  me  the  stroke  of  death 
To  hear  thee  name  her  thus.     0  curse  her  not ! 
The  fault  is  mine  ;  she's  gentle,  good  and  blame- 
less.— 
Thou  wilt  not  then  my  dying  wish  fulfil  ? 

Ros.  1  will !  I  will !  what  wouldst  thou  have  me 

do? 
Bas.  See  her  when  I  am  gone ;  be  gentle  with  her ; 
And  tell  her  that  I  bless'd  her  in  my  death  ; 
E'en  in  my  agonies  I  loved  and  bless'd  her. 
Wilt  thou  do  this  ? 
Ros.  I'll  do  what  thou  desirest. 

Bas.  I  thank  thee,  Rosinberg;  my  time  draws 

near. 
^Raising  hts  head  a  little,  and  perceiving  Of- 
ficers.) 
b  there  not  some  one  here  ?  are  we  alone  ? 


Ros.  [making  a  sign  for  the  Officers  to  retire,) 
'Tis  but  a  sentry,  to  prevent  intrusion. 

Bas.  Thou  know'st  this  desperate  deed   from 
sacred  rites 
Hath  shut  me  out :  I  am  unbless'd  of  men^ 
And  what  I  am  in  sight  of  th'  awful  God, 
I  dare  not  think  ;  when  I  am  gone,  my  friend, 

0  !  let  a  good  man's  prayers  to  heaven  ascend 
For  an  offending  spirit ! — Pray  for  me. 

What  thinkest  thou  ?  although  an  outcast  here, 
May  not  some  heavenly  mercy  still  be  found  .' 

Ros.  Thou  wilt  find  mercy — my  beloved  Basil- 
It  cannot  be  that  thou  shouldst  be  rejected. 

1  will  with  bended  knee — I  will  implore — 

It  choaks  mine  utterance — I  will  pray  for  thee — 
Bas.  This  comforts  me — thou  art  a  loving  friend. 
fA  noise  without.) 
Ros.  [to  Off.  without.)    What  noise  is  that  ? 

Enter  Valtomer. 
Valt.  [to  Ros)  My  lord,  the  soldiers  all  insist  to 
enter. 
What  shall  I  do  ?  they  will  not  be  denied : 
They  say  that  they  will  see  their  noble  general. 
Bas.  Ah,  my  brave  fellows  !  do  they  call  me  so  ? 
Ros.  Then  let  them  come  ! 

Enter  Soldiers,  who  gather  round  Basil,  and  look 
mournfully  upon  him ;  he  holds  out  his  hand  to  them 
with  a  faint  smile. 

Bas.  My  generous  soldiers,  this  is  kindly  meant. 
I'm  low  in  the  dust;  God  bless  you  all,  brave 
hearts  ! 
1st  Sol.  And  God  bless  you,  my  noble,  noble 
general ! 
We'll  never  follow  such  a  leader  more. 

2d  Sol.  Ah  !    had  you  stayed  with  us,  my  noble 
general. 
We  would  have  died  for  you. 
[3d  Soldier  endeavours  next  to  speak,  but  cannot  j 
and  kneeling  down  by  Basil,  covers  his  face 
with  his  cloak.     Rosinberg  turns  his  face  to  the 
wall  and  weeps.) 
Bas.  [in  a  very  faint  broken  voice.)  Where  art 
thou  ?  do  not  leave  me,  Rosinberg — 
Come  near  to  me — these  fellows  make  me  weep : 
I  have  no  power  to  weep — give  me  thy  hand — 
I  love  to  feel  thy  grasp — my  heart  beats  strangely^— 
It  beats  as  though  its  breathings  would  be  few — 
Remember — 

Ros.  Is  there  aught  thou  wouldst  desire  ? 
Bas.  Naught  but  a  little  earth  to  cover  me, 
And  lay  the  smooth  sod  even  with  the  ground — 
Let  no  stone  mark  the  spot — give  no  offence. 
I  fain  would  say — what  can  I  say  to  thee  ? 

[A  deep  pause;   after  a  feeble  struggle,  Batii 

expires. ) 
\st  Sol.  That  motion  was  his  last. 
2d  Sol.  His  spirit's  fled. 

1st  Sol.  God  grant  it  peace  !  it  was  a  noble  spirit . 
4th  Sol.  The  trumpet's  sound  did  ne^.er  rouse  a 

braver. 
1st  Sol.  Alas  !  no  trumpet  e'er  shall  rouse  him 
more, 
Until  the  dreadful  blast  that  wakes  the  dead. 
2d  Sol.  And  when  that  sounds  it  will  not  wake 
a  braver. 


BASIL. 


331 


3d  Sol.  How  pleasantlv  he   shared  our  hardest 
toil ! 
Our  coarsest  food  the  daintiest  fare  he  made. 
4th  Sol.  Ay,  many  a  time,i'  the  cold  damp  plain 
has  he 
With  cheerful  countenance  cried,  "  Good  rest,  my 

hearts  !" 
Then  wrapp'd  him  in  his  cloak,  and  laid  hhn  down 
E'en  like  the  meanest  soldier  in  the  field. 
(Rosinberg  all  this  time  continues  hanging  over 
the  body,  and  gazing  upon  it.     Valtomer  now 
endeavours  to  draio  him  aivay.) 
Valt.  This  is  too  sad,  my  lord. 
Ros.  There,  seest  thou  how  he  lies  ?  so  fix'd,  so 
pale  ? 
Ah  !  what  an  end  is  this  !  thus  lost !  thus  fall'n  ! 
To  be  thus  taken  in  his  middle  course. 
Where  he  so  nobly  strove  ;  till  cursed  passion 
Came  like  a  sun-stroke  on  his  midday  toil. 
And  cut  the  strong  man  down.     0  Basil !  Basil ! 
Valt.  Forbear,  my  friend,  we  must  not  sorrow 

here. 
B.0S.  He  was  tlie  younger  brother  of  my  soul. 
Valt.  Indeed,  my  lord,  it  is  too  sad  a  sight 
Time  calls  us,  let  the  body  be  removed. 

Ros.  He  was — 0  !  he  was  like  no  other  man  ! 
Valt.  [still  endeavouring  to  draio  him  away.) 
Nay  now  forbear. 

Ros.  I  loved  him  from  his  birth  ! 

Valt.  Time  presses,  let  the  body  be  removed. 
Ros.  What  say'st  thou  ? 

Valt.  Shall  we  not  remove  him  hence  ? 

Ros.  He  has  forbid  it,  and  has  charged  me  well 
To  leave  his  grave  unknown ;  for  that  the  church 
All  sacred  rites  to  the  self-slain  denies. 
He  would  not  give  ottence. 

1st  Sol.  What  shall  our  general,  like  a  very 
wretch, 
Be  laid  unhonour'd  in  the  common  ground  } 
No  last  salute  to  bid  his  soul  farewell  ? 
No  warlike  honours  paid  ?  it  shall  not  be. 
2d  Sol.  Laid  thus  ?  no,  by  the  blessed  light  of 
heaven ! 
In  the  most  holy  spot  in  Mantua's  walls 
He  shall  be  laid :  in  face  of  day  be  laid ; 
And  though  black  priests  should  curse  us  in  the 

teeth, 
We  will  fire  o'er  him  whilst  our  hands  have  power 
To  grasp  a  musket. 

Several  Soldieis.  Let  those  who  dare  forbid  it ! 
Ros.  My  brave  companions,  be  it  as  you  will. 
( spreading  out  his  arms  as  if  he  would  embrace  the 

Soldiers. — They  prepare  to  remove  the  body.) 
Valt.  Nay,  stop  a  while,  we  will  not  move  it 
now, 
For  see  a  mournful  visiter  appears, 
A.nd  must  not  be  denied. 

Enter  Victokia  and  Isabella. 
Vict.  I  thought  to  find  him  here,  where  has  he 

fled? 
(Rosinberg  points  to  the  body  without  tpcaking. 
Victoria  shrieks  out  and  falls  into  the  arms  of 
Isabella.) 
hob.  Alas  !   my  gentle  mistress,  this  will  kill 
thee. 


Vict,  {recovering.)  Unloose  thy  hold,  and  let  me 
look  upon  him. 
0  !  horrid,  horrid  sight !  my  ruin'd  Basil ! 
Is  thi?  the  sad  reward  of  all  thy  love  ! 
0  !  J  nave  murder'd  thee  ! 

(^Kneels  down  by  the  body  and  bends  over  it.') 
These  wasted  streams  of  life  .'  this  bloody  wound  ! 
[Ijiying  her  hand  upon  his  heart.) 
Is  there  no  breathing  here  ?  all  still !  all  cold . 
Open  thine  eyes,  speak,  be  thyself  again, 
And  I  will  love  thee,  serve  thee,  follow  thee. 
In  spite  of  all  reproach.     Alas  !  alas  ! 
A  lifeless  corse  art  thou  for  ever  laid, 
And  dost  not  hear  my  call. — 

Ros.  No,  madam ;  now  your  pity  comes  too  late. 
Vict.  Dost  thou  upbraid  me  ?  0  J  I  have  deserved 

it! 
Ros.  No,  madam,  no,  I  will  not  now  upbraid; 
But  woman's  grief  is  like  a  summer  storm. 
Short  as  it  violent  is  ;  in  gayer  scenes, 
Where  soon  thou  shalt  in  giddy  circles  blaze. 
And  play  the  airy  goddess  of  the  day, 
Thine  eye,  perchance,  amidst  th'  observing  crowd. 
Shall  mark  the  indignant  face  of  Basil's  friend, 
And  then  it  will  upbraid. 

Vict.  No,  never,  never !  thus  it  shall  not  be. 
To  the  dark,  shaded  cloister  wilt  thou  go, 
Where  sad  and  lonely,  through  the  dismal  grate 
Thou'lt  spy  my  wasted  form,  and  then  upbraid  me. 
Ros.  Forgive  me,  heed  me  not ;  I'm  grieved  at 
heart ; 
I'm  fretted,  gall'd,  all  things  are  hateful  to  me. 
If  thou  didst  love  my  friend,  I  will  forgive  thee ; 
I  must  forgive  thee:  with  his  dying  breath 
He  bade  me  tell  thee,  that  his  latest  thoughts 
Were  love  to  thee ;  in  death  he  loved  and  bless'd 
thee. 
(Victoria  goes  to  throw  herself  upon  the  body  but 
is  prevented  by  Valtomer  and   Isabella,  who 
support  her  in  their  arms  and  endeavour  to  draw 
her  away  from  it.) 
Vict.  0  !  force  me  not  away  .'  by  his  cold  corse, 
Let  me  lie  down  and  weep.     O  !  Basil,  Basil ! 
The  gallant  and  the  brave !  how  hast  thou  loved 

me! 
If  there  is  any  holy  kindness  in  you, 

[to  Isab.  and  Valt) 
Tear  me  not  hence. 

For  he  loved  me  in  thoughtless  folly  lost, 
W^ith  all  my  faults,  most  worthless  of  his  love  • 
And  him  I'll  love  in  the  low  bed  of  death. 
In  horror  and  decay. — 

Near  his  lone  tomb  I'll  spend  my  wretched  days 
In  humble  prayer  for  his  departed  spirit : 
Cold  as  his  grave  shall  be  my  earthy  bed, 
As  dark  my  cheerless  cell.     Force  me  not  hence. 
I  will  not  go,  for  grief  hath  made  me  strong. 

( Struggling  to  get  tuose.) 
Ros.  Do  not  withhold  her,  leave  her  sorrow  free. 
{They  let  her  go,  and  she  throws  herself  upon  thi 
body  in  an  agony  of  grief.) 
It  doth  subdue  the  sternness  of  my  grief 
To  see  her  mourn  him  thus. — Yet  I  must  curse.— 
Heaven's  curses  light  upon  her  damned  father. 
Whose  crooked  policy  has  wrought  this  wreck  ! 
Isab.  If  he  has  done  it,  you  are  well  revenged. 


332 


BAILLIE. 


For  all  his  hidden  plots  detected  are. 

Gauriceio,  for  some  interest  of  his  own, 

His  master's  secret  dealings  wittl  the  foe 

Has  to  Lanoy  betray'd  ;  who  straight  hath  sent 

On  the  behalf  of  his  imperial  lord, 

A  message  full  of  dreadful  threats  to  Mantua, 

His  discontented  subjects  aid  him  not : 

He  must  submit  to  the  degrading  terms 

A  haughty  conquering  power  will  now  impose. 

Ros.  Art  thou  sure  of  this  ? 

Isab.  I  am,  my  lord. 

Ros.  Give  me  thy  hand,  I'm  glad  on't,  0 !  I'm 
glad  on't ! 
.t  should  be  so  !  How  like  a  hateful  ape 
Detected  grinning,  'midst  his  pilfer'd  hoard, 
A  cunning  man  appears,  whose  secret  frauds 
Are  open'd  to  the  day !  scorn'd,  hooted,  mock'd ! 
Scorn'd  by  the  very  fools  who  most  admired 
His  worthless  art.     But  when  a  great  mind  falls, 
The  noble  nature  of  man's  generous  heart 
Doth  bear  him  up  against  the  shame  of  ruin  ; 
With  gentle  censure  using  but  its  faults 
As  modest  means  to  introduce  his  praise ; 
For  pity  like  a  dewy  twilight  comes 
To  close  the  oppressive  splendour  of  his  day, 
And  they  who  but  admired  him  in  his  height, 
His  altered  state  lament,  and  love  him  fall'n. 

[Exeunt. 


DE    MONFORT. 


PERSONS  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

MEN. 

Db  Monfort. 

Rezenvelt. 

Count  Freberg,  Friend  to  De  Monfort  and  Rezenvelt. 

Manuel,  Servant  to  De  Monfort. 

Jerome,  De  Monfort 's  old  Landlord. 

Conrad,  an  artful  Knave. 

Bernard,  a  Monk. 

Monks,  Gentlemen,  Officers,  Page,  Sfc.  dfc. 

WOMEN. 

Jane  De  Monfort,  Sister  to  De  Monfort. 
Countess  Freberg,  Wife  to  Freberg. 
Theresa,  Servant  to  the  Countess. 

Abbess,  Nuns,  and  a  Lay  Sister,  Ladies,  ^c. 

***  Scene,  a  Town  in  Germany. 


ACT  L 

Scene  I. — jerome's   house,    a  large  old- 
fashioned  CHAMBER. 

Jer.  {speaking  without.)  This  way , good  masters. 

Enter  Jerome,  bearing  a  light,  and  followed  by  Manuel, 
and  Servants  carrying  luggage. 

Rest  your  burdens  here. 
Tins  spacious  room  will  please  the  marquis  best. 
He  takes  me  unawares  ;  but  ill  prepared  : 
If  he  had  sent,  e'en  though  a  hasty  notice, 
I  had  been  glad. 

Man.  Be  not  disturb 'd,  good  Jerome ; 

Xhv  house  is  in  most  admirable  order ; 


And  they  who  travef  o'  cold  winter  nights 
Think  homeliest  quarters  good. 

Jer.  He  is  not  far  behind  ? 

Man.  A  little  way. 

(To  the  Servants.)  Go  you  and  wait  below  till  h« 
arrives. 

Jer  [shaking  Manuel  by  the  hand.)  Indeed,  nj 
friend,  Pm  glad  to  see  you  here. 
Yet  marvel  wherefore. 

Man.  I  marvel  wherefore  too,  my  honest  Jerome  t 
But  here  we  are ;  prithee  be  kind  to  us. 

Jer.  Most  heartily  I  will.     I  love  your  master : 
He  is  a  quiet  and  a  liberal  man : 
A  better  inmate  never  cross'd  my  door.  , 

Man.  Ah  !  but  he  is  not  now  the  man  he  was. 
Liberal  he'll  be.     God  grant  he  may  be  quiet. 

Jer.  What  has  befall'n  him  ? 

Man.  I  cannot  tell  thee  j 

But  faith,  there  is  no  living  with  him  now. 

Jer.  And  yet  methinks,  if  I  remember  well, 
You  were  about  to  quit  his  service,  Manuel, 
When  last  he  left  this  house.     You  grumbled  then, 

Man.  I've  been  upon  the  eve  of  leaving  him 
These  ten  long  years  ;  for  many  times  is  ho 
So  difficult,  capricious,  and  distrustful. 
He  galls  my  nature — yet,  I  know  not  how, 
A  secret  kindness  binds  mo  to  him  still. 

Jer.  Some,  who  offend  from  a  suspicious  nature, 
Will  afterward  such  fair  confession  make 
As  turns  e'en  th'  offence  into  a  favour. 

Man.  Yes,  some  indeed  do  so:  so  wull  not  he: 
He'd  rather  die  than  such  confession  make. 

Jer.  Ay,  thou  art  right ;  for  now  I  call  to  mind 
That  once  he  wrong'd  me  with  unjust  suspicion. 
When  first  he  came  to  lodge  beneath  my  roof 
And  when  it  so  fell  out  that  I  was  proved 
Most  guiltless  of  the  fault,  I  truly  thought 
He  would  have  made  profession  of  regret. 
But  silent,  haughty,  and  ungraciously 
He  bore  himself  as  one  offended  still. 
Yet  shortly  after,  when  unwittingly 
I  did  him  some  slight  service,  o'  the  sudden 
He  overpower'd  me  with  his  grateful  thanks, 
And  w^ould  not  be  restrain'd  from  pressing  on  me 
A  noble  recompense.     I  understood 
His  o'erstrain'd  gratitude  and  bounty  well, 
And  took  it  as  he  meant. 

Man.  'Tis  often  thus. 

I  would  have  left  him  many  years  ago. 
But  that  with  all  his  faults  there  sometimes  come 
Such  bursts  of  natural  goodness  from  his  heart, 
As  might  engage  a  harder  churl  than  me 
To  serve  him  still. — And  then  his  sister  too ; 
A  noble  dame,  who  should  have  been  a  queen : 
The  meanest  of  her  hinds,  at  her  command. 
Had  fought  like  lions  for  her,  and  the  poor, 
E'en  o'er  their  bread  of  poverty,  had  bless'd  her-* 
She  would  have  grieved  if  I  had  left  my  lord. 

Jer.  Comes  she  along  with  him  ? 

Man.  No,  he  departed  all  unknown  to  her, 
Meaning  to  keep  conceal'd  his  secret  route ; 
But  well  I  knew  it  would  afflict  her  much. 
And  therefore  left  a  little  nameless  billet. 
Which  after  our  departure,  as  I  guess, 
Would  fall  into  her  hands,  and  tell  her  alL 
What  could  I  do  ?  O  'tis  a  noble  lady ! 


DE   MONFORT. 


333 


Jer.  All  this  is  strange — something  disturbs  his 
mind — 
Belike  he  is  in  love. 

Man.  No,  Jerome,  no. 

Once  on  a  time  I  served  a  noble  master, 
Whose  youth  was  blasted  with  untoward  love. 
And  he  with  hope,  and  fear,  and  jealousy 
For  ever  toss'd,  led  an  unquiet  life  ; 
Yet,  when  unruffled  by  the  passing  fit, 
His  pale  wan  face  such  gentle  sadness  wore 
As  moved  a  kindly  heart  to  pity  him. 
But  Monfort,  even  in  his  calmest  hour, 
Still  bears  that  gloomy  sternness  in  his  eye 
Which  powerfully  repels  all  sympathy. 

0  no  !  good  Jerome,  no  ;  it  is  not  love. 

Jer.  Hear  I  not  horses  trampling  at  the  gate  ? 

[Listening.) 
He  is  arrived — stay  thou — I  had  forgot— 
A  plague  upon't !  my  head  is  so  confused — 

1  will  return  i'  tli'  instant  to  receive  him. 

[Exit  hastily. 
(A  great  hustle  without.     Exit  Manuel   xoith 
lights,  and  returns  again,  lighting    in  De 
Monfort,  as  if  just  alighted  from  his  jour- 
ney.) 
Man.  Your  ancient  host,  my  lord,  receives  you 
gladly, 
And  your  apartment  will  be  soon  prepared. 
De  Mon.  'Tis  well. 

Man.  Where  shall  I  place  the  chest  you  gave  in 
charge  ? 
So  please  you,  say  my  lord. 
Be  Mon.  {throwing  himself  into  a  chair.)  Wher- 
e'er thou  wilt. 
Man.  I  would  not  move  that  luggage  till  you 
came.  [Pointing  to  certain  things.) 

Be  Mon.  Move  what  thou  wilt,  and  trouble  me 

no  more. 
(Manuel,  with  the  assistance  of  other  Servants, 
sets  about  putting  the  things  in  order,  and  De 
Monlort  remains  sitting  in  a  thoughtful  pos- 
ture.) 

Enter  Jerome,  bearing  wine,  &c.  on  a  salver.  As  he 
approaches  De  Monfort,  Manuel  pulls  him  by  the 
sleeve. 

Man.  [aside  to  Jerome.)  No,  do  not  now ;  he 

will  not  be  disturb'd. 
Jer.  What,  not  to  bid  him  welcome  to  my  house, 
And  offer  some  refreshment  ? 

Man.  No,  good  Jerome. 

Softly  a  little  while :  I  prithee  do. 

(Jerome  ivalks  softly  on  tiptoes,  till  he  gets  behind 
De  Monfort,  then  peeping  on  one  side  to  see  his 
Me,) 
Jer.  [aside  to  Manuel.)  Ah,  Manuel,  what  an 
alter 'd  man  is  here ! 
His  eyes  aie  hollow,  and  his  cheeks  are  pale-^ 
Me  left  this  house  a  comely  gentleman. 
De  Mon.  Who  whispers  there  ? 
Man.  'Tis  your  old  landlord,  sir. 

Jer.  I  joy  to  see  you  here  -I  crave  your  pardon — 

I  fear  I  do  intrude. — 
Be  Mon.  No,  my  kind  host,  I  am  obliged  to  thee. 
Jer.  How  fares  it  with  your  honour  ? 
Be  Mon.  \  Well  enough. 


Jer.  Here  is  a  little  of  the  favourite  wine 
That  you  were  wont  to  praise.     Pray  honour  me. 

[Fills  a  glass.) 

De  Mon.  [after  drinking.)  I  thank  you,  Jerome, 
'tis  delicious. 

Jer.  A}-,  my  dear  wife  did  ever  make  it  so, 

De  Mon.  And  how  does  she  ? 

Jer.  Alas,  my  lord  !  she's  dead. 

De  Mon.  Well,  then  she  is  at  rest. 

Jer.  How  well,  my  lord  ? 

Be  Mon.  Is  she  not  with  the  dead,  the  quiet  dead,, 
Where  all  is  peace  ?  Not  e'en  the  impious  wretch. 
Who  tears  the  coffin  from  its  earthly  vault, 
And  strews  the  mouldering  ashes  to  the  wind. 
Can  break  their  rest. 

Jer.  Wo's  me !    I  thought  you  would  have 
grieved  for  her. 
She  was  a  kindly  soul !  Before  she  died. 
When  pining  sickness  bent  her  cheerless  head. 
She  set  my  house  in  order — 
And  but  the  morning  ere  she  breathed  her  last. 
Bade  me  preserve  some  flaskets  of  this  wine, 
That  should  the  Lord  De  Monfort  come  again 
His  cup  might  sparkle  still.     (De  Monfort  walks 

across  the  stage,  and  wipes  his  eyes.) 
Indeed  I  fear  I  have  distress'd  you,  sir ; 
I  surely  thought  you  would  be  grieved  for  her. 

De  Mon.  [taking  Jerome's   hand.)    I   am,  my 
friend.     How  long  has  she  been  dead  } 

Jer.  Two  sad  long  years. 

De  Mon.  Would  she  were  living  still : 

I  was  too  troublesome,  too  heedless  of  her. 

Jer.  0  no  !  she  loved  to  serve  you. 

[Loud  knocking  without.) 

De  Mon.  What  fool  comes  here,  at  such  untimely 
hours. 
To  make  this  cursed  noise  ?  [To  Manuel.)  Go  to 
the  gate.  [Exit  Manuel. 

All  sober  citizens  are  gone  to  bed  ; 
It  is  some  drunkards  on  their  nightly  rounds, 
Who  mean  it  but  in  sport. 

Jer.  I  hear  unusual  voices — here  they  come. 

Re-enter  Manuel,  showing  in  Count  Frebero  and  his 
Lady,  with  a  mask  in  her  hand. 

Freb.  [running  to  embrace  De  Mon.)  My  dear- 
est Monfort !  most  unlook'd  for  pleasure  I 
Do  I  indeed  embrace  thee  here  again  ? 
I  saw  thy  servant  standing  by  the  gate. 
His  face  recall'd,  and  learnt  the  joyful  tidings. 
Welcome,  thrice  welcome  here  ! 

De  Mon.  I  thank  thee,  Freberg,  for  this  friendly 
visit, 
And  this  fair  lady  too.  [Boiving  to  the  lady.) 

Lady,  I  fear,  my  lord. 

We  do  intrude  at  an  untimely  hour  : 
But  now,  returning  from  a  midnight  mask. 
My  husband  did  insist  that  we  should  enter. 

Freb.  No,  say  not  so  ;  no  hour  untimely  call, 
Which  doth  together  bring  long  absent  friends. 
Dear  Monfort,  why  hast  thou  so  slyly  play'd. 
To  come  upon  us  thus  so  suddenly  ? 

De  Mon.  0  !  many  varied  thoughts  do  cross  oui 
brain. 
Which  touch  the  will,  but  leave  the    memory 
trackless  ; 


334 


BAILLIE. 


And  yet  a  strange  compounded  motive  make, 
Wherefore  a  man  should  bend  his  evening  walk 
To  th'  east  or  west,  the  forest  or  the  field. 
Is  it  not  often  so  ? 

Freh.  I  ask  no  more,  happy  to  see  you  here 
From  any  motive.     There  is  one  behind, 
Whose  presence  would  have  been  a  double  bliss  : 
Ah  !  how  is  she  ?     The  noble  Jane  De  Monfort. 

Be  Mon.  [confused.)  She  is — I  have — I  left  my 
sister  well. 

Lady,  {to  Freberg.)  My  Freberg,  you  are  heed- 
less of  respect: 
You  surely  mean  to  say  the  Lady  Jane. 

Freb.  Respect !  no,  madam  ;  princess,  empress, 
queen, 
Could  not  denote  a  creature  so  exalted 
As  this  plain  appellation  doth 
The  noble  Jane  De  Monfort, 

Lady,  [turning  from  him  displeased  to  Mon.)  lou 
are  fatigued,  my  lord ;  you  want  repose ; 
Say,  should  we  not  retire  ? 

Freb.  Ha  !  is  it  so  ? 

My  friend,  your  face  is  pale,  have  you  been  ill  ? 

Be -Mon.  No,  Freberg,  no;  I  think  I  have  been 
well. 

Freb.  (shaking  his  head.)  I  fear  thou  hast  not, 
Monfort — Let  it  pass. 
We'll  re-establish  thee :  we'll  banish  pain. 
I  will  collect  some  rare,  some  cheerful  friends. 
And  we  shall  spend  together  glorious  hours. 
That  gods  might  envy.     Little  time  so  spent 
Doth  far  outvalue  all  our  life  beside. 
This  is  indeed  our  life,  our  waking  life. 
The  rest  dull  breathing  sleep. 

Be  Mon,  Thus,  it  is  true,  from  the  sad  years  of 
life 
We  sometimes  do  short  hours,  yea,  minutes  strike. 
Keen,  blissful,  bright,  never  to  be  forgotten  ; 
Which,  through  the  dreary  gloom  of  time  o'erpast. 
Shine  like  fair  sunny  spots  on  a  wild  waste. 
But  few  they  are,  as  few  the  heaven-fired  souls 
Whose  magic  power  creates  them.     Bless'd  art 

thou. 
If,  in  the  ample  circle  of  thy  friends, 
Thou  can^t  but  boast  a  few. 

Freb.    Judge  for  thyself:    in  truth    I    do  not 
boast. 
There  is  amongst  my  friends,  my  later  friends, 
A  most  accomplish'd  stranger :  new  to  Amberg  ; 
But  just  arrived,  and  will  ere  long  depart. 
I  met  him  in  Franconia  two  years  since. 
He  is  so  full  of  pleasant  anecdote. 
So  rich,  so  gay,  so  poignant  is  his  wit. 
Time  vanishes  before  him  as  he  speaks, 
And  ruddy  morning  through  the  lattice  peeps 
Ere  night  seems  well  begun. 

Be  Mon.  .  How  is  he  call'd  ? 

Freb.  I  will  surprise  thee  with  a  welcome  face : 
1  will  not  tell  the  now. 

Lady,  {to  Mon.)  I  have,  my  lord,  a  small  request 
to  make. 
And  must  not  be  denied.     I  too  may  boast 
Of    some   good  friends,  and  beauteous    country- 
women : 
To-morrow  night  I  open  wide  my  doors 
To  all  the  fair  and  gay :  beneath  my  roof 


Music,  and  dance^  and  revelry  shall  reign  ; 
I  pray  you  come  and  grace  it  v/ith  your  presence. 
Be  Mon.  You  honour  me  too  much  to  be  denied 
Lady.  1  thank  you,  sir ;  and  in  return  for  this, 
We  shall  withdraw,  and  leave  you  to  repose. 
Freb.  Must  it  be  so  ?  Good  night — sweet  sleep 
to  thee  !  ( To  De  Mcofort.) 

Be  Mon.  {To  Freb.)  Good  night.    {To  La«^.) 

Good  night,  fair  lady. 
Lady.  Farewell ! 

[Exeunt  Freberg  and  Lady. 
Be  Mon.  {to  Sex.)  I  thought  Count  Freberg  had 

been  now  in  France. 
Jer.  He  meant  to  go,  as  I  have  been  inform'd. 
Be  Mon.  Well,  well,  prepare  my  bed  ;  I  will  to 
rest.  [Exit  Jerome, 

Be  Mon.  {aside.)  I  know  not  how  it  is,  my  heart 
stands  back. 
And  meets  not  this  man's  love. — Friends !  rarest 

friends  ! 
Rather  than  share  his  undiscerning  praise 
With  every  table  wit,  and  bookform'd  sage, 
And  paltry  poet  puling  to  the  moon, 
I'd  court  from  him  proscription,  yea,  abuse. 
And  think  it  proui  distinction.  [Exit, 

Scene   II. — a  small   apartment    in    jerome'« 

HOUSE  ;    A  TABLE  AND  BREAKFAST  SET  OUT. 

Enter  De  Monfort,  followed    by  Manuel,  and    eeta 
himself  down  by  the  table  with  a  cheefful  face. 

Be  Mon.   Manuel,  this  morning's   sun    shiceB 
pleasantly : 
These  old  apartments  too  are  light  and  cheerfuL 
Our  landlord's  kindness  has  revived  me  much ; 
He  serves  as  though  he  loved  me.     This  pure  air 
Braces  the  listless  nerves,  and  warms  the  blood ; 
I  feel  in  freedom  here. 

{Filling  a  cup  of  cojjee,  and  drinking.) 

Man.  Ah !  sure,  my  lord. 

No  air  is  purer  than  the  air  at  home. 

Be  Mon.  Here  can  I  wander  with  assured  steps, 
Nor  dread,  at  every  winding  of  the  path. 
Lest  an  abhorred  serpent  cross  my  way, 
To  move —  {Stopping short.) 

Man.  What  says  your  honour  ? 
There  are  no  serpents  in  our  pleasant  fields. 

Be  Mon.  Think'st  thou  there  are  no  serpents  in 
the  world 
But  those  who  slide  along  the  grassy  sod. 
And  sting  the  luckless  foot  that  presses  them  ? 
There  are  who  in  the  path  of  social  life 
Do  bask  their  spotted  skins  in  fortune's  sun. 
And  sting  the  soul — Ay,  till  its  healthful  frame 
Is  changed  to  secret,  festering,  sore  disease, 
So  deadly  is  the  wound. 

Man.  Heaven  guard  your  honour  from  such  hoirid 
scath  ! 
They  are  but  rare,  I  hope  ? 

Be  Mon.  {shaking his  head.)  We  mark  the  hollow 
eye,  the  wasted  frame, 
The  gait  disturb'd  of  wealthy  honour'd  men. 
But  do  not  know  the  cause. 

Man.  'Tis  very  true.     God  keep  you  well,  my 
lord  ! 

Be  Mon.  I  thank  thee,  Manuel,  I  am  very  well. 
I  shall  be  gay  too,  by  the  setting  suii. 


DE   MONFORT. 


335 


I  go  to  revel  it  with  sprightly  dames, 
Ajid  drive  the  night  away. 

[Filling  another  cup,  and  drinking.) 

Man.  I  should  be  glad  to  see  your  honour  gay. 

DeMon.  And  thou  too  shalt  be  gay.     There, 
honest  Manuel, 
Put  tliese  broad  pieces  in  thy  leathern  purse 
And  take  at  night  a  cheerful  jovial  glass. 
Here  is  one  too,  for  Bremer  :  he  loves  wine  ; 
And  one  for  Jaques :  be  joyful  all  together. 

Enter  Servant. 
Ser.  My  lord,  I  met  e'en  now,  a  short  way  off, 
Your  countryman,  the  Marquis  Rezenvelt. 
Be  Mon.  {starting  from  his  seat,  and  letting  the 
cup  fall  from  his  hand.)     Who,  say'st 
thou  ? 
Ser.  Marquis  Rezenvelt,  an'  please  you. 
De  Mon.  Thou  liest — it  is  not  so — it  is  impos- 
sible ! 
Ser.  I  saw  him  with  these  eyes,  plain  as  your- 
self. 
De  Mon.  Fool !  'tis  some  passing  stranger  thou 
hast  seen, 
And  with  a  hideous  likeness  been  deceived. 
Ser.  No  other  stranger  could  deceive  my  sight. 
De  Mon.  [dashing  his   clenched  hand  violently 
upon   the  table,  and   overturning   every 
thing.)     Heaven  blast  thy  sight  !  it  lights 
on  nothing  good. 
Ser.  I  surely  thought  no  harm  to  look  upon  him. 
De  Mon.  What,  dost  thou  still  insist  ?  Him  must 
it  be  ? 
Does  it  so  please  thee  well  ?    (Servant  endeavours 

to  speak.)  Hold  thy  damn'd  tongue  ! 
3y  heaven  I'll  kill  thee!  {Going  furiously  up  to 
him.) 
Man.  [in  a  soothing  voice.)  Nay,  harm  him  not, 
my  lord ;  he  speaks  the  truth ; 
I've  met  his  groom,  who  told  me  certainly 
His  lord  is  here.     I  should  have  told  you  so. 
But  thought,  perhaps,  it    might    displease  your 
honour. 
De  Mon.    [becoming    all  at    once     calm,  and 
turning  sternly  to  Manuel.)    And  how 
darest  thou  think  it  would  displease  me  ? 
What  is't  to  me  who  leaves  or  enters  Amberg  ? 
But  it  displeases  me,  yea,  even  to  frenzy, 
That  every  idle  fool  must  hither  come. 
To  break  my  leisure  with  the  paltry  tidings 
Of  all  the  cursed  things  he  stares  upon. 

(Servant  attempts  to  speak — De  Monfort  sta7nps 
with  his  foot.) 
Take  thine  ill-favour'd  visage  from  my  sight, 
And  speak  of  it  no  more.  [Exit  Servant. 

And  go  thou  too ;  I  choose  to  be  alone, 

[Exit  Manuel. 
(De  Monfort  goes  to  the  door  by  which  they  went 
out ;  opens  it  and  looks.) 
But  is  he  gone  indeed  ?  yes,  he  is  gone. 

( Goes  to  the  opposite  door,  opens  it,  and  looks  : 
then  gives  loose  to  all  the  fury  of  gesture  and 
walks  up  and  down  in  great  agitation.) 
It  is  too  much :  by  heaven  it  is  too  much  ! 
He  haunts  me — stings  me — like  a  devil  haunts — 
He'll  make  a  raving  maniac  of  me — Villain  I 


The  air  wherein  thou  draw'st  thy  fulsome  breath 
Is  poison  to  me — Oceans  shall  divide  us  !  [Pauses.) 
But  no ;  thou  think'st  I  fear  thee,  cursed  reptile  j 
And  hast  a  pleasure  in  the  damned  thought. 
Though  my  heart's  blood  should  curdle  at  thy  sight, 
I'll  stay  and  face  thee  still. 

[Knocking  at  the  chamber  door.) 
Ha  !  who  knocks  there  ? 
Freb.  [without.)  It  is  thy  friend,  De  Monfort 
DeMon.  [opening  the  door.)  Enter,  then. 

Enter  Freberg. 
Fi-eb.  [taking  his  hand  kindly.)  How  art  thou 
now  ?  How  hast  thou  past  the  night  ? 
Has  kindly  sleep  refresh'd  thee  ? 
DeMon.  Yes,  I  have  lost  an  hour  or  two  in 
sleep. 
And  so  should  be  refresh'd. 

Freb.  And  art  thou  not  ? 

Thy  looks  speak  not  of  rest.     Thou  art  disturb'd. 
De  Mon.  _No,  somewhat  ruffled  from  a  foolish 
cause,    ' 
Which  soon  will  pass  away. 

Freb.  [shaking  his  head.)  Ah  no,  De  Monfort ! 
something  in  thy  face 
Tells  me  another  tale.     Then  wrong  me  not 
If  any  secret  grief  distract  thy  soul. 
Here  am  I  all  devoted  to  thy  love : 
Open  thy  heart  to  me.    What  troubles  thee  ? 
DeMon.  I   have  no  grief:  distress  me  not,  my 

friend. 
Freb.  Nay,  do  not  call  me  so.     Wert  thou  my 
friend, 
Wouldst  thou  not  open  all  thine  inmost  soul, 
And  bid  me  share  its  every  consciousness  ? 

De  Mon.  Freberg,  .thou  know'st  not  man ;  not 
nature's  man 
But  only  him  who,  ir.  smooth  studied  works 
Of  polish'd  sages,  shines  deceitfully 
In  all  the  splendid  foppery  of  virtue. 
That  man  was  never  born  whose  secret  soul, 
With  all  its  motley  treasure  of  dark  thoughts. 
Foul  fantasies,  vain  musings,  and  wild  dreams. 
Was  ever  open'd  to  another  scan. 
Away,  away  !  it  is  delusion  all. 
Freb.  Well,  be  reserved    then;    perhaps    Vn 

wrong. 
De  Mon.  How  goes  the  hour  ? 
Freb.  'Tis  early  still ;  a  long  day  lies  before  us  j 
Let  us  enjoy  it.     Come  along  with  me  ; 
I'll  introduce  you  to  my  pleasant  friend. 
De  Mon.  Your  pleasant  friend  ? 
Freb.  Yes,  him  of  whom  I  spake. 

( Taking  his  Iiand.) 
There  is  no  good  I  would  not  share  with  thee  ; 
And  this  man's  company,  to  minds  like  thine. 
Is  the  best  banquet  feast  I  could  bestow. 
But  I  will  speak  in  mystery  no  more  ; 
It  is  thy  townsman,  noble  Rezenvelt. 
(De  Mon.  pulls  his  hand  hastily  from  Frebeig, 
and  shrinks  back.) 
Ha !    what  is   this  ?      Art    thou  pain-stricken, 

Monfort  ? 
Nay,  on  my  life,  thou  rather  seem'st  offended. 
Does  it  displease  thee  that  I  call  him  friend  ? 
De  Mon.  No,  all  men  are  thy  friends. 


336 


BAILLIE. 


Freh.  No,  say  not  all  men.     But  thou  art  offend- 
ed. 
I  see  it  well.     I  thought  to  do  thee  pleasure. 
But  if  his  presence  is  not  welcome  here, 
He  shall  not  join  our  company  to-day. 
De  Mon.  What  dost  thou  mean  to  say  ?  What  is't 
to  me 
Whether  I  meet  with  such  a  thing  as  Rezenvelt 
To-day,  to-morrow,  every  day,  or  never  ? 
Freh.  In  truth,  I  thought  you  had  been  well  with 
him. 
He  praised  you  much. 
De  Mon.  I  thank  him  for  his  praise — Come,  let 
us  move  : 
This  chamber  is  confined  and  airless  grown. 

{Starting.) 
I  hear  a  stranger's  voice  ! 

Freb.  'Tis  Rezenvelt, 

Let  him  be  told  that  we  are  gone  abroad. 
De  Mon.  {proudly.)  No  !   let  him  enter.    Who 
waits  there  ?    Ho  !  Manuel  I  , 

Enter  Manuel.  * 

What  stranger  speaks  below  ? 

Man.  The  Marquis  Rezenvelt. 

I  have  not  told  him  that  you  are  within. 
De  Mon.  {angrily.)  And  wherefore  didst  thou 

not  ?  Let  him  ascend. 
{A  long  pause,     De  Monfort  walking  up  and 
down  with  a  quick  pace.) 

Enter  Rezenvelt,  and  runs  freely  up  to  De  Monfort. 
Rez.  (^oDeMon.)  My  noble  marquis,  welcome  ! 
De  Mon.  Sir,  I  thank  you. 

Rez.  {to  Freb.)  My  gentle  friend,  well  met. 

Abroad  so  early  ? 
Freh.  It  is  indeed  an  early  hour  for  me. 
How  suits  thy  last  night's  revel  on  thy  spirits  .? 

Rez.  0,  light  as  ever.     On  my  way  to  you. 
E'en  now,  I  learnt  De  Monfort  was  arrived. 
And  turn'd  my  steps  aside ;  so  here  I  am. 

{Bowing  gayly  to  De  Monfort.) 
De  Mon.  I  thank  you,  sir ;  you  do  me  too  much 
honour.  {Proudly.) 

Rez.   Nay,  say  not  so  ;  not  too  much  honour, 
surely. 
Unless,  indeed,  'tis  more  than  pleases  you. 
De  Mon.  {confuted.)  Having  no  previous  notice 
of  your  coming, 
I  look'd  not  for  it. 
Rez.  Ay,  true  indeed;  when   I  approach  you 
next, 
I'll  send  a  herald  to  proclaim  my  coming. 
And  bow  to  you  by  sound  of  trumpet,  marquis. 
De  Mon.  {to  Freb.  turning  haughtily  from  Re- 
zenvelt with  affected  indifference.)  How 
does  your  cheerful  friend,  that  good  old 
man  ? 
/  Freh.  My  cheerful  friend  ?  I  know  not  whom 
you  mean. 
De  Mon.  Count  Waterlan. 
Freb.  1  know  not  one  so  named. 
De  Mon.  {very  confused.)  0  pardon  me — it  was 

at  Bale  I  knew  him. 
Freh.  You  have  not  yet  inquired  for    honest 
Reisdale. 
I  met  him  as  I  caipe,  and  mention 'd  you. 


He  seem'd  amazed  ;  and  fain  he  would  have  learn' 
What  cause  procured  us  so  much  happiness. 
He  question'd  hard,  and  hardly  would  believe, 
I  could  not  satisfy  his  strong  desire. 
Rez.   And    know  you    not  what    brings    De 

Monfort  herie  ? 
Freh.  Truly,  I  do  not. 
Rez.  0  !  'tis  love  of  me. 

I  have  but  two  short  days  in  Amberg  been, 
And  here  with  postman's  speed  he  follows  me. 
Finding  his  home  so  dull  and  tiresome  grown. 
Freb.  {to  De  Mon.)  Is  Rezenvelt  so  sadly  miss*i 
with  you  ? 
Your  town  so  changed  ? 

De  Mon.  Not  altogether  so ; 

Some  witlings  and  jest-mongers  still  remain 
For  fools  to  laugh  at. 

Rez.  But  he  laughs  not,  and  therefore  he  is  wise. 
For  ever  frowns  on  them  with  sullen  brow 
Contemptuous  ;  therefore  he  is  very  wise. 
Nay,  daily  frets  his  most  refined  soul 
With  their  poor  folly,  to  its  inmost  core ; 
Therefore  he  is  most  eminently  wise. 

Freb.  Fy,  Rezenvelt !  you  are  too  early  gay. 
Such  spirits  rise  but  with  the  evening  glass ; 
They  suit  not  placid  morn. 

( To  De  Monfort,  ^oho,  after  walking  impatiently 
up  a'-.c  down,  comes  close  to  his  ear,  and  lays 
hold  of  his  arm.) 

What  would  you,  Monfort  ? 
De  Mon.  Nothing — what  is't  o'clock  ? 
No,  no — I  had  forgot — 'tis  early  still. 

{Turns  away  again.) 
Freb.  {to  Rez.)  Waltser  informs  me  that  you 
have  agreed 
To  read  his  verses  o'er,  and  tell  the  truth. 
It  is  a  dangerous  task. 

Rez.  Yet  I'll  be  honest : 

I  can  but  lose  his  favour  and  a  feast. 
{Whilst  they  speak,  De  Monfort  walks  up  and 
down  impatiently  and  irresolute  /  at  last  pulls 
the  hell  violently.) 

Enter  Servant. 

De  Mon.  {to  Ser.)  What  dost  thou  want  ? 

Ser.  I  thought  your  honour  rung. 

De  Mon.  I  have  forgot — stay ;  are  my  horses 
saddled  ? 

Ser.  I  thought,  my  lord,  you  would  not  ride 
to-day,  ^ 

After  so  long  a  journey. 

De  Mon.  {impatiently.)  Well — 'tis  good. 
Begone!  I  want  thee  not.  [Exit  Servant. 

Rez.    {smiling  significantly.)  I  humbly  crave 
your  pardon,  gentle  marquis. 
It  grieves  me  that  I  cannot  stay  with  you. 
And  make  ray  visit  of  a  friendly  length. 
I  trust  your  goodness  will  excuse  me  now; 
Another  time  I  shall  bo  less  unkind. 
{To  Freberg.)  Will  you  not  go  with  me  ? 

Freb.  Excuse  me,  Monfort,  I'll  return  again. 

[Exeunt  Rezenvelt  and  Freberg. 

De  Mon.  {alone,  tossing  his  arms  distractedly.) 
Hell  hath  no  greater  torment  for  th'  accursed 
Than  this  man's  presence  gives — 
Abhorred  fiend  '  he  hath  a  pleasure  too. 


DE   MONFORT. 


337 


A  damned  pleasure  in  the  pain  he  gives  ! 

0  !  the  side  glance  7f  that  detested  eye  ! 
That  conscious  smile  !  that  full  insulting  lip  ! 
It  touches  every  nerve  ;  it  makes  me  mad. 
What,  does  it  please  thee  ?  Dost  thou  woo  my  hate  ? 
Hate  Shalt  thou  have  !  determined,  deadly  hate, 
Which  shall  awake  no  smile.    Malignant  villain  ! 
The  venom  of  thy  mind  is  rank  and  devilish, 
And  thin  the  film  that  hides  it. 

Thy  hateful  visage  ever  spoke  thy  worth : 

1  loathed  thee  when  a  boy. 

That  men  should  be  besotted  with  him  thus ! 

And  Freberg  likewise  so  bewitched  is, 

That,  like  a  hireling  flatterer,  at*his  heels 

He  meanly  paces,  offering  brutish  praise. 

0  !  I  could  curse  him  too !  [Exit. 


ACT    II. 

Scene  I. — a  very  splendid  apartment  in  count 
freberg's  house,  fancifully  decorated,  a 
wide  folding  door  opened,  shows  another 
magnificent   room    lighted    up    to   receive 

COMPANY. 

Kuter  through  the  folding  doors  the  Count  and  Countess, 
richly  dressed. 

Freb.  [looking  round.)   In  truth,  I   like   those 
decorations  well : 
They  suit  those  lofty  walls.     And  here,  my  love, 
The  gay  profusion  of  a  woman's  fancy 
Is  well  display'd.    Noble  simplicity 
Becomes  us  less,  on  such  a  night  as  this. 
Than  gaudy  show. 

Lady.  Is  it  not  noble  then  ?  (He  shakes  his  head.) 
1  thought  it  so  ; 
And  as  I  know  you  love  simplicity, 
I  did  intend  it  should  be  simple  too. 

Freb.  Be  satisfied,  I  pray ;  we  want  to-night 
A  cheerful  banquet-house,  and  not  a  temple. 
How  runs  the  hour  ? 

Lady.  It  is  not  late,  but  soon  we  shall  be  roused 
With  the  loud  entry  of  our  frolick  guests. 

Enter  a  Pagk,  richly  dressed. 

Page.  Madam,  there  is  a  lady  in  your  ha^ 
Who  begs  to  be  admitted  to  your  presence. 

Lady.  Is  it  not  one  of  our  invited  friends  ? 

Pfl.j'^  No,  far  unlike  to  them  ;  it  is  a  stranger. 

Lady.  How  looks  her  countenance  ? 

Page.  So  queenly,  so  commanding,  and  so  noble, 
I  shrunk  at  first  in  awe  ;  but  when  she  smiled, 
For  so  she  did  to  see  me  thus  abash'd, 
Methought  I  could  have  compass'd  sea  and  land 
To  do  her  bidding. 

Lady.  Is  she  young  or  old  ? 

Page.  Neither,  if  right  I  guess  ;  but  she  is  fair : 
For  time  hath  laid  his  hand  so  gently  on  her, 
As  he  too  had  been  awed. 

Lady.  The  foolish  stripling  ! 

She  has  bewitch'd  thee.     Is  she  large  in  stature  ? 

Page.  So  stately  and  so  graceful  in  her  form, 
I  thought  at  first  her  stature  was  gigantic  j 
But  on  a  near  approach  I  found  in  truth. 
She  scarcely  does  surpass  the  middle  size. 

Lady.  What  is  her  garb  ? 

P^^e,  I  cannot  well  describe  th<^  fashion  of  it. 
Vol.  III.— 22 


She  is  not  deck'd  in  any  gallant  trim, 
But  se#m8  to  me  clad  in  the  usual  weeds 
Of  high  habitual  state  ;  for  as  she  moves. 
Wide  flows  her  robe  in  many  a  waving  fold. 
As  I  have  seen  unfurled  banners  play 
With  the  soft  breeze. 

Lady.  Thine  eyes  deceive  thee,  boy  ; 
It  is  an  apparition  thou  hast  seen. 
Freb.  (starting  frm/i  his  seat,  where  he  hag  been 
sitting  during  the  conversation  between 
the  Lady  and  the  Page.)  Tt  is  an  apparition 
he  has  seen. 
Or  it  is  Jane  De  Monfort.  [Exit,  hastily. 

Lady,  (displeased.)  No  ;  such  description  surely 
suits  not  her. 
Did  she  inquire  for  me  ? 

Page.  She  ask'd  to  see  the  lady  of  Count  Freberg. 
Lady.  Perhaps  it  is  not  she — I  fear  it  is — 
Ha  !  here  they  come.    He  has  but  guess'd  too  well. 

"Enter  Freberg,  leading  in  Jane  De  Monfobt. 

Freb.  (presenting  her  to  Lady.)  Here,  madam, 
welcome  a  most  worthy  guest. 

Lady.  Madam,  a  thousand  welcomes  !   Pardon 
me  ; 
I  could  not  guess  who  honour'd  me  so  far  ; 
I  should  not  else  have  waited  coldly  here. 

Jane.   I    thank  you  for  this  welcome,  gentle 
countess  ; 
But  take  those  kind  excuses  back  again  ; 
I  am  a  bold  intruder  on  this  hour, 
And  am  entitled  to  no  ceremony. 
I  came  in  quest  of  a  dear  truant  friend. 
But  Freberg  has  inform'd  me — 
(To  Freberg.)  And  he  is  well,  you  say  ? 

Freb.  Yes,  well,  but  joylesi. 

Jane.  It  is  the  usual  temper  of  his  mind  ; 
It  opens  not,  but  with  the  thrilling  touch 
Of  some  strong  heart-string  o'  the  sudden  press'd. 

Freb.  It  may  be  so,  I've  known  him  otherwise: 
He  is  suspicious  grown. 

Jane.  Not  so.  Count  Freberg,  Monfort  is  too 
noble. 
Say  rather,  that  he  is  a  man  in  grief, 
Wearing  at  times  a  strange  and  scowling  eye  ; 
And  thou,  less  generous  than  beseems  a  friend. 
Hast  thought  too  hardly  of  him. 

Freb.  (bowing  with  great  respect.)  So  will  I 
say; 
I'll  own  nor  word  nor  will,  that  can  offend  you. 

Lady.  De  Monfort  is  engaged  to  grace  our  feast ; 
Ere  long  you'll  see  him  here. 

Jane.  1  thank  you  truly,  but  this  homely  dress 
Suits  not  the  splendour  of  such  scenes  as  these. 

Freb.  (pointing  to  her  dress.)  Such  artless  and 
majestic  elegance, 
So  exquisitely  just,  so  nobly  simple. 
Will  make  the  gorgeous  blush. 

Jane,  (smiling.)  Nay,  nay,  be  more  consistent, 
courteous  knight. 
And  do  not  praise  a  plain  and  simple  guise 
With  such  profusion  of  unsimple  words. 
I  cannot  join  your  company  to  night. 

Lady.  Not  stay  to  see  your  brother  ? 

Jane.  Therefore  it  is  I  would  not,  gentle  hostess 
Here  will  he  find  all  that  can  woo  the  heart 


BAILLIE. 


To  joy  and  sweet  forgetfulness  of  pain  ; 
The  sight  of  me  would  wake  his  feeling  mind 
To  other  thoughts.     I  am  no  doting  mistress  ; 
No  fond,  distracted  wife,  who  must  forthwith 
Rush  to  his  arms  and  weep.     I  am  his  sister : 
The  eldest  daughter  of  his  father's  house : 
Calm  and  unwearied  is  my  love  for  him  ; 
And  having  found  him,  patiently  I'll  wait, 
Nor  greet  him  in  the  hour  of  social  joy. 
To  dash  his  mirth  with  tears. — 
The  night  wears  on  ;  permit  me  to  withdraw. 

Freh.  Nay,  do  not,  do  not  injure  us  so  far  ' 
Disguise  thyself,  and  join  our  friendly  train. 
Jane.  You  wear  not  masks  to  night. 
Lady.  We  wear  not  masks,  hut  j^ou  may  be  con- 
ceal'd 
Behind  the  double  foldings  of  a  veil. 
Jane,  [after  pausing  to  consider.)   In  truth,  I 
feel  a  little  so  inclined. 
Methinks  unknown,  I  e'en  might  speak  to  him. 
And  gently  prove  the  temper  of  his  mind  ; 
But  for  the  means  I  must  become  your  debtor. 

(To  Lady.) 
Lady.  Who  waits  ?  {Enter  her  Woman.)  Attend 
this  lady  to  my  wardrobe, 
And  do  what  she  commands  you. 

[Exeunt  Jane  and  Waiting-woman. 
Freb.  {looking  after  Jane,  as  she  goes  ovt,  with 
admiration.)   0  !  what  a  soul  she  bears ! 
see  how  she  steps  ! 
Naught  but  the  native  dignity  of  worth 
E'er  taught  the  moving  form  such  noble  grace. 

Lady.  Such  lofty  mien,  and  high  assumed  gait 
I've  seen  ere  now,  and  ihen  have  call'd  it  pride. 
Freb.  No,  'faith !    thou  never  didst,  but  oft 
indeed 
The  paltry  imitation  thou  hast  seen. 
(Looking  at  her.)  How  hang  those  trappings   on 

thy  motley  gown  ? 
They  seem  like  garlands  on  a  May-day  queen, 
Which  hinds  have  dress'd  in  sport.    . 

(Lady  turns  away  displeased.) 
Freb.  Nay,  do  not  frown  ;  I  spoke  it  but  in  haste : 
For  thou  art  lovely  still  in  every  garb. 
But  see,  the  guests  assemble. 

Enter  groups  of  well-dressed  people,  who  pay  their 
compliments  to  Freberg  and  his  Lady  ;  and  followed 
by  her,  pass  into  the  inner  apartment,  where  more 
company  appear  assembling,  as  if  by  another  entry. 

Freb.  {who  remains  on  the  front  of  the  stage 
with  a  friend  or  two.)  How  loud  the  hum 
of  this  gay-meeting  crowd  ! 
'Tis  like  a  bee-swarm  in  the  noonday  sun. 
Music  will  quell  the  sound.     Who  waits  without  ? 
Music  strike  up. 

{Music,  and  when  it  ceases,  enter  from  the  inner 
apartment  Rezenvelt,  xvith  several  gentlemen, 
all  richly  dressed.) 
Freb.  {to  those  jv^t  entered.)  What,  lively  gal- 
lants, quit  the  field  so  soon  ? 
Are  there  no  beauties  in  that  moving  crowd 
To  fix  your  fancy  ? 

Rez.  Ay,  marry,  are  there  !  men  of  every  fancy 
May  in  that  moving  crowd  some  fair  one  find. 
To  ssuit  their  taste,  though  whimsical  and  strange, 


As  ever  fancy  own'd. 
Beauty  of  every  cast  and  shade  is  there, 
From  the  perfection  of  a  faultless  form, 
Down  to  the  common,  brown,  unnoted  maid, 
Who  looks  but  pretty  in  her  Sunday  gown. 

\st  Gent.  There  is,  indeed,  a  gay  variety. 

Rez.  And  if  the  liberality  of  nature 
Suflfices  not,  there's  store  of  grafted  charms, 
Blending  in  one  the  sweets  of  many  plants. 
So  obstinately,  strangely  opposite. 
As  would  have  well  defied  all  other  art 
But  female  cultivation.     Aged  youth, 
With  borrow'd  locks  in  rosy  chaplets  bound. 
Clothes   her  dim  eye,  parch'd  lips,  and  skinny 

cheek 
In  most  unlovely  softness : 

And  youthful  age,  with  fat,  round,  trackless  face, 
The  downcast  look  of  contemplation  deep 
Most  penyively  assumes. 
Is  it  not  even  so  ?     The  native  prude. 
With  forced  laugh,  and  merriment  uncouth. 
Plays  off  the  wild  coquet's  successful  charms 
With  most  unskilful  pains  ;  and  tlie  coquet, 
In  temporary  crust  of  cold  reserve, 
Fixes  her  studied  looks  upon  the  ground 
Forbiddingly  demure. 

Freb.  Fy  !  thou  art  too  severe. 

Rez.  *     Say,  rather,  gentle. 

I'  faith  !  the  very  dwarfs  attempt  to  charm 
With  lofty  airs  of  puny  majesty ; 
Whilst  potent  damsels  of  a  portly  make. 
Totter  like  nurselings,  and  demand  the  aid 
Of  gentle  sympathy. 

From  all  those  divers  modes  of  dire  assault, 
He  owns  a  heart  of  hardest  adamant. 
Who  shall  escape  to  night. 

Freb.    {to    De   Mon.   who  has   entered  during 
Rezenvelt's  speech,  and  heard  the  greatest 
part  of  it.)     Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha  ! 
How  pleasantly  he  gives  his  wit  the  rein, 
Yet  guides  its  wild  career  ! 

(De  Mon.  is  silent.) 

Rez.  {smiling  archly.)  What,  think  you,  Fre- 
berg, the  same  powerful  spell 
Of  transformation  reigns  o'er  all  to  night  ? 
Or  that  De  Monfort  is  a  woman  turn'd, 
So  widely  from  his  native  self  to  swerve. 
As  grace  my  folly  with  a  smile  of  his  ? . 

Dc  Mon.  Naj',  think  not,  Rezenvelt,  there  is  no 
smile 
I  can  bestow  on  thee.     There  is  a  smile, 
A  smile  of  nature  too,  which  I  can  spare, 
And  yet,  perhaps,  thou  wilt  not  thank  me  for  it 
( Smi?es  contemptuously.] 

Rez.  Not  thank  thee  !  It  were  surely  most  un 
grateful 
No  thanks  to  pay  for  nobly  giving  me 
What,  well  we  see,  has  cost  thee  so  much  pain. 
For  nature  hath  her  smiles  of  birth  more  painful 
Than  bitterest  execrations. 

Freb.  These  idle   words   will  lead    us   to  dis 
quiel : 
Forbear,  forbear,  my  friends  !  Go,  Rezenvelt, 
Accept  the  challenge  of  those  lovely  dames. 
Who  through  the  portal  come  with  bolder  step 
To  claim  your  notice. 


DE    MONFORT. 


33:' 


Enter  a  group  of  Ladies  from  the  other  apartment,  who 
walk  slowly  across  the  bottom  of  the  stage,  and  return 
to  it  again.  Rez.  shrugs  up  his  shoulders,  as  if  unwil- 
ling to  go. 

1st  Gent,  {to  Rez.)  Behold  in  sable  veil  a  lady 
comes, 
Whose  noble  air  doth  challenge  lancy's  skill 
To  suit  it  with  a  countenance  as  goodly. 

f  Pointing  to  Jane  De  Mon.  who  now  enters  in  a 
thick  black  veil.) 

Rez.  Yes,  this  way  lies  attraction.     {To  Freb.) 
With  permission,         {going  up  to  Jane.) 
Fair  lady,  though  within  that  envious  shroud 
Your  beauty  deigns  not  to  enlighten  us. 
We  bid  you  welcome,  and  our  beauties  here 
Will  welcome  you  the  more  for  such  concealment. 
With  the  permission  of  our  noble  host — 

{Taking  her  hand,  and  leading  her  to  the  front 
of  the  stage.) 

Jane,  {to  Freb.)  Pardon  me   this  presumption, 
courteous  sir : 
£  thus  appear,  {pointing  to  her  veil,)  not  careless 

of  respect 
Unto  the  generous  lady  of  the  feast. 
Beneath  this  veil  no  beauty  shrouded  is. 
That,  now,  or  pain  or  pleasure  can  bestow. 
Within  the  friendly  cover  of  its  shade 
I  only  wish,  unknown,  again  to  see 
One  who,  alas  !  is  heedless  of  my  pain. 

De  Mon.  Yes,  it  is  ever  thus.     Undo  that  veil. 
And  give  thy  countenance  to  the  cheerful  light. 
Men  now  all  soft,  and  female  beauty  scorn. 
And  mock  the  gentle  cares  which  aim  to  please. 
It  is  most  damnable  !  undo  thy  veil, 
And  think  of  him  no  more. 

Jane.  I  know  it  well,  even  to  a  proverb  groAvn, 
Is  lovers'  faith,  and  I  had  borne  such  slight; 
But  he,  who  has,  alas  !  forsaken  me. 
Was  the  companion  of  my  early  days, 
My  cradle's  mate,  mine  infant  play  fellow. 
Within  our  opening  rfinds,  with  riper  years, 
The  love  of  praise  and  generous  virtue  sprung : 
Through  varied  life  our  pride,  our  joys  were  one ; 
^t  the  same  tale  we  wept :  he  is  my  brother. 

De  Mon.  And  he  forsook  thee  ? — N^v  I  dare  not 
curse  him : 
Ay  heart  upbraids  me  with  a  crime  like  aii. 

Jane.  Ah  !  do  not  thus  distress  a  feeling  heart. 
All  sisters  are  not  to  the  soul  entwined 
With  equal  bans  ;  thine  has  not  watch'd  for  thee. 
Wept  for  thee,  cheer'd  thee,  shared  thy  weal  and 

wo, 
As  I  have  done  for  him. 

De  Mon.  {eagerly.)  Ah  !  has  she  not  ? 
By  heaven  !  the  sum  of  all  thy  kindly  deeds 
Were  but  as  chaff  poised  against  massy  gold, 
Compared  to  that  which  I  do  owe  her  love. 

0  pardon  me  !  I  mean  not  to  offend — 

1  am  too  warm — ^but  she  of  whom  I  speak 
Is  the  dear  sister  of  my  earliest  love  ; 

In  noble,  virtuous  worth  to  none  a  second  : 
And  though  behind  those  sable  folds  were  hid 
As  fair  a  face  as  ever  woman  own'd, 
8till  would  I  say  she  is  as  fair  as  thou. 
How  oft  amidst  the  beauty-blazing  throng. 


I've  proudly  to  th'  inquiring  stranger  told 
Her  name  and  lineage  !  yet  within  her  hous» 
The  virgin  mother  of  an  orphan  race 
Her  dying  parents  left,  this  noble  woman 
Did,  like  a  Roman  matron,  proudly  sit. 
Despising  all  the  blandishments  of  love  ; 
Whilst  many  a  youth  his  hopeless  love  conceal'd, 
O,  humbly  distant,  woo'd  her  like  a  queen. 
Forgive,  I  pray  you  !  0  forgive  this  boasting ! 
In  faith !  I  mean  you  no  discourtesy. 

Jane.  { Off  her  guard,  in  a  soft  natural  tone  of 

voire.)  0  no  !  nor  do  me  any. 
De  Mon.  What  voice  speaks   now  ?   Withdraw 
withdraw  this  shade ! 
For  if  thy  face  bear  semblance  to  thy  voice, 
I'll  fall  and  worship  thee.     Pray  !  pray  undo  ! 
{Puts  forth  his  hand  eagerly  to  snatch  away  thA 
veil,  whilst  she  shrinks  back,  and  Rezenvelt 
steps  between  to  prevent  him.) 
Rez.  Stand  off:   no   hand  shall  lift  this  sacred 

veil. 
De  Mon.  What,  dost  thou  think  De  Monfort  fall'n 
so  low. 
That  there  may  live  a  man  beneath  heaven's  roof, 
Who  dares  to  say,  he  shall  not  ? 
Rez.  He  lives  who  dares  to  say — 
Jane,  {throwing  back  her  veil,  much  alarmed,  ana 

rushes  between  t'lem.)  Forbear,  forbear  I 
(Rezenvelt, rery  much  ;truck,steps  back  respect- 
fully, and  makes  her  a  low  bow.  De  Monfort 
stands  for  a  while  motionless,  gazing  upon  her, 
till  she,  looking  expressively  to  him,  extends 
her  arms,  and  he,  rushing  into  them,  bursts  into 
tears.  Frehevg  seems  very  much  pleased.  The 
company  then  advancing  from  the  inner  apart- 
ment, gather  about  them,  and  the  Scene  closes.) 

Scene  II. — de  monfort's  apartments 

Enter  De  Monfort,  with  a  disordered  air,  and  his  hand 
pressed  upon  his  forehead,  followed  by  Jane. 

De  Mon.  No  more, my  sister,  urge  me  not  agaia: 
My  secret  troubles  cannot  be  reveal'd. 
From  all  participation  of  its  thoughts 
My  heart  recoils :  I  pray  thee  be  contented. 

Jane.  What,  must  I,  like  a  distant  humble  friend, 
Observe  thy  restless  eye,  and  gait  disturb'd. 
In  timid  silence  whilst  with  yearning  heart 
I  turn  aside  to  weep  ?   0  no  !  De  Monfort .' 
A  nobler  task  thy  nobler  mind  will  give  ; 
Thy  true  intrusted  friend  I  still  shall  be. 

De  Mon.  Ah,  Jane,  forbear !   I   cannot  e'en  to 
thee. 

Jane.  Then,  fy  upon  it !  fy  upon  it,  Monfort .' 
There  was  a  time  when  e'en  with  murder  stain'd, 
Had  it  been  possible  that  such  dire  deed 
Could  e'er  have  been  the  crime  of  one  so  piteous. 
Thou  wouldst  have  told  it  me. 

De  Mon.  So  would  I  now — but  ask  of  thus  no 
more. 
All  other  trouble  but  the  one  I  feel 
I  had  disclosed  to  thee.     I  pray  thee  spare  me  ; 
It  is  the  secret  weakness  of  my  nature. 

Jane.  Then  secret  let  it  be  ;  I  urge  no  farther. 
The  eldest  of  our  valiant  father's  hopes. 
So  sadly  orphan 'd,  side  by  side  we  stood. 


310 


BAILLIE. 


Like    two  young  trees,  whose  boughs  in  early 
•I  strength 

Screen  the  weak  saplings  of  the  rising  grove, 
And  hrave  the  storm  together — 
I  have  so  long,  as  if  by  nature's  right. 
Thy  bosom's  inmate  and  adviser  been, 
I  thought  through  life  I  should  have  so  remain'd. 
Nor  ever  known  a  change.     Forgive  me,  Monfort, 
A  humbler  station  will  I  take  by  thee : 
The  close  attendant  of  thy  wandering  steps  ; 
The  cheerer  of  this  home,  with  strangers  sought 
The  soother  of  those  griefs  I  must  not  know: 
This  is  mine  office  now  :  I  ask  no  more. 

Be  Mon.  0  Jane !  thou  dost  constrain  me  with 
thy  love  ! 
Would  I  could  tell  it  thee  . 

Jane,  Thou  shalt  not  tell  me.    Nay,  I'll  stop  mine 
ears, \ 
Nor  from  the  yearnings  of  affection  wring 
What  shrinks  from  utterance.     Let  it  pass,  my 

brother. 
I'll  stay  by  thee ;  I'll  cheer  thee,  comfort  thee : 
Pursue  with  thee  the  study  of  some  art. 
Or  nobler  science,  that  compels  the  mind 
To  steady  thought  progressive,  driving  forth 
All  floating,  wild,  unhappy  fantasies  ; 
Till  thou,  with  brow  unclouded,  smilest  again  ; 
Like  one  who,  from  dark  visions  of  the  night, 
When  th'  active  soul  within  its  lifeless  cell 
Hold  its  own  world,  with  dreadful  fancy  press'd 
Of  some  dire,  terrible,  or  murderous  deed, 
Wakes  to  the  dawning  morn,  and  blesses  heaven. 

Be  Mon.  It  will  not  pass  away  :  'twill  haimt  me 
still. 

Jane.  Ah !   say  not  so,  for  I  will  haunt  thee 
too; 
And  be  to  it  so  close  an  adversary. 
That,  though  I  wrestle  darkling  with  the  fiend, 
I  shall  o'ercome  it. 

Be  Mon.  Thou  most  generous  woman  ! 

Why  do  I  treat  thee  thus  ?  It  should  not  be — 
And  yet  I  cannot — 0  that  cursed  villain  ! 
He  will  not  let  me  be  the  man  I  would. 

Jane.   What  say'st    thou,   Monfort?    0!   what 
words  are  these  ? 
They  have  awaked  my  soul  to  dreadful  thoughts. 
I  do  beseech  thee  speak  ! 

(He  shakes  his  head,  and  turns  from  her;  she 
following  him.) 
By  the  affection  thou  didst  ever  bear  me ; 
By  the  dear  memory  of  our  infant  days  ; 
By  kindred  living  ties,  ay,  and  by  those 
Who  sleep  i'  the  tomb,  and  cannot  call  to  thee, 
I  do  conjure  thee  speak  ! 

(He  waves  her  off  with  his  hand,  and  covers  his 
face  with  the  other,  still  turning  from  her.) 
Ha  !  wilt  thou  not  ? 
(Assuming    dignity.)   Then,   if    affection,  most 

unwearied  love. 
Tried  early,  long,  and  never  wanting  found. 
O'er  generous  man  hath  more  authority. 
More  rightful  power  than  crown  or  sceptre  give, 
I  do  command  thee. 

(He  throws  himself  irito  a  chair,  greatly  agi- 
tated.) 
De  Monfoit,  do  not  thus  resist  my  love. 


Here  I  entreat  thee  on  my  bended  knees. 

(Kneeling.') 
Alas  !  my  brother  ! 

(De  Monfort  starts  up,  and  catching  her  in  hi$ 
arms,  raises  her  up,  then  placing  her  in  the 
chair  kneels  at  her  feet.) 
De  Mon.   Thus  let  him  kneel  who  should  th* 
abased  be. 
And  at  thine  honour'd  feet  confession  make. 
I'll  tell  thee  all — ^but,  O  !  thou  wilt  despise  me. 
For  in  my  breast  a  raging  passion  burns. 
To  which  thy  soul  no  sympathy  will  own— • 
A  passion  which  hath  made  my  nightly  couch 
A  place  of  torment ;  and  the  light  of  day. 
With  the  gay  intercourse  of  social  man, 
Feel  like  the  oppressive  airless  pestilence. 

0  Jane  !  thou  wilt  despise  me. 

Jane.  Say  not  so : 

1  never  can  despise  thee,  gentle  brother. 
A  lover's  jealousy  and  hopeless  pangs 
No  kindly  heart  contemns. 

Be  Mon.  A  lover,  say'st  thou  ? 

No,  it  is  hate  !  black,  lasting,  deadly  hate  ! 
Which  thus  hath  driven  me  forth  from  kindred 

peace. 
From  social  pleasure,  from  my  native  home. 
To  be  a  sullen  wanderer  on  the  earth, 
Avoiding  all  men,  cursing  and  accursed. 

Jane.  De  Monfort,  this  is  fiend-like,  frightful, 
terrible  ! 
What  being,  by  th'  Almighty  Father  form'd. 
Of  flesh  and  blood,  created  even  as  thou, 
Could  in  thy  breast  such  horrid  tempest  wake. 
Who  art  thyself  his  fellow  ? 
Unknit  thy  brows,  and  spread  those  wrath  clench'd 

hands. 
Some  sprite  accursed  within  thy  bosom  mates 
To  work  thy  ruin.     Strive  with  it,  my  brother  ! 
Strive  bravely  with  it ;  drive  it  from  thy  breast : 
'Tis  the  degrader  of  a  noble  heart : 
Curse  it,  and  bid  it  part. 

Be  Mon.  It  will  not  part.   (His  hand  on  hii 
breast.) 

I've  lodged  it  here  too  long : 
With  my  first  cares  I  felt  its  rankling  touch  ; 
I  loathed  him  when  a  boy. 

Jane.  Who  didst  thou  say  ? 

Be  Mon.  0  !  that  detested  Rezenvelt ; 
E'en  in  our  early  sports,  like  two  young  whelps 
Of  hostile  breed,  instinctively  reverse. 
Each  'gainst  the  other  pitch 'd  his  ready  pledge, 
And  frown'd  defiance.     As  we  onward  pass'd 
From  youth  to  man's  estate,  his  narrow  art 
And  envious  gibing  malice,  poorly  veil'd 
In  the  affected  carelessness  of  mirth, 
Still  more  detestable  and  odious  grew. 
There  is  no  livjig  being  on  this  earth 
Who  can  conceive  the  malice  of  his  soul, 
With  all  his  gay  and  damned  merriment, 
To  those,  by  fortune  or  by  merit  placed 
Above  his  paltry  self.     When,  low  in  fortune. 
He  look'd  upon  the  state  of  prosperous  men. 
As  nightly  birds,  roused  from  their  murky  holes. 
Do  scowl  and  chatter  at  the  light  of  day, 
I  could  endure  it ;  even  as  we  bear 
Th'  impotent  bite  of  some  half-trodden  worm. 


DE   MONFORT. 


341 


could  endure  it.  But  when  honours  came, 
And  wealth  and  new-got  titles  fed  his  pride  ; 
Whilst  flattering  knaves   did  trumpet  forth  his 

praise, 
And  grovelling  idiots  grinn'd  applauses  on  him  ; 

0  !  then  I  could  no  longer  suffer  it ! 

It  drove  me  frantic. — What !  what  would  I  give ! 
What  would  I  give  to  crush  the  bloated  toad. 
So  rankly  do  I  loathe  him  ! 

Jane.  And  would  thy  hatred  crush  the  very  man 
Who  gave  to  thee  that  life  he  might  have  ta'en  ? 
That  life  which  thou  so  rashly  didst  expose 
To  aim  at  his  ?    0  !  this  is  horrible  ! 

De  Mon.  Ha !  thou  hast  heard  it,  then  ?  From  all 
the  world. 
But  most  of  all  from  thee,  I  thought  it  hid. 

Jane.  I  heard  a  secret  whisper,  and  resolved 
Upon  the  instant  to  return  to  thee. 
Didst  thou  receive  my  letter  ? 

De  Mon.  I  did !  I  did !  'twas  that  which  drove 
me  hither. 

1  could  not  bear  to  meet  thine  eye  again. 
Jane.  Alas  I  that,  tempted  by  a  sister's  tears, 

I  ever  left  thy  house  !  These  few  past  months. 
These  absent  months,  have  brought  us  all  this  wo. 
Had  I  remain 'd  with  thee  it  had  not  been. 
And  yet,  methinks,  it  should  not  move  you  thus. 
You  dared  him  to  the  field  ;  both  bravely  fought ; 
He,  more  odroit,  disarm 'd  you ;  courteously 
Return'd  the  forfeit  sword,  which,  so  return'd, 
You  did  refuse  to  use  against  him  more  ; 
And  then,  as  says  report,  you  parted  friends. 

De  Mon.   When   he  disarm'd  this   cursed,  this 
worthless  hand 
Of  its  most  worthless  weapon,  he  but  spared 
From  devilish  pride,  which  now  derives  a  bliss 
In  seeing  me  thus  fetter'd,  shamed,  subjected 
With  the  vile  favour  of  his  poor  forbearance  ; 
Whilst  he  securely  sits  with  gibing  brow. 
And  basely  bates  me  like  a  muzzled  cur 
Who  cannot  turn  again. — 
Until  that  day,  till  that  accursed  day, 
I  knew  not  half  the  torment  of  this  hell, 
AVhich  burns  within  my  breast.     Heaven's  light- 
nings blast  him  ! 

Jane.  0  this  is  horrible !  Forbear,  forbear ! 
Lest  Heaven's  vengeance  light  upon  thy  head, 
For  this  most  impious  wish. 

De  Mon.  Then  let  it  light. 

Torments  more  fell  than  I  have  felt  already 
It  cannot  send.     To  be  annihilated. 
What  all  men  shrink  from  ;  to  be  dust,  be  nothing. 
Were  bliss  to  me,  compared  to  what  I  am  I 

Jane.  0  !  wouldst  thou  kill  me  with  these  dread- 
ful words  ? 

De  Mon.  [raising  his  hands  to  heaven.)  Let  me 
but  once  upon  his  ruin  look, 
Then  close  mine  eyes  for  ever  ! 

Jane  in  great  distress,  staggers  back,  and  sup- 
ports herself  upon  the  side  scene.     De  Mon. 
alarmed,  runs  up  to    her  with    a    softened 
voice.) 
Ha !  how  is  this  ?  thou'rt  ill ;  thou'rt  very  pale. 
What  have  I  done  to  thee  ?  Alas,  alas  ! 
I  meant  not  to  distress  thee. — 0  my  sister ! 

Jane,  [shaking  her  head.)  I  cannot  speak  to  thee. 


De  Mon.  I  have  kill'd  thee 

Turn,  turn  thee  not  away !  look  on  me  still 
0  !  droop  not  thus,  my  life,  my  pride,  my  sister  ; 
Look  on  me  yet  again. 

Jane.  Thou  too,  De  Monfort, 

In  better  days,  wert  wont  to  be  my  pride. 

De  Mon.  I  am  a  wretch,  most  wretched  in  my- 
self, 
And  still  more  wretched  in  the  pain  I  give. 
O  curse  that  villain  !  that  detested  villain  ! 
He  has  spread  misery  o'er  my  fated  life : 
He  will  undo  us  all. 

Jane.  I've  held  my  warfare  through  a  troubled 
world. 
And  borne  with  steady  mind  my  share  of  ill ; 
And  then  the  helpmate  of  my  toil  wert  thou. 
But  now  the  wane  of  life  comes  darkly  on. 
And  hideous  passion  tears  me  from  my  heart. 
Blasting  thy  worth. — I  cannot  strive  with  this. 

De  Mon.  [affectionately.)  What  shall  I  do  ? 

Jane.  Call  up  thy  noble  spirit  j 

Rouse  all  the  generous  energy  of  virtue  ; 
And  with  the  strength  of  heaven-endued  man, 
Repel  the  hideous  foe.     Be  great ;  be  valiant. 
0,  if  thou  couldst !  e'en  shrouded  as  thou  art 
In  all  the  sad  infirmities  of  nature. 
What  a  most  noble  creature  wouldst  thou  be  ! 

De  Mon.  Ay,  if  I  could :  alas  !  alas  !  I  cannot, 

Jane.  Thou  canst,  thou  mayst,  thou  wilt. 
We  shall  not  part  till  I  have  turn'd  thy  soul. 

Enter  Manuel. 
De  Mon.    Ha !    some   one  enters.    Wherefor« 

comest  thou  here  ? 
Man.  Count  Freberg  waits  your  leisure. 
De  Mon.  [angrily.)  Be  gone,  be  gone  !  I  cannot 
see  him  now.  [Exit  Manuel. 

Jane.  Come  to  my  closet ;  free  from  all  intrusion, 
I'll  school  thee  there ;  and  thou  again  shalt  be 
My  willing  pupil,  and  my  generous  friend, 
The  noble  Monfort  I  have  loved  so  long. 
And  must  not,  will  not  lose. 
De  Mon.  Do  as  thou  wilt ;  I  will  not  grieve  thee 
more.  [Exeunt, 


ACT  in. 


Scene  I. — countess  freberg's  dressing-room. 

Enter  the  Countess  dispirited  and  out  of  humour,  and 
throws  herself  into  a  chair:  enter,  by  the  opposite  side, 
Theresa. 

Ther.  Madam,  I  am  afraid  you  are  unwell : 
What  is  the  matter  ?  does  your  head  ache  ? 

Lady,  [peevishly.)  No, 

'Tis  not  my  head :  concern  thyself  no  more 
With  what  concerns  not  thee. 

Tlier.  Go  you  abroad  to-night  ? 

Lady.  Yes,  thinkest  thou  I'll  stay  and  fret  at 
home  ? 

Ther.  Then  please  to  say  what  you  would  choose 
to  wear : — 
One  of  your  newest  robes  ? 

Lady.  I  hate  them  all. 

Ther.  Surely  that  purple  scarf  became  you  weH 
With  all  those  wreaths  of  richly  hanging  flowers. 


342 


BAILLIE. 


Did  I  not  overhear  them  say,  last  night, 
As  from  the  crowded  ball-room  ladies  past, 
How  gay  and  handsome,  in  her  costly  dress. 
The  Countess  Freberg  look'd  ? 

Lady.  Didst  thou  overhear  it  ? 

Ther.  I  did,  and  more  than  this. 

Lady.  Well,  all  are  not  so  greatly  prejudiced ; 
All  do  not  think  me  like  a  May-day  queen, 
Which  peasants  deck  in  sport. 

Ther.  And  who  said  this  ? 

Lady,    [■putting  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.) 
E'en  my  good  lord,  Theresa. 

Ther.  He  said  it  but  in  jest.     He  loves  you  well. 

Lady.  I  know  as  well  as  thou  he  loves  me  well. 
But  what  of  that !  he  takes  in  me  no  pride : 
Elsewhere  his  praise  and  admiration  go. 
And  Jane  De  Monfort  is  not  mortal  woman. 

Ther.  The  wondrous  character  this  lady  bears 
For  worth  and  excellence :  from  early  youth 
The  friend  and  mother  of  her  younger  sisters, 
Now  greatly  married,  as  I  have  been  told. 
From  her  most  prudent  care,  may  well  excuse 
The  admiration  of  so  good  a  man 
As  my  good  master  is.     And  then,  dear  madam, 
I  must  confess,  when  I  myself  did  hear 
How  she  was  come  through  the  rough  winter's 

storm. 
To  seek  and  comfort  an  unhappy  brother. 
My  heart  beat  kindly  to  her. 

Lady.  Ay,  ay,  there  is  a  charm  in  this  I  find  : 
But  wherefore  may  she  not  have  come  as  well 
Through  wintry  storms  to  seek  a  lover,  too  ? 

Ther.  No,  madam,  no,  I  could  not  think  of  this. 

Lady.  That  would  reduce  her  in  your  eyes,  may 
hap. 
To  woman's  level. — Now  I  see  my  vengeance ! 
I'll  tell  it  round  that  she  is  hither  come. 
Under  pretence  of  finding  out  De  Monfort, 
To  meet  with  Rezenvelt.     When  Freberg  hears  it, 
Twill  help,  I  ween,  to  break  his  magic  charm. 

Ther.  And  say  what  is  not,  madam  ? 

Lady.   How  canst  thou  know  that  I  shall  say 
what  is  not  ? 
Tis  like  enough  I  shall  but  speali  the  truth. 

Ther.  Ah  no  !  there  is — 

Jjidy.  Well,  hold  thy  foolish  tongue. 

(Freberg's  voice  is  heard  without.    After  hesi- 
tating.) 
i  will  not  see  him  now.  [Exit. 

Enter  Freberg  d>  ihe  opposite  side,  passing  on  hastily. 

Ther.  Pardon,  my  lord ;  I  fear  you  are  in  haste. 
Yet  must  I  crave  that  you  will  give  to  me 
The  books  my  lady  mentioned  to  you :  she 
Has  charged  me  to  remind  you. 

Freb.  I'm  in  haste.  [Passing  on.) 

Ther.  Pray  you,  my  lord :  your  countess  wants 
them  much ; 
The  Lady  Jane  De  Monfort  ask'd  them  of  her. 

Fi-eb.  [returning  instantly.)  Are  they  for  ner  ? 
I  knew  not  this  before. 
'  will,  then,  search  them  out  immediately. 
There  is  naught  good  or  precious  in  my  keeping, 
That  is  not  dearly  honour'd  by  her  use. 

Ther.  My  lord,  what  would  your  gentle  countess 
say 


If  she  o'erheard  her  own  request  neglected. 
Until  supported  by  a  name  more  potent  ? 

Freb.  Think'st  thou  she  is  a  fool,  my  good  Th©» 
resa, 
Vainly  to  please  herself  with  childish  thoughts 
Of  matching  what  is  matchless — Jane  De  Monfort? 
Think'st  thou  she  is  a  fool,  and  cannot  see, 
That  love  and  admiration  often  thrive 
Though  far  apart  f 

Re-enter  Lady,  with  great  violence. 

Lady.  I  am  a  fool,  not  to  have  seen  full  well, 
That  thy  best  pleasure  in  o'errating  so 
This  lofty  stranger  is  to  humble  me. 
And  cast  a  darkening  shadow  o'er  my  head. 
Ay,  wherefore  dost  thou  stare  upon  me  thus 
Art  thou  ashamed  that  I  have  thus  surprised  thee  ? 
Well  mayst  thou  be  so  ! 

Freb.  True  ;  thou  rightly  say'st. 

Well  may  I  be  ashamed :  not  lor  the  praise 
Which  I  have  ever  openly  bestowed 
On  Monfort's  noble  sister ;  but  that  thus, 
Like  a  poor,  mean,  and  jealous  listener. 
She  should  be  found,  who  is  Count  Freberg's  wife. 

Lady.  0, 1  am  lost  and  ruin'd !  hated,  scorn 'd  ! 
[Pretending  to  faint.) 

Freb.  Alas,  I've  been  too  rough  ! 

[Taking  her  hand  and  kissing  it  tenderly.) 
My  gentle  love  I  my  own,  my  only  love  ! 
See,  she  revives  again.     How  art  thou,  love  ? 
Support  her  to  her  chamber,  good  Theresa, 
I'll  sit  and  watch  by  her.     I've  been  too  rough. 

[Exeunt  Lady,  supported  by  Freb.  and  Ther. 

Scene  II. — de  monfort  discovered  sitting  by  a 

TABLE  reading.  AFTER  A  LITTLE  TIME,  HE  LAY* 
DOWN  HIS  BOOK,  AND  CONTINUES  IN  A  THOUGHT- 
FUL  POSTURE. 

Enter  to  him  Jane  I)e  Monfort, 
Jane.  Thanks,  gentle  brother — 

[Pointing  to  the  book.) 
Thy  willing  mind  has  rightly  been  employ'd : 
Did  not  thy  heart  warm  at  the  fair  display 
Of  peace  and  concord,  and  forgiving  love  ? 

De  Mon.    I  know  resentment  may  to  love  be 
turn'd ; 
Though  keen  and  lasting  into  love  as  strong : 
And  fiercest  rivals  in  th   ensanguin'd  field 
Have  cast  their  brandish'd  weapons  to  the  grouna; 
Joining  their  mailed  breasts  in  close  embrace, 
With  generous  impulse  fired.     I  know  right  well 
The  darkest,  fellest  wrccgs  have  been  forgiven 
Seventy  times  o'er  from  blessed  heavenly  love : 
I've  heard  of  things  like  these;  I've  heard  anu 

wept. 
But  what  is  this  to  me  ? 

Jine.  All,  all,  my  brother ! 

It  bids  thee  too  that  noble  precept  learn, 
To  love  thine  enemy. 

De  Mon.  Th'  uplifted  stroke  that  would  a  wretch 
destroy. 
Gorged  with  my  richest   spoil,  stain'd  with  my 

blood, 
I  would  arrest,  and  cry,  "  Hold  !  hold  !  have  mer- 
cy." 
But  when  the  man  most  adverse  to  my  nature 


DE   MONFORT. 


343 


Who  e'en  from  childhood  hath,  with  rude  malevo- 
lence, 
Withheld  the  fair  respect  all  paid  beside, 
Turning  my  very  praise  into  derision  ; 
Who  galls  and  presses  me  where'er  I  go, 
W^ould  claim  the  generous  feelings  of  my  heart, 
Nature  herself  doth  lift  her  voice  aloud. 
And  cries,  "  It  is  impossible  !" 

Jane,   {shaking  her  head.) — Ah,  Monfort,  Mon- 
fort : 

De  Mon.  I  can  forgive  th'  envenomed  reptile's 
sting. 
But  hate  his  loathsome  self. 

Jane.  And  canst  thou  do  no  more  for   love   of 
heaven  ? 

Be  Mon,  Alas  !  I  cannot  now  so  school  my  mind 
As  holy  men  have  taught,  nor  search  it  truly : 
But  this,  my  Jane,  I'll  do  for  love  of  thee  : 
And  more  it  is  than  crowns  could  win  me  to, 
Or  any  power  but  thine.     I'll  see  the  man. 
Th'  indignant  risings  of  abhorrent  nature  ; 
The  stern  contraction  of  my  scowling  brows. 
That,  like  the  plant  whose  closing  leaves  do  shrink 
At  hostile  touch,  still  knit  at  his  approach  ; 
The  crooked  curving  lip,  by  instinct  taught, 
In  imitation  of  disgustful  things. 
To  pout  and  swell,  I  strictly  will  repress  ; 
And  meet  him  with  a  tamed  countenance. 
E'en  as  a  townsman,  who  would  live  at  peace, 
And  pay  him  the  respect  his  station  claims. 
I'll  crave  his  pardon  too  for  all  offence 
My  dark  and  wayward  temper  may  have  done. 
Nay  more,  I  will  confess  myself  his  debtor 
For  the  forbearance  I  have  cursed  so  oft: 
Life  spared  by  him,  more  horrid  than  the  grave 
With  all  its  dark  corruption  !  This  I'll  do. 
Will  it  suffice  thee  ?  More  than  this  I  cannot. 

Jane.  No  more  than  this  do  I  require  of  thee 
In  outward  act,  though  in  thy  heart,  my  friend, 
I  hoped  a  better  change,  and  still  will  hope. 
I  told  thee  Freberg  had  proposed  a  meeting. 

De  Mon.  I  know  it  well. 

Jane.  And  Rezenvelt  consents. 

He  meets  j^ou  here  ;  so  far  he  shows  respect. 
♦       De  Mon.   Well,  let  it  be ;  the   sooner  past  the 
better. 

Jane.  I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,  for,  in  truth. 
He  has  proposed  for  it  an  early  hour. 
'J  Is  almost  near  his  time  ;  I  came  to  tell  you. 

De  Mon.  What,  comes  he  here  so  soon  ?  shame 
on  his  speed ! 
It  is  not  decent  thus  to  rush  upon  me. 
He  loves  the  secret  pleasure  he  will  feel 
To  see  "ne  thus  subdued. 

Jane.  0  say  not  so  !  he  comes  with  heart  sincere. 

De  Mon.  Oould  we  not  meet  elsewhere  ?  from 
home — i'  the  fields, 
A'here  other  men — must  I  alone  receive  him  ? 
Where  is  your  agent,  Freberg,  and  his  friends. 
That  I  must  meet  him  here  ? 

[Walks  vp  and  down  very  much  disturbed.) 
Now  didst  thou  say  ? — how  goes,  the  hour  ? — e'en 

now! 
I  would  some  other  friend  were  first  arrived. 

Jane.   See,  to  thy  wish  come  Freberg  and  his 
dame. 


De  Mon.  His  lady  too  I  why  tomes  he  not  alone  ? 
Must  all  the  world  stare  upon  cur  meeting  ? 

Enter  Count  FREBERG«and  his  Countess. 

Freb.  A  happy  morrow  to  my  noble  marquis 
And  his  most  noble  sister ! 

Jane.  Generous  Freberg, 

Your  face,  methinks,  forbodes  a  happy  morn, 
Open  and  cheerful.    What  of  Rezenvelt  ? 

Freb.  I  left  him  at  his  home, prepared  to  follow: 
He'll  soon  appear.     (To  De  Monfort.)     And  now 

my  worthy  friend, 
Give   me  your  hand;  this  happy  change  delights 
me. 

(De  Monfort  gives  him  his  hand  coldly,  and  they 
walk  to  the  bottom  of  the  stage  together^  in 
earnest  discourse,  whilst  Jane  and  the  Countess 
remain  in  the  front.) 

iMdy.  My  dearest  madam,  will  you  pardon  me  .? 
I  know  Count  Freberg's  business  with  De  Monfort, 
And  had  a  strong  desire  to  visit  you, 
So  much  I  wish  the  honour  of  your  friendship ; 
For  he  retains  no  secret  from  mine  ear. 

Jane,  [archly.)   Knowing  your  prudence — You 
are  welcome,  madam  ; 
So  shall  Count  Freberg's  lady  ever  be. 

(De  Monfort  and  Freberg,  returning  toward  the 
front  of  the  stage,  still  engaged  in  discourse.) 

Freb.  He  is  indeed  a  man,  within  whose  breast 
Firm  rectitude  and  honour  hold  their  seat, 
Though  unadorned  with  that  dignity 
Which  were  their  fittest  garb;     Now,  on  my  life ! 
I  know  no  truer  heart  than  Rezenvelt. 

De  Mon.  Well,  Freberg,  well,  there  needs  not 
all  this  pains 
To  garnish  out  his  worth  :  let  it  suffice  ; 
I  am  resolved  I  will  respect  the  man. 
As  his  fair  station  and  repute  demand. 
Methinks  I  see  not  at  your  jolly  feasts 
The  youthful  knight,  who  sung  so  pleasantly. 

Freb.   A  pleasant  circumstance   detains   him 
hence ; 
Pleasant  to  those  who  love  high  generous  deeds 
Above  the  middle  pitch  of  common  minds  ; 
And,  thougli  I  have  been  sworn  to  secrecy, 
Yet  must  I  tell  it  thee. 

This  knight  is  near  akin  to  Rezenvelt,  * 

To  whom  an  old  relation,  short  while  deau, 
A  good  estate  bequeathed,  some  leagues  distaa 
But  Rezenvelt,  now  rich  in  fortune's  stor^ 
Disdain'd  the  sordid  love  of  further  gain. 
And  generously  the  rich  bequest  resign  _ 
To  this  young  man,  blood  of  the  same  degree 
To  the  deceased,  and  low  in  fortune's  gifts. 
Who  is  from  hence  to  take  possession  of  it : 
Was  it  not  nobly  done  ? 

De  Mon.  'Twsft  right  and  honourable. 

This  morning  is  oppressive,  warm,  and  heavy: 
There  hangs  a  foggy  closeness  in  the  air : 
Dost  thou  not  feel  it  ? 

Freb,  O  no !  to  think  upon  a  generous  deed 
Expands  my  soul,  and  makes  me  lightly  breatlie. 

De  Mon.   Who  gives   the  feast  to-night  ?    His 
name  escapes  me. 
You  say  I  am  invited. 

Freb.  Uld  Count  Waterlan. 


344 


BAILLIE. 


In  honour  of  your  townsman*s  generous  gift 
He  spreads  the  board. 

De  Mon.  He  is  too  old  to  revel  with  the  gay. 
Freb.  But  not  too  old  is  he  to  honour  virtue. 
I  shall  partake  of  it  with  open  soul ; 
For,  on  my  honest  faith,  of  living  men 
I  know  not  one,  for  talents,  honour,  worth, 
That  I  should  rank  superior  to  Rezenvelt. 
De  Mon.  How  virtuous  he  hath  been  in  three 

short  days  ! 
Freb.  Nay,  longer,  marquis ;  but  my  friendship 
rests 
Upon  the  good  report  of  other  men, 
And  that  has  told  me  much. 

(De  Monfort  aside,  going  some  steps  hastily  from 
Freberg,  and  rending  his  cloak  with  agitation 
as  he  goes.) 
Would  he  were  come  !  by  heaven   I  would  he 

were ! 
This  fool  besets  me  so. 

^Suddenly  correcting  himself,  and  joining  the 
Ladies,  who  have  retired  to  the  bottom  of  the 
stage,  he  speaks  to  Countess    Freberg  with 
affected  cheerfulness.) 
The  sprightly  dames  of  Amberg  rise  by  times, 
Untarnish'd  with  the  vigils  of  the  night. 
Lady.  Praise  us  not  rashly,  'tis  not  always  so. 
Be  Mon.  He  does  not  rashly  praise  who  praises 
you; 
For  he  were  dull  indeed — 

Stopping  short,  as  if  he  heard  something.) 
Lady.  How  dull  indeed  ? 

De  Mon.  I  should  have  said — It  has  escaped  me 
now — 
Listening  again,  as  if  he  heard  something.) 
Jane,  [to  De  Mon.)  What,  hear  you  aught  ? 
De  Mon.  [hastily.)  'Tis  nothing. 

Lady,  [to  De  Mon.)  Nay,  do  not  let  me  lose  it 
so,  my  lord. 
Some  fair  one  has  bewitch'd  your  memory, 
And  robs  me  of  the  half-form 'd  compliment. 

Jane.  Half-utter'd  praise  is  to  the  curious  mind 
As  to  the  eye  half-veiled  beauty  is, 
More  precious  than  the  whole.    Pray  pardon  him. 
Some  one  approaches.  [Listening.) 

Freb.  No,  no,  it  is  a  servant  who  ascends ; 
IJa  will  not  come  so  soon. 
Be  Mon.  [off  his  guard.)    *Tis  Rezenvelt:    I 
heard  his  well-known  foot. 
From  the  first  staircase,  mounting  step  by  step. 
Freb.  How  quick  an  ear  thou  hast  for  distant 
sound ! 
I  heard  him  not. 

(De  Monfort  looks  embarrassed,  and  is  silent.) 

Enter  Rezenvelt 

(De  Monfort,  recovering    himself,  goes  up  to 
receive  Rezenvelt,  who  meets  him  with  a  cheer- 
ful countenance.) 
Be  Mon.  [to  Rez.)  I  am,  my  lord,  beholden  to 
j'ou  greatly. 
This  ready  visit  makes  me  much  your  debtor. 
Rez.  Then  may  such  debts  between  us,  noble 
marquis, 
Be  oft  incurred,  and  often  paid  again  ! 
To  Ja;ie.)  Madam,  I  am  devoted  to  your  service. 


And  every  wish  of  yours  commands  my  will. 
[To  Countess.)  Lady,  good  morning.    [To  Freb, 

Well,  my  gentle  friend. 
You  see  I  have  not  linger'd  long  behind. 
Freb.  No,  thou  art  sooner  than  I  look'd  for  thee- 
Rez.  A  willing  heart  adds  feather  to  the  heel. 
And  makes  the  clown  a  winged  Mercury. 
Be  Mon.  Then  let  me  say,  that  with  a  graleful 
mind, 
I  do  receive  these  tokens  of  good  will ; 
And  must  regret,  that,  in  my  wayward  moods, 
I  have  too  oft  forgot  the  due  regard 
Your  rank  and  talents  claim. 

Rez.  No,  no,  De  Monfort, 

You  have  but  rightly  curb'd  a  wanton  spirit. 
Which  makes  me  too  neglectful  of  respect. 
Let  us  be  friends,  and  think  of  this  no  more. 

Fi'eb.  Ay,  let  it  rest  with  the  departed  shades 
Of  things  which  are  no  more ;  whilst  lovely  con- 
cord, 
Follow'd  by  friendship  sweet,  and  firm  esteem, 
Your  future  days  enrich.    O  heavenly  friendship ! 
Thou  dost  exalt  the  sluggish  souls  of  men. 
By  thee  conjoin'd,  to  great  and  glorious  deeds  ; 
As  two  dark  clouds,  when  mix'd  in  middle  air, 
The  vivid  lightning's  flash,  and  roar  sublime. 
Talk  not  of  what  is  past,  but  future  love. 

Be  Mon.  [with  dignity.)   No,  Freberg,  no,  it^ 
must  not.  [To  Rezenvelt.)  No,  my  lord, 
I  will  not  offer  you  a  hand  of  concord. 
And  poorly  hide  the  motives  which  constrain  me. 
I  would  that,  not  alone,  these  present  friends. 
But  every  soul  in  Amberg  were  assembled. 
That  I,  before  them  all,  might  here  declare 
I  owe  my  spared  life  to  your  forbearance. 
[Holding  out  his  hand.)  Take  this  from  one  who 

boasts  no  feeling  warmth. 
But  never  will  deceive. 
(Jane  smiles  upon  De  Monfort  with  great  appro- 
bation, and  Rezenvelt  runs  up  to  him  with 
open  arms.) 
Rez.  Away  wuth  hands  !   I'll  have  thee  to  my 
breast. 
Thou  art,  upon  my  faith,  a  noble  spirit ! 
Be  Mon.  [shrinking  back  from  him.)  Nay,  if  you 
please,  I  am  not  so  prepared — 
My  nature  is  of  temperature  too  cold — 
I   pray   you   pardon    me.      (Jane's    countenance' 

changes.) 
But  take  this  hand,  the  token  of  respect ; 
The  token  of  a  will  inclined  to  concord ; 
The  token  of  a  mind,  that  bears  within 
A  sense  impressive  of  the  debt  it  owes  you : 
And  cursed  be  its  power,  unnerved  its  strength, 
If  e'er  again  it  shall  be  lifted  up 
To  do  you  any  harm. 
Rez.  Well,  be    it   so,  De  Monfort,  I'm    con 
tented ; 
I'll  take  thy  hand,  since  I  can  have  no  more. 
[Carelessly.)  I  take  of  worthy  men  whate'er  they 

give. 
Their  heart  I  gladly  take,  if  not,  their  hand  ! 
If  that  too  is  withheld,  a  courteous  word. 
Or  the  civility  of  placid  looks : 
And,  if  e'en  these  are  too  great  favours  deem'd, 
'Faith,  I  can  set  me  down  contentedly 


DE   MONFORT. 


345 


^ith  plain  and  homely  greeting,  or  "  God   save 
ye!" 
Be  Men.   [aside^  starting  away  from  hin:  some 
paces.) 
By  the  good  light,  lie  makes  a  jest  of  it ! 

(Jane    seems    greatly    distressed,  and    Freberg 

endeavours  to  cheer  her.) 
Freh.  [to  Jane.)  Cheer  up,  my  noble  friend;  all 
will  go  well ; 
For  friendship  is  no  plant  of  hasty  growth. 
Though  rooted  in  esteem's  deep  soil,  the  slow 
And  gradual  culture  of  kind  intercourse 
Must  bring  it  to  perfection. 
(To  the  Countess.)  My  love,  the  morning,  now,  » 

far  advanced  ; 
Our  friends  elsewhere  expect  us  ;  take  your  leave. 
Lady,  {to  Jane.)  Farewell,  dear  madam,  till  the 

evening  hour. 
Freh.  {to  De  Mon.)  Good  day,  De  Monfort.    ( To 

Jane.)    Most  devoutly  yours. 
Rez.  {to  Freb.)  Go  not  too  fast,  for  I  will  follow 
you.  [Exeunt  Freberg  and  his  Lady. 

{To  Jane.)  The  Lady  Jane  is  yet  a  stranger  here : 
She  might,  perhaps,  in  this  your  ancient  city 
Find  somewhat  worth  her  notice. 

Jane.  I  thank  you,  marquis,  I  am  much  engaged  ; 
I  go  not  out  to-day. 

Rez.  Then  fare  ye  well !  I  see  I  cannot  now 
Be  the  proud  man  who  shall  escort  you  forth. 
And  show  to  all  the  world  my  proudest  boast, 
The  notice  and  respect  of  Jane  De  Monfort. 
De  Mon.  {aside  impatiently.)  He  says  farewell, 

and  goes  not ! 
Jane,  {to  Rez.)  You  do  me  honour. 
Rez.  Madam,  adieu  !  {To  Jane.)  Good  morning, 
noble  marquis.  [Exit. 

(Jane  and  De  Monfort  look  expressively  to  one 
another  without  speaking,  and  then  Exeunt 
severally.) 


ACT    IV. 


Scene  I. — a  hall  or  ante-chamber,  with  the 

FOLDING  DOORS  OF  AN  INNER  APARTMENT  OBEN, 
WHICH  DISCOVERS  THE  GUESTS  RISING  FROM  A 
BANQUET. 

They  enter  and  pass  over  the  stage  and  Exeunt  ;  and 
after  them  enter  Rezenvelt  and  Freberg. 

Freb.  Alas,  my  Rezenvelt ! 
I  vainly  hoped  the  hand  of  gentle  peace, 
From  this  day's  reconciliation  sprung, 
These  rude  unseemly  jarrings  had  subdued ; 
But  I  have  mark'd,  e'en  at  the  social  board, 
Such  looks,  such  words,  such  tones,  such  untold 

things. 
Too  plainly  told,  'twixt  you  and  Monfort  pass. 
That  I  must  now  despair. 

Yet  who  could  think,  two  minds  so  much  refined. 
So  near  in  excellence,  should  be  removed, 
So  far  removed,  in  generous  sympathy  ? 

Rez.  Ay,  far  removed  indeed ! 

Freb.  And  yet,  methought,  he  made  a  noble 
effort. 
And  with  a  manly  plainness  bravely  told 
The  galling  debt  he  owes  to  your  forbearance. 


Rez.  'Faith  !  so  he  did,  and  so  did  I  receive  it ; 
When,  with  spread  arms,  and  heart  e'en  moved  td 

tears, 
I  frankly  proffer'd  him  a  friend's  embrace : 
And,  I  declare,  had  he  as  such  received  it, 
I  from  that  very  moment  had  forborne 
All  opposition,  pride-provoking  jest, 
Contemning  carelessness,  and  all  offence ; 
And  had  caress'd  him  as  a  worthy  heart. 
From  native  weakness  such  indulgence  claiming. 
But  since  he  proudly  thinks  that  cold  respect. 
The  formal  tokens  of  his  lordly  favour. 
So  precious  are,  that  I  would  sue  for  them 
As  fair  distinction  in  the  public  eye, 
Forgetting  former  wrongs,  I  spurn  it  all. 
And  but  that  I  do  bear  that  noble  woman. 
His  worthy,  his  incomparable  sister. 
Such  fix'd  profound  regard,  I  would  expose  him ) 
And  as  a  mighty  bull,  in  senseless  rage. 
Roused  at  the  baiter's  will,  with  wretched  rags 
Of  ire-provoking  scarlet,  chafes  and  bellows, 
I'd  make  him  at  small  cost  of  paltry  wit. 
With  all  his  deep  and  manly  faculties. 
The  scorn  and  laugh  of  fools. 

Freb.  For  heaven's    sake,  my  friend,  restrain 
your  wrath  ! 
For  what  has  Monfort  done  of  wrong  to  you. 
Or  you  to  him,  bating  one  foolish  quarrel, 
Which  you  confess  from  slight  occasion  rose. 
That  in  your  breasts  such  dark  resentment  dwells 
So  fix'd,  so  hopeless  ? 

Rez.  0  !  from  our  youth  he  has  distinguished  mo 
With  every  mark  of  hatred  and  disgust. 
For  e'en  in  boyish  sports  I  still  opposed 
His  proud  pretensions  to  pre-eminence ; 
Nor  would  I  to  his  ripen'd  greatness  give 
That  fulsome  adulation  ot  applause 
A  senseless  crowd  bestow'd.     Though  poor  in  for- 
tune, 
I  still  would  smile  at  vain  assuming  wealth : 
But  when  unlook'd-for  fate  on  me  bestow'd 
Riches  and  splendour  equal  to  his  own. 
Though  I,  in  truth,  despise  such  poor  distinction, 
Feeling  inclined  to  be  at  peace  with  him. 
And  with  all  men  besides,  I  curb'd  my  spirit. 
And  sought  to  soothe  him.    Then,  with  spitefal 

rage, 
From  small  offence  he  rear'd  a  quarrel  with  me, 
And  dared  me  to  the  field.    The  rest  you  know 
In  short,  I  still  have  been  th'  opposing  rock. 
O'er  which  the  stream  of  his  o'erflowing  pride 
Hath  foam'd  and  fretted.     See'st  thou  how  it  is  ? 

Freb.  Too  well  I  see,  and  warn  thee  to  beware 
Such  streams  have  oft,  by  swelling  floods   sui 

charged. 
Borne  down,  with  sudden  and  impetuous  force, 
The  yet  unshaken  stone  of  opposition, 
Which  had  for  ages  stopp'd  their  flowing  course. 
I  pray  thee,  friend,  beware. 

Rez.  Thou  canst  not  mean — ^he  will  not  murdei 
me  ? 

Freb.  What  a  proud  heart,  with  such  dark  pa» 
sion  toss'd. 
May,  in  the  anguish  of  its  thoughts,  conceive, 
I  will  not  dare  to  say. 

Rez,  Ha,  ha !  thou  know'st  him  not 


346 


BAILL[E. 


Full  often  have  I  mark'd  it  in  his  youth, 
And  could  have  almost  loved  him  for  the  weak- 
ness : 
He's  form'd  with  such  antipathy,  by  nature, 
To  all  infliction  of  corporeal  pain, 
To  wounding  life,  e'en  td  the  sight  of  blood, 
He  cannot  if  he  would. 

Frib.  Then  fy  upon  thee  ! 

It  is  not  generous  to  provoke  him  thus. 
But  let  us  part:  we'll  talk  of  this  again. 
Something  approaches. — ^We  are  here  too  long. 

Rez.  Well,  then,  to-morrow  I'll  attend  your  call. 
Here  lies  my  way.    Good  night.  [Exit. 

Enter  Conrad. 

Con.  Forgive,  I  pray,  my  lord,  a  stranger's  bold- 
ness. 
I  have  presumed  to  wait  your  leisure  here, 
Though  at  so  late  an  hour. 

Freh.  But  who  art  thou  ? 

Con.  My  name  is  Conrad,  sir, 
A  humble  suitor  to  your  honour's  goodness, 
Who  is  the  more  imbolden'd  to  presume, 
In  that  De  Monfort's  brave  and  noble  marquis 
Is  so  much  famed  for  good  and  generous  deeds. 

Freb.  You  are  mistaken,  I  am  not  the  man. 

Con.  Then,  pardon  me :  I  thought  I   could  not 
err; 
That  mien  so  dignified,  that  piercing  eye 
Assured  me  it  was  he. 

Freh.  My  name  is   not  De  Monfort,  courteous 
stranger ; 
But  if  you  have  a  favour  to  request, 
I  may,  with  him,  perhaps,  befriend  your  suit. 

Con.  I  thank  your  honour,  but  I  have  a  friend 
Who  will  commend  me  to  De  Monfort's  favour; 
The  Marquis  Rezenvelt  has  known  me  long. 
Who,  says  report,  will  soon  become  his  brother. 

Freb.  If  thou  wouldst  seek  thy  ruin  from  De 
Monfort, 
The  name  of  Rezenvelt  employ,  and  prosper ; 
But,  if  aught  good,  use  any  name  but  his. 

Con.  How  may  this  be  ? 

Freb.  I  cannot  now  explain. 

Early  to-morrow  call  upon  Count  Freberg ; 
So  am  I  call'd,  each  burgher  knows  my  house, 
And  there  instruct  me  how  to  do  you  service. 
Good-night.  [Exit. 

Con.  i^alone.)  Well,  this  mistake  may  be  of  ser- 
vice to  me : 
And  yet  my  business  I  will  not  unfold 
To  this  mild,  ready,  promise-making  courtier  ; 
I've  been  by  such  too  oft  deceived  already. 
But  if  such  violent  enmity  exists 
Between  De  Monfort  and  this  Rezenvelt; 
He'll  prove  my  advocate  by  opposition. 
For  if  De  Monfort  would  reject  my  suit. 
Being  the  man  whom  Rezenvelt  esteems, 
Being  the  man  he  hates,  a  cord  as  strong. 
Will  he  not  favour  me  ?   I'll  think  of  this.    [Exit. 

Scene  II. — a  lower  apartment    in    jerobie's 

HOUSE,  with  a  wide,  FOLDING  GLASS  DOOR, 
LOOKING  INTO  A  GARDEN,  WHERE  THE  TREES  AND 
SHRUBS  ARE  BROWN  AND  LEAFLESS. 

Enter  De  Monfort  with  a  thoughtful,  frowning  aspect, 
and  paces  slowly  across  the  stage,  Jerome  following 


behind  him,  willi  a  timid  step.    De  Monfort,  hearing 
him,  turns  suddenly  about. 

De  Mon.   [angrily.)    Who  follows  me  to  this 

sequester'd  room  ? 
Jer.  I  have  presumed,  my  lord.     'Tis  somewbat 
late: 
I  am  inform'd  you  eat  at  home  to-night ; 
Here  is  a  list  of  all  the  dainty  fare 
My  busy  search  has  found  ;  please  to  peruse  it. 
De  Mon.  Leave  me  :   begone  !   Put  hemlock  in 
thy  soup, 
Or  deadly  night-shade,  or  rank  hellebore. 
And  I  will  mess  upon  it. 

Jer.  Heaven  forbid ! 

Your  honour's  life  is  all  too  precious,  sure — 
De  Mon.  {^sternly.)  Did  I  not  say  begone  ? 
Jer.  Pardon,  my  lord,  I'm  old,  and  oft  forget. 

[Exit. 
Be  Mon.  [looking  after  him,  as  if  his  heart  smote 
him.)    Why  will  they  thus  mistime  their 
foolish  zeal. 
That  I  must  be  so  sterii  ? 
O,  that  I  were  upon  some  desert  coast ! 
Where  howling  tempests  and  the  lashing  tide 
Would  stun  me  into  deep  and  senseless  quiet ; 
As  the  storm-beaten  traveller  droops  his  head, 
In  heavy,  dull,  lethargick  weariness, 
And,  midst  the  roar  of  jarring  elements. 
Sleeps  to  awake  no  more. 
What  am  I  grown  ?  all  things  are  hateful  to  me.     . 

Enter  Manuel. 

[Stamping  with  his  foot.)  Who  bids  thee  break 

upon  my  privacy  ? 
Ma.n.  Nay,  good  my  lord !  I  heard  you  speak 

aloud, 
And  dreamt  not,  surely,  that  you  were  alone. 
De  Mon.  What,  dost  thou  watch,  and  pin  thine 

ears  to  holes. 
To  catch  those  exclamations  of  the  soul. 
Which  heaven  alone  should  hear  ?    Who  hired  thee 

pray  ? 
W^ho  basely  hired  thee  for  a  task  like  this  ? 

Man.  My  lord,  I  cannot  hold.     For  fifteen  years 
Long  troubled  years,  I  have  your  servant  been, 
Nor  hath  the  proudest  lord  in  all  the  realm. 
With  firmer,  with  more  honourable  faith 
His  sovereign  served,  than  I  have  served  you  ; 
But  if  my  honesty  is  doubted  now. 
Let  him  who  is  more  faithful  take  my  place, 
And  serve  you  better. 
De  Mon.  Well,  be  it  as  thou  wilt.    Away  with 

thee ! 
Thy  loud-mouth'd  boasting  is  no  rule  for  me 
To  judge  thy  merit  by. 

Enter  Jerome  hastily,  and  pulls  Manuel  away. 
Jer.  Come,  Manuel,  come  a'vay;  thou  art  not 
wise. 
The  stranger  must  depart  and  come  again. 
For  now  his  honour  will  not  be  disturb'd. 

[Exit  Manuel,  sulkily, 
De  Mon.  A  stranger  said'st  thou  ? 

[Drops  his  handkerchief.) 
Jer.  I  did,  good  sir,  but  he  shall  go  away  ; 


DE   xMONFORT. 


347 


Fou  shall  not  be  disturb 'd. 

[Stooping  to  lift  the  handkerchief.) 
You  have  dropp'd  somewhat. 
De  Mon.   [preventing  him.)  Nay,  do  not  stoop, 
my  friend  !  I  pray  thee  not ! 
Thou  art  too  old  to  stoop. — 
I'm  much  indebted  to  thee. — Take  this  ring — 
I  love  thee  better  than  I  seem  to  do. 
I  pray  thee  do  it — thank  me  not — What  stranger  ? 

Jer.  A  man  who  does  most  earnestly  entreat 
To  see  your  honour  ;  but  I  know  him  not. 

2)e  Mon.  Then  let  him  enter.         [Exit  Jerome. 

A  pause.    Enter  Conrad. 

De  Mon.  You  are  the  stranger  who  would  speak 
with  me  ? 

Con.  I  am  so  far  unfortunate,  my  lord, 
That,  though  my  fortune  on  your  favour  hangs, 
I  am  to  you  a  stranger. 

De  Mon.  How  may  this  be  ?    What  can  I  do  for 
you? 

Con.  Since  thus  your  lordship  does  so  frankly 
ask. 
The  tiresome  preface  of  apology 
I  will  forbear,  and  tell  my  tale  at  once. — 
In  plodding  drudgery  I've  spent  my  youth, 
A  careful  penman  in  another's  office  ; 
And  now,  my  master  and  employer  dead, 
They  seek  to  set  a  stripling  o'er  my  head. 
And  leave  me  on  to  drudge,  e'en  to  old  age, 
Because  I  have  no  friend  to  take  my  part. 
It  is  an  office  in  your  native  town. 
For  I  am  come  from  thence,  and  1  am  told 
You  can  procure  it  for  me.     Thus,  my  lord. 
From  the  repute  of  goodness  vv^hlch  you  bear, 
I  have  presumed  to  beg. 

De  Mon.  They  have  befool'd  thee  with  a  false 
report. 

Con.  Alas  !  I  see  it  is  in  vain  to  plead. 
Your  mind  is  prepossess'd  against  a  wretch, 
Who  has,  unfortunately  for  his  weal, 
Offended  the  revengeful  Rezenvelt. 

De  Mon.  What  dost  thou  say  ? 

Con.  What  I,  perhaps,  had  better  leave  unsaid. 
Who  will  believe  n.y  wrongs  if  I  complain  ? 
I  am  a  stranger,  Rezenvelt  my  foe. 
Who  will  believe  my  wrongs  r 

De  Mon.  [eagerly  catching  him  by  the  coat.) 

I  will  believe  them  ! 
Though  they  were  base  as  basest,  vilest  deeds. 
In  ancient  record  told,  I  would  believe  them  ! 
Let  not  the  smallest  atom  of  unworthincso 
That  he  has  put  upon  thee  be  conceal'd. 
^Speak  boldly,  tell  it  all ;  for,  by  the  light ! 
I'll  be  thy  friend,  I'll  be  thy  warmest  friend. 
If  he  has  done  thee  wrong. 

Con.  Nay,  pardon  me,  it  were  not  well  advised, 
(f  I  should  speak  so  freely  of  th€  man 
vVho  would  so  soon  your  nearest  kinsman  be. 

De  Mun.  What  canst  thou  mean  by  this  ? 

Con.  That  Marc^uis  Rezenvelt 

Has  pledged  his  faith  unto  your  noble  sister. 
And  soon  will  be  the  husband  of  her  choice. 
So  I  am  told,  and  so  the  world  believes. 

De  Mon.  'Tis  false  !  'tis  basely  false  ! 
What  wretch  could  drop  from  his  envenom'd  tongue 


A  tale  so  damn'd  ? — It  chokes  my  breath — 
[Stamping  with  his  foot.)  What  wretch  did  tell  it 
thee  ? 
Con.  Nay,  every  one  with  whom  I  have  con- 
versed 
Has  held  the  same  discourse.     I  judge  it  not. 
But  you,  my  lord,  who  with  the  lady  dwell, 
You  best  can  tell  what  her  deportment  speaks  ; 
Whether  her  conduct  and  unguarded  words 
Belie  such  rumour. 

(De  Monfort  pauses,  staggers   backward,  ana 
sinks  into  a  chair  ;  then  starting  up  hastily.) 
De  Mon.    Where   am  I  now  ?    midst  all    the 
cursed  thoughts. 
That  on  my  soul  like  stinging  scorpions  prey'd. 

This  never  came  before 0,  if  it  be  ! 

The  thought  will  drive  me  mad. — Was  it  for  this 
She  urged  her  warm  request  on  bended  knee  ? 
Alas  !  I  wept,  and  thought  of  sister's  love. 
No  damned  love  like  this. 
Fell  devil !  'tis  hell  itself  has  lent  thee  aid 
To  work  such  sorcery  !  [Pauses.)  I'll  not  believe  it, 
I  must  have  proof  clear  as  the  noonday  sun 
For  such  foul  charge  as  this !  Who  waits  without  ? 
[Paces  up  and' doxvn,  furiously  agitated.) 
Con.   [aside.)  What  have  I  done  ?  I've  carried 
this  too  far. 
I've  roused  a  fierce,  ungovernable  madman. 

Enter  Jerome. 
De  Mon.  [in  a  loud,  angry  voice.)  Where  did  she 
go,  at  such  an  early  hour. 
And  with  such  slight  attendance  ? 
Jer.  Of  whom  inquires  your  honour  . 
De  Mon.   Why,  of  your  lady.     Said  I  not  my 

sister  ? 
Jer.  The  Lady  Jane,  your  sister  ? 
De  Mon.  [in  a  faltering  voice.)  Yes,  I  did  call 

her  so. 
Jer.   In   truth,  I   cannot    tell  you  where    she 
went. 
E'en  now,  from  the  short  beechen  walk  hard  by, 
I  saw  her  through  the  garden  gate  return. 
The  Marquis  Rezenvelt,  and  Freberg's  Countess, 
Are  in  her  company.     This  way  they  come, 
As  being  nearer  to  the  back  apartments  ; 
But  I  shall  stop  them  if  it  be  your  will. 
And  bid  them  enter  here. 
De  Mon.   No,  stop  them  not.    I  will  remain 
unseen. 
And  mark  them  as  they  pass.     Draw  back  a  little. 
(Conrad  seems  alarmed,  and  steals  off  unnoticed^. 
De  Monfort   grasps    Jerome   tightly   by  the 
hand,  and  drawing  back  with  him  two  or  three 
steps,  not  to  be  seen  from  the  garden,  waits  in 
silence,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  glass  door.) 
I  hear  their  footsteps  on  the  grating  sand: 
How  like  the  croaking  of  a  carrion  bird. 
That  hateful  voice  sounds  to  the  distant  ear ! 
And  now  she  speaks — her  voice   sounds   cheerly 

too — 
Cursed  be  their  mirth  !• 

Now,  now,  they  come ;  keep  closer  still !   keep 
steady !  ' 

[Taking  hold  of  Jerome  tvith both  hands,) 
Jer.  My  lord,  you  tremble  much. 
De  Mon.  What,  do  I  shake  ? 


348 


BAILLIE. 


Jer.  You  do,  in  truth,  and  your  teeth  chatter  too. 
De  Mon.  See  !  see  they  come  !  he  strutting  by 

her  side. 
(Jane,  Rezenvelt,  and  Countess  Freberg  appear 
through  the  glass  door,  pursuing  their  way  up 
a  short  xoalk  leading  to  the  other  wing  of  the 
house.) 
See,  his  audacious  face  he  turns  to  hers  ; 
Uttering  with  confidence  some  nauseous  jest. 
And  she  endures  it  too — 0  this  looks  vilely  I 
Ha !  mark  that  courteous  motion  of  his  arm — 
What  does  he  mean  ? — he  dares  not  take  her  hand  ! 
(Pauses  and  looks  eagerly.)  By  heaven  and  hell 
he  does  ! 
(Letting  go  his  hold  of  .Jerome,  he  throws  out  his 
hands   vehemently,  and    thereby  pushes    him 
against  the  scene.) 
Jer.   0  !   I  am  stunn'd !   my  head  is  crack'd  in 
twain : 
Your  honour  does  forget  how  old  I  am. 
De  Mon.  Well,  well,  the  wal    is  harder  than  I 
wist. 
Begone,  and  whine  within. 

[Exit  Jerome,  with  a  sad,  rueful  countenance. 
De  Mon  fort  comes  forward  to  the  front  of  the 
stage,  and  makes  a  long  pause,  expressive  of 
great  agony  of  mind.) 
It  must  be  so :  each  passing  circumstance ; 
Her  hasty  journey  here ;  her  keen  distress 
Whene'er  my  soul's  abhorrence  I  express'd ; 
Ay,  and  that  damned  reconciliation. 
With  tears  extorted  from  me  ;  0,  too  well ! 
All,  all  too  well  bespeak  the  shameful  tale. 
I  should  have  thought  of  heaven  and  hell  conjoin 'd. 
The  morning  star  mix'd  with  infernal  fire. 
Ere  I  had  thought  of  this — 
Hell's  blackest  magic,  in  the  midnight  hour. 
With  horrid  spells  and  incantation  dire, 
Such  combination  opposite,  unseemly, 
Of  fair  and  loathsome,  excellent  and  base, 
Did  ne'er  produce — But  every  thing  is  possible, 
So  as  it  may  my  misery  enhance  ! 

0  !  I  did  love  her  with  such  pride  of  soul ! 
When  other  men,  in  gay  pursuit  of  love. 
Each  beauty  follow'd,  by  her  side  I  stay'd 
Far  prouder  of  a  brother's  station  there, 
Than  all  the  favours  favour'd  lovers  boast. 
We  quarrell'd  once,  and  when  I  could  no  more 
The  alter'd  coldness  of  her  eye  endure, 

1  slipp'd  o'  tip-toe  to  her  chamber  door  ; 

And  when  she  ask'd  who  gently  knock'd — 0  !  0  ! 
Who  could  have  thought  of  this  ? 

{Throws  himself  into  a  chair,  covers  his  face  with 
his  hand,  and  bursts  into  tears.     After  some 
time  he  starts  up  from  his  seat  furiously .) 
Hell's  direst  torment  seize  the  infernal  villain  ! 
Detested  of  my  soul !  I  will  have  vengeance  ! 
.'11  crush  thy  swelling  pride — I'll  still  thy  vaunt- 
ing— 
I'll  do  a  deed  of  blood  ! — Why  shrink  I  thus  ? 
If,  by  some  spell  or  magic  sympathy, 
Piercing  the  lifeless  figure  on  that  wall 
Could  pierce  his  bosom  too,  would  I  not  cast  it  ? 
(Throwing  a  dagger  against  the  wall.) 
Shall  groans  »nd  blood  affright  me  ?    No,  I'll  do  it. 
ough  gasping  life  beneath  my  pressure  heaved,  j 


And  my  soul  shudder'd  at  the  horrid  brink, 
I  would  not  flinch. — Fy,  this  recalling  nature  ! 

0  that  his  sever'd  limbs  were  strcw'd  in  air, 
So  as  I  saw  it  not ! 

Enter  Rezenvelt  behind  from  the  glass  door.  Da  MoK. 
FORT  turns  round,  and  on  seeing  him  starts  back,  tkea 
drawing  his  sword,  rushes  furiously  upon  him. 

Detested  robber  I  now  all  forms  are  over ; 
Now  open  villany,  now  open  hate  ! 
Defend  thy  life  ! 

Rez.  De  Monfort,  thou  art  mad. 

De  Mon.  Speak  not,  but   draw.     Now  for  Ihy 
hated  life  ! 

(They  fight :  Rezenvelt  parries  his  thrusts  with 
great  skill,  and  at  last  disarms  him.) 
Then  take  my  life,  black  fiend,  for  hell  assists 
thee. 

Rez.    No,  Monfort,  but  I'll  take    away  your 
sword. 
Not  as  a  mark  of  disrespect  to  you. 
But  for  your  safety.     By  to-morrow's  eve 
I'll  call  on  you  myself  and  give  it  back  ; 
And  then,  if  I  am  charged  with  any  wrong, 
I'll  justify  myself.     Farewell,  strange  man  ! 

[Exit. 

(De  Monfovt  stands  for  some  time  quite  motion- 
less, like  one  stupified.  Enters  to  him  a  Servant : 
he  starts. ) 

De  Mon.  Ha  !  who  art  thou  ? 

Ser.  'Tis  I,  an'  please  your  honour. 

De  Mon.   (staring  wildly  at  him.)   Who     art 
thou?   . 

Ser.  Your  servant  Jacques. 

De  Mon.  Indeed  I  knew  thee  not. 

Leave  me,  and  when  Rezenvelt  is  gone, 
Return  and  let  me  know. 

Ser.  He's  gone  already. 

De  Mon.  How  !  is  he  gone  so  soon  ? 

Ser.  His  servant  told  me, 

He  was  in  haste  to  go ;  as  night  comes  on. 
And  at  the  evening  hour  he  purposes 
To  visit  some  old  friend,  whose  lonely  mansion 
Stands  a  short  mile  beyond  the  farther  wood, 
In  which  a  convent  is  of  holy  nuns 
Who  chant  this  night  a  requiem  to  the  soul 
Of  a  departed  sister.     For  so  well 
He  loves  such  solemn  music,  he  has  order'd 
His  horses  onward  by  the  usual  road. 
Meaning  on  foot  to  cross  the  wood  alone. 
So  says  his  knave.     Good  may  it  do  him,  sooth  ! 

1  would  not  walk  through  those  wild  dells  alone 
For  all  his  wealth.    For  there,  as  I  have  heard, 
Foul  murders  have  been  done,  and  ravens  scream , 
And  things  unearthly,  stalking  through  the  night 
Have  scared  the  lonely  traveller  from  his  wits. 

(De  Monfort  stands  fixed  in  thought.) 
I've  ta'en  your  mare,  an'  please  you,  from  her  field. 
And  wait  your  farther  orders. 

(De  Monfort  heeds  him  not.) 
Her  hoofs  are  sound,  and  where  the  saddle  gall'd. 
Begins  to  mend.    What  further  must  h'e  done  ? 

(De  Monfort  still  teeds  him  not.) 
His  honour  heeds  me  not.     Why  should  I  stay  ? 
De  Mon.  (eagerly,  as  he  is  going.)  He  goes 
alone,  saidst  thou  .? 


DE    MONFORT. 


349 


Ser.  His  servant  told  me  so. 
De  Mon.  And  at  what  hour  ? 

Ser.  He  'parts  from  Amberg  by  the  fall  of  eve. 
Save  you,  my  lord  !  how  changed  your  countenance 

is! 
Are  you  not  well  ? 

De  Mon.  Yes,  I  am  well:  begone, 

And  wait  my  orders  by  the  city  wall : 
I'll  that  way  bend,  and  speak  to  thee  again. 

[Exit  Servant. 

(De  Monfort  walks  rapidly  two  or  three  times 

across  the  stage  ;  then  seizes  his  dagger  from 

the  wall ;   looks  steadfastly  at  its  point,  and 

Exit  hastily.) 

Scene  III. — moonlight,      a    wild  path  in  a 

WOOD,  SHADED  WITH  TREES. 

Enter  De  Monfort,  with  a  strong  expression  of  disquiet, 
mixed  with  fear,  upon  his  face,  looking  behind  him, 
and  bending  his  ear  to  the  ground,  as  if  he  listened  to 
something. 

De  Mon.  How  hollow  groans  the  earth  beneath 
my  tread ! 
Is  there  an  echo  here  ?   Methinks  it  sounds 
As  though  some  heavy  footstep  follow'd  me 
I  will  advance  no  farther. 
Deep  settled  shadows  rest  across  the  path, 
And  thickly-tangled  boughs  o'erhang  this  spot. 
O  that  a  tenfold  gloom  did  cover  it ! 
That  midst  the  murky  darkness  I  might  strike  ; 
As  in  the  wild  confusion  of  a  dream. 
Things  horrid,  bloody,  terrible  do  pass. 
As  though  they  pass'd  not ;  nor  impress  the  mind 
With  the  fix'd  clearness  of  reality. 

{An  owl  is  heard  screaming  near  him.) 
[Starting.)  What  sound  is  that  ? 

[Listens,  and  the  owl  cries  again.) 
It  is  the  screech  owl's  cry. 
Foul  bird  of  night !  what  spirit  guides  thee  here  ? 
Art  thou  instinctive  drawn  to  scenes  of  horror  ? 
I've  heard  of  this.  (Pauses  and  listens.) 

How  those  fall'n  leaves  so  rustle  on  the  path. 
With  whispering  noise,  as  though  the  earth  around 

me 
Did  utter  secret  things  ! 
The  distant  river  too,  bears  to  mine  ear 
A  dismal  wailing.     0  mysterious  night ! 
Thou  art  not  silent ;  many  tongues  hast  thou. 
A  distant  gathering  blast  sounds  through  the  wood. 
And  dark  clouds  fleetly  hasten  o'er  the  sky : 

0  !  that  a  storm  would  rise,  a  raging  storm  ; 
Amidst  the  roar  of  warring  elements 

I'd  lift  my  hand  and  strike  !  but  this  pale  light, 
The  calm  distinctness  of  each  stilly  thing. 
Is  terrible.     [Starting.)     Footsteps  are  near — 
He  comes  !  he  comes  !  I'll  watch  him  farther  on — 

1  cannot  do  it  here.  [Exit. 

Enter  Rezenvelt,  and  continues  his  way  slowly  from 
the  bottom  of  the  stage :  as  he  advances  to  the  front, 
the  owl  screams,  he  stops  and  listens,  and  the  owl 
screams  again. 

Rez.  Ha  !  does  the  night-bird  greet  me  on  my 
way  ? 
How  much  his  hooting  is  in  harmony 
With  such  a  scene  as  this  I  I  like  it  well. 
Oft  when  a  boy,  at  the  still  twilight  hour, 


I've  leant  my  back  against  some  knotted  oak, 

And  loudly  mimick'd  him,  till  to  my  call 

He  answer  would  return,  and  through  the  gloom. 

We  friendly  converse  held. 

Between  me  and  the  star-bespangled  sky. 

Those  aged  oaks  their  crossing  branches  wave. 

And  through  them  looks  the  pale  and  placid  moon. 

How  like  a  crocodile,  or  winged  snake. 

Yon  sailing  cloud  bears  on  its  dusky  length  ! 

And  now  transformed  by  the  passing  wind, 

Methinks  it  seems  a  flying  Pegasus. 

Ay,  but  a  shapeless  band  of  blacker  hue 

Come  swiftly  after. — 

A  hollow  murmuring  wind  sounds  through  the 

trees ; 
I  hear  it  from  afar ;  this  bodes  a  storm. 
I  must  not  linger  here — 

[A  bell  heard  at  some  distance.) 
The  convent  bell. 
'Tis  distant  still :  it  tells  their  hour  of  prayer. 
It  sends  a  solemn  sound  upon  the  breeze. 
That,  to  a  fearful  superstitious  mind. 
In  such  a  scene,  would  like  a  death-knell  come. 

[Exit. 

ACT   V. 
Scene  I. — the  inside  of  a  convent  chapel,  of 

OLD  GOTHIC  ARCHITECTURE,  ALMOST  DARK  :  TWO 
TORCHES  ONLY  ARE  SEEN  AT  A  DISTANCE,  BURNING 
OVER  A  NEWLY-COVEBED  GRAVE.  LIGHTNING  IS 
SEEN  FLASHING  THROUGH  THE  WINDOWS,  AND 
THUNDER  HEARD,  WITH  THE  SOUND  OV  WIND 
BEATING  UPON  THE  BUILDING. 

Enter  two  Monks. 
\st  Monk.    The  storm  increases :    hark  how 
dismally 
It  howls  along  the  cloisters.    How  goes  time  ? 
2d  Monk.  It  is  the  hour :   I  hear  them  near  at 
hand: 
And  when  the  solemn  requiem  has  been  sung 
For  the  departed  sister,  we'll  retire. 
Yet,  should  this  tempest  still  more  violent  grow, 
We'll  beg  a  friendly  shelter  till  the  morn. 

\st  Monk.  See,  the  procession  enters :  let  us  join. 
[The  organ  strikes  up  a  solemn  prelude.) 

Enter  a  procession  of  Nuns,  with  the  Abbess,  bearing 
torches.  After  compassing  the  grave  twice,  and  r> 
maining  there  some  time,  the  organ  plays  a  grand 
dirge,  whilst  they  stand  round  the  grave. 

THE  BURIAL. 

Departed  soul,  whose  poor  remains 
This  hallow'd  lonely  grave  contains; 
Whose  passing  storm  of  life  is  o'er. 
Whose  pains  and  sorrows  are  no  more ; 
Bless'd  be  thou  with  the  bless'd  above  1 
WTiere  all  is  joy,  and  purity,  and  love. 

Let  HIM,  in  might  and  mercy  dread, 

Lord  of  the  living  and  the  dead  ; 

In  v;hom  the  stars  of  heaven  rejoice, 

And  the  ocean  lifts  its  voice ; 

Thy  spirit,  purified,  to  glory  raise 

To  sing  with  holy  saints  his  everlasting  praise  1 

Departed  soul,  who  in  this  earthly  scene 
Hast  our  lowly  sister  been, 
Swift  be  thy  way  to  where  the  blessed  dwell ! 
Until  we  meet  thee  there,  farewell !  farewell' 


350 


BAILLIE, 


Enter  a  young  Pensioner,  with  a  wild,  terrified  look,  her 
hair  and  dress  all  scattered,  an  J  rushes  forward 
amongst  them. 

Abb.  Why  comest  thou  here,  with  such  disorder'd 
looks, 
To  break  upon  our  sad  solemnity  ? 

Pen.  0  !  I  did  hear  through  the  receding  blast, 
Such  horrid  cries  !  they  made  my  blood  run  chill. 

Abb.  'Tis  but  the  varied  voices  of  the  storm, 
Which  many  times  will  sound  like  distant  screams  ; 
It  has  deceived  thee. 

Pen.  0  no,  for  twice  it  call'd,  so  loudly  call'd, 
With  horrid  strength,  beyond  the  pitch  ci  r-^ature  ; 
And  murder  !  murder  !  was  the  dreadful  cry. 
A  third  time  it  return'd  with  feeble  strength, 
But  o'  the  sudden  ceased,  as  though  the  words 
Were  smother'd  rudely  in  the  grappled  throat. 
And  all  was  still  again,  save  the  wild  blast 
Which  at  a  distance  growl'd — 

0  !  it  will  never  from  my  mind  depart ! 
That  dreadful  cry,  all  i'  the  instant  still'd  : 
For  then,  so  near,  some  horrid  deed  was  done. 
And  none  to  rescue. 

Abb.  Where  didst  thou  bear  it  f 
Pen.  In  the  higher  cells, 

As  now  a  window,  open'd  by  the  storm, 

1  did  attempt  to  close. 

1st  Monk.  I  wish  our  brother  Bernard  were  ar- 
rived ; 
Ue  is  upon  his  way. 

^66.  Be  not  alaim'd ;  it  still  may  be  deception. 
'Tis  meet  we  finish  our  solemnity. 
Nor  show  neglect  unto  the  honour'd  dead. 

( Gives  a  sign,  and  the  organ  plays  again :  Just 
as  it  ceases  a  loud  knocking  is  heard  without.) 
Abb.  Ha  !  who  may  this  be  ?  hush  ! 

{Knocking  heard  again.) 
2d  Monk.  It  is  the  knock  of  one  in  furious  haste. 
Hush !  hush  !  What  footsteps  come  ?    Ha  !  brother 
Bernard. 

Enter  Bernard,  bearing  a  lantern. 

\st  Monk.  See,  what  a  look  he  wears  of  stifTen'd 
feai . 
Where  hast  the  a  been,  good  brother  t 

Bern.  I've  seer,  a  horrid  sight ! 

{^All  gathering  round  him  and  speaking  at  once.) 
What  hast  thou  seen  .? 

Bern.  As  on  I  hasten'd,  bearing  thus  my  light, 
Across  the  f  .ath,  not  fifty  paces  off, 
I  saw  a  murder'd  corse,  stretch'd  on  his  back, 
Smear'd  with  new  blood,  as  though  but  newly  slain. 

Abb.  A  man  or  woman  was't .? 

Bern.  A  man,  a  man  ! 

Abb.  Didst  thou  examine  if  within  its  breast 
There  yet  were  lodged  some  small  remains  of  life  ? 
A^as  it  quite  dead  .? 

Bern.  Naught  in  the  grave  is  deader. 

look'd  but  once,  yet  life  did  never  lodge 
In  any  form  so  laid, — 
A  chiliy  norror  seized  me,  and  I  fled. 

1st  Monk.  And  does  the  face  seem  all  unknown 
to  thee  ? 

Bern.  The  face !  I  would  not  on  the  face  have 
look'd 
For  e'en  a  kingdom's  wealth,  for  all  the  world ! 


0  no  !  the  bloody  neck,  the  bloody  neck  ! 
[Shaking  his  head  and  shuddering  with  horror. 

Loud  knocking  heard  xuithout.) 
Sist.  Good  mercy  I  who  comes  next  ? 
Bern.  Not  far  behino 

1  left  our  brother  Thomas  on  the  road  ; 
But  then  he  did  repent  him  as  he  went 
And  threaten'd  to  return. 

2d  Monk.  See,  here  he  comes. 

Enter  Brother  Thomas,  with  a  wild,  terrified  look. 

1st  Monk.  How  wild  he  looks  ! 

Berii.   [going  up  to  him  eagerly.)  What,  hast 

thou  seen  it  too  ? 
Thorn.  Yes,  yes  !  it  glared  upon  me  as  it  pass'd. 
Bern.  What  glared  upon  thee  ? 
[All  gathering  round  Thomas,  and  speaking  at 
once.) 

O  !  what  hast  thou  seen 
Thorn.  As,  striving  with  the  blast,  I   onward 
came, 
Turning  my  feeble  lantern  from  the  wind,' 
Its  light  upon  a  dreadful  visage  gleam'd. 
Which  paused  and  look'd  upon  me  as  it  pass'd. 
But  such  a  look,  such  wildness  of  despair. 
Such  horror-s train 'd  features,  never  yet 
Did  earthly  visage  show.     I  shrunk  and  shudder'd. 
If  a  damn'-d  spirit  may  to  earth  return, 
I've  seen  it. 

Bei-n.  Was  there  any  blood  upon  it  ? 

Thom.  Nay,  as  it  pass'd,  I  did  not  see  its  form  j 
Naught  but  the  horrid  face. 
Be7-n.  It  is  the  murderer. 

1st  Monk.  What  way  went  it  .> 

Thom.  I  durst  not  look  till  I  had  pass'd  it  far. 
Then  turning  round,  upon  the  rising  bank, 
I  saw,  between  me  and  the  paly  sky, 
A  du£ky  form,  tossing  and  agitated. 
I  stopp'd  to  mark  it ;  but,  in  truth,  I  found 
'Twas  but  a  sapling  bending  to  the  wind, 
And  so  I  onward  hied,  and  look'd  no  more. 

1st  Monk.  But  we  must  look  to't ;  we  must  fol- 
low it : 
Our  duty  so  commands.     [To  2d  Monk.)  Will  you 

go,  brother  ? 
[To  Bernard.)  And  you,  good  Bernard  ? 

Bern.  If  I  needs  must  go. 

1st  Monk.  Come,  we  must  all  go. 
Abb.  Heaven  be  with  you,  then  ! 

[Exeunt  Monks. 
Pen.  Amen  !   amen  !   Good  heaven  be  with  ug 
all ! 

0  what  a  dreadful  night ! 

Abb.  Dau^iters,  retire  ;  peace  to   the  peaceful 
dead ! 
Our  solemn  ceremony  now  is  finish'd.       [Exeunt 

Scene  II. — a  large  room  in  the  convent,  very 

DARK. 

Enter  the  Abbess,  young  Pensioner  rearing  a  light, 
and  several  Nuns  ;  she  sets  down  the  light  on  a  table 
at  the  bottom  of  the  stage,  so  that  the  room  is  still  very 
gloomy. 

Alb.    They  have  been   longer    absent  t'iian  I 
thought ; 

1  fear  he  has  escaped  them. 

1st  Nun.  Heaven  forbid  ! 


DE   MONFORT. 


351 


Pen    No,  no,  found  out  foul  murder  ever  is, 
And  the  foul  murderer  too. 

2d  Nun.  The  good  Saint  Francis  will  direct  their 
search ; 
The  blood  so  near  this  holy  convent  shed 
For  threefold  vengeance  calls. 

Abb.  I  hear  a  noise  within  the  inner  court — 
They  are  return'd  ;   [listening;)    and   Bernard's 

voice  I  hear : 
TUey  are  return'd. 

Pen.  Why  do  I  tremble  so  ? 

It  is  not  I  who  ought  to  tremble  thus. 
2d  Nun.  I  hear  them  at  the  door. 
Bern,  {xinthout.)  Open  the  door,  I  pray  thee, 
brother  Thomas  ; 
I  cannot  now  unhand  the  prisoner. 
(All  speak  together,  shrinking  back  from  the 
door,  and  staring  upon  one  another.) 
He  is  with  them  ! 
(J.  folding  door  at  the  bottom  of  the  stage  is 
opened,  and  enter  Bernard,  Thomas,  and  the 
other  two  Monks,  cS-rying  lanterns  in  their 
hands  and  bringing  in  Be  Monfort.      TTiey 
are  likewise  followed  by  other  Monks.     As  they 
lead  forward  De  Monfort,  the  light  is  turned 
away,  so  that  he  is  seen  obscurely  ;  but  when 
they  come  to  the  front  of  the  stage,  they  turn 
the  light  side  of  their  lanterns  on  him  at  once, 
and  his  face  is  seen  in  all  the  strengthened 
horror  of  despair,  W'ith  his  hands  and  clothes 
bloody.     Abbess  and  Nuns  speak  at  once,  and 
start  back.) 

Holy  saints  be  with  us  ! 
Bern,  [to  Abb.)  Behold  the  man  of  blood  ! 
Abb.  Of  misery  too  ;  I  cannot  look  upon  him. 
Bern,  (fo  Nuns.)  Nay,  holy  sisters,  turn  not  thus 
away. 
Speak  to  him,  if,  perchance,  he  will  regard  you: 
For  from  his  mouth  we  have  no  utterance  heard. 
Save  one  deep  groan  and  smother'd  exclamation, 
When  first  we  seized  him. 

Abb.  [to  De  Mon.)  Most  miserable  man,  how  art 
thou  thus  ?  [Pauses.) 

Thy  tongue  is  silent,  but  those  bloody  hands 
Do  witness  horrid  things.     What  is  thy  name  ? 
T)e  Mon.  [roused,  looks  steadfastly  at  the  Abbess 
for  some  time,  then  speaking  in  a  short 
hurried  voice.)  I  have  no  name. 
Abb.  [to  Beni.)  Do  it  thyself;  I'll  speak  to  him 

no  more. 
Pen.  0  holy  saints  !  that  this  should  be  the  man 
Who  did  against  his  fellow  lift  the  stroke. 
Whilst  he  so  loudly  call'd.— 
Still  in  my  ears  it  rings  :  0  murder  !  murder  ! 
De  Mon.  [starting.)  He  calls  again  ! 
Pen.  No,  he  did  call,  but  now  his  voice  is  still'd. 
'Tis  past. 
De  Mon.  'Tis  past. 

Pen.  Yes,  it  is  past !  art  thou  not  he  who  did  it  ? 
(De  Monfort  utters  a  deep  groan,  and  is  supported 
from  falling  by  the  Monks.    A  noise  is  heard 
without.) 
Abb.  What  noise  is  this  of  heavy  lumbering  steps, 
Like  men  who  with  a  weighty  burden  come  ? 
Bern.  It  is  the  body :  I  have  orders  given 
That  here  it  should  be  laid. 


[Enter  men,  bearing   the   body  of  Rezenvelt, 
covered  with  a  white  cloth,  and  set  it  down  in 
the  middle  of  the  room :  they  then  uncover  it, 
De  Monfort  stands  fixed  and  motionless  with 
horror,  only  that  a  sudden  shivering  seems  to 
pass  over  him  when  they  uncover  the  corpse. 
The  Abbess  and  Nuns  shrink  back  and  retire 
to  soTue  distance,  all  the  rest  fixing  their  eyet 
steadfastly  upon  De  Monfort.     A  long  pa\^e.) 
Bern,    [to  De  Mon.)    Seest  thou  that  lifelesi 
corpse,  those  bloody  wounds  ? 
See  how  he  lies,  who  but  so  shortly  since 
A  living  creature  was,  with  all  the  powers 
Of  sense,  and  motion,  and  humanity  ! 
O  !  what  a  heart  had  he  who  did  this  deed  ! 

\st  Monk,  [looking  at  the  body.)  How  hard  those 
teetli  against  the  lips  are  press'd, 
As  though  he  struggled  still ! 

2d  Monk.    The   hands,  too,  clench'd :  the   last 

efforts  of  nature. 
(De  Monfort  still  stands  motionless.     Brother 
Thomas  then  goes  to  the  body,  and  raising  up 
the  head  a  little,  turns  it  toward  De  Monfort.) 
Thorn.  Know'st  thou  this  ghastly  face  ? 
De  Mon.  [putting  his  hands  before  his  face  in 
violent  perturbation.)  0  do  not !  do  not .' 
Veil  it  from  my  sight ! 
Put  me  to  any  agony  but  this  ! 

Thorn.  Ha !  dost  thou  then  confess  the  dreadful 
deed  ? 
Hast  thou  against  the  laws  of  awful  Heaven 
Such  horrid  murder  done  ?    What  fiend  could  tenjpt 
thee  ? 
[Pauses  and  looks  steadfastly  at  De  Monfort,) 
De  Mon.  I  hear  thy  words,  but  do  not  hear  their 
sense — 
Hast  thou  not  cover'd  it  ? 

Bein.  [to  Thom.)  Forbear,  my  brother,  for  thou 
seest  right  well 
He  is  not  in  a  state  to  answer  thee. 
Let  us  retire  and  leave  him  for  a  while. 
These  windows  are  with  iron  grated  o'er ; 
He  is  secured,  and  other  duty  calls. 
Thom.  Then  let  it  be. 

Bern,  [to  Monks,  ^c.)  Come,  let  us  all  depart. 
'Exeunt    Abbess    and  Nuns,  followed  by   the 
Monks.     One  Monk  lingering  a  little  behind.) 
De  Mon.  All  gone  !  [Perceiving  the  Monk.)  0 

stay  thou  here  ! 
Monk.  It  must  not  be. 

De  Mon.  I'll  give  thee  gold  ;  I'll  make  thee  rich 
in  gold. 
If  thou  wilt  stay  e'en  but  a  little  while. 
Monk.  I  must  not,  must  not  stay. 
De  Mon.  I  do  conjure  thee ! 

Monk.  I  dare  not  stay  with  thee.  [Going.) 

De  Mon.  And  wilt  thou  go  ? 

[Catching  hold  of  him  eagerly.) 
O  !  throw  thy  cloak  upon  this  grisly  form  ! 
The  unclosed  eyes  do  stare  upon  me  still. 
0  do  not  leave  me  thus  ! 

[Monk  covers  the  body,  and  Exit. 
De  Mon.  [alone,  looking  at  the  covered  body,  but 
at  a  distance.)    Alone  with  thee!  bu. 
thou  art  nothing  now. 
'Tis  done,  'tis  number'd  with  the  things  o'erpast  j 


352 


BAILLIE. 


Would,  would  it  were  to  come  ! — 

What  fated  end,  what  darkly  gathering  cloud 

Will  close  on  all  this  horror  ? 

0  that  dire  madness  would  unloose  my  thoughts, 
And  fill  my  mind  with  wildest  fantasies. 
Dark,  restless,  terrible  !  aught,  aught  but  this  ! 

[Pauses  and  shudders.) 
How  with  convulsive  life  he  heaved  beneath  me, 
E'en  with  the  death's  wound  gored  !   O  horrid, 

horrid  ! 
Methinks  I  feel  him  still. — What  sound  is  that  ? 

1  heard  a  smother'd  groan. — It  is  impossible  .' 

[Looking  steadfastly  at  the  body.) 
It  moves  !  it   moves  !  the  cloth  doth  heave   and 

swell. 
It  moves  again  !  I  cannot  suffer  this — 
Whate'er  it  be,  I  will  uncover  it. 

[Runs  to  the  corpse,  and  tears  off  the  cloth  in 
despair.) 
All  still  beneath. 

Naught  is  there  here  but  fix'd  and  grisly  death. 
How  sternly  fix'd !  O  !  those  glazed  eyes  ! 
They  look  upon  me  still. 

[Shrinks  back  with  horror.) 
Come,  madness  !  come  unto  me,  senseless  death ! 
I  cannot  suffer  this  !  Here,  rocky  wall, 
Scatter  these  brains,  or  dull  them  ! 

[Runs  furiously,  and,  dashing  his  head  against 
the  wall,  falls  upon  the  floor.) 

Enter  two  Monks  hastily. 
1st  Monk.  See;  wretched  man,  he  hath  destroy 'd 

himself. 
2d  Monk.  He  does  but  faint.     Let  us  remove  him 

hence. 
Ist  Monk.  We  did  not  well  to  leave  him  here 

alone. 
2d  Monk.  Come,  let  us  bear  him  to  the  open  air. 
{Exeunt,  bearing  out  De  Monfort. 

Scene  HI. — before  the  gates  of  the  convent. 

Enter  Jane  Db  Monfort,  Frebero,  and  Manuel.  As 
they  are  proceeding  towards  the  gate,  Jane  Btops  short 
and  shrinks  back. 

Freb.  Ha !    wherefore  ?    has  a  sudden  illness 

seized  thee  ? 
Jane.  No,  no,  my   friend. — And  yet  I'm  very 
faint — 
I  dread  to  enter  here. 

Man.  Ay,  so  I  thought : 

For,  when  between  the  trees,  that  abbey  tower 
First  show'd  its    top,  I  saw  your    countenance 

change. 
But  breathe  a  little  here ;  I'll  go  before, 
And  make  inquiry  at  the  nearest  gate. 
Freb.  Do  so,  good  Manuel. 

(Manuel  goes  and  knocks  at  the  gate.) 
Courage,  dear  madam :  all  may  yet  be  well. 
Rezenvelt's  servant,  frighten'd  with  the  storm, 
And  seeing  that  his  master  join'd  him  not, 
As  by  appointment,  at  the  forest  edge, 
Might  be  alarm'd,  and  give  too  ready  ear 
To  an  unfounded  rumour. 
He  saw  it  not ;  he  came  not  here  himself. 

Jane,  [looking  eagerly  to  the  gafc,  w^Aere  Manuel 
talks  with  the  Porter.)  Ha !  see,  he  talks 
with  some  one  earnestly. 


And  seest  thou  not  that  motion  of  his  hands  ? 
He  stands  like  one  who  hears  a  horrid  tale. 
Almighty  God  !        (Manuel  goes  into  the  convent.) 
He  comes  not  back ;  he  enters. 
Freb.  Bear  up,  my  noble  friend. 
Jane.  I  will,  I  will !  But  this  suspense  is  dread- 
ful. 
[A  long  pause.      Manuel  re-enters   from    tlu 
convent,  and  comes  forward  slowly  with  a  sad 
countenance.) 
Is  this  the  face  of  one  who  bears  good  tidings  ! 
0  God  !  his  face  doth  tell  the  horrid  fact ; 
There  is  nauglit  doubtful  here. 
Freb.  How  is  it,  Manuel  } 

Man.  I've  seen  him  through  a  crevice  in  his  door : 
It  is  indeed  my  master.  [Bursting  into  tears.) 

[Jane  faints,  and  is  supported  by  Freberg.) 

Enter  Abbess  and  several  Nuns  from  the  convent,  who 
gather  about  her,  and  apply  remedies.    She  recovera. 
\st  Nun.  The  life  returns  again. 
2d  Nun.  Yes,  she  revives. 

Abb.  [to  Freb.)  Let  me  entreat  this  noble  lady's 
leave 
To  lead  her  in.     She  seems  in  great  distress  . 
We  would  with  holy  kindness  soothe  her  wo, 
And  do  by  her  the  deeds  of  Christian  love. 
Freb.  Madam,  your  goodness  has  my  grateful 
thanks.  * 

Exeunt,  supporting  Jane  into  the  convent. 

Scene  IV. — de  monfort  is  discovered  sitting  in 
A  thoughtful  posture,  he  remains  so  for 
some   time,     his  face  afterward  begins  to 

APPEAR  agitated,  LIKE  ONE  WHOSE  MIND  18 
HARROWED  WITH  THE  SEVEREST  THOUGHTS  ; 
THEN,  STARTING  FROM  HIS  SEAT,  HE  CLASPS  HIS 
HANDS  TOGETHER,  AND  HOLDS  THEM  UP  TO 
HEAVEN. 

De  Mon.  0  that  I  ne'er  had  known  the  light  of 
day !  ^ 

That  filmy  darkness  on  mine  eyes  had  hung^^  ^^ 
And  closed  me  out  from  the  fair  face  of  nature  ! 
0  that  my  mind  in  mental  darkness  pent. 
Had  no  perception,  no  distinction  known. 
Of  fair,  or  foul,  perfection,  or  defect, 
Nor  thought  conceived  of  proud  pre-eminence  ! 
0  that  it  had  !  O  that  I  had  been  form'd 
An  idiot  from  the  birth  !  a  senseless  changeling, 
Who  eats  his  glutton's  meal  with  greedy  haste, 
Nor  knows  the  hand  who  feeds  him. — 

[Pauses;  then,  in  a  calmer, sorrowful  voice.') 
What  am  I  now  ?  how  ends  the  day  of  life  ? 
For  end  it  must ;  and  terrible  this  gloom. 
This  storm  of  horrors  that  surrounds  its  close. 
This  little  term  of  nature's  agony 
Will  soon  be  o'er,  and  what  is  past  is  past : 
But  shall  I  then,  on  the  dark  lap  of  earth 
Lay  me  to  rest,  in  still  unconsciousness. 
Like  senseless  clod  that  doth  no  pressure  feel 
From  wearing  foot  of  dany  passenger  ; 
Like  steeped  rock  o'er  which  the  breaking  waves 
Bellow  and  foam  unheard  ?  O  would  I  could  ! 

Enter  Manuel,  who  springs  forward  to  his  master,  but 
is  checked  upon  perceiving  De  Monfort  draw  back 
and  look  sternly  at  him. 

Man.  My  lord,  my  master  !  O  my  dearest  master ! 

(De  Monfort  still  looks  at  him  without  speaking,) 


DE   MONFORT. 


353 


Nay,  CO  not  thus  regard  me,  good  my  lord  ! 
Speak  to  me  :  am  I.  not  your  faithful  Manuel  ? 
De  Mon.  [in  a  hasty,  broken  voice.)  Art  thou 

alone  ? 
Man.  No,  sir,  the  Lady  Jane  is  on  her  way ; 
She  is  not  far  behind. 
Jje  Mon.  [tossing  his  arm  over  his  head  in  an 

agony.)  This  is  too  much !  All  I  can  bear 

but  this ! 
It  must  not  be. — Run  and  prevent  her  coming. 
Say,  he  who  is  detain 'd  a  prisoner  here 
Is  one  to  her  unknown.     I  now  am  nothing. 
I  am  a  man  of  holy  claims  bereft ; 
Out  of  the  pale  of  social  kindred  cast ; 
Nameless  and  horrible. — 
Tell  her  De  Monfort  far  from  hence  is  gone 
Into  a  desolate  and  distant  land. 
Ne'er  to  return  again.     Fly,  tell  her  this  ; 
For  we  must  meet  no  more. 

Enter  Jaxe  De  Monfort,  bursting  into  the  chamber, 
and  followed  by  Fkeberg,  Abbess,  and  several  Nuns. 

Jane.  We  must !   we  must !  My  brother,  0  my 

brother  I 
(De  Monfort  turns  away  his  head  and  hides  his 
face  with   his  arm.      Jane  stops  short,  and, 
making  a  great  effort,  turns  to  Freberg,  a7id 
the  others  who  followed  her, and  with  an  air  of 
dignity  stretches  out  her  hand,  beckoning  them 
to  retire.     All  retire  but  Freberg,  xcho  seems  to 
hesitate.) 
And  thou  too,  Freberg:  call  it  not  unkind. 
[Exit  Freberg,  Jane  and  De  Monfort  only  remain. 
Jane.  My  hapless  Monfort ! 
'De  Monfort  turns  round  and  looks  sorrowfully 
upon  her  ;  she  opens  her  arms  to  him,  and  he, 
rushing  into  them,  hides  his  face  upon  her 
breast  and  weeps.) 
Jane.  Ay,  give   thy  sorrow   vent;  here  mayst 

thou  weep. 
Be  Mon.  [in  broken  accents.)  0!  this,  my  sister, 
makes  me  feel  again 
The  kindness  of  affection. 
My  mind  has  in  a  dreadful  storm  been  tost ; 
Horrid  and  dark. — I  tliought  to  weep  no  more. 
I've  done  a  deed — But  I  am  human  still. 

Jane.  I  know  thy  sufferings :  leave  thy  sorrow 
free  : 
Thou  art  with  one  who  nel  ^r  did  upbraid  ; 
Who  mourns,  who  loves  thee  still. 

Be  Mon.  Ah  !  sayst  thou  so  ?  no,  no  ;  it  should 
.iot.be. 
(Sfirinking  from  her.)  I  am  a  foul  and  bloody  mur- 
derer. 
For  such  embrace  unmeet :  0  leave  me  !  leave  me  ! 
Disgrace  and  public  shame  abide  me  now  ; 
And  all,  alas  !  who  do  my  kindred  own. 
The  direful  portion  share. — Away,  away  ! 
Shall  a  disgraced  and  public  criminal 
Degrade  thy  name,  and  claim  affinity 
To  noble  worth  like  thine  ? — I  have  no  name — 
I'm  nothing  now,  not  e'en  to  thee  ;  depart. 
[She  takes  his  hand,  and  grasping  it  firmly, 

speaks  with  a  determined  voice.) 
Jane.  De  Monfort,  hand  in  hand  we  have  enjoy'd 
The  playful  term  of  infancy  together  ; 
Vol.  111—23 


And  in  the  rougher  path  of  ripen'd  years 

We've  been  each  other's  stay.     Dark  lowers  out 

fate, 
And  terrible  the  storm  that  gathers  o'er  us  ; 
But  nothing,  till  that  latest  agony 
Which  severs  thee  from  nature,  shall  unloose 
This  fix'd  and  sacred   hold.     In  thy  dark  prison- 
house  ; 
In  the  terriffic  face  of  armed  law  ; 
Yea,  on  the  scaffold,  if  it  needs  must  be,  . 

I  never  will  forsake  thee. 

De  Mon.    {looking    at  her  with    admiration.) 
Heaven  bless  thy  generous  soul,  my  noble 
Jane  ! 
I  thought  to  sink  beneath  this  load  of  ill, 
Depress'd  with  infamy  and  open  shame  ; 
I  thought  to  sink  in  abject  wretchedness : 
But  for  thy  sake  I'll  rouse  my  manhood  up, 
And  meet  it  bravely  ;  no  unseemly  weakness, 
I  feel  my  rising  strength,  shall  blot  my  end. 
To  clothe  thy  cheek  with  shame. 

Jane.  Yes,  thou  art  nc.i)?e  still. 

Be  Mon.  With  thee  I  am  ;  who  were  not  so  with 
thee  ? 
But  ah  !  my  sister,  short  will  be  the  term. 
Death's  stroke  will  come,  and  in  that  state  beyond, 
Wl>ere  things  unutterable  wait  the  soul. 
New  from  its  earthly  tenement  discharged, 
We  shall  be  sever'd  far. 
Far  as  the  spotless  purit}'  of  virtue 
Is  from  the  murderer's  guilt,  far  shall  we  be. 
This  is  the  gulf  of  dead  uncertainty 
From  which  the  soul  recoils. 

Jane.  The  God  who  made  thee  is  a  God  of  mercy  ( 
Think  upon  this. 

Be  MoJi.  (shaking  his  head.)  No,  no  !  this  blood ! 
this  blood  ! 

Jane.  Yes,  e'en  the  sin  of  blood  may  be  forgiven, 
When  humble  penitence  hath  once  atoned. 

Be  Mon.  [eagerly.)  What,  after  terms  of  length- 
en'd  misery, 
Imprison'd  anguish  of  tormented  spirits, 
Shall  I  again,  a  renovated  soul. 
Into  the  blessed  family  of  the  good 
Admittance  have  ?  Think'st  thou  that  this  maybe  } 
Speak  if  thou  canst :  0  speak  me  comfort  here  ! 
For  dreadful  fancies,  like  an  armed  host, 
Have  push'd  me  to  despair.     It  is  most  horrible— 

0  speak  of  hope  !  If  any  hope  there  be. 

(Jane  is  silent,  and  looks  sorrowfully  upon  him; 
then  clasping  her  hands,  and  turning  her  eyes 
to  heaven,  seems  to  mutter  a  prayer.) 

Be  Mon.  Ha  !  dost  thou  pray  for  me  ?  Heaven 
hear  thy  prayer  ! 

1  fain  would  kneel. — Alas  !  I  dare  not  do  it. 
Jane.  Not  so  !  all  by  th'  Almighty  Father  form'd 

May  in  their  deepest  misery  call  on  him. 
Come,  kneel  with  me,  my  brother. 

[She  kneels  and  prays  to  herself;  he  kneels  by 

her,  and  clasps  his  hands  fervently,  but  speaks 

not.     A  noise  of  chains   clanking  is  heard 

without,  and  they  both  rise.) 

De  Mon.  Hear'st  thou  that  noise  ?    Itiey  come 

to  interrupt  us. 
Jane,  [moving  towards  a  side  door.)  Then  letiw 
enter  here. 


^54 


BAILLIE. 


De  Mon.  [catching  hold  of  her  with  a  look  of 
horror.)  Not  there — not  there — the  corpse 
— the  bloody  corpse  ! 
Jane.  What,  lies  he  there  ? — Unhappy  Rezen- 

velt  ? 
De  Mon.  A  sudden  thought  has  come  across  my 
mind; 
How  came  it  not  before  ?    Unhappy  Rezenvelt  I 
Sayst  thou  but  this  ? 
Jane.  What  should  I  say  ?    he  was  an  honest 
man  ; 
[  still  have  thought  him  such,  as  such  lament  him. 
(De  Monfort  utters  a  deep  groan.) 
What  means  this  heavy  groan  ? 

De  Mon.  H;  hath  a  meaning. 

Enter  Abbess  and  Monks,  with  two  Officers  of  justice 
carrying  fetters  in  their  hands  to  put  upon  De  Monfort. 

Jane,  (starting.)  What  men  are  these  ? 
1st  Off.  Lady,  we  are  the  servants  of  the  law, 
And  bear  with  us  a  power,  which  doth  constrain 
To  bind  with  fetters  this  our  prisoner. 

(Pointing  to  De  Monfort.) 
Jane.  A  stranger  uncondemn'd  ?  this  cannot  be. 
1st  Off.  As  yet,  indeed,  he  is  by  law  unjudged, 
But  is  so  far  condemn'd  by  circumstance, 
That  law,  or  custom  sacred  held  as  law, 
Doth  fully  warrant  us,  and  it  must  be. 

Jane.  Nay,  say  not  so  ;  he  has  no  power  t' escape: 
Distress  hath  bound  him  with  a  heavy  chain  ; 
There  is  no  need  of  yours. 

Is?  Off.  We  must  perform  our  office. 
Jane.  O  !  do  not  offer  this  indignity  ! 
1st  Off.  Is  it  indignity  in  sacred  law 
To  bind  a  murderer  ?  {To  2d  Officer.)  Come,  do  thy 
work. 
Jane.  Harsh  are  thy  words,  and  stern  thy  har- 
den'd  brow  ; 
Dark  is  thine  e3^e  ;  but  all  some  pity  have 
Unto  the  last  extreme  of  misery. 
I  do  beseech  thee  !  if  thou  art  a  man — 

[Kneeling  to  him.) 
(De  Monfort,  roused  at  this,  runs  up  to  Jane, 
and  raises  her  hastily  from  the  ground :  then 
stretches  himself  up  proudly.) 
De  Mon.  {to  Jane.)  Stand  thou  erect  in  native 
dignity ; 
And  bend  to  none  on  earth  the  suppliant  knee. 
Though  clothed  in  power  imperial.     To  my  heart 
It  gives  a  feller  gripe  than  many  irons. 
{Holding  out  his  hands.)  Here,  officers  of  law,  bind 

on  those  shackles  ; . 
And,  if  they  are  too  light,  bring  heavier  chains. 
Add  iron  to  iron  ;  load,  crush  me  to  the  ground  : 
Nay,  heap  ten  thousand  weight  upon  my  breast. 
For  that  were  best  of  all. 

{A  long  pause,  whilst  they  put  irons  upon  him. 
After  they  are  on,  Jane  looks  at  him  sorrow- 
fully, and  lets  her  head  sink  on  her  breast. 
De  Monfort  stretches  out  his  hand,  looks  at 
them,  and  then  at  jane ;  crosses  them  over  his 
breast,  and  endeavours  to  suppress  his  feel' 
i?igs.) 
1st  Off.  I  have  it,  too,  in  charge  to  move  you 
hence,  (To  De  Monfort.) 

Into  another  chamber  more  secure. 


De  Mon.  Well,  I  am  ready,  sir. 
{Approaching  Jane,  whom  the  Abbess  is  endea* 
vouring  to  comfort,  but  to  no  purpose.) 
Ah!  wherefore  thus  !  most  honour'd  and  most  dear  ? 
Shrink  not  at  the  accoutrements  of  ill. 
Daring  the  thing  itself. 

{Endeavouring  to  look  cheerful,) 
Wiit  thou  permit  me  with  a  gyved  hand  ? 
•    {She  gives  her  hand,  which  he  raises  to  his  lips.) 
This  was  my  proudest  office. 

[Exeunt,  De  Monfort  leading  out  Jane. 

Scene  V. — an  apartment  in  the  convent,  open- 
ing INTO  another  room,  WHOSE  LOW,  ARCHED 
DOOR  IS  SEEN  IN  THE  BOTTOM  OF  THE  STAGE.  IW 
ONE  CORNER  A  MONK  IS  SEEN   KNEELING. 

Enter  another  Monk,  who,  on  perceiving  him,  stops  till 
he  rises  from  his  knees,  and  then  goes  eagerly  up  to 
him. 

1st  Monk.  How  is  the  prisoner  ? 

2d  Monk,  {pointing  to  the  door.)  He  is  within, 
and  the  strong  hand  of  death 
Is  dealing  with  him. 

1st  Monk.  How  is  this,  good  brother  .? 

Methought  he  braved  it  with  a  manly  spirit ; 
And  led,  with  shackled  hands,  his  sister  forth, 
Like  one  resolved  to  bear  misfortune  bravely. 

2d  Monk.  Yes,  with  heroic  courage,  for  a  while 
He  scem'd  inspired  ;  but,  soon  depress'd  again, 
Remorse  and  dark  despair  o'erwhelm'd  his  soul : 
And,  from  the  violent  working  of  his  mind. 
Some  stream  of  life  within  his  breast  has  burst ; 
For  many  a  time,  within  a  little  space. 
The  ruddy  tide  has  rush'd  into  his  mouth. 
God  grant  his  pains  be  short ! 

1st  Monk.  How  does  the  lady  ' 

2d  Monk.  She  sits  and  bears  his  head  upon  her 
lap, 
Wiping  the  cold  drops  from  his  ghastly  face 
With  such  a  look  of  tender  wjetchedness, 
It  wrings  the  heart  to  see  her. — 
How  goes  the  night  ? 

1st  Monk.  It  wears,  methinks,  upon  the  midnight 
hour. 
It  is  a  dark  and  fearful  night :  the  moon 
Is  wrapp'd  in  sable  clouds  ;  the  chill  blast  sounds 
Like 'dismal  lamentations.     Ay,  who  knows 
That  voices  mix  with  the  dark  midnight  winds  ? 
Nay,  as  I  pass'd  that  yawning  cavern's  mouth, 
A  whispering  sound,  unearthly,  reach'd  my  ear. 
And  o'er  my  head  a  chilly  coldness  crept. 
Are  there  not  wicked  fiends  and  damned  sprites, 
Whom  yawning  charnels,  and  th'  unfathom'd  deprthe 
Of  secret  darkness,  at  this  fearful  hour. 
Do  upwards  send,  to  watch,  unseen,  around 
The  murderer's  death-bed,  at  his  fatal  term, 
Read}'-  to  hail  with  dire  and  horrid  welcome, 
Their  future  mate  ? — I  do  believe  there  are. 

2d  Monk.  Peace,  peace  !  a  God  of  wisdom  and  of 
mercy. 
Veils  from  our  sight — Ha  !  hear  that  heavy  groan, 
{A  groan  heard  within.) 

1st  Monk.  It  is  the  dying  man. 

{Anotner  groan.) 

2d  Monk.  God  grant  him  rest ! 

{Listening  at  the  door.) 


DE   MONFORT. 


355 


I  hear  him  struggling  in  the  gripe  of  death. 

0  pitecus  heaven  !  [Goes  from  the  door.) 

Enter  Brother  Thomas  from  the  chamber. 
How  now,  good  brother  ? 

Thorn.  Retire,  my  friends.     0  many  a  bed  of 
death 
With  all  its  pangs  and  horrors  I  have  seen. 
But  never  aught  like  this  !  Retire,  my  friends  ; 
The  death-bell  will  its  awful  signal  give, 
When  he  has  breathed  his  last. 

1  would  move  hence,  but  I  am  weak  and  faint : 
Let  me  a  moment  on  thy  shoulder  lean. 

0,  weak  and  mortal  man  ! 

[Leans  on  second  Monk :  a  pause.) 

Enter  Bernard  from  the  chamber. 
2d  Monk,  [to  Bern.)  How  is  your  penitent  ? 
Bern.  He  is  with  Hur  who  made  him  ;  Him,  who 
knows 
The  soul  of  man :  before  whose  awful  presence 
Th'  unsceptred  tyrant,  simple,  helpless,  stands 
Like  an  unclothed  babe.  [Bell  tolls.) 

The  dismal  sound  ! 
Retire  and  pray  for  the  blood-stain'd  soul : 
May  heaven  have  mercy  on  him  !  [Bell  tolls  again.) 

[EXEITNT. 

Scene  VL — a  hall  or  large  room  in  the  con- 
vent. THE  BODIES  OF  DE  MONFORT  AND  REZEN- 
VELT  ARE  DISCOVERED  LAID  OUT  UPON  A  LOW 
TABLE  OR  PLATFORM,  COVERED  WITH  BLACK. 
FREBERG,  BERNARD,  ABBESS,  MONKS,  AND  NUNS 
ATTENDING. 

Abb.   [to  Freb.)   Here  must  they  lie,  my  lord, 
until  we  know 
Respecting  this  the  order  of  the  law. 

Freb.  And  you  have  wisely  done,  my  reverend 

mother. 
[Goes  to  the  table,  and  looks  at  the  bodies,  but 
without  uncovering  them.) 
Unhappy  men  !  ye,  both  in  nature  rich. 
With  talents  and  with  virtues  were  endued. 
Ye  should  have  loved,  yet  deadly  rancour  came, 
And  in  the  prime  and  manhood  of  your  days 
Ye  sleep  in  horrid  death.     0  direful  hate  ! 
What  shame  and  wretchedness  his  portion  is. 
Who,  for  a  secret  inmate,  harbours  thee  ! 
And  who  shall  call  him  blameless,  who  excites. 
Ungenerously  excites,  will  careless  scorn, 
Such  baleful  passion' in  a  bt.  other's  breast, 
Whom  heaven  commands  to  love  ?    Low  are  ye 

laid: 
Still  all  contention  now. — Low  are  ye  laid : 
I  loved  you  both,  and  mourn  your  hapless  fall. 
Abb.  They  were  your  friends,  my  lord  ? 
Freb.  I  loved  them  both.    How  does  the  Lady 

Jane  ? 
Abb.  She  bears  misfortune'  with  intrepid  soul. 
I  never  saw  in  woman  bow''d  with  grief. 
Such  moving  dignity. 

Freb.  Ay,  still  the  same. 

I've  known  her  long :  of  worth  most  excellent ; 
But  in  the  day  of  wo,  she  ever  rose 
Upon  the  mind  with  added  majesty. 
As  the  dark  mountain  more  sublimely  towers 
Mantled  in  clouds  and  storm. 


Enter  Manuel  and  jEaoME. 
Man.  [pointing.)  Here,  my  good  Jerome,  here's 

a  piteous  sight. 
Jer.  A  piteous  sight !  yet  I  will  look  upon  him : 
I'll  see  his  face  in  death.     Alas,  alas  ! 
I've  seen  him  move  a  noble  gentleman ; 
And  when  with  vexing  passion  undisturb'd. 
He  look'd  most  graciously. 

[Lifts  up  in  7nistake  the  cloth  from  the  body  of 
Rezenvelt,  and  starts  back  with  horror.) 
Oh  !  this  was  the  bloody  work  !  Oh,  oh  !  oh,  oh  , 
That  human  hands  could  do  it  ! 

[Drops  the  cloth  again. ^ 
Man.  Th:^  is  the  murder'd  corpse  ;  here  lies  De 
Moniort. 

[Going  to  uncover  the  other  body.) 
Jer.  [turning  away  his  head.)  No,  no  !  I  cannot 

look  upon  him  now. 
Man.  Didst  thou  not  come  to  see  him  ? 
Jer.  Fy  !  cover  him — inter  him  in  the  dark — 
Let  no  one  look  upon  him. 

Bern.   [To  Jer.)   Well  dost  thou  show  the  ab- 
horrence nature  feels 
For  deeds  of  blood,  and  I  commend  thee  well. 
In  the  most  ruthless  heart  compassion  wakes 
For  one,  who,  from  the  hand  of  fellow  man, 
Hath  felt  such  cruelty. 

( Uncovering  the  body  of  Rezenvelt.) 
This  is  the  murder'd  corse  : 

( Uncovering  the  body  of  De  Monfort) 
But  see,  I  pray  ! 
Here  lies  the  murderer.     What  think'st  thou  here  .' 
Look  on  those  features,  thou  hast  seen  them  oft, 
With  the  last  dreadful  conflict  of  despair, 
So  fix'd  in  horrid  strength. 

See  those  knit  brows  ;  those  hollow  sunken  eyes; 
The  sharpen'd  nose,  with  nostrils  all  distent ; 
That  writhed  mouth,  where  yet  the  teeth  appear. 
In  agony,  to  gnash  the  netlier  lip. 
Think'st  thou,  less   painful  than   the   murderer's 

knife 
Was  such  a  death  as  this 
Ay,  and  how  changed  too  those,  matted*  locks  ! 

Jer.  Merciful  heaven  !  his  hair  is  grisly  grown, 
Changed  to  white  age,  that  was,  but  too  days  since, 
Black  as  the  raven's  plume.     How  may  this  be  ? 
Bern.  Such  change,  from  violent  conflict  of  the 
mind. 
Will  sometimes  come. 

Jer.  Alas,  alas !  most  wretched  ! 

Thou  wert  too  good  to  do  a  cruel  deed, 
And  so  it  kill'd  thee.     Thou  hast  sufFer'd  for  it. 
God  rest  thy  soul !  I  needs  must  touch  thy  hand. 
And  bid  thee  long  farewell. 

[Laying  his  hand  on  De  Monfort.) 
Bern.   Draw  back,  draw  back ;   see  where  the 
lady  comes. 

Enter  Jane  De  Monfort. 
'Freberg,  who  has  been  for  some  time  retired  t>y 
himself  to  the  bottom  of  the  stage,  now  steps 
forioard  to  lead  her  in,  but  checks  himself  on 
seeing  the  fixed  sorrow  of  her  countenance^ 
and  draws  back  respectfully.  Jane  advances 
to  the  table,  and  looks  attentively  at  the  covered 
bodies.      Manuel  points   out  the  body  of  De 


356 


BAILLtE. 


Monfoit,  and  she  gives  a  gentle  inclination  of 
thf  head,  to  signify  that  she  understands  him. 
She    then    bends    tenderly   over    it,  without 
speaking. 
Man.  [to  Jane,  as  she  raises  her  head.)  0,  madam  ! 

my  good  lord. 
Jane.  Well  says  thy  love,  my  good  and  faithful 
Manuel ; 
But  we  must  mourn  in  silence. 

Man.  Alas  !  the  times  that  I  have  follow'd  him  ! 

Jane.  Forbear,  my  faithful  Manuel.  For  this  love 

Thou  hast  my   grateful  thanks;   and  here's  my 

hand: 
Thou  hast  loved  him,  and  I'll  remember  thee. 
Where'er  I  am  ;  in  whate'er  spot  of  earth 
I  linger  out  the  remnant  of  my  days, 
I  will  remember  thee. 

Man.  Nay,  by  the  living  God  !  where'er  you  are. 
There  will  I  be.     I'll  prove  a  trusty  servant : 
I'll  follow  you,  even  to  the  world's  end. 
My  master's  gone  ;  and  I  indeed  am  mean, 
Yet  will  I  show  the  strength  of  nobler  men, 
Should  any  dare  upon  your  honour'd  worth 
To  put  the  slightest  wrong.     Leave  you,  dear  lady  I 
Kill  me,  but  say  not  this  ! 

( Throioing  himself  at  her  feet.) 
Jane,  {raising  him.)   Well,  then  !   be  thou  my 
servant,  and  my  friend. 
Art  thou,  good  Jerome,  too,  in  kindness  come  ? 
I  see  thou  art.    How  goes  it  with  thine  age  ? 
Jer.  Ah,  madam  !  wo  and  weakness  dwell  with 
age  : 
Would  I  could   serve   you  with   a  young  man's 

strength ! 
I'd  spend  my  life  for  you. 

Jane.  Thanks,  worthy  Jerome. 

0  !  who  hath  said  the  wretched  have  no  friends  ? 
Freb.  In  every  sensible  and  generous  breast 

Affliction  finds  a  friend  ;  but  unto  thee. 
Thou  most  exalted  and  most  honourable, 
The  heart  in  warmest  adoration  bows, 
And  even  a  worship  pays, 

Jane.  Nay,  Freberg,  Freberg !   grieve  rne   not, 
my  friend. 
He  to  whose  ear  my  praise  most  welcome  was, 
Hears  it  no  more  ;  and,  0  our  piteous  lot ! 
What  tongue  will  talk  of  him  ?  Alas,  alas  ! 
This  more  than  all  will  bow  me  to  the  earth  ; 

1  feel  my  misery  here. 

The  voice  of  praise  was  wont  to  name  us  both ; 

I  had  no  greater  pride. 

[Covers  her  face  with  her  hands,  and  bursts  irito 
tears.  Here  they  all  hang  about  her :  Freberg 
supporting  her  tenderly.  Manual  embracing 
her  knees,  and  old  Jerome  catching  hold  of 
her  robe  affectionately.  Bernard,  Abbess, 
Monks,  and  Nuns,  likewise,  gather  round  her, 
with  looks  of  sympathy.) 

Enter  two  Officers  of  law. 
Ist  Off.  Where  is  the  prisoner  f 

into  our  hands  he  straight  must  be  consign'd. 

Bern.  He  is  not  subject  now  to  human  laws ; 
The  prison  that  awaits  him  is  the  grave. 

\st  Off.  Ha  !  say'st  thou  so  ?  there  is  fonl  play  in 
this. 


Man.  (to  Off.)  Hold  thy  unrighteous  tongue,  oi 
hie  thee  hence. 
Nor,  in  the  presence  of  this  honour'd  dame. 
Utter  the  slightest  meaning  of  reproach. 

1st  Off.  I  am  an  officer  on  duty  call'd. 
And  have  authority  to  say,  "  How  died  he  i"' 

(Here  Jane  shakes  off  the  weakness  of  grief,  ana 
repressing  Mannel,  who  is  about  to  reply  to  th« 
Officer,  steps  forivard  with  dignity.) 

Jane.  Tell  them,  by  whose  authority  you  come 
He  died  that  death  which  best  becomes  a  man 
Who  is  with  keenest  sense  of  conscious  ill 
And  deep  remorse  assail'd,  a  wounded  spirit: 
A  death  that  kills  the  noble  and  the  brave, 
And  only  them.     He  had  no  other  wound. 

Ist  Off.  And  shall  I  trust  to  this  ? 

Jane.  Do  as  thou  wilt 

To  one  who  can  suspect  my  simple  word 
I  have  no  more  reply.     Fulfil  thine  office. 

\st  Off.  No,  lady,  I  beliave  your  honoured  word, 
And  will  no  further  search. 

Jane.  I  thank  your  courtesy :  thanks,  thanks  tc 
all. 
My  reverend  mother,  and  ye  honour'd  maids ; 
Ye  holy  men,  and  you,  my  faithful  friends  ; 
The  blessing  of  the  afflicted  rest  with  you  ! 
And  He,  who  to  the  wretched  is  most  piteous, 
Will  recompense  you. — Freberg,  thou  art  good  ; 
Remove  the  body  of  the  friend  you  loved : 
'Tis  Rezenvelt  I  mean.     Take  thou  this  charge : 
'Tis  meet,  that  with  his  noble  ancestors 
He  lie  entomb'd  in  honourable  state. 
And  nov.^  I  have  a  sad  request  to  make. 
Nor  will  these  holy  sisters  scorn  my  boon  : 
That  I,  within  these  sacred  cloister  walls, 
May  raise  a  humble,  nameless  tomb  to  him. 
Who,  but  for  one  dark  passion,  one  dire  deed, 
Had  claim 'd  a  record  of  as  noble  worth 
As  e'er  enrich'd  the  sculptured  pedestal.  [Exeukt 


THE    AlARTYR. 

PERSONS  OF  THE  DRAMA. 

MEN. 
Nero,  Emperor  of  Rome. 

CoRDENius  Maro,  Officer  of  the  Imperial  Guard. 
Orceres,  a  Parthian  Prince,  visiting  Rome. 
SuLPicius,  a  Senator. 
SvLvius,  a  brave  Centurion. 
Roman  Pontiff. 

Christian  Father  or  Bishop,  Christian  Brother,  &c. 
A  Page,  in  the  family  of  Sulpicius. 
Senators,  Christians,  Soldiers,  &c. 

WOMEN. 

Portia,  Daughter  ofSulpicius. 
Christian  Women. 

Scene,  Rome. 


ACT   I. 

Scene  I. — a  phivate  apartment  in  the  Honsi 

OF  SULPICIUS. 

Enter  Sulpicius  and  Orceres  by  opposite  sides. 
Sul.  So  soon  return'd  ! — I  read  not  in  thy  face 
Aught  to  encourage  or  depress  my  wishes. 
How  is  it,  noble  friend  } 


I 


THE    MARTYR. 


357 


(jrc.  E'en  as  it  was  e'er  I  received  mj  mission. 
Cordenius  Maro  is  on  public  duty ; 
I  have  not  seen  him. — When  he  knows  your  offer 
His  heart  will  bound  with  joy,  like  eaglet  plumed 
Whose   out-stretch'd  pinions  wheeling  round  and 

round, 
Shape  their  first  circles  in  the  sunny  air. 

Sul.  And  with  good  cause. 

Ore.  Methinks  I  see  him  now  ! 
A  face  with  blushes  mantling  to  the  brow, 
Eyes  with  bright  tears  surcharged,  and  parted  lips 
Quivering  to  utter  joy  which  hath  no  words. 

Sul.  His  face,  indeed,  as  I  have  heard  thee  s^y. 
Is  like  a  wave  which  sun  and  shadow  cross  ; 
Each  thought  makes  there  its  momentary  mark. 

Ore.  And  then  his  towering  form,  and  vaulting 
step, 
As  tenderness  gives  way  to  exultation  ! 

0  it  had  been  a  feast  to  look  upon  him  ; 
And  still  shall  be. 

Sul.  Art  thou  so  well  convinced — 

He  loves  my  little  damsel  ?  she  is  fair. 
But  seems  to  me  too  simple,  gay,  and  thoughtless, 
For  noble  Maro.     Heiress  as  she  is 
To  all  my  wealth,  had  I  suspected  sooner. 
That  he  had  smother'd  wishes  in  his  breast 
As  too  presumptuous,  or  that  she  in  secret 
Preferr'd  his  silent  homage  to  the  praise 
Of  any  other  man,  I  had  most  frankly 
Removed  all  hinderance  to  so  fair  a  suit. 
For,  in  these  changeling  and  degenerate  daj-s, 

1  scarcely  know  a  man  of  nobler  worth. 

Ore.  Thou  scarcely  know'st  !  Saj'  certainly  thou 
dost  not. 
He  is,  to  honest  right,  as  simply  true 
As  shepherd  child  on  desert  pasture  bred, 
Where  falsehood  and  deceit  have  never  been  ; 
And  to  maintain  them,  ardent,  skilful,  potent, 
As  the  shrewd  leader  of  unruly  tribes. 
A  simple  heart  and  subtle  spirit  join'd. 
Make  such  an  union  as  in  Nero's  court 
May  pass  for  curious  and  unnatural. 

Sul.  But  is  the  public  duty  very  urgent. 
That  so  untoward ly  delays  our  happiness  ? 

Ore.  The  punishment  of  those  poor  Nazarenes, 
Who,  in  defiance  of  imperial  power. 
To  their  forbidden  faith  and  rites  adhere 
VVith  obstinacy  most  astonishing. 

Sul.  A  stubborn  contumacy  unaccountable  ! 

Ore.   There's   sorcery  in   it,  or   some   stronger 
power. 
But  be  it  what  it  may,  or  good  or  ill. 
They  look  on  death  in  its  most  dreadful  form, 
As  martial  her»jt33  on  a  wreath  of  triumph. 
The  fires  are  kinaied  in  the  place  of  death. 
And  bells  toll  dismally.     The  life  of  Rome 
In  one  vast  clustering  mass  hangs  round  the  spot. 
And  no  one  to  his  neighbour  utters  word. 
But  in  an  alter'd  voice  ;  with  breath  restrain'd, 
Like  those  who  speak  at  midnight  near  the  dead. 
Cordenius  heads  the  band  that  g;;ards  the  pile  ; 
So  station'd,  who  could  speak  to  him  of  pleasure  ? 
For  it  would  seem  as  an  ill-omen'd  thing. 

Sul.  Cease ;  here  comes  Portia,  with  a  careless 
face: 
She  knows  not  yet  the  happiness  that  waits  her. 


Ore.  Who  brings  she  with  her  thus,  as  if  com- 
pell'd 
By  playfnl  force  ? 

Sul.  'Tis  her  Numidian  page  ;  a  cunning  imp, 
Who  must  be  woo'd  to  do  the  thing  he's  proud  of. 

Enter  Portia,  dragging  Svphax  after  her,  speaking  as 
she  enters. 

For.  Come   in,  deceitful  thing  I — I   know   thee 
well ; 
With  all  thy  sly  affected  bashfulness, 
Thou'iT  bold  enough  to  sing  in  Cesar's  court, 
Witn  the  whole  senate  present.  (To  Ore.) 

Prince  of  Parthia, 
I  knew  not  3'ou  were  here  ;  but  yet  I  guess 
The  song  which  this  sly  creature  sings  so  well, 
Will  please  you  also. 

Ore.  How  can  it  fail,  fair  Portia,  so  commended  .' 

Sul.  What  is  this  boasted  lay  ? 

For.  That  tune,  my  father. 
Which  you  so  oft  have  tried  to  recollect ; 
But  link'd  with  other  words,  of  new  devx't, 
That  please  my  fancy  well. — Come,  sing  ;t,  boy  J 

Sul.  Nay,  sing  it,  Syphax,  be  not  so  abash'd, 
If  thou  art  really  so. — Begin,  begin  ! 
But  speak  thy  words  distinctly  as  thou  sing'st, 
That  I  may  have  their  meaning  perfectly. 

SONG. 

The  storm  is  gathering  far  and  wide, 
Yon  inorlal  hero  must  abide. 
Power  on  earth,  and  power  in  air, 
Falchion's  gleam  and  lightning's  glare; 
Arrows  hurtling  through  the  blast; 
Stones  from  flaming  meteor  cast : 
Floods  from  burden'd  skies  are  pouring, 
O'er  mingled  strife  of  baltle  roaring  ; 
Nature's  rage  and  Demon's  ire, 
Belt  him  round  with  turmoil  dire: 
Noble  hero!  earthly  wight! 
Brace  thee  bravely  for  the  fight. 

And  so,  indeed,  thou  takest  thy  stand, 
Shield  on  arm  and  glaive  in  hand  ; 
Breast  encased  in  burnish'd  steel. 
Helm  on  head,  and  pike  on  heel ; 
And,  more  than  meets  the  outward  eye 
The  soul's high-temper'd  panoply, 
Which  every  limb  for  action  lightens, 
The  form  dilates,  the  visage  brightens : 
Thus  art  thou,  lofty,  mortal  wight 
Full  nobly  harness'd  for  the  fight. 

Ore.  The  picture  of  some  very  noble  hero 
These  lines  portray. 

Sul.  So  it  should  seem ;  one  of  the  days  of  old. 

For.  And  why  of  olden  days  ?    There  liveth  now 
The  very  man — a  man — I  mean  to  say. 
There  may  be  found  amongst  our  Roman  youth. 
One,  who  in  form  and  feelings  may  compare 
With  him  whose  lofty  virtues  these  few  lines 
So  well  describe. 

Ore.  Thou  mean'st  the  lofty  Gorbus. 

For.  Out  on  the  noisy  braggart !  Arms  without 
He  hath,  indeed,  well  burnish'd  and  well  plumed, 
But  the  poor  soul,  within,  is  pluck'd  and  bare, 
Like  any  homely  thing. 

Ore.  Sertorius  G^ba  then  ? 

For.  O,  stranger  still  I 
For  if  he  hath  no  lack  of  courage,  certes, 
He  hath  much  lack  of  grace.    Sertorius  Galba  ! 


358 


BAILLIE. 


Ore.  Perhaps  thou  mean'st  Cordenius  Maro,  lady. 
Thy  cheeks  grow  scarlet  at  the  very  name, 
Indignant  that  I  still  should  err  so  strangely. 

For.  No,  not  indignant,  for  thou  errest  not ; 
Nor  do  I  blush,  albeit  thou  think'st  I  do, 
To  say,  there  is  not  of  our  Romans  one, 
Whose  martial  form  a  truer  image  gives 
Of  firm,  heroic  courage. 

Sul.  Cease,  sweet  Portia  ; 

He  only  laughs  at  thy  simplicity. 

Ore.  Simplicity  seen  through  a  harmless  wile, 
Like  to  the  infant  urchin,  half  conceal'd 
Behind  his  smiling  dam's  transparent  veil. 
The  song  is  not  a  stranger  to  mine  ear, 
Methinks  I've  heard  it,  passing  through  those  wilds, 
Whose  groves  and  caves,  if  rumour  speak  the  truth, 
Are  by  the  Nazarenes  or  Christians  haunted. 

Sul.  Let  it  no  more  be  sung  within  my  walls : 
A  chant  of  theirs  to  bring  on  pestilence  ! 
Sing  it  no  more.     What  sounds  are  those  I  hear  ? 

Ore.   The   dismal  death-drum   and   the    crowd 
without.  . 

They  are  this  instant  leading  past  your  door 
Those  wretched  Christians  to  their  dreadful  doom. 

Sul.  We'll  go  and  see  them  pass. 

[Exeunt  hastily  Sulpicius,  Orceres. 

For.  [Stopping  her  ears.)  I  cannot  look  on  them, 
nor  hear  the  sound. 
I'll  to  rtiy  chamber. 

Page.  May  not  I,  I  pray. 

Look  on  them  as  they  pass  ? 

Por.  No  ;  go  not,  child  : 

'Twill  frighten  thee  ;  it  is  a  horrid  sight. 

Page.  Yet,  and  it  please  you,  lady,  let  me  go. 

Por.  I  say  it  is  a  hdrrid,  piteous  sight. 
Thou  wilt  be  frighten 'd  at  it. 

Page.  Nay,  be  it  e'er  so  piteous  or  so  horrid, 
I  have  a  longing,  strong  desire  to  see  it. 

Por.  Go,  then  ;  there  is  in  this  no  affectation  : 
There's  all  the  harden'd  cruelty  of  man 
Lodged  in  that  tiny  form,  child  as  thou  art. 

[Exeunt,  severally. 

Scene  II. — an  open  square  with  buildings. 
Enter  Cordenius  Mabo,  at  the  head  of  his  Soldiees, 
who  draw  up  on  either  side :  then  enters  along  proces- 
sion of  public  Functionaries,  &c.  conducting  Martyrs 
to  the  place  of  execution,  who,  as  they  pass  on,  sing 
together  in  unison:  one  more  noble  than  the  otherff, 
walking  first. 

SONG. 
A  long  farewell  to  sin  and  sorrow, 

To  beam  of  day  and  evening  shade  ! 
High  in  glory  breaks  our  morrow, 
With  light  that  cannot  fade. 

While  mortal  flesh  in  flame  is  bleeding, 

For  humble  penitence  and  love, 
Our  brother  and  our  Lord  is  pleading 

At  mercy's  throne  above. 

We  leave  the  hated  and  the  hating. 

Existence  sad  in  toil  and  strife ; 
The  great,  the  good,  the  brave  are  waiting 

To  hail  our  opening  life. 

Earth's  fated  sounds  our  ears  forsaking, 

A  moment's  silence  deaAi  shall  be ; 
Then,  to  heaven's  jubilee  awaking, 
Faith  ends  in  victory. 
[Exeunt  Martyrs,  ^c.  ^c.  Cordenius  with  his 


Officers    and  Soldiers  still   remaining  j    thA 
Officers  on  the  fronts  and  Coidemus  apart  frmn 
them  in  a  thoughtful  posture.) 
First  Offi,.  Brave  Varus  Tiarches  boldly  at  the 
head 
Of  that  deluded  band. 

Second  Offi.  Are  these  the  men,  who  hateful 
orgies  hold 
In  decs  and  deserts,  courting,  with  enchantments, 
The  inteicourse  of  demons  ? 

Third  Offi.  Ay,  with  rites 

Cruel  and  wild.     To  crucify  a  babe  ; 
And  while  it  yet  hangs  shrieking  on  the  rood 
Fall  down  and  worship  it !  device  abominable 
First  Offi.  Dost  thou  believe  it  ? 
Third  Offi.  I  can  believe  all  this  or  any  thing 
Of  the  possess'd  and  mad. 

First  Offi.  What  demonry,  thinkest  thou,  pos- 
sesses Varus  ? 
Seeond  Offi.  That  is  well  urged.  {To  the  other.) 
Is  he  a  maniac  ? 
Alas,  that  I  should  see  so  brave  a  soldier 
Thus,  as  a  malefactor,  led  to  death  ! 
First  Offi.   Viewing  his  keen,  enliven'd  coun- 
tenance 
And  stately  step,  one  should  have  rather  guess'd 
He  led  victorious  soldiers  to  the  charge  : 
And  they,  indeed,  appear  to  follow  him 
With  noble  confidence. 

Third  Offi.  'Tis  all  vain  seeming. 

He  is  a  man,  who  makes  a  show  of  valour 
To  which  his  deeds  have  borne  slight  testimony. 
Cor.    [advancing  indignantly.)  Thou  liest :   a 
better  and  a  braver  soldier 
Ne'er  fronted  foe,  or  closed  in  bloody  strife. 

( Turning  away  angrily  to  the  back  ground.) 
First  Offi.  Our  chief,  methinks,  is  in  a  fretful 
mood. 
Which  is  not  usual  with  him. 

Seeond  Offi.  He  did  not  seem  to  listen  to  our 
words. 
But  see  he  gives  the  signal  to  proceed  ; 
We  must  advance,  and  with  our  closing  ranks 
The  fatal  pile  encircle. 

[Exeunt  in  order,  whilst  a  chorus  of  Martyrs  is 
heard  at  a  distance.) 

Scene  III. — an  apartment  in  a  private  house. 
Enter  two  Christian  Women,  by  opposite  sides. 

First  Worn.  Hast  thou  heard  any  thing  ? 

Second  Worn.  Naught,  save  the  murmur  of  th« 
multitude. 
Sinking  at  times  to  deep  and  awful  silence. 
From  which  again  a  sudden  burst  will  rise 
Like  mingled  exclamations,  as  of  horror 
Or  admiration.     In  these  neighbouring  streets 
I  have  not  met  a  single  citizen. 
The  town  appearing  uninhabited. 
But  wherefore  art  thou  nc-re  ?    Thou  should'Ht  hatu 

stay'd 
With  the  unhappy  mother  of  poor  Caelus. 

First  Wom.  She  sent  rac  hither  in  her  agony 
Of  fear  and  fearful  hope. 

Second   Wom.  Ha!  does  she  hope  deliveranc* 
from  death  ? 


THE   MARTYR. 


359 


First  Worn.  0  no  !  thou  wrong'st  her,  friend  ;  it 
is  not  that : 
Deliverance  is  her  fear,  and  death  her  hope. 
A  second  time  she  hears  a  mother's  throes 
Fc*-  her  young  stripling,  whose  exalted  birth 
To  endless  life  is  at  this  fearful  crisis, 
Or  earn'd  or  lost.    May  heaven  forefend  the  last . 
He  is  a  timid  youth,  and  soft  of  nature  : 
God  grant  him  strength  to  bear  that  fearful  proof ! 

Second  Worn.  Here  comes  our  reverend  father. 

Enter  a  Christian  Father. 
What  tidings  dost  thou  bring  ?  are  they  in  bliss  ? 

Fath.  Yes,  daughter,  as  I  trust,  they  are  ere  this 
In  high  immortal  bliss.     Caelus  alone — 

First  Worn.  He  hath  apostatized  !  0  wo  is  me  ! 
0  wo  is  me  for  his  most  Wretched  mother  ! 

Fath.  Apostatized  !  No  ;  stripling  as  he  is, 
His  fortitude,  where  all  were  braced  and  brave. 
Shone  paramount. 

For  his  soft  downy  cheek  and  slender  form 
Made  them  conceive  they  might  subdue  his  firm- 
ness. 
Therefore  he  was  reserved  till  noble  Varus 
And  his  compeers  had  in  the  flames  expired. 
Then  did  they  court  and  tempt  him  with  fair  pro- 
mise 
Of  all  that  earthly  pleasure  or  ambition 
Can  offer,  to  deny  his  holy  faith. 
But  he,  who  seem'd  before  so  meek  and  timid, 
Now  suddenly  imbued  with  holy  grace. 
Like  the  transition  of  some  watery  cloud 
In  passing  o'er  the  moon's  refulgent  disc, 
Glow'd  with  new  life  ;  and  from  his  fervid  tongue 
Words  of  most  firm,  indignant  constancy 
Pour'd  eloquently  forth  ;  then  to  the  pile 
Sprung  lightly  up,  like  an  undaunted  warrior 
Scaling  the  breach  of  honour  ;  or,  alas  ! 
As  I  have  seen  him  midst  his  boyish  mates, 
Vaulting  aloft  for  every  love  of  motion. 

First  Worn.  High  heaven  be  praised  for  this  ! — 
Thine  eyes  beheld  it  ? 

Fath.  I  saw  it  not :  the  friend  who  witness'd  it, 
Lfft  him  yet  living  midst  devouring  flame  ; 
Therefore  1  spoke  of  Caelus  doubtfully, 
If  he  as  yet  belong'd  to  earth  or  heaven. 

[They  cover  their  faces,  and  remain  silent.) 

Enter  a.  Christian  Brother. 
Broth.  Liit  up  your  heads,  my  sisters  !  let  your 
voices 
In  grateful  thanks  be  raised  !  Those  ye  lament, 
Have  earthly  pangs  for  heavenly  joy  exchanged. 
The  manly  Varus  and  the  youthful  Caelus, 
The  lion  and  the  dove,  yoke-fellows  link'd. 
Have  equal  bliss  and  equal  honour  gain'd. 
First  IVom.  And  praised  be  God,  who  makes  the 
weakest  strong  ! 
I'll  to  his  mother  with  the  blessed  tidings.    [Exit. 
Fath.  Let  us  retire  and  pray.     How  soon   our 
lives 
May  have  like  ending,  God  alone  doth  know  ! 
O  .  may  like  grace  support  us  in  our  need  ! 

[Exeunt. 
Scene  IV. — an  open  space  in  front  of  a  temple. 

Enter    Cordenius,  as   returning    from    the    execution 
•with  his  Soldiers,  who,  upon   a  signal  from  him, 


disperse  and  leave  him  alone.  He  wallis  a  few  paces 
slowly,  then  stops  and  continues  for  a  short  time  in  a 
thoughtful  posture. 

Cor.  There  is  some  power  in  this,  or  good  or  ill. 
Surpassing  nature.     When  the  soul  is  roused 
To  desperate  sacrifice,  'tis  ardent  passion, 
Or  high  exalted  virtue  that  excites  it. 
Can  loathsome  demonry  in  dauntless  beaiing. 
Outdo  the  motives  of  the  lofty  brave  ? 
It  cannot  be  !  There  is  some  power  in  this 
Mocking  all  thought — incomprehensible. 

[Remains  for  a  moment  silent  and  thoitghtftd, 
while  Sylvius  enters  behind  him  unperceived. 
Delusion  !  ay,  'tis  said  the  cheated  sight 
Will  see  unreal  things  ;  the  cheated  ear 
List  to  sweet  sounds  that  are  not ;  even  the  reason 
Maintain  conclusions  wild  and  inconsistent. 
We  hear  of  this  : — the  weak  may  be  deluded  ; 
But  is  the  learn'd,  th'  enlighten'd,  noble  Varus 
The  victim  of  delusion  ? — Can  it  be  ? 
I'll  not  believe  it. 

Syl.  [advancing  to  him.)  No,  believe  it  not 

Cor.  [starting.)  Ha  !   one  so  near  me  ! 
I  liave  seen  thy  face  before  ;  but  where  ? — who  art 
thou  ? 

Syl.  E'en  that  centurion  of  the  seventh  legion 
Who,  with  Cordenius  Maro,  at  the  siege 
Of  Fort  Volundum,  mounted  first  the  breach  ; 
And  kept  the  clustering  enemy  in  check, 
Till  our  encouraged  Romans  follow'd  vs. 

Cor.  My  old  companion  then,  the  valiant  Syl- 
vius. 
Thou'st  done  hard  service  since  I  saw  thee  last: 
Thy  countenance  is  mark'd  with  graver  lines 
Than  in  those  greener  days  :  I  knew  thee  not. 
Where  goest  thou  now  ?    I'll  bear  thee  company. 

Syl.  I  thank  thee  :  yet  thou  may'st  not  go  with 
me. 
The  way  that  I  am  wending  suits  not  thee, 
Though  suiting  well  the  noble  and  the  brave. 
It  were  not  well,  in  fiery  times  like  these, 
To  tempt  thy  generous  mind. 

Cor.  What  dost  thou  mean  ? 

Syl.  [after  looking  cautiously  round  to  see  thai, 
nobody  is  near.)  Did  I  not  hear  thee  com- 
mune with  thyself 
Of  that  most  blessed  martyr  gone  to  rest. 
Varus  Dobella  ? 

Cor.  How  blessed  ?  My  unsettled  thoughts  were 
busy 
With  things  mysterious  ;  with  those  magic  powers 
T'-.i:  work  the  mind  to  darkness  and  destruction ; 
With  the  Sad  end  of  the  deluded  Varus. 

Syl.  Not  so,  not  so  !  The  wisest  prince  on  earth, 
With  treasured  wealth  and  armies  at  command, 
Ne'er  earn'd  withal  such  lofty  exaltation 
As  Varus  now  enjoys. 

Cor.  Thy  words  amaze  me,  friend  ;  what  is  their 
meaning  ? 

Syl.  They  cannot  be  explain'd  with  hasty  speech 
In  such  a  place.     If  thou  would'st  really  know— 
And  may  such  light 

Cor.  Why  dost  thou  check  thy  words. 
And  look  so  much  disturb'd,  like  one  in  doubt  ? 

Syl.  What  am  I  doing  !  Zeal,  perhaps,  betrays 
me. 


3G0 


BAILLIE. 


Yet,  wherefore  hide  salvation  from  a  man 
"Who  is  so  worthy  of  it  ? 

Cor.  Why  art  thou  agitated  thus  ?    What  moves 
thee  ? 

Syl.  And  would'st  thou  really  know  it  ? 

Cor.  Dost  thou  doubt  me  ? 
I  have  an  earnest,  most  intense  desire. 

Syl.  Sent  to  thy  heart,  brave  Roman,  by  a  power 
Which  I  may  not  resist.  [Bowing  his  head.) 

But  go  not  with  me  now  in  open  day. 
At  fall  of  eve,  I'll  meet  thee  in  the  suburb 
Close  to  the  pleasure  garden  of  Sulpicius  ; 
Where  in  a  bushy  crevice  of  the  rock 
There  is  an  entry  to  the  catacombs, 
Known  but  to  few 

Cor.  Sa  !  to  the  catacombs  ! 

Syl.  A  dismal  place,  I  own,  but  heed  not  that ; 
For  there  thou'lt  learn  what,  to  thy  ardent  mind. 
Will  make  this  world  but  as  a  thorny  pass 
To  regions  of  delight ;  man's  natural  life 
With  all  its  varied  turmoil  of  ambition, 
But  as  the  traming  of  a  wayward  child 
To  manly  excellence  ;  yea,  death  itself 
But  as  a  painful  birth  to  life  unending. 
The  word  eternal  has  not  to  thine  ears, 
As  yet,  its  awful,  ample  sense  convey'd. 

Cor.  Something  possesses  thee. 

Syl.  Yes,  noble  Maro  ; 

But  it  is  something  which  can  ne'er  possess 
A  mind  that  is  not  virtuous. — Let  us  part ; 
It  is  expedient  now.— All  good  be  with  thee  ! 

Cor.  And  good  be  with  thee,  also,  valiant  soldier  ! 

Syl.  [returning  as  he  is  about  to  go  out.)  At 
close  of  day,  and  near  the  pleasure  gar- 
den,— 
The  garden  of  Sulpicius. 

Cor.  I  know  the  spot,  and  will  not  fail  to  meet 
thee.  [Exeunt, 


ACT   II. 


•CENE   I. THE   CATACOMBS,  SHOWING    LONG,   LOW- 

SOOFED  AISLES,  IN  DIFFERENT  DIRECTIONS, 
SUPPORTED  BY  THICK  PILLARS  OF  THE  ROUGH 
UNHEWN  ROCK,  WITH  RUDE  TOMBS  AND  HEAPS 
OF  HUMAN  BONES,  AND  THE  WALLS  IN  MANY 
PLACES  LINED  WITH  HUMAN  SKULLS. 

Enter  Cordenius  Maro,  speaking  to  a  Christian 
Father,  on  whose  arm  he  leans,  and  followed  by 
Sylvius. 

Cor.  One  day  and  two  bless'd  nights,  spent  in 
acquiring 
Your  heavenly  lore,  so  powerful  and  sublime — 
O  !  wh  it  an  alter'd  creature  they  have  made  me  ! 

Fath.  Yes,  gentle  son,  I  trust  that  thou  art 
alter'd. 

Cor.  I  am,  methinks,  like  one,  who,  with  bent 
back 
And  downward  gaze — if  such  a  one  might  be — 
Hath  only  known  the  boundless  azure  sky 
By  the  strait  circle  of  reflected  beauty. 
Seen  in  the  watery  gleam  of  some  deep  pit. 
Till  of  a  sudden  roused,  he  stands  erect. 
And  wondering  looks  aloft  and  all  around 
On  the  briijht  sunny  firmament : — like  one 


(Granting  again  that  such  a  one  might  be,) 
Who  hath  \>'it  seen  the  element  of  fire 
On  housenold  earth  or  woodman's  smoky  pile, 
And  looks  at  once,  midst  'stounding  thunder-peals, 
On  Jove's  magnificence  of  lightning. — Pardon, 
I  pray  you  pardon  me  !  I  mean  his  lightning, 
Who  is  the  Jove  of  Jove,  the  great  Jehovah. 

Fath.  {smiling.)  Be  not  disturb 'd,  my  son :  the 
lips  will  utter. 
From  lengthen'd  habit,  what  the  mind  rejects. 

Cor.  These  blessed  hours  which  I  have  pass'd 
with  you 
Have  to  my  intellectual  being  given 
New  feelings  and  expansion,  like  to  that 
Which  once  I  felt,  on  viewing  by  degrees 
The  wide  development  of  nature's  amplitude. 

Fath.  And  how  was  that,  my  son  ? 

Cor.  I  well  remember  it ;  even  at  this  moment 
Imagination  sees  it  all  again. 
'Twas  on  a  lofty  mountain  of  Armenia, 
O'er  which  I  led  by  night  my  martial  cohort, 
To  shun  the  fierce  heat  of  a  summer's  day. 
Close  round  us  hung,  the  vapours  of  the  night 
Had  fonn'd  a  woofy  curtain,  dim  and  pale. 
Through  which  the  waning  moon  did  laintly  mark 
Its  slender  crescent. 

Fath.  A}',  the  waned  moon   through'  midnight 
vapours  seen, 
Fit  emblem  is  of  that  retrenching  light, 
Dubious  and  dim,  which  to  the  earliest  patriarchs 
Was  at  the  first  vouchsafed  ;  a  moral  guide. 
Soon  clouded  and  obscured  to  their  descendants, 
Who  peopled  far  and  wide,  in  scatter'd  tribes, 
The  fertile  earth. — But  this  is  interruption. 
Proceed,  my  son. 

Cor.  AVell,  on  the  lofty  summit 

We  halted,  and  the  day's  returning  light 
On  this  exalted  station  found  us.     Then 
Our  brighten'd  curtain,  wearing  into  shreds 
And  rifted  masses,  through  its  opening  gave 
Glimpse  after  glimpse  of  slow  revealed  beauty, 
Which  held  th'  arrested  senses  magic  bound. 
In  the  intensity  of  charm'd  attention. 

Fath.    From  such  an    eminence,  the    opening 
mist 
Would  to  the  eye  reveal  most  beauteous  visions. 

Cor.  Fust,  far  beneath  us,  woody  peaks  appear'd, 
And  knolls  with  cedars  crested ;  then,  beyond. 
And  lower  still,  the  herdsmen's  cluster 'd  dwellings 
With  pasture  slopes,  and  flocks  just  visible  ; 
Then,  further  still,  soft  wavy  wastes  of  forest, 
In  all  the  varied  tints  of  sylvan  verdure. 
Descending  to  the  plain  ;  then  wide  and  boundless 
The  plain  itself,  with  towns  and  cultured  tracks. 
And  its  fair  river  gleaming  in  the  light. 
With  all  its  sweepy  windings,  seen  and  lost. 
And  seen  again,  till  through  the  pale  gray  tint 
Of  distant  space,  it  seem'd  a  loosen'd  cestus 
From  virgin's  tunic  blown  ;  and  still  beyond. 
The  earth's  extended  vastness  from  the  sight. 
Wore  like  the  boundless  ocean. 
My  heart  beat  rapidly  at  the  fair  sight — 
This  ample  earth,  man's  natural  habitation. 
But  now,  when  to  my  mental  eye  reveai'd. 
His  moral  destiny,  so  grand  and  noble 
Lies  stretching  on  e'en  to  immensity. 


THE    MARTYR. 


361 


It  overwhelms  me  with  a  flood  of  thoughts.. 
Of  happy  thoughts. 
Fath.  Thanks  be  to  God  that  thou  dost  feel  it 

so! 
Cor.  I  am  most  thankful  for  the  words  of  power 
Which  from  thy  gifted  lips  and  sacred  Scripture 
I  have  received.     What  feelings  they  have  raised  ! 
O  wha ;  a  range  of  thought  given  to  the  mind  I 
And  to  the  soul  what  loftiness  of  hope  ! 
That  future  dreamy  state  of  faint  existence 
Which  poets  have  described  and  sages  taught,- 
In  which  the  brave  and  virtuous  pined  and  droop'd 
In  useless  indolence,  changed  for  a  state 
Of  social  love,  and  joy,  and  active  bliss, — 
A  state  of  brotherhood, — a  state  of  virtue. 
So  grand,  so  purified  ; — 0,  it  is  excellent ! 
My  soul  is  roused  within  me  at  the  sound, 
Like  some  poor  slave,  wh«  from  a  dungeon  issues 
To  range  with  free-born  men  his  native  land 
Fath.   Thou  may'st,  indeed,  my   son,  redeem'd 

from  thraldom. 
Become  the  high  compeer  of  blessed  spirits. 

Cor.  The  high  compeer  of  such  ! — These  gushing 

tears. 
Nature's  mysterious  tears,  will  have  their  way. 
Fath.  To  give  thy  heart  relief. 
Cor,  And  yet  mysterious.    Why  do  we  weep 
At  contemplation  of  exalted  virtue  ? 
Perhaps  in  token  of  the  fallen  state 
In  which  we  are,  as  thrilling  sympathy 
Strangely  acknowledges  some  sight  and  sound, 
Connected  with  a  dear  and  distant  home. 
Albeit  the  memory  hath  that  link  forgotten  : 
A  kind  of  latent  sense  of  what  we  were 
Or  might  have  been  ;  a  deep,  mysterious  token. 
Fath.  Perhaps  thou'rt  right,  my  son  ;   for  e'en 

the  wicked 
Will  sometimes  weep  at  lofty,  generous  deeds. 
Some  broken  traces  of  our  noble  nature 
Were  yet  preserved  ;  therefore  our  great  Creator 
Still  loved  his  work,  and  thought  it  worth  redemp- 
tion. 
And  therefore  his  bless'd  Son,  our  generous  master, 
Did,  as  the  elder  brother  of  that  race. 
Whose  form  he  took,  lay  down  his  life  to  save  us. 
But  I  have  read  thee,  in  our  sacred  Book, 
His  gentle  words  of  love. 

Cor.  Thou  hast !  thou  hast !  they're  stirring  in 

my  heart : 
Each  fibre  of  my  body  thrills    .  answer 
To  the  high  call. — 
Fath.  The  spirit  of  power,  my  son,  is  dealing 

with  thee. 
Cor.  (after  a  pause.)  One  thing  amazes  me,  yet 

it  is  excellent. 
Fath.  And  what  amazes  thee  ?    Unbosom  freely 
What  passes  in  thy  mind. 

Cot.    That  this   religion  which  dilates    our 

thoughts 
Of  God  supreme  to  an  infinity 
Of  awful  greatness,  yet  connects  us  with  him, 
As  children,  loved  and  cherish'd  ; — 
Adoring  awe  with  tenderness  united. 

Syl.  (eagerly,)  Ay,  brave  Corden'us,  that  same 

thought  more  moved 
My  rude,  unletter'd  mind  than  all  the  rest. 


I  struck  my  hand  against  my  soldier's  mail, 
And  cried,  "  This  faith  is  worthy  of  a  man  I' 
Cor.   Our  best  philosophers  have  raised  theu 

thoughts 
To  one  great  universal  Lord  of  all, 
Lord  e'en  of  Jove  himself  and  all  the  gods  ; 
But  who  dost  feel  for  that  high,  distant  Essence 
A  warmer  sentiment  than  deep  submission  ? 
But  now,  adoring  love  and  grateful  confidence 
Cling  to  the  infinity  of  power  and  goodness, 
As  the  repentant  child  turns  to  his  sire 
With  yearning  looks  that  say,  "  Am  I  not  thine  ?* 
I  am  too  bold  :  I  should  be  humbled  first 
In  penitence  and  sorrow,  for  the  stains 
Of  many  a  hateful  vice  and  secret  passion. 
Fath.    Check  not  the  generous  tenor  of  thy 

thoughts : 
0  check  it  not !  Love  leads  to  penitence. 
Arid  is  the  noblest,  surest  path  ;  whilst  fear 
Is  dark  and  devious.     To  thy  home  return, 
And  let  thy  mind  well  weigh  what  thou  hast  heard. 
If  then  thou  feel'st  within  thee,  faith  assured 
That  faith,  which  may,  even  through  devouring 

flames. 
Its  passage  hold  to  heaven,  baptismal  rites 
Shall  give  thee  entrance  to  a  purer  life  ; 
Receive  thee,  as  thy  Saviour's  valiant  soldier. 
For  his  high  warfare  arm'd. 

Cor.  I  am  resolved,  and  feel  that  in  my  heart 
There  lives  that  faith ;  baptize  me  ere  we  part. 

Fath.  So  be  it  then.     But  yet  that  holy  rite 
Must  be  preferr'd  ;  for  lo  I  our  brethren  come, 
Bearing  the  ashes  of  our  honour'd  saints. 
Which  must,  with  hymns  of  honour  be  received. 

Enter  Christians,  seen  advancing  slowly  along  one  o! 
the  aisles,  and  bearing  a  large  veiled  urn ;  which  they 
set  down  near  the  front.  They  then  lift  off  the  veil 
and  range  themselves  round  it,  while  one  sings  and 
the  rest  join  in  the  chorus  at  the  end  of  each  short 
verse. 

SONG. 
Departed  brothers,  generous,  brave, 
Who  for  the  faith  have  died, 
Nor  its  pure  source  denied, 
Your  bodies  from  devouring  flames  to  save. 
Chorus. 
Honour  on  earth,  and  bliss  in  heaven, 
Be  to  your  saintly  valour  given ! 

And  we,  who,  left  behind,  pursue 

A  pilgrim's  weary  way 

To  realms  of  glorious  day, 
Shall  rouse  our  fainting  souls  with  thoughts  of  yott* 
Honour  on  earth,  &c. 

Your  ashes  mingled  with  the  dust, 

Shall  yet  be  forms  more  fair 

Than  e'er  breathed  vital  air, 
When  earth  again  gives  up  her  precious  trust. 
Honour  on  earth,  &c. 

The  trump  of  angels  shall  proclaim. 
With  tones  far  sent  and  sweet, 
Which  countless  hosts  repeat. 
The  generous  martyr's  never-fading  name. 

Honour  on  earth,  and  bliss  in  heaven, 
Be  to  your  saintly  valour  given ! 

Cor.  [to  Father.)  And  ye  believe  those,  who  a 
few  hours  since 
Were  clothed  in  flesh  and  blood,  and  here,  before  ui, 


362 


BAILLIE. 


Lie  thus,  even  to  a  few  dry  ashes  changed, 
Are  now  exalted  spirits,  holding  life 
With  blessed  powers,  and  agencies,  and  all 
Who  have  on  earth  a  virtuous  part  fulfill'd  ? 
The  dear  redeem'd  of  Godlike  love,  again 
To  their  primeval  destiny  restored  ? 
It  is  a  generous,  powerful,  noble  faith. 

Syl.  Did  I  not  tell  thee,  as  we  pass'd  a.ong. 
It  well  became  a  Roman  and  a  soldier  ? 

Fath.  Nay,  worthy  Sylvius,  somewhat  more  of 
meekness 
And  less  of  martial  ardour  were  becoming 
In  those,  whose  humble  Lord  stretch'd  forth  his 

hand. 
His  saving  hand,  to  e'en  the  meanest  slave 
Who  bends  beneath  an  earthlj-  master's  rod. 
This  faith  is  meet  for  all  of  human  kind. 

Cor.  Forgive  him,  father:  see,  he   stands   re- 
proved ; 
His  heart  is  meek,  though  ardent ; 
It  is,  indeed,  a  faith  for  all  mankind. 

Fath.  We  feel  it  such,  my  son,  press'd  as  we  are  ; 
On  every  side  beset  with  threatening  terrors. 
Look  on  these  ghastly  walls,  these  shapeless  pillars, 
These  heaps  of  human  bones, — this  court  of  death  ; 
E'en  here,  as  in  a  temple,  we  adore 
The  Lord  of  life,  and  sing  our  song  of  hope. 
That  death  has  lost  his  sting,  the  grave  his  triumph. 

Cor.  0  make  me  then  the  partner  of  your  hopes  ! 

{Taking  the  hand  of  Sylvius,  and  then  of  several 
other  Christians.) 
Brave  men  !  high  destined  souls  !  immortal  beings  ! 
The  blessed  faith  and  sense  of  what  we  are 
Comes  on  my  heart,  like  streams  of  beamy  light 
Pour'd  from  some  opening  cloud.     O  to  conceive 
What  lies  beyond  the  dim,  dividing  veil, 
Of  regions  bright,  of  blest  and  glorious  being  ; 

Fath.  Ay,  when  it  is  withdrawn,  we  shall  behold 
What  heart  hath  ne'er  conceived,  nor  tongue  could 
utter. 

Cor.  When  but  a  boy,  I've  gazed  upon  the  sky. 
With  all  its  sparks  of  light,  as  a  grand  cope 
For  the  benighted  world.     But  now  my  fancy 
Will  greet  each  twinkling  star,  as  the  bright  lamp 
Of  some  fair  angel  on  his  guardian  watch. 
And  think  ye  not,  that  from  their  lofty  stations, 
Our  future  glorious  home,  our  Father's  house. 
May  lie  within  the  vast  and  boundless  ken 
Of  such  seraphic  powers  ? 

Fath.    Thy  fancy  soars  on  wide  and  buoyant 
wings ; 
Speak  on,  my  son,  I  would  not  check  thy  ardour. 

Cor.  This  solid  earth  is  press'd  beneath  our  feet, 
But  as  a  step  from  which  to  take  our  flight ; 
What  boots  it  then,  if  rough  or  smooth  it  be. 
Serving  its  end  ? — Come,  nolie  Sylvius  ! 
We've  been  companions  in  the  broil  of  battle. 
Now  be  we  fellow  soldiers  in  that  warfare 
Which  best  becomes  the  brave. 

Syl.  Cordenius  Maro,  we  shall  be  companions 
When  this  wide  earth  with  all  its  fields  of  blood. 
Where  war  hath   raged,  and  all  its   towers    of 

strength 
Which  have  begirded  been  with  iron  hosts. 
Are  shrunk  to  nothing,  and  the  flaming  sun 
Is  in  his  course  extinguish'd. 


Cor.  Come,  lead  me,  father,  to  the  holy  fount. 
If  I  in  humble  penitence  may  be 
From  worldly  vileness  clear'd. 

Fath.  I  gladly  will,  my  son.     The  spirit  of  gract 
Is  dealing  with  thy  spirit :  be  received, 
A  ransom'd  penitent,  to  the  high  fellowship 
Of  all  the  good  and  bless'd  in  earth  and  heaven  ! 

Enter  a  Convert. 
Whence  comest  thou,  Fearon  ?    Why  weit  lho» 

prevented 
From  joining  in  our  last  respectful  homage 
To  those,  who  have  so  nobly  for  the  truth 
Laid  down  their  lives  ? 

Con.  I  have  been  watching  near  the  grated  dun* 
geon 
Where  Ethocles,  the  Grecian,  is  immured. 
Fath.  Thou  say'st  not  so  !  A  heavier  loss  than 
this. 
If  they  have  seized  on  him,  the  righteous  cause 
Could  not  have  sufFer'd.    Art  thou  sure  of  it  ? 
We  had  not  heard  of  his  return  from  Syria. 

Con.  It  is  too  true  :  he  landed  ten  days  since 
On  the  Brundusian  coast,  and  as  he  enter'd 
The  gates  of  Rome,  was   seized  and  dragg'd  to 
prison. 
Fath.  And  we  in  utter  ignorance  of  this  ! 
Con.  He  travell'd  late  and  unaccompanied, 
So  this  was  done  at  nightfall  and  conceal 'd. 
But  see  his  writing,  given  me  by  a  guard. 
Who  has  for  pity's  sake  betray'd  his  trust : 
It  is  address'd  to  thee.  [Giving  him  a  paper.) 

Fath.  [after  reading  it.)  Alas,  alas  :  it  is  a  brief 
account 
Of  Lis  successful  labours  in  the  East ; 
For  with  l^is  excellent  gifts  of  eloquence, 
Learning,  and  prudence,  he  has  made  more  converts 
Than  all  our  zealous  brotherhood  besides. 
What  can  v/e  do  ?    He  will  be  sacrificed  : 
The  church  in  him  must  bleed,  if  God  so  wills. 
It  is  a  dreadful  blow. 

Cor.  [to  the  Convert.)  I  pray  thee,  in  what  prisot. 

is  he  kept  ? 
Con.  In  Sylla's  tower,  that  dwelling  of  despair. 
Cor.  Guarded  by  Romans  ? 
Con.  Yes ;  and  strongly  guarded. 

Cor.  Yet,  he  shall  be  released. 
Fath.  [to  Cordenius.)  Beware,  my  son,  of  rash; 
imprudent  zeal : 
The  truth  hath  sufFer'd  much  from  this  ;  beware  j 
Risk  not  thyself :  thy  life  is  also  precious. 

Cor.  My  whole  of  life  is  precious  ;  but  this  shred. 
This  earthly  portion  of  it,  what  is  that. 
But  as  it  is  employ 'd  in  holy  acts  ? 
Am  I  Christ's  soldier  at  a  poorer  rate 
Than  I  have  served  an  earthly  master  ?    No  ; 
I  feel  within  my  glowing  breast  a  power 
Which  says  I  am  commission'd  for  this  service. 
Give  me  thy  blessing — thy  baptismal  blessing, 
And  then  God's  spirit  guide  me  !  Serving  God, 
I  will  not  count  the  cost  but  to  discharge  it. 
Fat?i.    His  will   direct  thee  then,  my  generous 
son ! 
His  blessing  be  upon  thee  ! — Lead  him,  Sylvius, 
To  the  blest  fount,  where  from  his  former  sins 
He  shall  by  heavejily  grace  be  purified.    [Exeunt 


THE   MARTYR. 


362 


Scene  II. — the  garden  of  sulpichjs. 
Enter  Sulpicius,  and  Portia,  with  flowers  in  her  hand. 

For.  Was  it  not  well  to  rise  with  early  morn 
And  pay  my  homage  to  sweet  Flora  ?    Never 
Were  flowers  by  midday  cull'd  so  fair,  so  fragrant, 
With  blending  streaky  tints,  so  fresh  and  bright. 
See  ;  twinkling  dew-drops  lurk  in  every  bell, 
And  on  the  fibred  leaves  stray  far  apart, 
Like  little  rounded  gems  of  silver  sheen, 
Whilst  curling  tendrils  grasp  with  vigorous  hold 
The  stem  that  bears  them  !  All  looks  j^oung  and 

fresh. 
The  very  spider  through  his  circled  cage 
Of  wiry  woof,  amongst  the  buds  suspended, 
Scarce  seems  a  loathly  thing,  but  like  the  small 
Imprison 'd  bird  of  some  capricious  nymph. 
Is  it  not  so,  my  father  ? 

SuL  Yes,  morn  and  youth  and  freshness  sweetly 
join, 
And  are  the  emblems  of  dear  changeful  days. 
By  night  those  beauteous  things — 

For.  And  what  of  night  ? 

Why  do  you  check  your  words  ?    You  are  not  sad  ? 

SuL  No  ;  Portia,  only  angry  with  myself 
For  crossing  thy  gay  stream  of  youthful  thoughts 
With  those  of  sullen  age.     Away  with  them  ! 
What  if  those  bright-leaved  flowers,^so  soft  and 

silken. 
Are  gathered  into  dank  and  wrinkled  folds 
When  evening  chills  them,  or  upon  the  earth 
With  broken  stems  and  buds  torn  and  dispersed. 
Lie  prostrate,  of  fair  form  and  fragrance  reft 
When  midnight  winds  pass  o'er  them  ;  be  it  so  I 
All  things  but  have  their  term. 
In  truth,  my  child,  I'm  glad  that  I  indulged  thee 
By  coming  forth  at  such  an  early  hour 
To  pay  thy  worship  to  so  sweet  a  goddess, 
Upon  her  yearly  feast. 

For.  I  thank  you,  father  !  On  her  feast,  'tis  said, 
That  she,  from  mortal  eye  cohceal'd,  vouchsafes 
Her  presence  in  such  sweet  and  flowery  spots  : 
And  where  due  offerings  on  her  shrine  are  laid. 
Blesses  all  seeds  and  shoots,  and  things  of  promise. 

Sul.  How  many  places  in  one  little  day 
She  needs  must  visit  then  .' 

For.  But  she  moves  swift  as  thought.    The  hasty 
zephyr 
That  stirr'd  each  slender  leaf,  now  as  we  enter'd, 
And  made  a  sudden  sound,  by  stillness  follow'd, 
Might  be  tlie  rustling  of  her  passing  robe. 

Sul.  A  pleasing  fancy,  Portia,  for  the  moment, 
Yet  wild  as  pleasing. 

For.  Wherefore  call  it  wild  ? 

Full  many  a  time  I've  listen'd  when  alone 
In  such  fair  spots  as  this,  and  thought  I  heard 
Sweet  mingled  voices  uttering  Varied  tones 
Of  question  and  reply,  pass  on  the  wind, 
And  heard  soft  steps  upon  the  ground ;  and  then 
The  notion  of  bright  Venus  or  Diana, 
Dr  goddess  nymphs,  would  come  so  vivi^ily 
Into  my  mind,  that  I  am  almost  certain 
Their  radiant  forms  were  near  me,  though  conceal'd 
By  subtle  drapery  of  the  ambient  air. 
4.nd  0,  )iow  I  have  long'd  to  look  upon  them ; 


An  ardent,  strange  desire,  though  mix'd  with  fear. 

Nay,  do  not  smile,  my  father :  such  fair  sights 

Were  seen — were  often  seen  in  ancient  days  ; 

The  poets  tell  us  so. 

But  look,  the  Indian  roses  I  have  foster'd 

Are  in  full  bloom  ;  and  I  must  gather  them  ! 

[Exit  eagerly. 
Sul.  {^alone.)  Go,  gentle  creature,  thou  art  care- 
less yet : 
Ah  !  could'st  thou  so  remain,  and  still  with  me 
Be  as  in  years  gone  by  I — It  may  not  be ; 
Nor  should  I  wish  it :  all  things  have  their  season : 
She  may  not  now  remain  an  old  man's  treasure. 
With  all  her  woman's  beauty  grown  to  blossom. 

Enter  Orceees. 
The  Parthian  prince  at  such  an  early  hour  ? 

Ore.  And  who  considers  hours,  whose  heart  is 
bent 
On  what  concerns  a  lover  and  a  friend  ? 
Where  is  thy  daughter  ? 

Sul.   Within  yon   flowery  thicket,  blithe  and 
careless  ; 
For  though  she  loves,  'tis  with  sweet,  maiden  fancy. 
Which,  not  impatient,  looks  in  cheering  hope 
To  future  years. 

Ore.  Ay,  'tis  a  shelter'd  passion, 

A  cradled  love,  by  admiration  foster'd  : 
A  showy,  toward  nurse  for  babe  so  bashful. 
Thus  in  the  shell  athwart  whose  snowy  lining 
j  Each  changeful  tint  of  the  bright  rainbovr  plays, 
A  little  pearl  is  found,  in  secret  value 
Surpassing  all  the  rest. 

Sul.  But  say'st  thou  nothing 

Of  what  I  wish  to  hear  ?    What  of  Cordenius  ? 

Ore.  By  my  good  v/ar-bow  and  its  barbed  shafts. 
By  the  best  war-horse  archer  e'er  bestrode  ! 
I'm  still  in  ignorance :  I  have  not  seen  him. 

Sul.  Thou  hast  not  seen  him  !  this  is  very 
strange. 

Ore.  So  it  indeed  appears. — My  wayward  friend 
Has  from  his  home  been  absent.     Yesteiday 
There  and  elsewhere  I  sought,  but  found  him  not. 
This  morning  by  the  dawn  again  I  sought  him. 
Thinking  to  find  him  surely,  and  alone  ; 
But  his  domestics,  much  amazed,  have  told  me- 
He  is  not  yet  return 'd. 

Sul.  Hush  !  through  yon  thicket  I  perceive  a 
man. 

Ore.  Some  thief  or  spy. 

Sul.  Let  us  withdraw  a  while. 

And  mark  his  motions  ;  he  observes  us  not. 

Enter  Cordenius  from  a  thicket  in  the  back  ground. 

Cor.  {after  looking  round  him  ivith  delight.) 
Sweet  light  of  day,  fair  sky,  and  verdant 
earth, 

Enrich'd  with  every  beauteous  herb  and  flower. 

And  stately  trees,  that  spread  their  boughs  lik* 
tents 

For  shade  and  shelter,  how  I  hail  ye  now ! 

Ye  are  his  works,  who  made  such  fair  abodes 

For  happy  innocence,  yet,  in  the  wreck 

Of  foul  perversion,  has  not  cast  us  off". 

( Stooping  to  look  at  the  flowers.) 

Ye  little  painted  things,  whose  varied  hues 


364 


BAILLIE. 


Charm,  even  to  wonderment ;  that  mighty  hand 
Which  dies  the  mountain's  peak  with  rosy  tints 
Sent  from  the  rising  sun,  and  to  the  barb'd. 
Destructive  lightning  gives  its  ruddy  gleam, 
Grand  and  terrific,  thus  adorns  even  you  ! 
There  is  a  father's  full,  unstinted  love 
Display'd  o'er  all,  and  thus  on  all  I  gaze 
With  the  keen  thrill  of  new-waked  ecstasy. 
What  voice  is  that  so  near  me  and  so  sweet  ? 
(Portia  xoithout,  singing  some  notes  of  prelude, 
and  then  a  Song.) 

SONG. 

The  lady  in  her  early  bower 
Is  blest  as  bee  in  morning  flower ; 
The  lady's  eye  is  flashing  bright,' 
Like  water  in  the  morning  light ; 
The  lady's  song  is  sweet  and  loud, 
Like  skylark  o'er  the  morning  cloud  ; 
The  lady's  smiles  are  smiles  that  pass 
Like  morning's  breath  o'er  wavy  grass. 

She  thinks  of  one,  whose  harness'd  car 
In  triumph  comes  from  distant  war ; 
She  thinks  of  one,  whose  martial  state 
Will  darken  Rome's  imperial  gate  ; 
She  thinks  of  one,  with  laurel  crown'd, 
"Who  shall  with  sweeter  wreaths  be  bound. 
Voice,  eye,  and  smiles,  in  mingled  play, 
The  lady's  happy  thoughts  betray. 

Cor.  Her  voice  indeed,  and  this   my  favourite 

song  ! 
It  is  that  gentle  creature,  my  sweet  Portia 
I  call  her  mine,  because  she  is  the  image 
Which  hath  possess'd  my  fancy.     Such   vain 

thoughts 
Must  now  give  place.     I  will  not  linger  here. 
This  is  the  garden  of  Sulpicius  ; 
How  have  I  miss'd  my  path  ?    She  sings  again. 

[Sings  without,  as  be/fire.) 
She  wanders  fitfully  from  lay  to  lay, 
But  all  of  them  some  air  that  I  have  praised 
In  happy  hours  gone  by. 

SONG. 
The  kind  heart  speaks  with  words  so  kindly  sweet, 
That  kindred  hearts  the  catching  tones  repeat ; 
And  love,  therewith  his  soft  sigh  gently  blending, 
Makes  pleasing  harmony.    Thus  softly  sending 
Its  passing  cheer  across  the  stilly  main, 
Whilst  in  the  sounding  water  dips  the  oar, 
And  glad  response  bursts  from  the  nearing  shore. 
Comes  to  our  ears  the  home-bound  seamen's  strain, 
Who  from  the  lofty  deck,  hail  their  own  land  again. 

Cor.  O  gentle,  sweet,  and  cheerful !  form'd  to  be 
Whate'er  my  heart  could  prize  of  treasured  love  ! 
Dear  as  thou  art,  I  will  not  linger  here. 

Re-enter  Sulpicius  and  Orceres,  breaking  out  upon 
him,  and  Orceres  catching  hold  of  his  robe  as  he 
J8  going  off. 

Ore.  Ha  !  noble  Maro,  to  a  coward  turn'd, 
Shunning  a  spot  of  danger  ! 

Sul.  Stay,  Cordenius. 
The  fellest  foe  thou  shalt  contend  with  here, 
Is  her  thou  call'st  so  gentle.     As  for  me, 
t  do  not  offer  thee  this  hand  more  freely 
Than  I  will  grant  all  that  may  make  thee  happy, 
f  Portia  has  that  power. 

Cor.  And  dost  thou  mean,  in  very  earnest  mean. 


That  thou  wilt  give  me  Portia — thy  dear  Portia .? 
My  fancy  catches  wildly  at  thy  words. 

SuL  And  truly  too,  Cordenius.     She  is  thine, 
If  thou  wilt  promise  me  to  love  her  truly. 

Cor.    [Eagerly   clasping  the   knees,  and    then 

kissing  the  hands  of  Sulpicius  )  Thanks, 

thanks  ! — thanks  from  my  swoll'n,  o'er- 

flowing  heart, 

Which    has    no  words. — Friend,  father,  Portia's 

father  I 
The  thought  creates  in  me  such  sudden  joy 
I  am  bewilder'd  with  it. 

Sul.  Calm  thy  spirits. — 

Thou    shouldst  in  meeter  form  have   known  it 

sooner. 
Had  not  the  execution  of  those  Christians — 
(Pests  of  the  earth,  whom  on  one  burning  pile, 
With  all  their  kind,  I  would  most  gladly  punish,) 
Till  now  prevented  me.     Thy  friend,  Orceres — 
Thou  owest  him  thanks — plead  for  thee  powerfully 
And  had  my  leave.     But  dost  thou  listen  to  me  ? 
Thy  face  wears  many  colours,  ard  big  drops 
Burst  from  thy  brow,  whilst  thy  contracted  lips 
Quiver,  like  one  in  pain. 

Ore. .What  sudden  illness  ranks  thee  ? 

Cor.  I  may  not  tell  you  novv :  let  me  depart. 

Sul.  [holding  him.)  Thou  art  my  promised  son  ; 
I  have  a  right 
To  know  whate'er  concerns  thee, — pain  or  pleasure. 

Cor.  And  so  thou  hast,  and  I  may  not  deceive 
thee. 
Take,  take,  Sulpicius. — 0  such  withering  words  ! 
The  sinking,  sickening  heart  and  parched  mouth  ! 
I  cannot  utter  them. 

Sul.  Why  in  this  agony  of  perturbation  ? 
Nay,  strive  not  now  to  speak. 

Cor.  I  must,  I  must ! — 

Take  back    thy  proffer'd   gift;    all   earth    could 

give  ;— 
That  which  it  cannot  give  I  must  retain. 

Sul.  What  words  are  these  ?    If  it  were  possible,. 
I  could  believe  thee  touch'd  with  sorcery. 
The  cursed  art  of  those  vile  Nazarenes. 
Where  hast  thou  past  the  night  ?  their  haunts  are 
near 

Ore.  Nay,  nay ;  repress  thine  anger ;  noble  Marc 
May  not  be  question'd  thus. 

Sul.  He   may,  and  shall.     And  yet  I  will  not 
urge  him. 
If  he,  with  hand  press'd  on  his  breast,  will  say, 
That  he  detests  those  hateful  Nazarenes. 

Cor.  No  ;  though  my  life,  and  what  is  dearer  far 
My  Portia's  love,  depended  on  the  words, 
I  would  not,  and  I  durst  not  utter  them. 

Sul.  I  see  it  well :  thou  art  insnared  and  blinded 
By  their  enchantments.     Demoniac  power 
Will  drag  thee  to  thy  ruin.     Cast  it  off; 
Defy  it.     Say  thou  wilt  forbear  all  intercourse 
With  this  detested  sect.     Art  thou  a  madman  ? 

Cor.  If  I  am  mad,  that  which  possesses  nie 
Outvalues  all  philosophers  e'er  taught, 
Or  poets  e'er  imagined. — Listen  to  me. 
Call  ye  these  Christians  vile,  because  they  suffer 
All  nature  shrinks  from,  rather  than  deny 
What  seems  to  thegi  the  truth  ?    Call  ye  them  sot 
cerers. 


THE    MARTYR. 


365 


Because  their  words  impart  such  high  conceptions 
Of  power  creative  and  parental  love, 
In  one  great  Being  join'd,  as  makes  the  heart 
Bound  with   ennobling   thoughts  ?    Call  ye   them 

curst 
Who  daily  live  in  steady  strong  assurance 
Of  endless  blessedness  ?    O,  listen  to  me  ! 

Keenter  Portia,  bursting  from  a  thicket  close  to  them. 
For.  0,  listen  to  him,  father  ! 
Sul.  Let  go  my  robe,  fond  creature  !  Listen  to 

him  ! 
The  song  of  syrens  were  less  fatal.     Charms 
Of  dire  delusion,  luring  on  to  ruin. 
Are  mingled  with  the  words  that  speak  their  faith  ; 
They,  who  once  hear  them,  flutter  round  destruction 
With  giddy  fascination,  like  the  moth. 
Which,  shorn  of  half  its   form,  all  scorch 'd   and 

shrivell'd. 
Still  to  the  torch  returns.     I  will  not  listen  ; 
No,  Portia,  nor  shalt  thou. 

For.  0,  say  not  so  ! 

For  if  you  listen  to  him,  you  may  save  him. 
And  win  him  from  his  errors. 

Sul.    Vain  hope  !  vain   hope  !  W^hat  is  man's 

natural  reason 
Opposed  to  demon  subtlety  f    Cordenius  ! 
Cordenius  Maro  !  I  adjure  thee,  go  ! 
Leave  me  ;  why  wouldst  thou  pull  destruction  on 

me  ? 
On  one  who  loved  thee  so,  that  though  possess'd 
Of  but  one  precious  pearl,  most  dearly  prized. 
Prized  more  than  life,  yet  would  have  given  it  to 

thee. 
I  needs  must  weep  :  e'en  for  thyself  I  weep. 
Cor.  Weep  not,  my  kind  Sulpicius  !  I  will  leave 

thee. 
Albeit  the  pearl  thou  wouldst  bestow  upon  me 
Is,  in  my  estimation,  dearer  far 
Than  life,  or  power,  or  fame,  or  earthly  thing. 
When  these  fierce  times  are  past,  thou  wilt,  per- 
haps, 
Think  of  me  with  regard,  but  not  with  pity. 
How  fell  soe'er  n,y  parthly  end  hath  been. 
For  I  shall  then  be  blest.     And  thou,  dear  Portia, 
Wilt  thou  remember  me  ?    That  thought,  alas  ! 
Dissolves  my  soul  in  weakness. — 
0,  to  be  spared,  if  it  were  possible. 
This  stroke  of  agony.     Is  it  not  possible, 

That  I  might  yet Almighty  God  forgive  me  ! 

Weak  thoughts  will  lurk  in  the  devoted  heart, 
But  not  be  cherish'd  there.     I  may  not  offer 

Aught  short  of  all  to  thee. 

Farewell,  farewell !  sweet  Portia,  fare  thee  well ! 
(Orceres  catches  hold  of  him  to  prevent  his  going.) 
Retain  me  not :  I  am  a  Parthian  now. 
My  strength  is  in  retreat.  [Exit. 

For.  That  noble  mind  !  and  must  it  then    be 

ruin'd  ? 
0  save  him,  save  him,  father  !  Brave  Orceres, 
Wilt  thou  not  save  thy  friend,  the  noble  Maro  ? 

Ore.  We  will,  sv/eet  maid,  if  it  be  possible. 
vVe'll  keep  his  faith  a  secret  in  our  breasts  ; 
And  he  may  yet,  if  not  by  circumstances 
Provoked  to  speak,  conceal  it  from  the  world. 
Poi    And  you,  my  father  ? 


Sul.  I  will  not  betray  him. 

For.  Then  all  may  yet  be  well  ;  for  our  great 
gods. 
Whom  Caesar  and  his  subject  nations  worship, 
Will  not  abandon  Rome's  best,  bravest  soldier 
To  power  demoniac.     That  can  never  be 
If  they  indeed  regard  us. 

Ore.  Were  he  in  Parthia,  our  great  god,  the  sun. 
Or;  rather  he  who  in  that  star  resides, 
Would  not  permit  his  power  to  be  so  thwarted, 
For  all  the  demonry  that  e'er  exerted 
Its  baleful  influence  on  wretched  men. 
Beshrew  me  !  for  a  thought  gleams  through  my 

brain, 
It  is  this  God,  perhaps,  with  some  new  name, 
Which  these  bewilder'd  Nazarenes  adore. 

Sul.  With  impious  rites,  most  strange  and  horri- 
ble. 

Ore.  If  he,  my  friend,  in  impious  rites  hath  join'd. 
Demons,  indeed,  have  o'er  the  soul  of  man 
A  power  to  change  its  nature.     Ay,  Sulpicius  ; 
And  thou  and  I  may,  ere  a  day  shall  pass. 
Be  very  Nazarenes.     We  are  in  ignorance ; 
We  shoot  our  arrow  in  the  dark,  and  cry, 
'  It  is  to  wound  a  foe.'    Come,  gentle  Portia ; 
Be  not  so  sad ;  the  man  thou  lovest  is  virtuous, 
And  brave,  and  loves  thee  well ;  why  then  despair  ? 

For.  Alas  !  I  know  he  is  brave  and  virtuous, 
Therefore,  I  do  despair. 

Ore.  In  Nero's  court,  indeed, 

Such  men  are  ever  on  the  brink  of  danger. 
But  wouldst  thou  have  him  other  than  he  is  ? 

For.  0  no !  I  would  not ;  that  were  base  and 
sordid ; 
Yet  shed  I  tears,  e'en  like  a  wayward  child 
Who  weeps  for  that  which  cannot  be  attain'd,— 
Virtue,  and  constancy,  and  safety  join'd. 
I  pray  thee  pardon  me,  for  I  am  wretched. 
And  that  doth  make  me  foolish  and  perverse. 

r  Exeunt. 


ACT    II  L  • 

Scene  I. — before  the  gate  of  nero's  palace: 

GUARDS   WITH    THEIR   OFFICERS,   DISCOVERED   OW 
DUTY.  ^ 

Enter  to  them  another  Officer,  speaking  as  he  enters  to 
the  Soldiers. 

First  Offi.  Strike  up  some  sacred  strain  of  Roman 
triumph  ; 
The  Pontiff  comes  to  meet  the  summon'd  council. 
Omit  not  this  respect,  else  he  will  deem 
We  are  of  those  who  love  the  Nazarenes 
Sing  loud  and  clearly. 

Enter  Pontiff  attended. 

SACRED    HYMN    BY    THE    SOLDIEKS. 

That  chief,  who  bends  to  Jove  the  suppliant  knee, 
Shall  firm  in  power  and  high  in  honour  be  ; 
And  who  to  Mars  a  soldier's  homage  yields, 
Shall  laurell'd  glory  reap  in  bloody  fields  ; 
Who  viue-crown'd  Bacchus,  bounteous  lord,  adore% 
Shall  gather  still,  unscath'd,  his  vintage  stores  ; 
"Who  to  fair  Venus  liberal  oflfering  gives, 
Enrich'd  with  love,  and  sweet  affection  lives. 
Then,  be  your  praises  still  our  sacred  theme, 
O  Venus,  Bacclxus,  Mars,  and  Jove  supreme  ! 


366 


BAILLIE. 


Fon.  I  thank  ye,  soldiers  !  Rome,  indeed,  hath 
triumph'd, 
Bless'd  in  the  high  protection  of  her  gods, 
The  sovereign  warrior  nation  of  the  world  ; 
And,  favour'd  by  great  Jove  and  mighty  Mars, 
So  may  she  triumph  still,  nor  meanly  stoop 
To  worship  strange  and  meaner  deities. 
Adverse  to  warlike  glory.      [Exit,' with  his  train. 

First  Offi.  The  Pontiff  seems  disturb'd,  his  hrow 
is  lowering. 

Second  Offi.  Reproof  and  caution,  mingled  with 
his  thanks, 
Though  utter'd  graciously. 

First  Offi.  He  is  offended. 

Because  of  late  so  many  valiant  soldiers 
Have  proselytes  become  to  this  new  worship  ; 
A  worship  too,  as  he  insinuates, 
Unsuited  to  the  brave. 

Third  Offi.  Ay,  ay  !  the  sacred  chickens  are  in 
danger. 

Second  Offi.  Sylvius  is  suspected,  as  I  hear. 

First  Offi.  Hush  !  let  us  to  our  duty  ;  it  is  time 
To  change  the  inner  guard. 

[Exeunt  with  music,  into  the  gate  of  the  palace. 

Scene  11. — a  council  chamber  in  the  palace, 
nero  with  his  counsellors  discovered  ;  nero 
in  the  act  of  speaking. 

Nero.  Yes,  Servius  ;  formerly  we  have  admitted. 
As  minor  powers,  amongst  the  ancient  gods 
Of  high  imperial  Rome,  the  foreign  deities 
Of  friendly  nations ;  but  these  Nazarenes 
Scorn  such  association,  proudly  claiming 
For  that  which  is  the  object  of  their  faith. 
Sole,  undivided  homage :  and  our  altars. 
Our  stately  temples,  the  majestic  forms 
Of  Mars,  Apollo,  thundering  Jove  himself, 
By  sculptor's  art  divine,  so  nobly  wrought. 
Are  held  by  these  mad  zealots  in  contempt. 
Examine,  sayest  thou  !  shall  imperial  Cjssar 
Deign  to  examine  what  withstands  his  power  ? 
I  marvel  at  thy  folly,  Servius  Sillus. 

Enter  an  Officer. 
Offi.  The  Pontiff,  mighty  Caesar,  waits  without, 
And  craves  admittance. 
Nero.  Let  him  be  admitted.      * 

Enter  Pontiff. 
Pontiff,  thy  visage,  if  I  read  it  well, 
Says,  that  some  weighty  matter  brings  thee  here : 
Thou  hast  our  leave  to  speak. 

Pon.  Imperial  Nero,  didst  thou  not  condemn 
That  eloquent,  but  pestilential  Nazarene, 
The  Grecian  Ethocles,  whose  specious  words 
Wrap  in  delusion  all  who  listen  to  him. 
Spreading  his  baleful  errors  o'er  the  world  ? 

Nero.  Did  I  condemn  him  !  E'en  this  very  day, 
He  in  the  amphitheatre  meets  his  doom ; 
Having,  I  trust,  no  power  of  words  to  charm 
The  enchaled  lion,  or  the  famish'd  wolf. 

Pon.  I  am  inform'd,  and  I  believe  it  true 
That  this  bold  malefactor  is  enlarged. 

Nero.  It  is  impossible  !  Cordenius  Maro 
Is  sworn  to  guard  the  prisoner ;  or,  failing, 
(How  could  he  fail  ?)  to  pay  with  his  own  life 
The  forfeit.    But  behold  his  favourite  friend. 


Enter  Orceres,  followed  by  Sulpicius. 
The  Parthian  prince,  who  will  inform  us  truly. 
Orceres,  is  thy  friend  Cordenius  coming  ? 
I  have  commanded  him,  and  at  this  hour. 
To  bring  his  guarded  prisoner  to  the  palace, 
Here  to  remain  till  the  appointed  time. 

Ore.  I  know  not ;  nor  have  I  beheld  Cordenius 
Since  yesterday  ;  when,  at  an  early  hour, 
Sulpicius  and  myself  met  him  by  chance  : 
But  for  the  prisoner,  he  is  at  hand. 
E'en  at  the  palace  gate  ;  for  as  we  enter'd 
We  saw  him  there,  well  circled  round  with  guards 
Though  in  the  martial  throng  we  saw  not  Maro. 

Nero.  {To  the  Pontiff.)  Said  I  not  so  ? 
[To  an  Officer.)  Command  them  instantly 
To  bring  this  wordy  Grecian  to  our  presence. 

[Exit  Officer, 
Sulpicius,  thou  hast  known  this  Ethocles, 
Is  he  a  madman  or  ambitious  knave. 
Who  sought  on  human  folly  to  erect 
A  kind  of  fancied  greatness  for  himself  ? 

Sul.  I  know  not  which,  great  Nero. 

Nero.  And  didst  thou  not  advise  me  earnestly 
To  rid  the  state  of  such  a  pestilence  ? 

Sul.  And  still  advise  thee,  Nero ;  for  this  Greel* 
Is  dangerous  above  all,  who,  with  their  lives. 
Have  yet  paid  forfeit  for  their  strange  belief. 
They  come  :  the  prisoner  in  foreign  garb 
So  closely  wrapp'd,  I  scarcely  see  his  face. 

Enter  Prisoner,  attended. 
Pon.  If  it  in  truth  be  he. 
Nero.  {To  the  Pontiff.)  Dost  thou  still  doubt .? 
{To  ^Ae  Prisoner.)  Stand  forth,  audacious  rebel,  to 

my  will ! 
Dost  thou  still  brave  it,  false  and  subtle  spirit  t 
Cor.    {throwing    off  his    Grecia7i    cloak,  and 
advancing  to  Nero.)  I  am  not  false,  Au- 
gustus, but  if  subtle. 
Add  to  my  punishment  what  shall  be  deem'd 
Meet  retribution.     I  have  truly  sworn, 
Or  to  produce  thy  thrall,  or,  therein  failing. 
To  give  my  life  for  his  ;  and  here  I  stand. 
Ethocles,  by  a  higher  power  than  thine, 
Is  yet  reserved  for  great  and  blessed  ends. 
Take  thou  the  forfeit ;  I  have  kept  my  oath. 
Nero.  I  am  amazed  beyond  the  power  of  utter-* 
ance  ! 
Grows  it  to  such  a  pitch  that  Rome's  brave  captains 
Are  by  this  wizard  sorcery  so  charm 'd  ? 
Then  it  is  time,  good  sooth  !  that  sweeping  ven- 
geance 
Should  rid  the  earth  of  every  tainted  thing 
Which  that  curst  sect  hath  touch'd.     Cordenius 

Maro, 
Thou  who  hast  fought  our  battles,  graced  our  state^ 
And  borne  a  noble  Roman's  honour'd  name. 
What,  0  what  power  could   tempt  thee  to  this 
shame  ? 
Cor.  I  have  been  tempted  by  that  mighty  Power 
Who  gave  to  Rome  her  greatness,  to  the  earth 
Form  and  existence  ;  yea,  and  to  the  soul 
Of  living,  active  man,  sense  and  perception : 
But  not  to  shame,  O  Cassar  !  not  to  shame  ! 
Nero.  What,  hast  thou  not  become  a  Nazarene, 


THE   MARTYR. 


367 


As  now  I  apprehended  ?    Say,  thou  hast  not ; 
And  though  thy  present  act  is  most  audacious, 
Yet  will  I  spare  thy  life. 

Cor.  If  thou  wouldst  spare  my  life,  and  to  that 
grace 
Add  all  the  wealth  of  Rome,  and  all  the  power 
Of  Rome's  great  lord,  I  would  not  for  the  bribe 
Be  other  than  I  am,  or  what  I  am 
Basely  deny. 
Nero.  Thou  art  a  Christian,  then  ?    Thou  art  a 

maniac ! 
Cor.  I  am  a  man,  who,  seeing  in  the  flames 
Those  dauntless  Christians  suffer,  long'd  to  know 
What  power  could  make  them  brave  the  fear  of 

death. 
Disgrace,  and  infamy. — And  I  have  learnt 
That  they  adore  a  God, — one  God,  supreme. 
Who,  over  all  men,  his  created  sons. 
Rules  as  a  father  ;  and  beholding  sin. 
Growth  of  corruption,  mar  this  earthly  race, 
Sent  dowi>  to  earth  his  sinless,  heavenly  Son, 
Who  left,  with  generous  devoted  love. 
His  state  of  exaltation  and  of  glory. 
To  win  them  back  to  virtue,  yea,  to  virtue 
Which  shall  be  crown 'd  with  never-ending  bliss. 
I've  learnt  that  they  with  deep  adoring  gratitude 
Pay  homage  to  that  Son,  the  sent  of  God, 
Wiro  feere  became  a  willing  sacrifice 
To  save  mankind  from  sin  and  punishment, 
And  earn  for  them  a  better  life  hereafter. 
When  mortal  life  is  closed.     The  heart's  deep  ho- 
mage 
Becoming  well  such  creatures,  so  redeem'd. 
Nei'o.  Out  on  that  dreaming  madness  ? 
Cor.  Is  it  madness 
To  be  the  humble  follower  of  Him, 
Who  left  the  bliss  of  heaven  to  be  for  us 
A  man  on  earth,  in  spotless  virtue  living 
As  man  ne'er  lived  :  such  words  of  comfort  speak- 
ing, 
To  rouse,  and  elevate,  and  cheer  the  heart, 
As  man  ne'er  spoke  ;  and  sufTering  poverty, 
Contempt,  and  wrong,  and  pain,  and  death  itself, 
As  man  ne'er  suffer'd  ? — 0,  if  this  be  madness. 
Which  makes  each  generous  impulse  of  my  nature 
Warm  into  ecstasy,  each  towering  hope 
Rise  to  the  noblest  height  of  bold  conception  ; 
That  which  is  reasc^n  cali'd,  and  yet  has  taught  you 
To  worship  different  gods  in  every  clime, 
As  dull  and  wicked  as  their  worshippers. 
Compared  to  it,  is  poor,  confined,  and  mean, 
As  is  tlie  Scythian's  curtain'd  tent,  compared 
With  the  wide  range  of  fair,  expanded  nature. 

Nero.  Away,  away  !  with  all  those  lofty  words  ! 
They  but  bewilder  thee. 

Cor.  Yet  hear  them,  Nero  !  O  resist  them  not ! 
t'erhaps  they  are  appointed  for  thy  good. 
And  for  the  good  of  thousands.     When  these  hands 
Which  have  so  oft  done  Rome  a  soldier's  service. 
This  tongue  which  speaks  to  thee,  are  turn'd  to 

ashes. 
What  now  appears  so  wild  and  fanciful. 
May  be  remembered  with  far  other  feelings. 
xt  is  not  life  that  I  request  of  Nero, 
Although  I  said  these  hands  have  fought  for  Rome. 
No ;  in  the  presence  of  these  senators. 


First  bind  thyself  by  every  sacred  oath 
To  give  this  body  to  the  flames,  then  hear  me ; 
O  could  I  speak  what  might  convince  Rome's  chief. 
Her  senators,  her  tribes,  her  meanest  slaves, 
Of  Christ's  most  blessed  truth,  the  fatal  pile 
Would  be  to  me  a  car  of  joyful  triumph,    ■ 
Mounted  more  gladly  than  the  laurell'd  hero 
Vaults  to  his  envied  seat,  while  Rome's  throng'd 

streets 
Resound  his  shouted  name.     Within  me  stirs 
The  spirit  of  truth  and  power  which  spoke  to  me. 
And  will  upon  thy  mind. — 
Nero.  I  charge  thee  cease  ! 

Ore.  Nay,  emperor  !  might  I  entreat  for  him  ? 
Cor.  {catching  hold  of  Ovceies  eagerly.)  Not  for 

my  life. 
Ore.  No  ;  not  for  that,  brave  Maro  ! 
{To  Nero.)  Let  me   entreat  that  he  may  freely 

speak. 
Fear'st  thou  he  should  convince  thee  by  his  words  ? 
That  were  a  foul  affront  to  thine  own  reason. 
Or  to  the  high  divinities  of  Rome. 
Nero.  Cease,  Prince  of  Parthia  !  nor  too  far  pre- 
sume 
Upon  a  noble  stranger's  privilege. 

Pon.  Shall  words  so  bold  be  to  mine  ear  august 
So  freely  utter'd  with  impunity  ? 

Ore.  Pontiff!  I  much  revere  thy  sacred  office, 
But  scorn  thy  paltry  words.     Not  freely  speak  ! 
Not  with  impunity  !  Is  this  a  threat  ? 
Let  Rome's  great  master,  or  his  angry  slaves. 
Shed  one  drop  of  my  blood,  and  on  our  plains 
Where  heretofore  full  many  a  Roman  corse. 
With  Parthian  arrows  pierced,  have  vultures  fed, 
Twice  thirty  thousand  archers  in  array. 
Each  with  his  bow  strain 'd  for  the  distant  mark. 
Shall  quickly  stand,  impatient  for  revenge. 
Not  with  impunity  ! 
.  Sul.    Nay,  nay,  Orceres  !    with  such  haughty 

words 
Thou'lt  injure  him  thou  plead'st  for.    Noble  Caesar  ! 
Permit  an  aged  man,  a  faithful  servant. 
To  speak  his  thoughts.     This  brave  deluded  youth 
Is  now,  as  I  sincerely  do  believe. 
Beneath  the  power  of  strong  and  dire  enchantment. 
Hetir  not  his  raving  words,  but  spare  his  life, 
And  when  its  power  (for  all  delusion  holds 
Its  power  but  for  a  season)  shall  be  spent, 
He  will  himself  entreat  your  clemency, 
And  be  again  the  soldier  of  the  state. 
Brave  and  obedient.     Do  not  hear  him  now  ; 
Command  him  to  retire. 

Cor.  I  thank  thee,  good  Sulpicius,  but  my  life, 
For  which  thou  plead'st,  take  no  account  of  that ; 
I  yield  it  freely  up  to  any  death. 
Cruel  or  merciful,  which  the  decree 
Of  Caesar  shall  inflict,  for  leave  to  speak 
E'en  but  a  few  short  moments.     Princely  Nerc  ! 
The  strong  enchantment  which  deludes  my  soul 
Is,  that  I  do  believe  myself  the  creature. 
Subject  and  soldier,  if  I  so  may  speak, 
Of  an  Almighty  Father,  King,  and  Lord, 
Before  whose  presence,  when  my  soul  shall  be 
Of  flesh  and  blood  disrobed,  I  shall  appear, 
There  to  remain  with  all  the  great  and  good 
That  e'er  have  lived  on  earth  ;  yea,  and  with  spirit* 


368 


BAILLIE. 


Higher  than  earth  e'er  own'd,  in  such  pure  bliss 
As  human  heart  conceives  not,— if  my  life, 
With  its  imperfect  virtue,  find  acceptance 
From  pardoning  love  and  mercy  ;  but,  if  otherwise. 
That  I  shall  pass  into  a  state  of  misery 
With  souls  of  wicked  men  and  wrathful  demons. 
That  I  believe  this  earth  on  which  we  stand 
Is  but  the  vestibule  to  glorious  mansions. 
Through  which  a  moving  crowd  for  ever  press  ; 
And  do  regard  the  greatest  Prince,  who  now 
Inflicts  short  torment  on  this  flesh,  as  one 
Who  but  in  passing  rudely  rends  my  robe. 
And  thinkest  thou  that  I,  believing  this, 
Will  shrink  to  do  his  will  whom  I  adore  ? 
Or  thinkest  thou  this  is  a  senseless  charm, 
Which  soon  will  pass  away  ? 

Nero.  High  words,  indeed,  if  resting  on   good 
proof ! 
A  maniac's  fancies  may  be  grand  and  noble. 

Cor.  Ay,  now  thou  listenest,  as  a  man  should 
listen, 
With  an  inquiring  mind.     Let  me  produce 
The  proofs  which  have  constrain'd  me  to  believe. 
From  written  law  and  well-attested  facts  ; — 
Let  me  produce  my  proofs,  and  it  may  be, 
The  Spirit  of  Truth  may  touch  thy  yielding  heart, 
And  save  thee  from  destruction. 

Nero.  Ha  !  dost  thou  think  to  make  of  me  a  con- 
vert ? 
Away,  w^ak  fool !  and  most  audacious  rebel ! 
Give  proofs  of  thy  obedience,  not  thy  faith. 
If  thou  wouldst  earn  thy  pardon. 

Cor.  If  thou  condemn  me  in  the  flames  to  die 
I  will  and  must  obey  thee  ;  if  to  live, 
Disgraced  by  pardon  won  through  treachery 
To  God,  my  King  supreme,  and  his  bless'd  Christ, 
I  am,  indeed,  thy  disobedient  rebel. 

Nero.   And  shall  as  such,  most  dearly  pay  the 
forfeit. 
Out ! — take  him  from  my  presence  till  the  time 
Of  public  execution. 
Cordenius  Maro,  thou  shalt  fall  this  day 
By  no  ignoble  foe ; — a  noble  lion, 
Famish'd  and  fierce,  shall  be  thy  adversary. 
Acd  dost  thou  smile  and  raise  thy  head  at  thisj 
In  stately  confidence  ?  ' 

Cor.  God  will  deliver  me  from  every  adversary. 
And  thou  too  smilest, — Yes ;  he  will  deliver 
That  which  I  call  myself.     For  this  poor  form 
Which  vests  me  round,  I  give  it  to  destmction 
As  gladly  as  the  storm-beat  traveller. 
Who,  having  reach'd  his  destined  place  of  shelter, 
Drops  at  the  door  his  mantle's  cumbrous  weight. 
Nero,  (going.)  Then  to  thy  visionary  hopes  I 
leave  thee. 
Incorrigible  man  !  Here,  in  this  chamber 
Keep  him  secure  till  the  appointed  hour. 

[To  the  Officers,  4-c.) 
Off,  good  Sulpicius  !  hang  not  on  me  thus  ! 

Sul.  0,  mighty  Caesar  !  countermand  your  orders : 
Delay  it  but  a  month,  a  week,  a  day. 

[Exeunt  Nero,  Sulpicius,  Senators,  ^c.  Sulpicius 

still  keeping  close  to  Nero  in  the  act  of  sup- 

»     plication.  —  Orceres,  Cordenius,  and   Guards 

remain,  the  Guards  standing  respectfully  at  a 

diMance  in  the  hack-ground. 


Ore.  Noble  Cordenius  !  can  thy  martial  spirit 
Thus  brook  to  be  a  public  spectacle, 
Fighting  with  savage  beasts,  the  sport  of  fools, 
Till  thou  shalt  fall,  deform'd  and  horrible, 
Mangled  and  piece-meal  torn  ?    It  must  not  be. 

Cor.  Be  not  so  moved,  Orceres  ;  I  can  bear  it 
The  God  I  worship,  who  hath  made  me  humble, 
Hath  made  me  dauntless  too.     And  for  the  shame 
Which,  as  I  guess,  disturbs  thee  most,  my  Master, 
The  Lord  and  Leader  I  have  sworn  to  follow. 
Did  as  a  malefactor  end  his  days, 
To  save  a  lost,  perverted  race :  shall  1 
Feel  degradation,  then,  in  following  him  ? 

Ore.  In  this,  alas  !  thou'lt  follow  him  too  surely ; 
But  whither,  noble  Maro  ? 

Cor.  E'en   to  my  destined   home,  my  Father's 
house. 

Ore.  And  where  is  that  ?    0,  canst  thou  tell  me 
where  ? 
Beyond  the  ocean  or  beneath  the  earth  ? 
Be  there  more  worlds  than  this,  beyond  our  ken 
In  regions  vast,  above  the  lofty  stars  ? 
Could  we  through  the  far  stretch  of  space  descry 
E'en  but  the  distant  verge,  though  dimly  mark'd. 
Of  any  other  world,  I  would  believe 
That  virtuous  men  deceased  have  in  good  truth 
A  destined  place  of  rest. 

Cor.  Believe  it — O,  believe  it,  brave  Orceres  ! 

Ore.  I'll  try  to  do  it.     I'll  become  a  Christian, 
Were  it  but  only  to  defy  this  tyrant. 

Cor.  Thou  must  receive  with  a  far  different  spirit 
The  faith  of  Jesus  Christ.     Perhaps  thou  wilt. 
My  heart  leaps  at  the  thought.     When  I  am  dead 
Remain  in  Rome  no  longer.     In  the  East 
Search  thou  for  Ethocles,  whom  I  have  rescued; 
And  if  he  shall  convert  thee,  0,  how  richly 
He  will  repay  all  I  have  done  for  him  I 
—But,  I  would  now  withdraw  a  little  space, 
To  pour  my  thoughts  in  prayer  and  thankfulness 
To  Him,  the  great,  the  good,  the  wise,  the  just. 
Who  holds  man's  spirit  in  his  own  high  keeping, 
And  now  supports  my  soul,  and  will  support  it, 
Till  my  appointed  task  is  done.     In  secret 
The  hearts  by  Jesus  taught,  were  bid  to  pray, 
And,  if  it  be  permitted,  so  will  I. 

[To  the  Guards,  who  advance  as  he  speaks  ta 
them.) 
My  guards  and,  some  time  past,  my  fellow  soldier*^ 
Let  me  remain  alone  a  little  while. 
And  fear  not  my  escape.    If  ye  distrust  me, 
Watch  well  the  door,  and  bind  my  hands  with 
chains. 

First   Offi.    Yes,  brave  Cordenius,  to   another 
chamber 
Thou  mayst  retire,  and  we  will  watch  without. 
But  be  thy  person  free  :  we  will  not  bind. 
With  felon  cord  or  chain,  those  valiant  hands 
Which  have  so  often  for  thy  country  fought. 
Until  we  are  commanded. 

Cor.  I  thank  ye  all,  my  friends,  and  I  believe 
That  I  shall  meet  and  thank  ye  too  hereafter ; 
For  there  is  something  in  you  God  must  love, 
And,  loving,  will  not  give  to  reprobation, 

(To  First  Officer.) 
Codrus,  thou  once  didst  put  thy  life  in  hazard. 
And  sufferedst  much  to  save  a  helpless  Greek 


THE    MARTYR. 


Who  sought  protection  of  thee. 

(Turning  to  the  Second  Officer.) 
Ay,  and  thou, 
Voung  Lelius,  once  a  rich  and  tempting  ransom 
Nobly  remittedst  to  a  wretched  captive. 
Ye  are  of  those  whom  Jesus  came  to  save  : 
Yes  ;  we  shall  meet  hereafter,   [To  Third  Officer.) 
And  thou,  my  former  enemy,  weepest  thou  ? 
We're  enemies  no  more  ;  thou  art  my  brother. 
I  will  retire  ;  my  little  term  of  life 
Runs  fleetly  on  ;  I  must  not  spend  it  thus. 

[Exeunt. 

Scene   III. — a   crowded   amphitheatre:   nero 

AND  the  senators  DISCOVERED  IN  THE  BACK- 
GROUND SITTING  IN  STATE,  PORTIA  BY  THE  SIDE 
OF  NERO,  IN  THE  ACT  OF  SUPPLICATION. 

Enter  Sulpicius  on  the  front,  meeting  with  another  noble 
Roman, 

Sul.  [eagerly.)  Is  he  advancing  r 

Noble  Rom.  Yes,  and  close  at  hand, 

Surrounded  by  a  group  of  martial  friends. 
Oft  have  I  seen  him  on  a  day  of  battle 
March  to  the  charge  with  noble,  portly  gait, 
But  now  he  treads  the  ground  with  buoyant  steps 
Which  from  its  surface  spring,  as  though  he  press'd 
Substance  of  renovating  power.     His  form 
Seems  stately  and  enlarged  beyond  its  wont ; 
And  in  his  countenance,  oft  turn'd  to  heaven, 
There  is  a  look  as  if  some  god  dwelt  in  him. 
.    Sul.  How  do  the  people  greet  him  ? 

Noble  Rom.  Every  face 

Gazing  upon  him,  turns,  with  transit  quick, 
Pity  to  admiration.     Warlike  veterans 
Are  shedding  tears  like  infants.     As  he  pass'd 
The  legion  he  commanded  in  Armenia, 
They  raised  a  shout  as  if  a  victor  came, 
Saluting  him  with  long  and  loud  applause 
None  daring  to  reprove  them. 

{Noise  without  of  shoutings.) 
Hark  I  he  comes. 

Enter  Cordenics,  followed  by  Orceres  and  Sylvius, 
and  attended  by  other  friends,  with  Guards,  &c. 

Sul.  [advancing  eagerly  to  meet  him.)  Cordenius, 
O  Cordenius  !  hear  a  friend,     • 
A  faithful,  ancient  friend ;  thy  Portia's  father  ! 
At  Nero's  footstool  slip  is  pleading  for  thee. 
And  will  not  plead  in  vain,  if  thou  wilt  testify 
A  yielding  mind,  a  willingness  to  live. 

Cor.  I  am  so  pleased  to  die,  and  am  so  honour'd, 
In  dying  for  the  pure  and  holy  truth, 
That  nature's  instinct  seems  in  me  extinguish'd. 
But  if  the  emperor  freely  pardon  me, 
I  shall  believe  it  is  the  will  of  God 
That  I  should  yet  on  earth  promote  his  service, 
And,  so  believing,  am  content  to  live  ; 
Living  or  dying,  to  his  will  resign 'd. 

Enter  Portia  on  the  front,  and  catching  hold  of  Corde- 
nius with  eagerness  and  great  agitation. 
For.  Cordenius,  thou  art  pardoned.    Nero  spares 
thee. 
If  thou  wilt  only  say  thou  art  a  Roman, 
In  heart  and  faith  as  all  thy  fathers  were, 
Or  but  forbear  to  say  thou  art  a  Christian. 

Cor.  Thanks,  gentle  Portia !  life  preserved  by 
thee, 

Vol.  III.— 24 


E'en  to  be  spent  in  want  and  contumely, 
Rather  than  grieve  thy  kind  and  tender  heart, 
My  dearest,  gentlest  friend  !  I  had  accepted : 
But  to  deny  my  God,  and  put  dishonour 
Upon  the  noblest,  most  exalted  faith 
That  ever  was  to  human  thoughts  reveal'd. 
Is  what  I  will  not — yea,  and  though  a  Roman, 
A  noble  Roman,  and  a  soldier  too, 
I  dare  not  do.     Let  Nero  have  this  answer. 

Por.  No,  not  this  answer,  Maro  ;  not  this  an- 
swer ! 
Cast  not  life  from  thee,  dear,  most  dear  Cordenius  .' 
Life,  too,  which  I  should  spend  my  life  in  cheering; 
Cast  it  not  from  thee  like  a  worthless  thing. 

Cor.  Because  it  is  not  worthless  but  most  pre- 
cious, 
And  now,  when  dear  to  thee,  more  precious  far 
Than  I  have  e'er  esteem'd  it,  'tis  an  offering 
More  meet  for  God's  acceptance  ; 
Withheld  from  Him,  not  e'en  thyself,  sweet  maid, 
Couldst  cheer  its  course,  nor  yet  couldst  thou  be 
happy. 

Por.  Nay,  but  I  could ! — to  see  thee  still  alive. 
And  by  my  side,  mine  own  redeemed  friend. 
Should  I  not  then  be  happy  ? 

Cor.  I  should  be  by  thy  side,  dear  love !    but 
thou. 
With  all  thy  excellence,  couldst  have  no  happiness, 
Mated  with  one,  whose  living  form  alone 
Could  move  upon  the  earth,  whilst  far  adrift 
His  mind  would  dwell,  by  ceaseless  meditation, 
In  other  worlds  of  blessedness  or  wo  ; 
Lost  to  the  one,  and  to  the. other  link'd 
By  horrid  sympathy,  till  his  wrench'd  nature 
Should  to  a  demon's  fell  and  restless  spirit 
At  last  be  changed. 

Por.  Alas,  alas  !  and  dost  thou  then  believe 
That  naught  remains  for  thee  but  death  or  misery  ? 

Cor.  No,  gentle  Portia  !  firmly  I  believe 
That  I  shall  live  in  endless  happiness, 
And  with  the  blest  hereafter  shall  behold 
Thy  blessed  self,  with  ecstasy  of  love, 
Exceeding  every  thought  of  earth-born  passion. 
As  the  fair  morning  star  in  lovely  brightness 
Excels  a  night-fly,  twinkling  through  the  gloom. 
Live  in  this  hope,  dear  Portia  !  hold  it  fast ; 
And  may  his  blessing  rest  upon  thy  head. 
Who  loves  the  loving  and  the  innocent ! 
Farewell,  in  love  and  hope  !  farewell,  in  peace  ! 
Farewell,  in  quickening  faith, — in  holy  joy  ! 

Por.  [clasping  his  knees.)  Nay,  let  me  yet  con- 
jure thee ! 
Make  me  not  wretched,  me  who  once  was  happy, 
Ay,  happiest  of  all  in  loving  thee. 

Cor.  This  is  mine  anguish  and  my  suffering ! 
O,  good  Sulpicius  !  bear  her  to  her  home. 

Sul.  [leading  her  gently  away,  while  she  still 
clings  to  him.)  Forbear,  my  child,  thy 
tears  are  all  in  vain. 

Enter  a  Lictor. 

Lie.  Caesar  forbids  all  further  interruption 
To  his  imperial  sentence.     Let  Cordenius 
Forthwith  prepare  him  for  the  fatal  fight. 
This  is  mine  office,  and  I  must  perform  it. 

[Begins  to  disrobe  Cordenius,  ivhile  Portia  shrteka 


370 


BAILLIE. 


aloud,  and  is  carried  off  in  the  arms  of  her 
father.) 
Disrobe  thee,  Maro,  of  those  martial  weeds. 

Cor.    Gladly ;    for  him  I   serve, — my   glorious 
Master 
Hath  braced  me  with  an  armour  that  defies 
All  hostile  things  ;  in  which  I'll  strive  more  proudly 
Than  I  have  ever  fought  in  field  or  breach 
With  Rome's  or  Nero's  foes. 

Lie.  Caesar  desires  thee  also  to  remember, 
That  no  ignoble  audience,  e'en  thy  emperor. 
And  all  the  ^states  of  Rome,  behold  thy  deeds. 
.  Cor.  Tell  him  my  deeds  shall  witness'd  be  by 
those 
Compared  to  whom  the  emperor  of  Rome, 
With  all  her  high  estates,  are  but  as  insects 
Hovering  at  midday  o'er  some  tainted  marsh. 
I  know  full  well  that  no  ignoble  audience 
Are  present,  though  from  mortal  eyes  conceal'd. 
Farewell,  my  friends  !  kind,  noble  friends,  farewell! 
Apart  to  Sylvius,  while  Orceres  goes  off,  reap- 
pearing in  another  part  of  the  theatre.) 
Sylvius,  farewell !  If  thou  shouldst  e'er  be  call'd 
To  die  a  holy  martyr  for  the  truth, 
God  give  thee  then  the  joy  which  now  I  feel. 
But  keep  thy  faith  conceal'd,  till  useful  service 
Shall  call  thee  to  maintain  it.     God  be  with  thee  ! 
{Looking  round.) 
Where  is  Orceres  gone  ?    I  thought  him  near  me. 

Syl.  'Tis  but  a  moment  since  he  left  thy  side 
With  eager  haste. 

Cor.  He  would  not  see  my  death.     I'm  glad  he's 
gone. 
Say  I  inquired  for  him,* and  say  I  bless'd  him. 
— Now  I  am  ready.     Earthly  friends  are  gone. 
Angels  and  blessed  spirits,  to  your  fellowship 
A  few  short  pangs  will  bring  me. 
— 0,  Thou,  who  on  the  cross  for  sinful  men 
A  willing  sufferer  hung'st !  receive  my  soul ! 
Almighty  God  and  sire,  supreme  o'er  all  I 
Pardon  my  sins  and  take  me  to  thyself ! 
Accept  the  last  words  of  my  earthly  lips : 
High  hallelujah  to  thy  holy  name  ! 

(A  Lion  now  appears,  issuing  from  a  low  door 
at  the  end  of  the  Stage,  and  Cordenius,  advan- 
cing to  meet  it,  enters  the  Arena,  when  Orceres 
from  a  lofty  stand  amongst  the  spectators,  sends 
an  arroiu  from  his  bow,  which  pierces  Corde- 
nius through  the  heart.     He  then  disappears, 
and  re-entering  below,  catches  hold  of  his  hand 
as  Sylvius  supports  him  from  falling  I)  the 
ground.) 
Ore.    {to  Cordenius.)    Have   I  done  well,  my 
friend  ? — this  is  a  death 
More  worthy  of  a  Roman. 
I  made  a  vow  in  secret  to  my  heart, 
That  thou  shouldst  ne'er  be  made  a  mangled  sight 
For  gazing  crowds  and  Nero's  ruthless  eye. 

Syl.  That  dying  look,  wbich  almost  smiles  upon 
thee. 
Says  that  thou  hast  done  well ;  though  words  no 

more 
May  pass  from  these  closed  lips,  whose  last  bless'd 

uttes.ance 
Was  the  soul's  purest  and  sublimest  impulse. 

{The  curtain  drops.) 


NOTE    TO    THE    DRAMA. 

For  the  belter  understanding  of  different  allusions  ia 
the  foregoing  drama,  I  beg  to  transcribe  a  few  passages 
from  Fox's  History  of  Martyrs,  taken  from  book  i.,  which 
contains  an  account  of  the  ten  persecutions  of  the  primi- 
tive church. 

He  says,  on  the  authority  of  Justin  Martyr,— "And 
whether  earthquake,  pestilence,  or  whatever  public  ca- 
lamity befell,  it  was  attributed  to  the  Christians ;"  (then 
is  added)  "  over  and  besides  all  these,  a  great  occasion 
that  stirred  up  the  emperors  against  the  Christians  came 
by  one  Publius  Tarquinius,  the  chief  prelate  of  the 
idolatrous  sacrifices,  and  Mamertinus,  the  chief  governor 
of  the  city,  in  the  time  of  Trajanus,  who,  partly  with 
money,  partly  with  sinister,  pestilent  counsaile,  partly 
with  infamous  accusations,  (as  witnesseth  Nauclerus,) 
incensed  the  mind  of  the  emperor  so  much  against 
God's  people." 

In  the  account  of  the  third  persecution  (an.  100,) 
Eustasius,  a  great  and  victorious  captain,  is  mentioned 
as  suffering  martyrdom  by  order  of  the  Emperor  Adrian, 
who  went  to  meet  h  xt  en  his  return  from  conquest  over 
the  barbarians ;  but  vj^n  Eustasius's  refusing  on  the 
way  to  do  sacrifice  to  Apollo  for  his  victory,  brought 
him  to  Rome,  and  had  him  put  to  death. 

In  the  fourth  persecution,  (an.  1G2,)  it  is  mentioned 
that  many  Christian  soldiers  were  found  in  the  army 
of  Marcus  Aurelius. 

"  As  these  aforesaid  were  going  to  their  execution, 
there  was  a  certain  soldier  who  in  t'heir  defence  took 
part  against  those  who  railed  upon  them,  for  the  which 
cause  the  people  crying  out  against  him,  he  was  appre- 
hended, and  being  constant  in  his  profession,  was  forth- 
with beheaded.-' 

In  the  persecutions  of  Decius,  several  soldiers  are 
mentioned  as  martyrs,  some  of  whom  had  before  con- 
cealed their  faith ;  and  in  the  tenth  persecution  Mauri- 
tius, the  captain  of  the  Theban  band,  with  his  Ec-.dierB, 
to.  the  number  of  6666,  (a  number  probably  greatly  ex- 
aggerated,) are  recorded  as  having  been  slain  as 
martyrs  by  the  order  of  Maximinian. 

Tertullian,  in  his  Apology  for  the  Christians,  mentions 
the  slanderous  accusations  against  them,  of  putting 
to  death  children  and  worshipping  an  ass's  head.  And 
when  we  consider  how  fond  the  ignorant  are  of  excite- 
ment arising  from  cruel,  absurd,  and  wonderful  stories, 
and  how  easily  a,  misapprehended  and  detached  ex*- 
pression  may  be  shaped  by  conjecture  into  a  detailed 
transaction,  such  accusations  were  very  probable  and 
might  be  naturally  expected ;  particularly  when  the 
unoffending  meekness  of  their  behaviour  made  supposed 
hidden  atrocities  more  necessary  for  the  justification  of 
their  persecutors.  . 


CHRISTOPHER  COLUMBUS. 

Is  there  a  man,  that  from  some  loftj--  steep, 
Views  in  his  wide  survey  the  boundless  deep, 
When  its  vast  waters,  lined  with  sun  and  shade, 
Wave  beyond  wave,  in  seried  distance,  fade 
To  the  pale  sky ; — or  views  it,  dimly  seen, 
The  shifting  screens  of  drifted  mist  between 
As  the  huge  cloud  dilates  its  sable  form, 
When  grandly  curtain'd  by  th'  approaching  storm^- 
Who  feels  not  his  awed  soul  with  wonder  rise 
To  Him  whose  power  created  sea  and  skies. 
Mountains  and  deserts,  giving  to  the  sight 
The  wonders  of  the  day  and  of  the  night  ? 
But  let  some  fleet  be  seen  in  warlike  pride. 
Whose  stately  ships  the  restless  billows  ride, 


CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS. 


371 


While  each,  with  lofty  masts  and  brightening  sheen 
Of  fair  spread  sails,  moves  like  a  vested  queen  ; — 
Or  rather,  be  some  distant  bark,  astray. 
Seen  like  a  pilgrim  on  his  lonely  way, 
Holding  its  steady  course. from  port  and  shore, 
A  form  distinct,  a  speck,  and  seen  no  more, — 
How  doth  the  pride,  the  sympathy,  the  flame. 
Of  human  feeling  stir  his  thrilling  frame  ! 
**  O  Thou  !  whose  mandate  dust  inert  obey'd  I 
What  is  this  creature  man  whom  thou  hast  made  !" 


I. 

On  Palos'  shore,  whose  crowded  strand 
Bore  priests  and  nobles  of  the  land, 
And  rustic  hinds  and  townsmen  trim. 
And  harness'd  soldiers  stern  and  grim. 
And  lowly  maids  and  dames  of  pride. 
And  infants  by  their  mother's  side, — 
The  boldest  seaman  stood  that  e'er 
Did  bark  or  ship  through  tempest  steer; 
And  wise  as  bold,  and  good  as  wise ; 
The  magnet  of  a  thousand  eyes. 
That  on  his  form  and  features  cast ; 
His  noble  mien  and  simple  guise. 
In  wonder  seem'd  to  look  their  last. 
A  form  which  conscious  worth  is  gracing, 
A  face  where  hope,  the 'lines  effacing 
Of  thought  and  care,  bestow'd,  in  truth. 
To  the  quick  eyes'  imperfect  tracing 
The  look  and  air  of  youth. 

II. 

Who,  in  his  lofty  gait,  and  high 
Expression  of  th'  enlighten'd  eye, 
Had  recognised  in  that  bright  hour 
The  disappointed  suppliant  of  dull  power. 
Who  had  in  vain  of  states  and  kings  desired 
The  pittance  for  his  vast  emprise  required  ? — 
The  patient  sage,  who,  by  his  lamp's  faint  light, 
O'er  chart  and  map  spent  the  long  silent  night  ? — 
The  man  who  meekly  fortune's  buffets  bore. 
Trusting  in  One  alone,  whom  heaven   and  earth 
adore  ? 

III. 

Another  world  is  in  his  mind. 

Peopled  with  creatures  of  his  kind. 

With  hearts  to  feel,  with  minds  to  soar. 

Thoughts  to  consider  and  explore  ; 

Souls,  who  might  find,  from  trespass  shriven. 

Virtue  on  earth  and  joy  in  heaven. 

**  That  power  divine,  whom  storms  obey," 

(Whisper'd  his  heart,)  a  leading  star. 

Will  guide  him  on  his  blessed  way ; 

Brothers  to  join  by  fate  divided  far. 

Vain  thoughts  !  which  heave^  doth  but  ordain 

In  part  to  be,  the  rest,  alas  !  how  vain  ! 

IV. 

But  hath  there  lived  of  mortal  mould, 
Whose  fortunes  with  his  thoughts  could  hold 
An  even  race  ?    Earth's  greatest  son 
That  e'er  earn'd  fame,  or  empire  won, 
Hath  but  fulfill'd,  within  a  narrow  scope, 
A  ■tinted  oortion  of  his  ample  hope. 


With  heavy  sigh  and  look  depress'd. 

The  greatest  men  will  sometimes  hear 

The  story  of  their  acts  address'd 

To  the  young  stranger's  wandering  ear. 

And  check  the  half-swoln  tear. 

Is  it  or  modesty  or  pride 

Which  may  not  open  praise  abide  ? 

No  ;  read  his  inward  thoughts  !  they  tell 

His  deeds  of  fame  he  prizes  well. 

But,  ah  !  they  in  his  fancy  stand, 

As  relics  of  a  blighted  band, 

Who,  lost  to  man's  approving  sight. 

Have  perish'd  in  the  gloom  of  night. 

Ere  yet  the  glorious  light  of  day 

Hal  gntter'd  on  their  bright  array. 

His  mightiest  feat  had  once  another. 

Of  high  imagination  born, — 

A  loftier  and  a  nobler  brother, 

Frorft  dear  existence  torn  ; 

And  she  for  those,  who  are  not,  steeps 

Her  soul  in  wo, — like  Rachel,  weeps. 

V. 

The  signal  given,  with  hasty  strides 
The  sailors  climb'd  their  ships'  dark  sides  ; 
Their  anchors  weigh 'd ;  and  from  the  shore 
Each  stately  vessel  slowly  bore. 
High  o'er  the  deeply  shadow 'd  flood, 
Upon  his  deck  their  leader  stood. 
And  turn'd  him  to  the  parted  land. 
And  bow'd  his  head  and  waved  his  hand 
And  then,  along  the  crowded  strand. 
A  sound  of  many  sounds  combined. 
That  wax'd  and  waned  upon  the  wind, 
Burst  like  heaven's  thunder,  deep  and  grand 
A  lengthen'd  peal,  which  paused,  and  theu 
Renew'd,  like  that  which  loathly  parts, 
Oft  on  the  ear  return'd  again. 
The  impulse  of  a  thousand  hearts. 
But  as  the  lengthen'd  shouts  subside, 
Distincter  accents  strike  the  ear. 
Wafting  across  the  current  wide, 
Heart-utter'd  words  of  parting  cheer : 
"  O  !  shall  we  ever  see  again 
Those  gallant  souls  recross  the  main  ? 
God  keep  the  brave  !  God  be  their  guide  ! 
God  bear  them  safe  through  storm  and  tide 
T^heir  sails  with  favouring  breezes  swell ! 
0  brave  Columbus  !  fare  thee  well !" 

VI. 

From  shore  and  strait,  and  gulf  and  bay, 

The  vessels  held  their  daring  way. 

Left  far  behind,  in  distance  thrown 

All  land  to  Moor  or  Christian  known, 

Left  far  behind  the  misty  isle. 

Whose  fitful  shroud,  withdrawn  the  while. 

Shows  wood  and  hill  and  headland  bright 

To  later  seamen's  wondering  sight. 

And  tide  and  sea  left  far  behind 

That  e'er  bore  freight  of  human  kind  ; 

Where  ship  or  bark  to  shifting  gales. 

E'er  tack'd  their  course  or  spread  their  sails. 

Around  them  lay  a  boundless  main 

In  which  to  hold  their  silent  reign  ; 


S72 


BAILLIE. 


But  for  the  passing  current's  flow, 
And  cleft  waves,  brawling  round  the  prow, 
They  might  have  thought  some  magic  spell 
Had  bound  them,  weary  fate !    for  ever  there  to 
dwell. 

VII. 

What  did  this  trackless  waste  supply 
To  soothe  the  mind  or  please  the  eye  ? 
The  rising  morn  through  dim  mist  breaking, 
The  flicker'd  east  with  purple  streaking  ; 
The  midday  cloud  through  thin  air  flying. 
With  deeper  blue  the  blue  sea  dying  ; 
Long  ridgy  waves  their  white  mains  rearing. 
And  in  the  broad  gleam  disappearing  ; 
The  broaden'd,  blazing  sun  declining, 
And  western  waves  like  fire  flood  shining ; 
The  sky's  vast  dome  to  darkness  given, 
And  all  the  glorious  host  of  heaven. 

VIII. 

Full  oft  upon  the  deck,  while  other's  slept, 

To  mark  the  bearing  of  each  well-known  star 

That  shone  aloft,  or  on  th'  horizon  far. 

The  anxious  Chief  his  lonely  vigil  kept ; 

The  mournful  wind,  the  hoarse  wave  breaking  near. 

The  breathing  groans  of  sleep,  the  plunging  lead. 

The  steersman's  call,  and  his  own  stilly  tread, 

Are  all  the  sounds  of  night  that  reach  his  ear. 

His  darker  form  stalk'd  through  the  sable  gloom 

With  gestures  discomposed  and  features  keen, 

That  might  not  in  the  face  of  day  be  seen. 

Like  some  unblessed  spirit  from  the  tomb. 

Night  after  night,  and  day  succeeding  day. 

So  pass'd  their  dull,  unvaried  time  away  ; 

Till  hope,  the  seaman's  worshipp'd  queen,  had  flown 

From  every  valiant  heart  but  his  alone  ; 

Where  still,  by  day,  enthroned,  she  held  her  state 

With  sunny  look  and  brow  elate. 

IX. 

But  soon  his  dauntless  soul,  which  naught  could 

bend. 
Nor  hope  delay'd,  nor  adverse  fate  subdue. 
With  more  redoubled  danger  must  contend 
Than  storm  or  wave — a  fierce  and  angry  crew. 
"  Dearly,"  say  they,  "  may  we  those  visions  rue 
Which  lured  us  from  our  native  land, 
A  wretched,  lost,  devoted  band, 
Led  on  by  hope's  delusive  gleam. 
The  victims  of  a  madman's  dream  ! 
Nor  gold  shall  e'er  be  ours,  nor  fame  ; 
Not  e'en  the  remnant  of  a  name, 
On  some  rude-letter'd  stone  to  tell 
On  what  strange  coast  our  wreck  befell. 
For  us  no  requiem  shall  be  sung. 
Nor  prayer  be  said,  nor  passing  knell 
In  holy  church  be  rung." 

X. 

To  thoughts  like  these,  all  forms  give  way 

Of  duty  to  a  leader's  sway  ; 

All  habits  of  respect  that  bind 

With  easy  tie  the  human  mind. 

E'en  love  and  admiration  throw 

Their  nobler  bands  asi  ''.e,  nor  show 


A  gentler  mien  ;  relations,  friends. 

Glare  on  him  now  like  angry  fiends  ; 

And,  as  he  moves,  ah,  wretched  cheer ! 

Their  mutter'd  curses  reach  his  ear : 

But  all  undaunted,  firm  and  sage. 

He  scorns  their  threats,  yet  thus  he  soothes  theii 

rage : 
"  I  brought  you  from  your  native  shore 
An  unknown  ocean  to  explore. 
I  brought  you,  partners,  by  my  side. 
Want,  toil-,  and  danger,  to  abide. 
Yet  weary  stillness  hath  so  soon  subdued 
The  buoyant  soul,  the  heart  of  pride. 
Men  who  in  battle's  brunt  full  oft  have  firmly  stood. 
That  to  some  nearing  coast  we  bear. 
How  many  cheering  signs  declare  ! 
Wayfaring  birds  the  blue  air  ranging, 
Their  shadowy  line  to  blue  air  changing. 
Pass  o'er  our  heads  in  frequent  flocks ; 
While  seaweed  from  the  parent  rocks 
With  fibry  roots,  but  newly  torn 
In  tressy  lengthen 'd  wreaths  are  on  the  clear  wave 

borne. 
Nay,  has  not  e'en  the  drifting  current  brought 
Things  of  rude  art, — of  human  cunning  wrought  ? 
Be  yet  two  days  your  patience  tried. 
And  if  no  shore  is  then  descried. 
E'en  turn  your  dastard  prows  again, 
And  cast  your  leader  to  the  main." 

XI. 

And  thus  a  while  with  steady  hand 

He  kept  in  check  a  wayward  band. 

Who  but  with  half-express 'd  disdain 

Their  rebel  spirit  could  restrain. 

The  veteran,  rough  as  war-worn  steel, 

Oft  spurn 'd  the  deck  with  grating  heel  j 

The  seaman,  bending  o'er  the  flood. 

With  stony  gaze  all  listless  stood  ; 

The  sturdy  bandit,  wildly  rude. 

Sung,  as  he  strode,  some  garbled  strain. 

Expressive  of  each  fitful  mood. 

Timed  by  his  sabre's  jangling  chain 

The  proud  Castilian,  boasted  name  ' 

Child  of  an  ancient  race 

Which  proudly  prized  its  spotless  fame. 

And  deem'd  all  fear  disgrace. 

Felt  quench'd  within  him  honour's  generous  flame 

And  in  his  gather'd  mantle  wrapp'd  his  face, 

XII. 

So  pass'd  the  day,  the  night,  the  second  day 
With  its  red  setting  sun's  extinguish'd  ray. 
Dark,  solemn  midnight  coped  the  ocean  wide. 
When  from  his  watchful  stand  Columbus  crieo, 
«  A  light,  a  light !"— blest  sounds  that  rung 
In  every  ear. — At  once  they  sprung 
With  haste  aloft,  and,  peering  bright. 
Descried  afar  the  blessed  sight. 
"  It  moves,  it  slowly  moves  like  ray 
Of  torch  that  guides  some  wanderer's  way  ! 
And  other  lights  more  distant,  seeming 
As  if  from  town  or  hamlet  streaming  ! 
'Tis  land,  'tis  peopled  land  ;  man  dwelleth  there, 
And', thou,  O  God  of  heaven  !  hast  heard  thy  set 
v-ant's  prayer  I" 


CHRISTOPHER  COLUMBUS. 


37a 


XIII. 

Returning  day  gave  to  their  view 

The  distant  shore  and  headlands  blue 

Of  long-sought  land.     Then  rose  on  air 

Loud  shouts  of  joy,  mix'd  wildly  strange 

With  voice  of  weeping  and  of  prayer, 

Expressive  of  their  blessed  change 

From  death  to  life,  from  fierce  to  kind. 

From  all  that  sinks,  to  all  that  elevates  the  mind. 

Those  who,  by  faithless  fear  insnared, 

Had  their  brave  chief  so  rudely  dared. 

Now,  with  keen  self-upbraiding  stung. 

With  every  manly  feeling  wrung. 

Repentant  tears,  looks  that  entreat. 

Are  kneeling  at  his  worshipp'd  feet. 

*'  O  pardon  blinded,  stubborn  guilt  I 

O  henceforth  make  us  what  thou  wilt ! 

Our  hands,  our  hearts,  our  lives,  are  thine. 

Thou  wondrous  man  !  led  on  by  power  divine  !" 

XIV. 

Ah  !  would  some  magic  could  arrest 
The  generous  feelings  of  the  breast, 
Which  thwart  the  common  baser  mass 
Of  sordid  thoughts,  so  fleetly  pass, — 
A  sun  glimpse  through  the  storm  ! 
The  rent  cloud  closes,  tempests  swell, 
And  its  late  path  we  cannot  tell ; 
Lost  is  its  trace  and  form. 
No  ;  not  on  earth  such  fugitives  are  bound  ; 
lu  some  veil'd  future  state  will  the  bless'd  charm 
be  found. 

XV. 

Calumbus  led  them  to  the  shore. 
Which  ship  had  never  touch'd  before  ; 
And  there  he  knelt  upon  the  strand 
To  thank  the  God  of  sea  and  land  ; 
And  there,  with  mien  and  look  elate. 
Gave  welcome  to  each  toil-worn  mate. 
And  lured  with  courteous  signs  of  cheer, 
The  dusky  natives  gathering  near  ; 
Who  on  them  gazed  with  wandering  eyeS; 
As  mission'd  spirits  from  the  skies. 
And  there  did  he  ^>ssession  claim. 
In  Isabella's  royal  name. 

XVI. 

It  was  a  land,  urmnarr'd  by  art. 

To  please  the  eye  and  cheer  the  heart  r 

The  natives'  simple  huts  were  seen 

Peeping  their  palmy  groves  between, — 

Groves,  where  each  dome  of  sweepy  leaves 

In  air  of  morning  gently  heaves. 

And,  as  the  deep  vans  fall  and  rise, 

Changes  its  richly  verdant  dyes  ; 

A  land  whose  simple  sons  till  now 

Had  scarcely  seen  a  careful  brow  ; 

They  spent  at  will  each  passing  day 

In  lightsome  toil  or  active  play. 

Some  their  light  canoes  were  guiding. 

Along  the  shore's  sweet  margin  gliding. 

Some  in  the  sunny  sea  were  swimming, 

The  bright  waves  o'er  their  dark  forms  gleaming  ; 


Some  on  the  beach  for  shell-fish  stooping, 
Or  on  the  smooth  sand  gayly  trooping  ; 
Or  in  link'd  circles  featly  dancing 
With  golden  braid  and  bracelet  glancing. 
By  shelter'd  door  were  infa:nts  creeping, 
Or  on  the  shaded  herbage  sleeping  ; 
Gay  feather'd  birds  the  air  were  winging, 
And  parrots  on  their  high  perch  swinging, 
While  humming-birds,  like  sparks  of  light, 
Twinkled  and  vanish'd  from  the  sight. 

XVII. 

They  eyed  the  wondrous  strangers  o'er  and  o'er,— 

Those  beings  of  the  ocean  and  the  air, 

With  humble,  timid  reverence  ;  all  their  store 

Of  gather'd  wealth  inviting  them  to  share  ; 

To  share  whate'er  their  lowly  cabins  hold  ; 

Their  feather'd  crowns,  their  fruits,  their   arms^ 

their  gold. 
Their  gold,  that  fatal  gift  ! — O  foul  disgrace  ! 
Repaid  witJi  cruel  wreck  of  all  their  harmless  race 

xvin. 

There  some   short,  pleasing  days   with  them  he 

dwelt. 
And  all  their  simple  kindness  dearly  felt. 
But  they  of  other  countries  told, 
Not  distant,  where  the  sun  declines. 
Where  reign  Caziques  o'er  warriors  bold, 
Rich  with  the  gold  of  countless  mines. 
And  he  to  other  islands  sail'd, 
And  was  by  other  natives  hail'd. 
Then  on  Hispaniola's  shore. 
Where  bays  and  harbours  to  explore 
Much  time  he  spent ;  a  simple  tower 
Of  wood  he  built,  the  seat  to  be. 
And  shelter  of  Spain's  infant  power ; 
Hoping  the  nurseling  fair  to  see. 
Amidst  those  harmless  people  shoot 
Its  stately  stem  from  slender  root. 
There  nine  and  thirty  chosen  men  he  placed, 
Gave  parting  words  of  counsel  and  of  cheer ; 
One  after  one  his  nobler  friends  embraced. 
And  to  the  Indian  chieftain,  standing  near, 
"  Befriend  my  friends,  and  give  them  aid, 
When  I  am  gone,"  he  kindly  said, 
Blest  them,   and  left  them  there  his  homeward 

course  to  steer. 

XIX. 

His  prayer  to  Heaven  for  them  preferr'd 
Was  not,  alas  .'  with  favour  heard. 
Oft,  as  his  ship  the  land  forsook, 
He  landward  turn'd  his  farewell  look. 
And  cheer 'd  his  Spaniards  cross  the  wave. 
Who  distant  answer  faintly  gave  ; 
Distant  but  cheerful.     On  the  strand 
He  saw  their  clothed  figures  stand 
With  naked  forms  link'd  hand  in  hand  ! 
Saw  thus  caress'd,  assured,  and  bold, 
Those  he  should  never  more  behold. 
Some  simple  Indians,  gently  won. 
To  visit  land,  where  sets  the  sun 
In  clouds  of  amber,  and  behold, 
The  wonders  oft  by  Spaniards  told ; " 


374 


BAILLIE, 


Stood  silent  by  themselves  apart, 

With  nature's  yearnings  at  their  heart, 

And  saw  the  coast  of  fading  blue 

Wear  soft  and  sadly  from  their  view. 

But  soon  by  their  new  comrades  cheer'd, 

As  o'er  the  waves  the  ship  career'd. 

Their  wandering  eyes  aloft  were  cast 

On  white  swoln  sails  and  stately  mast. 

And  checkering  shrouds,  depicted  fair. 

On  azure  sea  and  azure  air ;  ^ 

And  felt,  as  feels  the  truant  boy. 

Who,  having  climb 'd  some  crumbling  mound 

0»  ruin'd  tower,  looks  wildly  round 

A  thrilling,  fearful  joy. 

XX. 

Then  with  his  two  small  barks  again 
The  dauntless  chief  traversed  the  main  ; 
But  not  with  fair  and  favouring  gales 
That  erst  had  lill'd  his  western  sails  : 
Fierce  winds  with  adverse  winds  contended ; 
Rose  the  dark  deep, — dark  heaven  descended ; 
And  threaten'd,  in  the  furious  strife, 
The  ships  to  sink  with  all  their  freight  of  precious 
life. 

XXI. 
In  this  dread  case,  well  may  be  guess'd 
What  dismal  thoughts  his  soul  depress'd : 
"  And  must  I  in  th'  o'erwhelming  deep. 
Our  bold  achievement  all  unknown. 
With  these  my  brave  adventurers  sleep, — 
What  we  have  done  to  dark  oblivion  thrown  ? 
Sink,  body  !  to  thy  watery  grave. 
If  so  God  will ;  but  let  me  save 
This  noble  fruitage  of  my  mind. 
And  leave  my  name  and  deeds  behind !" 

XXII. 

Upon  a  scroll,  with  hasty  pen. 

His  wondrous  tale  he  traced, 

View'd  it  with  tearful  eyes,  and  then 

Within  a  casket  placed. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  he,  "  by  vessel  bound 

On  western  cruise,  thou  wilt  be  found  ; 

Or  make,  sped  by  the  current  swift. 

To  Christian  shore  they  happy  drift. 

Thy  story  may  by  friendly  eyes  be  read  5 

O'er  our  untimely  fate  warm  tears  be  shed ; 

Our  deeds  rehearsed  by  many  an  eager  tongue, 

And  requiems  for  our  parted  souls  be  sung." 

This  casket  to  the  sea  he  gave  ; 

Quick  sunk  and  rose  the  freightage  light, — 

Appear'd  on  many  a  booming  wave, 

Then  floated  far  away  from  his  still  gazing  sight. 

Yet,  aftfer  many  a  peril  braved, — 

Of  many  an  adverse  wind  the  sport. 

He,  by  his  great  Preserver  saved, 

Anchor'd  again  in  Palos'  port. 

XXIII. 
0,  who  can  tell  the  acclamation  loud 
That,  bursting,  rose  from  the  assembled  crowd 
To  hail  the  hero  and  his  gallant»train, 
From  such  adventure  bold  return'd  again  ! — 
The  warm  embrace,  the  oft-repeated  cheer. 
And  many  a  wistful  smile  and  many  a  tear  I — 


How,  pressing  close,  they  stood  ; 

Look'd  on  Columbus  with  amaze, — 

'*  Is  he,"  so  spake  their  wondering  gaze, 

"  A  man  of  flesh  and  blood  ?" 

While  cannon  far  along  the  shore 

His  welcome  gave  with  deafening  roar. 

XXIV. 

And  then  with  measured  steps,  sedate  and  slow 

They  to  the  Christian's  sacred  temple  go. 

Soon  as  the  chief  within  the  house  of  God 

Upon  the  hallow 'd  pavement  trod. 

He  bowed  with  holy  fear  : — 

"  The  God  of  wisdom,  mercy,  might, 

Creator  of  the  day  and  night, 

This  sea-girt  globe,  and  every  star  of  light, 

Is  worshipp'd  here." 

Then  on  the  altar's  steps  he  knelt. 

And  what  his  inward  spirit  felt. 

Was  said  unheard  within  that  cell 

Where  saintly  thoughts  and  feelings  dwell ; 

But  as  the  choral  chanters  raise 

Through  dome  and  aisle  the  hymn  of  praise 

To  heaven  his  glistening  eyes  were  turn'd, 

With  sacred  love  his  bosom  burn'd. 

On  all  the  motley  crowd 

The  generous  impulse  seized  ;  high  dons  of  pride 

Wept  like  the  meekest  becdsman  by  their  side. 

And  women  sobb'd  aloud. 

XXV. 

Nor  statesmen  met  in  high  debate 
Deciding  on  a  country's  fate. 
Nor  saintly  chiefs  with  fearless  zeal 
Contending  for  their  churches'  weal. 
Nor  warriors,  midst  the  battle's  roar. 
Who  fiercely  guard  their  native  shore  ;— 
No  power  by  earthly  coil  possest 
To  agitate  the  human  breast. 
Shows,  from  its  native  source  diverted, 
Man's  nature  noble,  though  perverted, 
So  strongly  as  the  transient  power 
Of  link'd  devotion's  sympathetic  hour. 
It  clothes  with  soft  unwonted  grace 
The  traits  of  many  a  rugged  face. 
As  bend  the  knees  unused  to  kneel. 
And  glow  the  hearts  unused  to  feel ; 
While  every  soul,  with  holy  passion  moved. 
Claims  one  Almighty  Sire,  fear'd,  and  adored,  an*; 
loved. 

XXVI. 
With  western  treasures,  borne  in  fair  display, 
To  Barcelona's  walls,  in  grand  array, 
Columbus  slowly  held  his  inland  way. 
And  still  where'er  he  pass'd  along. 
In  eager  crowds  the  people  throng. 
The  wildest  way  o'er  desert  drear 
Did  like  a  city's  mart  appear. 
The  shepherd  swain  forsook  his  sheep 
The  goatherd  from  his  craggy  steep 
Shot  like  an  arrow  to  the  plain  ; 
Mechanics,  housewives,  left  amain 
Their  broken  tasks,  and  press'd  beside 
The  truant  youth  they  meant  to  chide : 
The  dull  hidalgo  left  his  tower. 
The  donna  fair  her  latticed  bower  ; 


CHRISTOPHER    COLUMBUS. 


375 


Together  press 'd,  fair  and  uncouth^ 
All  motley  forms  of  age  and  youth. 
And,  still  along  the  dark-ranged  pile 
Of  clustering  life,  was  heard  the  while 
Mix'd  brawling  joy,  and  shouts  that  rung 
From  many  a  loud  and  deafening  tongue. 
Ah  I  little  thought  the  gazing  throng, 
As  pass'd  that  pageant  show  along. 
How  Spain  should  rue,  in  future  times, 
With  desert  plains  and  fields  untill'd. 
And  towns  with  listless  loiterers  fill'd. 
The  withering  spoil  received  from  foreign  climes  ! 
Columbus  gave  thee,  thankless  Spain  ! 
A  new-found  world  o'er  which  to  reign  ; 
But  could  not  with  the  gift  impart 
A  portion  of  his  liberal  heart 
And  manly  mind,  to  bid  thee  soar 
Above  a  robber's  lust  of  ore, 
Which  hath  a  curs«  entail'd  on  all  thy  countless 
store. 

XXVII. 

To  Barcelona  come,  with  honours  meet 
Such  glorious  deeds  to  grace,  his  sovereigns  greet 
Their  mariner's  return.     Or  hall, 
Or  room  of  state  was  deem'd  too  small 
For  such  reception.     Pageant  rare  ! 
Beneath  heaven's  dome,  in  open  square, 
Their  gorgeous  thrones  were  placed ; 
And  near  them  on  an  humbler  seat. 
While  on  each  hand  the  titled  great, 
Standing  in  dizen'd  rows,  were  seen. 
Priests,  guards,  and  crowds,  a  living  screen, — 
Columbus  sat,  with  noble  mien, 
With  princely  honours  graced. 
There  to  the  royal  pair  his  tale  he  told: 
A  wondrous  tale,  that  did  not  want 
Or  studied  words  or  braggart's  vaunt ; 
When  at  their  royal  feet  were  laid 
Gems,  pearls,  and  plumes  of  many  a  shade, 
And  stores  of  virgin  gold, 
Whilst,  in  their  feathered  guise  arrayed, 
Tho  Indians  low  obeisance  paid. 
And  at  that  wondrous  story's  close 
The  royal  pair  with  reverence  rose. 
And  kneeling  on  the  ground,  aloud 
Gave  thanks  to  Heaven.     Then  all  the  crowd. 
Joining,  from  imfpulse  of  the  heart. 
The  banded  priest's  ecstatic  art. 
With  mingled  voice  Te  Deum  sang ; 
With  the  grand  choral  burst,  walls,  towers,  and 
welkin  rang. 

XXVIII. 

This  was  his  brightest  hour,  too  bright 

For  human  weal ; — a  glaring  light. 

Like  sunbeam  through  the  rent  cloud  pouring 

On  the  broad  lake,  when  storms  are  roaring ; 

Bright  centre  of  a  wild  and  sombre  scene  ; 

More  keenly  bright  than  summer's  settled  sheen. 

XXIX. 

With  kingly  favour  brighten'd,  all 
His  favour  court,  obey  his  call. 
At  princely  boards,  above  the  rest, 
II«  took  his  place,  admired,  caress'd : 


Proud  was  the  don  of  high  degree, 

Whose  honour'd  guest  he  deign'd  to  be. 

Whate'er  his  purposed  service  wanted. 

With  ready  courtesy  was  granted: 

No  envious  foe  durst  cross  his  will. 

While  eager  shipwrights  ply  their  skill, 

To  busy  dockyard,  quay,  or  port. 

Priests,  lords,  and  citizens  resort : 

Their  wains  the  heavy  planks  are  bringing, 

And  hammers  on  the  anvil  ringing  ; 

The  far-toss'd  boards  on  boards  are  falling. 

And  brawny  mate  to  work-mate  calling : 

The  cable  strong  on  windlass  winding ;  f 

On  wheel  of  stone  the  edge  tool  grinding ; 

Red  fire  beneath  the  caldron  gleaming. 

And  pitchy  fumes  from  caldron  steaming. 

To  sea  and  land's  men  too,  I  ween,   . 

It  was  a  gay,  attractive  scene  ; 

Beheld,  enjoyed,  day  after  day, 

Till  all  his  ships,  in  fair  array, 

Were  bounden  for  their  course  at  last. 

And  amply  stored  and  bravely  mann'd,  * 

Bore  far  from  blue,  receding  land.  » 

Thus  soon  again,  th'  Atlantic  vasi  ' 

With  gallant  fleet  he  past. 

XXX. 

By  peaceful  natives  hail'd  with  kindly  smiles, 

He  shortly  touch'd  at  various  pleasant  isles  ; 

And  when  at  length  her  well-known  shore  appe  Jt'd, 

And  he  to  fair  Hispaniola  near'd. 

Upon  the  deck,  with  eager  eyes 

Some  friendly  signal  to  descry. 

He  stood ;  then  fired  his  signal  shot. 

But  answering  fire  received  not. 

"  What  may  this  dismal  silence  mean  ? 

No  floating  flag  in  air  is  seen. 

Nor  e'en  the  Tower  itself,  though  well 

Its  lofty  site  those  landmarks  tell. 

Ha !  have  they  so  regardless  proved 

Of  my  command  ? — their  station  moved  !'* 

As  closer  to  the  shore  they  drew. 

To  hail  them  came  no  light  canoe ; 

The  beach  was  silent  and  forsaken : 

Nor  clothed  nor  naked  forms  appear'd. 

Nor  sound  of  human  voice  was  heard ; 

Naught  but  the  sea  birds  from  the  rock. 

With  busy  stir  that  fluttering  broke  ; 

Sad  signs,which  in  his  mind  portentous  fears  awakes. 

XXXI. 

Then  eagerly  on  shore  he  went, 

His  scouts  abroad  for  tidings  sent ; 

But  to  his  own  loud  echo'd  cry 

An  Indian  came  with  fearful  eye, 

Who  guess'd  his  questions'  hurried  sound, 

And  pointed  to  a  little  mound, 

Not  distant  far.     With  eager  haste 

The  loosen'd  mould  aside  was  cast. 

Bodies,  alas  !  within  that  grave  were  found, 

Which  had  not  long  been  laid  to  rest. 

Though  so  by  changeful  death  defaced. 

Nor  form  nor  visage  could  be  traced. — 

In  Spanish  garments  dress'd. 

Back  from  each  living  Spaniard's  cheek  the  blood 

Ban  chill,  as  round  their  noble  chiet  they  stood, 


376 


BAILLLE. 


Who  sternly  spoke  to  check  the  rising  tear. 
"  Eight  of  my  valiant  men  are  buried  here  ; 
Where  are  the  rest  ?"  the  timid  Indian  shook 
±n  every  limh,  and  slow  and  faintly  spoke. 
"  Some  are  dead,  some  sick,  some  flown  ; 
The  rest  are  up  the  country  gone, 
Far,  far  away."    A  heavy  groan 
Utters  the  chief ;  his  blanch'd  lips  quiver  ; 
He  knows  that  they  are  gone  for  ever. 

XXXII. 
But  here  'twere  tedious  and  unmeet 
§A  dismal  story  to  repeat, 
Which  was  from  mild  Cazique  received, 
Their  former  friend,  and  half  believed. 
Him,  in  his  cabin  far  apart. 
Wounded  they  found,  by  Carib  dart ; 
Received,  said  he,  from  savage  foe 
Spaniards  defending.     Then  with  accents  low 
He  spoke,  and  ruefully  began  to  tell. 
What  to  those  hapless  mariners  befell. 
How  that  from  lust  of  pleasure  and  of  gold, 
And  mutual  strife  and  war  on  Caribs  made. 
Their  strength  divided  was,  and  burnt  their  hold. 
Arid  their  unhappy  heads  beneath  the  still  earth 
laid. 

XXXIII. 

Yet,  spite  of  adverse  fate,  he  in  those  climes 

Spain's  infant  power  establish'd  ;  after-times 

Have  seen  it  flourish,  and  her  sway  maintain 

In  either  world,  o'er  many  a  fair  domain. 

But  wayward  was  his  irksome  lot  the  while. 

Striving  with  malice,  mutiny,  and  guile ; 

Yet  vainly  striving :  that  which  most 

His  generous  bosom  sought  to  shun. 

Each  wise  and  liberal  purpose  crost. 

Must  now  at  Mammon's  ruthless  call  be  done. 

Upon  their  native  soil. 

They  who  were  wont  in  harmless  play 

To  frolic  out  the  passing  day, 

Must  pine  with  hateful  toil. 

XXXIV. 

Yea ;  this  he  did  against  his  better  will ; 

For  who  may  stern  ambition  sem^  and  still 

His  nobler  nature  trust  ? 

May  on  unshaken  strength  rely. 

Cast  fortune  as  she  will  her  dye. 

And  say  "  I  will  be  just  ?" 

XXXV. 

Envy  mean,  that  in  the  dark 

Strikes  surely  at  its  noble  mark, 

Against  him  rose  with  hatred  fell, 

Which  he  could  brave,  but  could  not  quell. 

Then  he  to  Spain  indignant  went. 

And  to  his  sovereigns  made  complaint. 

With  manly  freedom,  of  their  trust. 

Put,  to  his  cost,  in  men  unjust. 

And  turbulent.     They  graciously 

His  plaint  and  plea  received ;  and  hoisting  high 

His  famed  and  gallant  flag  upon  the  main. 

He  to.  his  western  world  return 'd  again. 

Where  he,  the  sea's  unwearied,  dauntless  rover. 

Through  many  a  gulf  and  strait,  did  first  discover 


That  continent,  whose  mighty  reach 
From  th'  utmost  frozen  north  doth  stretch 
E'en  to  the  frozen  south ;  a  land 
Of  surface  fair  and  structure  grand. 

XXXVI. 

There,  through  vast  regions  riVers  pour, 
Whose  midway  skiff  scarce  sees  the  shore ; 
Which,  rolling  on  in  lordly  pride, 
Give  to  the  main  their  ample  tide  j 
And  dauntless  then,  with  current  strong. 
Impetuous,  roaring,  bear  along, 
And  still  their  separate  honours  keep. 
In  bold  contention  with  the  mighty  deep. 

XXXVII. 
There  broad-based  mountains  from  the  sight 
Conceal  in  clouds  their  vasty  height, 
Whose  frozen  peaks,  a  vision  rare. 
Above  the  girdling  clouds  rear'd  far  in  upper  air   ' 
At  times  appear,  and  soothly  seem 
To  the  far  distant,  up-cast  eye. 
Like  snowy  ^  >tch-towers  of  the  sky,— 
Like  passing  visions  of  a  dream. 

XXXVIIL 

There  forests  grand  of  olf'en  birth, 
O'er-canopy  the  darken'd  earth. 
Whose  trees,  growth  of  unreckon'd  time. 
Rear  o'er  whole  regions  far  and  wide 
A  checker'd  dome  of  lofty  pride 
Silent,  solemn,  and  sublime. — 
A  pillar'd  labyrinth,  in  whose  trackless  gloom,  ' 
Unguided  feet  might  atray  till  close  of  mortal 
doom. 

XXXIX. 

There  grassy  plains  of  verdant  green 

Spread  far  beyond  man's  ken  are  seen. 

Whose  darker  bushy  spots  that  lie 

Strew'd  o'er  the  level  vast,  descry 

Admiring  strangers,  from  the  brow 

Of  hill  or  upland  steep,  and  show. 

Like  a  calm  ocean's  peaceful  isles. 

When  morning  light  through  rising  vapours  smilei 

XL. 

O'er  this,  his  last — his  proudest  fame, 
He  did  assert  his  mission'd  claim. 
Yet  dark,  ambitious  envy,  more 
Incensed  and  violent  than  before. 
With  crafty  machinations  gain'd 
His  royal  master's  ear,  who  stain'd 
His  princely  faith,  and  gave  it  power 
To  triumph,  in  a  shameful  hour. 
A  mission'd  gownsman  o'er  the  sea 
Was  sent  his  rights  to  supersede. 
And  all  his  noble  schemes  impede, — 
His  tyrant,  spy,  and  judge  to  be. 
With  parchment  scrolls  and  deeds  he  came 
To  kindle  fierce  and  wasteful  flame. 
Columbus'  firm  and  dauntless  soul 
Submitted  not  to  base  control. 
For  who  that  hath  high  deeds  achieved. 
Whose  mind  hath  mighty  plans  conceived. 
Can  of  learn'd  ignorance  and  pride 
The  potty  vexing  rule  abide  ? 


CHRISTOPHER   COLUMBUS. 


377 


The  lion  trampled  by  an  ass  ! — 
No }  this  all-school'd  forbearance  would  surpass. 
Insulted  with  a  felon's  chain, 
This  noble  man  must  cross  the  main, 
And   answer  his   foul   charge  to  cold,  ungrateful 
Spain. 

XLI. 

By  India's  gentle  race  alone 

Was  pity  to  his  suffering  shown. 

They  on  his  parting  wait, 

And  looks  of  kindness  on  him  cast. 

Or  touch'd  his  mantle  as  he  past, 

And  mourn'd  his  alter'd  state. 

"  May  the  Great  Spirit  smooth  the  tide 

With  gentle  gales,  and  be  thy  guide  !" 

And  when  his  vessel  wore  from  land. 

With  meaning  nods  and  gestures  kind 

He  saw  them  still  upon  the  strand 

Tossing  their  dark  arms  on  the  wind. 

He  saw  them  like  a  helpless  flock 

Who  soon  must  bear  the  cruel  shock 

Of  savage  wolves,  yet  reckless  still. 

Feel  but  the  pain  of  present  ill. 

He  saw  the  fate  he  could  not  now  control. 

And  groan'd  in  bitter  agony  of  soul. 

XLII. 

He  trode  the  narrow  deck  with  pain, 

And  oft  survey 'd  his  rankling  chain. 

The  ship's  brave  captain  grieved  to  see 

Base  irons  his  noble  prisoner  gall. 

And  kindly  sued  to  set  him  free  ; 

But  proudly  spoke  the  lofty  thrall, 

"  Until  the  king  whom  I  have  served. 

Who  thinks  this  recompense  deserved. 

Himself  command  th'  unclasping  stroke, 

These  gyved  limbs  will  wear  their  yoke. 

Yea,  when  my  head  lies  in  the  dust 

These  chains  shall  in  my  coffin  rust. 

Better  than  lesson'd  saw,  though  rude, 

As  token,  long  preserved  of  black  ingratitude  !" 

XLIII. 

Thus  pent,  his  manly  fortitude  gave  way 
To  brooding  passion's  dark  tumultuous  sway. 
Dark  was  the  gloom  within,  and  darker  grew 
Th'  impending  gloom  without,  as  onward  drew 
Th'  embattled  storm  that,  deepening  on  its  way, 
With  all  its  marshall'd  host  obscured  the  day. 
Volume  o'er  volume,  roU'd  the  heavy  clouds, 
And  oft  in  dark,  dim  masses,  sinking  slow, 
Hung  in  the  nether  air,  like  misty  shrouds, 
Veiling  the  sombre,  silent  deep  below. 
Like  eddying  snow-flakes  from  a  lov.'ering  sky. 
Athwart  the  dismal  gloom  the  frighten 'd  sea-fowl  fly. 
Then  from  the  solemn  stillness  round. 
Utters  the  storm  its  awful  sound. 
It  groans  upon  the  distant  waves  ; 
O'er  the  mid-ocean  wildly  raves  ; 
Recedes  afar  with  dying  strain. 
That  sadly  through  the  troubled  air 
Conies  like  the  wailings  of  despair, 
•And  witX  redoubled  strength  returns  again : 
Through  shrouds  and  rigging,  boards  and  mast. 
Whistles,  and  howls,and  roars  th' outrageous  blast. 


XLIV. 

From  its  vast  bed  profound  with  heaving  throws 
The  mighty  waste  of  weltering  waters  rose. 
O'er  countless  waves,  now  mounting,  now  deprest 
The  ridgy  surges  swell  with  foaming  crest. 
Like  Alpine  barriers  of  some  distant  shore. 
Now  seen,  now  lost  amidst  the  deafening  roar  t 
While,  higher  still,  on  broad  and  sweepy  base, 
Their  growing  bulk  the  mountain  billows  raire. 
Each  far  aloft  in  lordly  grandeur  rides. 
With  many  a  vassal  wave  roughening  his  furrow'd 

sides. 
Heaved  to  its  height,  the  dizzy  skiff  ' 

Shoots  like  an  eagle  from  his  cliff 
Down  to  the  fearful  gulf,  and  then 
On  the  swoln  waters  mounts  again,- 
A  fearful  way  !  a  fearful  state 
For  vessel  charged  with  living  freight ! 

XLV. 

Within,  without,  the  tossing  tempest's  rage: 

This  was,  of  all  his  earthly  pilgrimage, 

The  injured  hero's  fellest,  darkest  hour. 

Yet  swiftly  pass'd  its  glooiny  power; 

For  as  the  wild  winds  louder  blew. 

His  troubled  breast  the  calmer  grew  ; 

And,  long  before  the  mighty  hand. 

That  rules  the  ocean  and  the  land. 

Had  calm'd  the  sea,  with  pious  reverence  fill'd 

The  warring  passions  of  his  soul  were  still'd. 

Through  softly  parting  clouds  the  blue  sky  peer'd, 

And  heavenward  turn'd  his  eye  with  better  feel- 

•     ings  cheer'd. 
Meek  are  the  wise,  the  great,  the  good ; — 
He  sigh'd,  and  thought  of  Him,  who  died  on  holf 
rood. 

XLVI. 

No  more  the  angry  tempest's  sport. 

The  vessel  reach'd  its  destined  port. 

A  town  of  Christendom  he  greets. 

And  treads  agam  its  well-known  streets  ; 

A  sight  of  wonder,  grief,  and  shame 

To  those  who  on  his  landing  came. 

And  on  his  state  in  silence  gazed, 

"  This  is  the  man  whose  dauntless  soul" — 

So  spoke  their  looks — "  Spain's  power  hath  raised 

To  hold  o'er  worlds  her  proud  control ! 

His  honour'd  brows  with  laurel  crown'd. 

His  hands  with  felon  fetters  bound  !" 

XL  VII. 

And  he  before  his  sovereign  dame 

And  her  stern  lord,  indignant  came ; 

And  bold  in  conscious  honour,  broke 

The  silence  of  his  smother'd  flame, 

In  words  that  all  his  inward  anguish  spoke. 

The  gentle  queen's  more  noble  breast 

Its  generous  sympathy  exprest ; 

And  as  his  varied  story  show'd 

What  wrongs  from  guileful  malice  flow'd, 

Th'  indignant  eye  and  flushing  cheek 

Did  oft  her  mind's  emotion  speak. 

The  sordid  king,  with  brow  severe. 

Could,  all  unmoved,  his  pleadings  hear; 


378 


BAILLIE. 


Save,  that,  in  spite  of  103  al  pride, 
Which  self  reproach  can  ill  abide, 
His  crimson'd  face  did  meanly  show 
Of  conscious  shame  th'  unworthy  glow. 
Baffled,  disgraced,  his  enemies  remain'd, 
And  base  ambition  for  a  time  restrain'd. 

XLVIII. 

With  four  small  vessels,  small  supply 

I  trow  I  yet  granted  tardily, 

For  such  high  service,  he  once  more 

The  western  ocean  to  explore 

Directs  his  course.     On  many  an  isle 

He  touch 'd,  where  cheerly,  for  a  while. 

His  mariners  their  cares  beguile 

Upon  the  busy  shore. 

And  there  what  wiles  of  barter  keen 

Spaniard  and  native  pass  between  ; 

As  feather'd  crowns,  whose  colours  change 

To  every  hue,  with  vizards  strange, 

And  gold  and  pearls  are  given  away, 

For  bead  or  bell,  or  bauble  gay  ! 

Full  oft  the  muttering  Indian  eyes 

With  conscious  smile  his  wondrous  prize, 

Beneath  the  shady  plantain  seated. 

And  thinks  he  hath  the  stranger  cheated ; 

Or  foots  the  ground  like  vaunting  child, 

Snapping  his  thumbs  with  antics  wild. 

XLIX. 

But  if,  at  lengtii,  tired  of  their  guests, 

Consurnicg  like  those  hateful  pests, 

Locusts  or  ants,  provisions  stored 

For  many  days,  they  will  afford 

No  more,  withholding  fresh  supplies, 

And  Strife  and  threatening  clamours  rise, — 

Columbus'  gentle  craft  pursues, 

And  soon  their  noisy  wrath  subdues 

Thus  speaks  the  chief, — "  Refuse  us  aid 

From  stores  which  Heaven  for  all  hath  made 

The  moon,  your  mistress,  will  this  night 

From  you  withhold  her  blessed  light, 

Her  ire  to  show  ;  take  ye  tlie  risk." 

Then,  as  half  frighten'd,  half  in  jest. 

They  turn 'd  their  faces  to  the  east. 

From  ocean  rose  h.i-  broaden'd  disk ; 

But  when  the  deep  ellipse  came  on, 

By  science  sure  to  him  foreknown, 

How  cower'd  each  savage  at  his  feet, 

Like  spaniel  couching  to  his  lord. 

Awed  by  the  whip  or  angry  word. 

His  pardon  to  entreat ! 

"  Take  all  we  have,  thou  heavenly  man ! 

And  let  our  mistress  smile  again !" 

L. 

Or,  should  the  ship,  above,  below. 
Be  fill'd  with  crowds,  who  will  not  go  ; 
Again  to  spare  more  hurtful  force. 
To  harmless  guile  he  has  recourse. 
*Ho  !  gunner  !  let  these  scramblers  know 
The  power  we  do  not  use :"  when,  lo  ! 
From  cannon's  moiith  the  silvery  cloud 
Breaks  forth,  soft  curling  on  the  air. 
Through  which  appears  the  lightning's  glare, 
And  bellowing  roars  the  thunder  loud. 


Quickly  from  bowsprit,  shroud,  or  mast, 
Or  vessel's  side  the  Indians  cast 
Their  naked  forms,  the  water  dashmg 
O'er  their  dark  heads,  as  stoutly  lashing 
The  briny  waves  with  arms  out-spread. 
They  gain  the  shore  with  terror's  speed. 

LL 

Thus  checker'd  still  with  shade  and  sheen 

Pass'd  in  the  west  his  latter  scene. 

As  through  the  oak's  toss'd  branches  pass 

Soft  moonbeams,  flickering  on  the  grass  ; 

As  on  the  lake's  dark  surface  pour 

Broad  flashing  drops  of  summer  shower:— 

As  the  rude  cavern's  sparry  sides 

When  past  the  miner's  taper  glides. 

So  roam'd  the  Chief,  and  many  a  sea 

Fathom'd  and  search'd  unweariedly, 

Hoping  a  v/estern  way  to  gain 

To  eastern  climes, — an  effort  vain  ; 

For  mighty  thoughts,  with  error  uncombined. 

Were  never  yet  the  meed  of  mortal  mind. 

LIT. 

At  length,  hy  wayward  fortune  cross'd. 

And  oft-renew'd  and  irksome  strife 

Of  sordid  men, — by  tempests  tost. 

And  tired  with  turmoil  of  a  wanderer's  life. 

He  sail'd  again  for  Europe's  ancient  shore. 

So  will'd  high  Heaven !  to  cross  the  seas  no  mors 

His  anchor  fix'd,  his  sails  for  ever  furl'd, 

A  toil-worn  pilgrim  in  a  weary  world. 

LIII. 

And  thus  the  Hero's  sun  went  down, 
Closing  his  day  of  bright  renown. 
Eight  times  through  breeze  and  storm  he  past 
O'er  surge  and  wave  th'  Atlantic  vast ; 
And  left  on  many  an  island  fair 
Foundations  which  the  after  care 
Of  meaner  chieftains  shortly  rear'd 
To  seats  of  power,  serv'd,  envied,  fear'd. 
No  kingly  conqueror,  since  time  began 
The  long  career  of  ages,  hath  to  man 
A  scope  so  ample  given  for  trade's  bold  range, 
Or  caused  on  earth's  wide  stage  such  rapid,  mightj 
change. 

LIV. 

He,  on  the  bed  of  sickness  laid. 
Saw,  unappall'd,  death's  closing  shade ; 
And  there,  in  charity  and  love 
To  man  on  earth  and  God  above. 
Meekly  to  heaven  his  soul  resign'd. 
His  body  to  the  earth  consign'd. 
'Twas  in  Valladolid  he  breathed  his  last. 
And  to  a  better,  heavenly  city  pass'd; 
But  St.  Dominga,  in  her  sacred  fane 
Doth  his  blest  spot  of  rest  and  sculptured  tomlj 
contain. 

LV. 
There  burghers,  knights,  adventurers  brave, 
Stood  round  in  funeral  weeds  bedight ; 
And  bow'd  them  to  the  closing  grave, 
And  wish'd  his  soul  good  night. 


LADY   GRl&ELD    BAILLIE. 


37S 


LVI. 

Now  all  the  bold  companions  of  his  toil, 
Tenants  of  many  a  clime,  who  wont  to  come, 
(So  fancy  trows,)  when  vex'd  with  worldly  coil. 
And  linger  saQiy  by  his  narrow  home ; — 
Repentant  enemies,  and  friends  that  grieve 
In  self-upbraiding  tenderness,  and  say, 
"Cold  was  the  love  he  did  from  us  receive," — 
The  fleeting,  restless  spirits  of  a  day, 
All  to  their  dread  account  are  pass'd  away. 

LVII. 

Silence,  solemn,  awful,  deep. 

Doth  in  that  hall  of  death  her  empire  keep  ; 

Save  when  at  times  the  hollow  pavement  smote 

By  solitary  wanderer's  foot,  amain 

From  lofty  dome,  and  arch,  and  aisle  remote 

A  circling  loud  response  receives  again. 

The  stranger  starts  to  hear  the  growing  sounds, 

And  sees  the  blazon 'd  trophies  waving  near  ; — 

"  Ha !  tread  my  feet  so  near  that  sacred  ground  !" 

He  stops  and  bows  his  head : — "  Columbus  resteth 

here !" 

LVIII. 
Some  ardent  youth,  perhaps,  ere  from  his  home 
He  launch  his  venturous  bark,  will  hither  come. 
Read  fondly  o'er  and  o'er  his  graven  name 
With  feelings  keenly  touch 'd, — with  heart  of  flame  ; 
Till  wrapp'd  in  fancy's  wild,  delusive  dream, 
Tunes  past  and  long  forgotten,  present  seem. 
To  his  charm 'd  ear,  the  east  wind  rising  shrill, 
Seems  through  the  Hero's  shroud  to  whistle  still. 
The  clock's  deep  pendulum  swinging,  through  the 

blast 
Sounds  like  the  rocking  of  his  lofty  mast ; 
While  fitful  gusts  rave  like  his  clamorous  band, 
Mix'd  with  the  accents  of  his  high  command. 
Slowly  the  stripling  quits  the  pensive  scene. 
And  burns,  and  sighs,  and  weeps  to  be  what  he  has 

been. 

LIX. 

0  !  who  shall  lightly  say  that  fame 
Is  nothing  but  an  empty  name  I 
Whilst  in  that  sound  there  is  a  charm 
The  nerve  to  brace,  the  heart  to  warm, 
As,  thinking  of  the  mighty  dead. 
The  young,  from  slothful  couch  will  starts 
And  vow  with  lifted  hands  outspread, 
Like  them  to  act  a  noble  part  ? 

LX. 

0  I  who  shall  lightly  say  that  fame 
Is  nothing  but  an  empty  name  ! 
When,  but  for  those,  our  mighty  dead. 
All  ages  past,  a  blank  would  be. 
Sunk  in  oblivion's  murky  bed,— 
A  desert  bare,  a  shipless  sea  ? 
They  are  the  distant  objects  seen, — 
The  lofty  marks  of  what  hath  been. 

LXI. 

0  !  who  shall  lightly  say  that  fame 
Is  nothing  but  an  empty  name  ! 
Then  memoiy  of  the  mighty  dead 
To  earth-worn  pilgrim's  wistful  eye 


The  brightest  rays  of  cheering  shed. 
That  point  to  immortality  ? 

LXII. 

A  twinkling  speck,  but  fix'd  and  bright. 
To  guide  us  through  the  dreary  night. 
Each  hero  shines,  and  lures  the  soul 
To  gain  the  distant  happy  goal. 
For  is  there  one  who,  musing  o'er  the  grave 
Where  lies  interr'd  the  good,  the  wise,  the  brave, 
Can  poo»ly  think,  beneath  the  mouldering  heap, 
That  noble  being  shall  for  ever  sleep  ? 
No  ;  saith  the  generous  heart,  and  proudly  swells,— 
"  Though  his  cered  corse  lies  here,  with  God  his 
spirit  dwells." 


LADY  GRISELD  BAILLIE. 

When,  sapient,  dauntless,  strong,  heroic  man  ! 
Our  busy  thoughts  thy  noble  nature  scan. 
Whose  active  mind,  its  hidden  cell  within. 
Frames  that  from  which  the  mightiest  works  begin ; 
Whose  secret  thoughts  are  light  to  ages  lending, 
Whose  potent  arm  is  right  and  life  defending. 
For  helpless  thousands,  all  on  one  high  soul  ae- 

pending: — 
We  pause,  delighted  with  the  fair  survey. 
And  haply  in  our  wistful  musings  say. 
What  mate,  to  match  this  noble  work  of  heaven, 
Hath  the  all-wise  and  mighty  master  given  ? 
One  gifted  like  himself,  whose  head  devises 
High  things,  whose  soul  at  sound  of  battle  rises. 
Who  with  glaved  hand  will  through  arm'd  squad- 
rons ride, 
And,  death  confronting,  combat  by  his  side  ; 
Will  share  with  equal  wisdom  grave  debate. 
And  all  the  cares  of  chieftain,  kingly  state  ? 
Ay,  such,  I  trow,  in  female  form  hath  been 
Of  olden  times,  and  may  again  be  seen. 
When  cares  of  empire  or  strong  impulse  swell 
The  generous  bleast,  and  to  high  deeds  impel ; 
For  who  can  these  as  meaner  times  upbraid. 
Who  think  of  Saragossa's  valiant  maid  ? 
But  she  of  gentler  nature,  softer,  dearer. 
Of  daily  life,  the  active,  kindly  cheerer  ; 
With  generous  bosom,  age,  or  childhood  shielding, 
And  in  the  storms  of  life,  though  moved,  unyield- 
ing; 
Strength  in  her  gentleness,  hope  in  her  sorrow. 
Whose  darkest  hours  some  ray  of  brightness  borrow 
From  better  days  to  come,  whose  meek  devotion 
Calms  every  wayward  passion's  wild  commotion ; 
In  want  and  suffering,  soothing,  useful,  sprightly. 
Bearing  the  press  of  evil  hap  so  lightly. 
Till  evil's  self  seems  its  strong  hold  betraying 
To  the  sweet  witchery  of  such  winsome  playing ; 
Bold  from  affection,  if  by  nature  fearful. 
With  varying  brow,  sad,  tender,  anxious,  cheerful,-— 
This  is  meet  partner  for  the  loftiest  mind. 
With  crown  or  helmet  graced, — yea,  this  is  woman- 
kind ! 
Come  ye,  whose  grateful  memory  retains 
Dear  recollection  of  her  tender  pains 
To  whom  your  oft-conn'd  les?on,  daily  said. 
With  kiss  and  cheering  praises  was  repaid ; 


380 


BAILLIE. 


To  gain  whose  smile,  to  shun  whose  mild  rebuke, 
Your  irksome  task  was  learnt  in  silent  nook. 
Though  truant  thoughts  the  while,  your  lot  ex- 
changing 
With  freer  elves,  were  wood  and  meadow  ranging ; — 
And  ye,  who  best  the  faithful  virtues  know 
Of  a  link'd  partner,  tried  in  weal  and  wo. 
Like  the  slight  willow,  now  aloft,  now  bending, 
But,  still  unbroken,  with  the  blast  contending, 
Whose  very  look  call'd  virtuous  vigour  forth, 
Compelling  you  to  match  her  noble  worth ; 
And  ye,  who  in  a  sister's  modest  praise 
Feel  manly  pride,  and  think  of  other  days, 
Pleased  that  the  playmate  of  your  native  home 
Hath  in  her  prime  an  honour'd  name  become  ; — 
And  ye,  who  in  a  duteous  child  have  known 
A  daughter,  helpmate,  sister,  bieiit  in  one. 
From  whose  dear  hand  which,  to  no  hireling  leaves 
Its  task  of  love,  your  age  sweet  aid  receives, 
Who  reckless  marks  youth's  waning  faded  hue. 
And  thinks  her  bloom  well  spent,  when  spent  foryou; 
Come  all,  whose  thoughts  such  dear  remembrance 

bear. 
And  to  my  short  and  faithful  lay  give  ear. 


I. 

Within  a  prison's  hateful  cell, 

Where,  from  the  lofty  window  fell. 

Through  grated  bars,  the  sloping  beam, 

Defined,  but  faint,  on  couch  of  stone. 

There  sat  a  prisoner  sad  and  lone, 

Like  the  dim  tenant  of  a  dismal  dream. 

Deep  in  the  shade,  by  low-arch'd  door. 

With  iron  nails  thick  studded  o'er, 

Whose  threshold  black  is  cross'd  by  those 

Who  here  their  earthly  being  close. 

Or  issue  to  the  light  again 

A  scaffold  with  their  blood  to  stain, — 

Moved  something  softly.     Wistful  ears 

Are  quick  of  sense,  and  from  his  book 

The  prisoner  raised  his  eyes  with  eager  look, 

«  Is  it  a  real  form  that  through  the  gloom  appears  ?" 

II. 

It  was  indeed  of  flesh  and  blood. 
The  form  that  quickly  by  him  stood ; 
Of  stature  low,  of  figure  light, 
In  motion  like  some  happy  sprite ; 
Yet  meaning  eyes  and  varying  cheek, 
Now  red,  now  pale,  seem'd  to  bespeak 
Of  riper  years  the  cares  and  feeling 
Which  with  a  gentle  heart  were  dealing. 

Such  sense  in  eyes  so  simply  mild  ! 
Is  it  a  woman  or  a  child  ? 

"Vho  art  thou,  damsel  sweet  ?  are  not  mine  eyes 
beguiled  ?" 

in. 

«*  No  ;  from  the  Red  braes'  tower  I  come  ; 

My  father  is  Sir  Patrick  Hume  ; 

And  he  has  sent  me  for  thy  good, 

His  dearly  honour'd  Jerviswood. 

Long  have  I  round  these  walls  been  straying 

As  if  with  other  children  playing ; 

Long  near  the  gate  have  kept  my  watch 

The  sentry's  changing  time  to  catch. 


With  stealthy  steps  I  gam'd  the  shade 

By  the  close-winding  staircase  made, 

And  when  the  surly  turnkey  enter'd, 

But  little  dreaming  in  his  mind 

Who  follow'd  him  so  close  behind, 

Into    this   darken'd    cell,   with    beating   heart,  I 

ventured." 

IV. 
Then  from  the  simple  vest  that  braced 
Her  gentle  breast,  a  letter  traced 
With  well-known  characters,  she  took, 
And  with  an  eager,  joyful  look 
Her  eyes  up  to  his  visage  cast. 
His  changing  countenance  to  scan. 
As  o'er  the  lines  his  keen  glance  pass'd. 
She  saw  a  faint  glow  tinge  the  sickly  wan; 
She  saw  his  eyes  through  teardrops  raise 
To  heaven  their  look  of  silent  praise. 
And  hopes  fresh  touch  undoing  lines  of  care 
Which  stress  of  evil  times  had  deeply  graven  there. 
Mean  while,  the  joy  of  sympathy  to  trace 
Upon  her  innocent  and  lovely  face 
Had  to  the  sternest,  darkest  skeptic  given 
Some  love  of  human  kind,  some  faith  in  righteoui 

Heaven. 

V. 
What  blessings  on  her  youthful  head 
Were  by  the  grateful  patriot  shed, 
(For  such  he  was,  good  and  devoted, 
And  had  at  risk  of  life  promoted  ^ 

His  country's  freedom  and  her  faith. 
Nor  reckoning  made  of  worldly  skathe,) 
How  warm,  confiding,  and  sincere. 
He  gave  to  her  attentive  ear 
The  answer  which  her  cautious  sire 
Did  to  his  secret  note  require : — 
How  after  this  with  'quiries  kind, 
He  ask'd  for  all  she  left  behind 
In  Redbraes'  tower,  her  native  dwelling. 
And  set  her  artless  tongue  a-telling. 
Which  urchin  dear  had  tallest  grown, 
And  which  the  greatest  learning  shown, 
Of  lesson,  sermon,  psalrn,  and  note. 
And  Sabbath  questions  learnt  by  rote, 
And  merry  tricks  and  gambols  play'd 
By  evening  fire,  and  forfeits  paid, — 
I  will  not  here  rehearse,  nor  will  I  say, 
How,  on  that  bless'd  and  long-remember*d  day. 
The  prisoner's  son,  deserving  such  a  sire. 
First  saw  the  tiny  maid,  and  did  admire, 
That  one  so  young,  and  wise,  and  good,  and  fair. 
Should  be  an  earthly  thing  that  breathed  this  netJiei 

air. 

VI. 

E'en  let  my  reader  courteously  suppose. 
That  from  this  visit  happier  days  arose  ; 
Suppose  the  prisoner  from  his  thraldom  freed. 
And  with  our  lay  proceed. 

VII. 
The  damsel,  glad  her  mission 'd  task  was  done 
Back  to  her  home  long  since  had  blithely  gone  ; 
And  there  remain'd,  a  meek  and  duteous  child 
Where  useful  toil,  with  play  between. 
And  pastime  on  the  sunny  green. 
The  weeks  and  months  of  passing  years  beguiled. 


LADY   GRISELD   BAILLIE. 


3S1 


VIII. 

Scotland  the  while  convulsive  lay 

Beneath  a  hateful  tyrant's  sway  ; 

For  James's  bigot  mind  th'  ascendant  gain'd, 

And  fiercely  raged  blind  ruthless  power ; 

While  men,  who  true  to  conscience' voice  remain 'dj 

Were  forced  in  caves  and  dens  to  cower ; 

Bereft  of  home,  or  hold,  or  worldly  wealth, 

Upon  the  bleak  and  blasted  heath. 

They  sang  their  glorious  Maker's  praise  by  stealth, 

Th*  inclement  sky  beneath. 

And  some  were  forced  to  flee  their  native  land, 

Or  in  tlie  grated  prison's  gloom, 

Dealt  to  them  by  corruption's  hateful  hand, 

Abide  their  fatal  doom. 

IX. 

And  there  our  former  thrall,  the  good, 
The  firm,  the  gentle  Jerviswood 
Again  was  pent  with  sickness  worn, 
Watching  each  pulse's  feebler  beat 
Which  promised,  ere  the  fated  morn, 
The  scaffold  of  its  prey  to  cheat. 

X. 

And  now  that  patriot's  ancient,  faithful  friend, 
Our  maiden's  sire,  must  to  the  tempest  bend. 
He  too  must  quit  his  social  hearth. 
The  place  where  cheerful  friends  resort. 
And  travellers  rest  and  children  sport, 
To  lay  him  on  the  mouldering  earth  ; 
Through  days  of  lonely  gloom  to  rest  his  head 
With  them,  who,  in  those  times  unblest, 
Alone  had  sure  and  fearless  rest, 
The  still,  the  envied  dead. 

XL 

Sad  was  his  hiding  place,  I  ween, 
A  fearful  place,  where  sights  had  been. 
Full  oft,  by  the  benighted  rustic  seen  ; 
Ay,  elrich  forms  in  sheeted  white, 
Which,  in  the  .waning  moonlight  blast. 
Pass  by,  nor  shadow  onward  cast. 
Like  any  earthly  wight ; 
A  place,  where  midnight  lights  had  shone 
Through  charnel  windows,  and  the  glancing 
Of  wandering  flame,  on  church-path  lone, 
Betray 'd  the  hour  when  fiends  and  hags  were  dancing, 
Or  to  their  vigil  foul  with  trooping  haste  advancing. 
A  place,  whose  gate  with  weeds  o'ergrown. 
Hemlock  and  dock  of  deep  dull  green. 
That  climbing  rank  the  lintels  screen," 
What  time  the  moon  is  riding  high 
The  very  hounds  went  cowering  by. 
Or  watch'd  afar  with  howling  moan  ; 
For  brutes,  'tis  said,  will  see  what  meets  no  human 
eye.  ^ 

XIL 
You  well  may  guess  his  faithful  wife 
A  heart  of  heavy  cheer  had  then, 
Listening  her  household's  hum  of  life. 
And  thinking  of  his  silent  den. 
*  O  !  who  will  to  tnat  vault  of  death. 
At  night's  still  watch  repair, 
The  dark  and  chilly  sky  beneath. 
And  needful  succour  bear  ? 
Many  his  wants,  who  bideth  lonely  there  !" 


XIIL 

Pleased  had  you  been  to  have  beheld, 
Like  fire-sparks  from  the  stricken  stone. 
Like  sunbeams  on  the  raindrop  thrown, 
The  kindling  eye  of  sweet  Griseld, 
When  thus  her  mother  spoke,  for  known 
Was  his  retreat  to  her  alone. 
The  wary  dame  to  none  beside 
The  dangerous  secret  might  confide. 
"  O  fear  not,  mother !  I  will  go. 
Betide  me  good  or  ill : 
Nor  quick  nor  dead  shall  daunt  me  ;  no ; 
Nor  witch-fires,  dancing  in  the  dark. 
Nor  owlet's  shriek,  not  watch-dog's  bark. 
For  I  will  think,  the  while,  I  do  God's  blessed  will 
I'll  be  his  active  Brownie  sprite. 
To  bring  him  needful  food,  and  share  his  lonelj 
night." 

XIV 

And  she,  ere  stroke  of  midnight  bell, 
Did  bound  her  for  that  dismal  cell ; 
And  took  that  haunted,  fearful  way 
Which,  till  that  hour,  in  twilight  gray 
She  never  by  herself  had  past, 
Or  e'en  athwart  its  copse-wood  cast 
A  hasty  glance,  for  dread  of  seeing 
The  form  of  some  unearthly  being. 
But  now,  far  other  forms  of  fear 
To  her  sacred  sight  appear, 
And,  like  a  sudden  fit  of  ague,  move  her ; 
The  stump  of  some  old,  blasted  tree. 
Or  upright  stone,  or  colt  broke  free 
To  range  at  will  the  dewy  lea. 
Seem  lurking  spy  or  rustic  lover. 
Who  may,  e'en  through  the  dark,  her  secret  drift 
discover. 

XV. 
She  pauses  oft. — "  What  whispers  near  .' 
The  babbling  burn  sounds  in  my  ear. 
Some  hasty  form  the  pathway  crosses : — 
'Tis  but  a  branch  the  light  wind  tosses. 
What  thing  is  that  by  churchyard  gate. 
That  seems  like  spearman  tall  to  wait .' 
'Tis  but  the  martyr's  slender  stone 
Which  stands  so  stately  and^alone : 
Why  should  I  shrink  ?  why  should  I  fear  .? 
The  vault's  black  door  is  near." 
And  sbe  with  icy  fingers  knock'd. 
And  heard  with  joy  the  door  unlock'd. 
And  felt  the  yawning  fence  give  way, 
As  deep  and  harsh  the  sounding  hinges  bray, 

XVI. 

But  to  describe  their  tender  meeting. 
Tears  shed  unseen,  affection  utter'd 
In  broken  words,  and  blessings  mutter'd, 
With  many  a  kiss  and  kindly  greeting, 
I  know  not ;  would  my  feeble  skill 
Were  meeter  yokemate  to  my  will  I 

XVIL 
Then  from  the  struck  flint  flew  the  spark. 
And  lighted  taper,  faint  and  small. 
Gave  out  its  dun  rays  through  the  dark. 
On  vaulted  roof  and  crusted  wall : 


383 


BAlLLXk 


On  stones  reversed  in  crumbling  mould, 
And  blacken 'd  poles  of  bier  decay'd 
That  lumbering  on  the  ground  were  laid ; 
On  sculptured  wrecks,  defaced  and  old. 
And  shreds  of  painted  'scutcheons  torn 
Which  once,  in  pointed  lozenge  spread. 
The  pillar'd  church  aloft  had  worn  ; 
While  new-swept  nook  and  lowly  bed, 
Strange  sight  in  such  a  place  ! 
Betray'd  a  piteous  case,— 

Man  from  man's  converse  torn,  the  living  with  the 
dead. 

XVIII. 

The  basket's  store  of  viands  and  bread, 

Produced  with  looks  of  kind  inviting. 

Her  hands  with  busy  kindness  spread ; 

And  he  her  kindly  care  requiting. 

Fell  to  with  thanks  and  relish  keen, 

^?odded  and  quafPd  her  health  between, 

While  she  his  glee  return'd,  her  smiles  with  tears 

uniting. 
No  lordling  at  his  banquet  rare 
E'er  tasted  such  delicious  fare ; 
No  beauty  on  her  silken  seat, 
With  lover  kneeling  at  her  feet, 
E'er  wept  and  smiled  by  turns  with  smiles  so  fondly 

sweet. 

XIX. 

But  soon  youth's  buoyant,  gladsome  nature, 
Spreads  joy  unmix 'd  o'er  every  feature. 
As  she  her  tale  is  archly  telling 
Of  feuds  within  their  busy  dwelling, 
While,  round  the  savoury  table  sitting, 
She  gleans  his  meal,  the  rest  unwitting. 
How  she,  their  open  eyes  deceiving, 
So  dexterous  has  become  in  thieving. 
She  tells,  how  of  some  trifle  prating. 
She  stirs  them  all  to  keen  debating, 
While  into  napkin'd  lap  she's  sliding 
Her  portion,  oft  renew'd,  and  hiding, 
,       Beneath  the  board,  her  store  ;  amazing 
Her  jealous  Frere,  oft  on  her  gazing. 
Then  with  his  voice  and  eager  e^'e, 
Si«  speaks  in  harmless  mimickry. 
"  Mother !  was  e'er  the  like  beheld  ? 
Some  wolf  possesses  our  Griseld  ; 
She  clears  her  dish,  as  I'm  a  sinner ! 
Like  ploughman  at  his  new-year's  dinner. 

XX. 

And  wnat  each  urchin,  one  by  one. 

Had  best  in  sport  or  lesson  done. 

She  fail'd  not  to  repeat ; 

Though  sorry  tales  they  might  appear 

To  a  fastidious  critic's  ear. 

They  were  to  him  most  sweet. 

XXI. 

But  thej'  must  part  till  o'er  the  sky 
Night  cast  again  her  sable  dye ; 
For  ah  !  her  term  is  almost  over  ! 
How  fleetly  hath  it  flown  ! 
As  fleetly  as  with  tristed  lover 
The  stpalthy  hour  is  gone. 


And  could  there  be  in  lovers  meeting 

More  powerful  chords  to  move  the  mind. 

Fond  heart  to  heart  responsive  beating. 

Than  in  that  tender  hour,  pure,  pious  love  ent.wi"«*. 

XXII. 

Thus,  night  succeeding  night,  her  love 

Did  its  unwearied  nature  prove, 

Tender  and  fearless  ;  till,  obscured  by  crimes. 

Again  so  darkly  lower'd  the  changeful  times. 

That  her  good  sire,  though  shut  from  light  of  d«j. 

Might  in  that  lowly  den  no  longer  stay. 

XXIII. 
From  Edinbrough  town  a  courier  came, 
And  round  him  flock'd  the  castle's  dame. 
Children  and  servants,  young  and  old. 
"  What  news  ?  what  news  ?  thy  visage  sad 
Betrays  too  plainly  tidings  bad." 
And  so  it  did ;  alas  !  sad  was  the  tale  he  tolA. 
"  From  the  oppressor's  deadly  hate 
Good  Jerviswood  has  met  his  tate 
Upon  the  lofty  scaffold,  where 
He  bore  himself  with  dauntless  air ; 
Albeit,  with  mortal  sickness  spent. 
Upon  a  woman's  arm  he  leant. 
From  earth  to  heaven  at  yestere'en  he  ■w*iit.'^ 

XXIV. 

In  silence  deep  the  listeners  stood, 

An  instant  horror  chill'd  their  blood. 

The  lady  groan 'd,  and  turn'd  aside 

Her  fears  and  troubled  thoughts  to  hide. 

The  children  wept,  then  went  to  play ; 

The  servants  cried  "Awaladay  !" 

But  O  !  what  inward  sights,  which  borrow 

The  forms  that  are  not,  changing  still, 

Like  shadows  on  a  broken  rill. 

Were  blended  with  our  damsel's  sorrow ! 

Those  lips,  those  eyes  so  sweetly  mild, 

That  bless'd  her  as  a  humble  child ; 

The  block  in  sable,  deadly  trim. 

The  kneeling  form,  the  headsman  grim. 

The  sever'd  head  with  life-blood  streaming,- 

Were  ever  'thwart  her  fancy  gleaming. 

Her  father,  too,  in  perilous  state. 

He  may  be  seized,  and  like  his  friend 

Upon  the  fatal  scaffold  bend. 

May  Heaven  preserve  him  still  from  such  a  dread^ 

ful  end ! 
And  then  she  thought,  if  this  must  be. 
Who,  honour'd  sire,  will  wait  on  thee, 
And  serve  thy  wants  with  decent  pride. 
Like  Baillie's  kinswoman,  subduing  fear 
With  fearless  love,  thy  last  sad  scene  to  cheer. 
E'en  OR  the  scaffold  standing  by  thy  side  ? 
A  friend  like  his,  dear  father,  thou  shalt  have. 
To  serve  thee  to  the  last,  and  linger  round  thy  grave 

XXV. 

Her  father  then,  who  narrowly 
With  life  escaped,  was  forced  to  fly 
His  dangerous  home,  a  home  no  more, 
And  cross  the  sea.    A  friendly  shore 
Received  the  fugitive,  and  there, 
I  Like  prey  broke  from  the  spoiler's  snare. 


LADY  GRISELD   BAILLIE. 


3fi3 


To  join  her  hapless  lord,  the  dame 
Wkh  all  her  numerous  family  came ; 
And  found  asylum,  where  th'  opprest 
Of  Scotland's  patriot  sons  had  rest, 
Like  sea  fowl  clustering  in  the  rock 
To  shun  some  rising  tempest's  shock. 

XXVI. 

But  said  I  all  the  family  ?  no : 
Word  incorrect !  it  was  not  so : 
For  one,  the  youngest  child,  confined 
With  fell  disease,  was  left  behind ; 
While  certain  things,  as  thus  by  stealth 
They  fled,  regarding  worldly  wealth 
Of  much  import,  were  left  undone ; 
And  who  will  now  that  peril  run, 
Again  to  visit  Scotland's  shore, 
From  whence  they  did  in  fear  depart, 
And  to  each  parents  yearning  heart 
The  darling  child  restore  ? 

XXVII. 
And  who  did  for  affection's  sake 
This  task  of  peril  undertake  ? 
O  !  who  but  she,  whose  bosom  swell'd 
With  feelings  Jiigh>  whose  self-devotion 
Follow'd  eacn  generous,  strong  emotion. 
The  young,  the  sweet,  the  good,  the  brave  Griseld. 

XXVIII. 
Yes ;  she  again  cross'd  o'er  the  main. 
And  things  of  moment  left  undone. 
Though  o'er  her  head  had  scarcely  run 
Her  nineteenth  year,  no  whit  deluded 
By  wily  fraud,  she  there  concluded, 
And  bore  the  youngling  to  its  home  again. 

XXIX. 

But  when  she  reach'd  the  Belgian  strand, 

Hard  was  her  lot.     Fast  fell  the  rain. 

And  there  lay  many  miles  of  land, 

A  stranger's  land,  ere  she  might  gain 

The  nearest  town.     With  hardship  crost. 

The  wayward  child  its  shoes  had  lost ; 

Their  coin  was  spent,  their  garments  light, 

And  dark  and  dreary  was  tlie  night. 

Then  like  some  gip-y  girl  on  desert  moor. 

Her  helpless  charge  upon  her  back  she  bore. 

Who  then  had  guess 'd  that  figure  slight. 

So  bending  in  such  humble  plight. 

Was  one  of  proud  and  gentle  race. 

Possessing  all  that  well  became 

Th'  accomplish'd  maid  or  high-born  daire. 

Befitting  princely  hall  or  monarch's  court  to  grace  r 

XXX. 

Their  minds  from  many  racking  cares  relieved. 

The  gladsome  parents  to  their  arms  received 

Her  and  the  infant  dear,  caressing 

The  twain  by  turns  ;  while  many  a  blessing. 

Which  sweetly  all  her  toil  repaid, 

Was  shed  upon  their  generous  maid: 

And  though  the  inmates  of  a  humble  home. 

To  which  they  had  as  wretched  outlaws  come. 

Though  hard  their  alter'd  lot  might  be. 

In  crowded  city  pent. 

They  lived  with  mind  and  body  free 

(n  grateful,  quiet  content. 


XXXI. 

And  well,  with  ready  hand  and  heart. 
Each  task  of  toilsome  duty  taking, 
Did  one  dear  inmate  play  her  part. 
The  last  asleep,  the  earliest  waking. 
Her  hands  each  nightly  couch  prepared. 
And  frugal  meal  on  which  they  fared : 
Unfolding  spread  the  servet  white, 
And  deck'd  the  board  with  tankard  bright. 
Through  fretted  hose  and  garment  rent. 
Her  tiny  needle  deftly  went, 
Till  hateful  penurj',  so  graced. 
Was  scarcely  in  their  dwelling  traced. 
With  reverence  to  the  old  she  clung. 
With  sweet  affection  to  the  young. 
To  her  was  crabbed  lesson  said. 
To  her  the  sly  petition  made, 
To  her  was  told  each  petty  care  ; 
By  her  was  lisp'd  the  tardy  prayer, 
What  time  the  urchin,  half  undrest 
And  half  asleep,  was  put  to  rest. 

XXXII. 
There  is  a  sight  all  hearts  beguiling. — 
A  youthful  mother  to  her  infant  smiling. 
Who,  with  spread  arms  and  dancing  feet, 
And  cooing  voice,  returns  its  answer  sweet. 
Who  does  not  love  to  see  the  grandame  mild. 
Lesson  with  yearning  looks  the  listening  child  ? 
But  'tis  a  thing  of  saintlier  nature, 
Amidst  her  friends  of  pigmy  stature. 
To  see  the  maid  in  youth's  fair  bloom, 
A  guardian  sister's  charge  assume, 
And,  like  a  touch  of  angel's  bliss. 
Receive  from  each  its  grateful  kiss. 
To  see  them,  when  their  hour  of  love  is  past, 
Aside  their  grave  demeanour  cast. 
With  her  in  mimic  war  they  wrestle ; 
Beneath  her  twisted  robe  they  nestle  ; 
Upon  her  glowing  cheek  they  revel. 
Low  bended  to  their  tiny  level ; 
While  oft,  her  lovely  neck  bestriding 
Crows  some  arch  imp,  like  huntsman  riding. 
This  is  a  sight  the  coldest  heart  may  feel ; — 
To  make  down  rugged  cheeks  the  kindly  tear  to  steal, 

XXXIII. 

But  when  the  toilsome  sun  was  set. 
And  evening  groups  together  met, 
(For  other  strangers  shelter'd  there 
Would  seek  with  them  to  lighten  care,) 
Her  feet  still  in  the  dance  moved  lightest. 
Her  eye  with  merry  glance  beam'd  brightest, 
Her  braided  locks  were  coil'd  the  neatest. 
Her  carol  song  was  thrill'd  the  sweetest}. 
And  round  the  fire,  in  winter  cold, 
No  archer  tale  than  hers  was  told. 

XXXIV. 

0  !  spirits  gay,  and  kindly  heart  I 
Precious  the  blessings  ye  impart  ! 
Though  all  unwittingly  the  while. 
Ye  make  the  pining  exile  smile, 
And  transient  gladness  charm  his  pain. 
Who  ne'er  shall  see  his  home  again. 
Ye  make  the  stern  misanthrope's  brow 
With  tint  of  passing  kindness  glow. 


S84 


BAILLIE. 


And  age  spring  from  his  elbow-chair 
The  sport  of  lightsome  glee  to  share. 
Thus  did  our  joyous  maid  bestow 
Her  beamy  soul  on  want  and  wo  ; 
While  proud,  poor  men,  in  threadbare  suit, 
Frisk'd  on  the  floor  with  lightsome  foot. 
And  from  her  magic  circle  chase 
The  fiends  that  vex  the  human  race. 

XXXV. 

And  do  not,  gentle  reader,  chide. 

If  I  record  her  harmless  pride. 

Who  sacrificed  the  hours  of  sleep, 

Some  show  of  better  times  to  keep  ; 

That,  though  as-  humble  soldier  dight, 

A  stripling  brother  might  more  trimly  stand 

With  pointed  cuff"  and  collar  white. 

Like  one  of  gentler  race  mix'd  with  a  homelier  band. 

And  in  that  band  of  low  degree 

Another  youth  of  gentle  blood 

Was  found,  who  late  had  cross'd  the  sea, 

The  son  of  virtuous  Jerviswood, 

Who  did  as  common  sentry  wait 

Before  a  foreign  prince's  gate. 

And  if  his  eye,  oft  on  the  watch. 

One  look  of  sweet  Griseld  might  catch. 

It  was  to  him  no  dull  nor  irksome  state. 

XXXVI. 

And  thus  some  happy  years  stole  by; 

Adversity  with  virtue  mated. 

Her  state  of  low  obscurity. 

Set  forth  but  as  deep  shadows,  fated 

By  Heaven's  high  will  to  make  the  light 

Of  future  skies  appear  more  bright. 

And  thus,  at  lowest  ebb,  man's  thoughts  are  oft 

elated. 
He  deems  not  that  the  very  struggle 
Of  active  virtue,  and  the  war 
She  bravely  holds  with  present  ill, 
Sustain'd  by  hope,  does  by  the  skill 
Of  some  conceal'd  and  happy  juggle, 
Become  itself  the  good  which  yet  seems  distant  far. 
So,  when  their  lamp  of  fortune  burn'd 
With  brightest  ray,  our  worthies  turn'd, 
A  recollection,  fondly  bent, 
On  these,  their  happiest  years,  in  humble  dwelling 

spent. 

XXXVII. 
At  length  the  sky,  so  long  with  clouds  o'ercast, 
Unveil'd  its  cope  of  azure  hue, 
And  gave  its  fair  expanse  to  view ; — 
The  pelting'Storm  of  tyranny  was  past. 

XXXVIII. 
For  he,  the  prince  of  glorious  memory. 
The  prince,  who  shall,  as  passing  ages  fly, 
Be  blest;  whose  wise,  enlighten'd,  manly  mind. 
E'en  when  but  with  a  stripling's  years  combined. 
Had  with  unyielding  courage  oft  contended 
?'or  Europe's  freedom, — for  religion,  blended 
With  just,  forbearing  charity,  and  all 
To  man  most  dear ; — now,  at  the  honour'd  call 
Of  Britain's  patriot  sons,  the  ocean  plough 'd 
With  gallant  fleet,  encompass'd  by  a  crowd 
Of  soldiers,  statesmen,  souls  of  proof,  who  vow'd 
Firm  by  his  side  to  stand,  let  good  or  ill  befall. 


And  with  those  worthies,  'twas  a  happj'  doom 
Right  fairly  earn'd,  embark'd,  Sir  Patrick  Hume. 
Their  fleet,  though  long  at  sea,  and  tempest-tost, 
In  happy  hour  at  last  arrived  on  England's  coast. 

XXXIX. 

Meantime  his  dame  and  our  fair  maid 

Still  on  the  coast  of  Holland  stay'd, 

With  anxious  and  misgiving  minds, 

Listening  the  sound  of  warring  winds : 

The  ocean  rose  with  deafening  roar. 

And  beat  upon  the  trembling  shore, 

Whilst  breakers  dash'd  their  whitening  spray 

O'er  mound  and  dyke  with  angry  bray, 

As  if  it  would  ingulf  again 

The  land  once  rescued  from  its  wild  domain. 

XL 
Oft  on  the  beach  our  damsel  stood 
Midst  groups  of  many  a  fearful  wight. 
Who  view'd,  like  her,  the  billowy  flood. 
Silent  and  sad,  with  visage  shrunk  and  white, 
^While  bloated  corse  and  splinter'd  mast. 
And  bale  and  cask  on  shore  were  cast,— 
A  sad  and  rueful  sight ! 
But  when,  at  the  Almighty  will. 
The  tempest  ceased,  and  sea  was  still. 
From  Britain's  isle  glad  tidings  came. 
Received  with  loud  and  long  acclaim^ 

XLL 

But  joy  appears  with  shrouded  head 

To  those  who  sorrow  o'er  the  dead ; 

For,  struck  with  sore  disease,  while  there 

They  tarried  pent  in  noisome  air. 

The  sister  of  her  heart,  whom  she 

Had  watch'd  and  tended  lovingly. 

Like  blighted  branch  whose  blossoms  fade. 

That  day  was  in  her  coffin  laid. 

She  heard  the  chimed  bells  loudly  ringing, 

She  heard  the  caroll'd  triumph  singing. 

And  clamorous  throng,  and  shouting  boys, 

And  thought  how  vain  are  human  joys  ! 

XLU. 
Howbeit,  her  grief  at  length  gives  way 
To  happier  thoughts,  as  dawns  the  day 
When  her  kind  parent  and  herself  depart, 
In  royal  Mary's  gentle  train. 
To  join,  ere  long,  the  dearest  to  her  heart. 
In  their  own  native  land  again. 
They  soon  their  own  fair  island  hail'd, 
As  on  the  rippling  sea  they  sail'd. 
Ye  well  may  guess  their  joyful  cry, 
With  upraised  hands  and  glistening  eye. 
When,  rising  from  the  ocean  blue. 
Her  chalky  cliffs  first  met  their  view, 
Whose  white  verge  on  th'  horizon  rear'd. 
Like  wall  of  noonday  clouds  appear'd. 

XLIII 
These  ye  may  guess,  for  well  the  show 
And  outward  signs  of  joy  we  know. 
But  cease  we  on  this  theme  to  dwell. 
For  pen  or  pencil  cannot  tell 
The  thrill  of  keen  delight  from  which  they  flow 
Such  moments  of  ecstatic  pleasure 
Are  fancy's  fairest,  brightest  treasure. 


LADY    GRISELD    BAILLIE. 


385 


Gilding  the  scope  of  duller  days 

With  oft-recurring  retrospect, 

With  wliich  right  happily  she  plays. 

E'en  as  a  moving  mirror  will  reflect 

Its  glancing  rays  on  shady  side 

Of  home  or  glen,  when  school-boys  guide 

With  skilful  hands  their  mimic  sun 

To  heaven's  bright  sun  opposed ;  we  see 

Its  borrow'd  sheen  on  fallow  dun, 

On  meadovv  green,  on  rock  and  tree. 

On  brooniy  steep,  on  rippling  spring, 

On  cottage  thatch,  and  every  thing. 

XLIV. 

And  Britain's  virtuous  queen  admired 
Our  gentle  maid,  and  in  her  train 
Of  ladies  will'd  her  to  remain : 
What  more  could  young  ambition  have  desired  ? 
But,  like  the  blossom  to  the  bough. 
Or  wall-flower  to  the  ruin's  brow, 
Or  tendril  to  the  fostering  stock. 
Or  seaweed  on  the  briny  rock. 
Or  mistletoe  to  sacred  tree. 
Or  daisy  to  the  swarded  lea, 
So  truly  to  her  own  she  clung ; — 
Vor  cared  for  honours  vain,  from  courtly  favour 
sprung. 

XLV. 

Nor  would  she  in  her  native  north. 
When  woo'd  by  one  of  wealth  and  worth. 
The  neighbour  of  her  happy  home. 
Though  by  her  gentle  parents  press'd 
And  flattered,  courted  and  caress'd, 
A  splendid  bride  become. 
**  I  may  not,"  said  her  gentle  hear* 
«'  The  very  thought  endure, 
That  those  so  kind  should  feel  the  smart 
A  daughter's  wants  might  oft  impart. 
For  Jerviswood  is  poor. 
But  yet,  though  poor,  why  should  I  smother 
This  dear  regard  ?  he'll  be  my  brother, 
And  thus  through  life  we'll  love  each  other. 
What  though,  as  changing  years  flit  by, 
Gray  grow  my  head,  and  dim  his  eye  ! 
We'll  meekly  bear  our  wayward  fate, 
And  scorn  their  petty  spite  who  rate. 
With  senseless  gibes,  the  single  state, 
Till  we  are  join'd,  at  last,  in  heavenly  bliss  on 
high." 

XL  VI. 

But  Heaven  for  them  decreed  a  happier  lot : 

The  father  of  the  virtuous  youth. 

Who  died* devoted  fjr  the  truth. 

Was  not,  when  better  times  return 'd,  forgot: 

To  the  right  heir  was  given  his  father's  land, 

And  with  his  lady's  love,  he  won  her  hand. 

XLVII. 
Their  long  tried  faith  in  honour  plighted. 
They  were  a  pair  by  Heaven  united. 
Whose  wedded  love,  through  lengthen'd  years. 
The  trace  of  early  fondness  wears. 
Her  heart  first  guess 'd  his  doubtful  choice. 
Her  ear  first  caught  his  distant  voice. 
Vol.  IIL— 25 


And  from  afar,  her  wistful  eye 

Would  first  his  graceful  form  descry. 

E'en  when  he  hied  him  forth  to  meet 

The  open  air  in  lawn  or  street, 

She  to  her  casement  went. 

And  after  him,  with  smile  so  sweet. 

Her  look  of  blessing  sent. 

The  heart's  affection, — secret  thing  ! 

Is  like  the  cleft  rock's  ceaseless  spring. 

Which  free  and  independent  flows 

Of  summer  rains  or  winter  snows. 

The  foxglove  from  its  side  may  fall 

The  heathbloom  fade  or  moss-flower  while. 

But  still  its  runlet,  bright  though  small. 

Will  issue  sweetly  to  the  light. 

XLVIII. 

How  long  an  honour'd  and  a  happy  pair. 
They  held  their  seemly  state  in  mansion  fair, 
I  will  not  here  in  chiming  verses  say. 
To  tire  my  reader  with  a  lengthen'd  lay ; 
For  tranquil  bliss  is  as  a  summer  day 
O'er  broad  Savana  shining  ;  fair  it  lies. 
And  rich  the  trackless  scene,  but  soon  our  eyes, 
In  search  of  meaner  things,  turn  heavily  away. 

XLIX. 

But  no  new  ties  of  wedded  life. 

That  bind  the  mother  and  the  wife. 

Her  tender,  filial  heart  could  change. 

Or  from  its  earliest  friends  estrange. 

The  child,  by  strong  affection  led. 

Who  braved  her  terror  of  the  dead 

To  save  an  outlaw'd  parent,  still 

In  age  was  subject  to  his  will. 

She  then  was  seen  with  matron  air, 

A  dame  of  years,  with  countenance  fair. 

Though  faded,  sitting  by  his  easy  chair. 

A  sight  that  might  the  heart's  best  feelings  move , 

Behold  her  seated  at  her  task  of  love  I 

Books,  papers,  pencil,  pen,  and  slate. 

And  column'd  scrolls  of  ancient  date. 

Before  her  lie,  on  which  she  looks 

With  searching  glance,  and  gladly  brooks 

An  irksome  task,  that  else  might  vex 

His  temper,  or  his  brain  perplex  ; 

While,  haply,  on  the  matted  floor. 

Close  nestling  at  her  kirtled  feet. 

Its  lap  enrich'd  with  childish  store, 

SiJs,  hush'd  and  still,  a  grandchild  sweet, 

Who  looks  at  times  with  eye  intent, 

Full  on  its  grandame's  parent  bent. 

Viewing  his  deeply-furrow'd  brow. 

And  sunken  lip  and  locks  of  snow. 

In  serious  wonderment. 

Well  said  that  graceful  sire,  I  ween  ! 

Still  through  life's  many  a  varied  scene, 

Griseld  our  dear  and  helpful  child  hath  bees. 


Though  ever  cheerfully  possessing 
In  its  full  zest  the  present  blessing. 
Her  grateful  heart  remembrance  cherish'd 
Of  all  to  former  happiness  allied. 


386 


I3AILL[E. 


Nor  in  her  fostering  fancy  perish'd 
E'en  things  inanimate  that  had  supplied 
Means  of  enjoyment  once.    Maternal  love, 
Active  and  warm,  which  nothing  might  restrain, 
Led  her  once  more,  in  years  advanced,  to  rove 
To  distant  southern  climes,  and  once  again 
Her  footsteps  press 'd  the  Belgian  shore, 
The  town,  the  very  street  that  was  her  home  of  yore. 

LI. 

Fd^dly  that  homely  house  she  eyed, 

The  door,  the  windows,  every  thing 

Which  to  her  hack-cast  thoughts  could  hring 

The  scenes  of  other  days. — Then  she  applied 

To  knocker  bright  her  thrilling  hand, 

And  begg'd,  as  strangers  in  the  land, 

Admittance  from  the  household  dame, 

And  thus  preferred  her  gentle  claim ; 

"  This  house  was  once  my  happy  home, 

Its  rooms,  its  stair,  I  fain  would  see  ; 

Its  meanest  nook  is  dear  to  me, 

Let  me  and  mine  within  its  threshold  come." 

But  no  ;  this  might  not  he  ! 

Their  feet  might  soil  her  polish'd  floor, 

The  dame  held  fast  the  hostile  door, 

A  Belgian  housewife  she. 

"  Fear  not  such  harm  !  we'll  doff  our  shoes : 

Do  not  our  earnest  suit  refuse  ! 

We'll  give  thee  thanks,  we'll  give  thee  gold ; 

Do  not  kind  courtesy  withhold  !" 

But  still  it  might  not  be  ; 

The  dull,  unpliant  dame  refused  her  gentle  plea. 

LIL 

With  her  and  her  good  lord,  who  still 

Sweet  union  held  of  mated  will. 

Years  pass'd  away  with  lightsome  speed ; 

But  ah  !  their  bands  of  bliss  at  length  were  riven  ; 

And  she  was  clothed  in  widow's  sable  weed, 

Submitting  to  the  will  of  Heaven. 

And  then  a  prosperous  race  of  children  good 

And  tender,  round  their  noble  mother  stood. 

And  she  the  while,  cheer'd  with  their  pious  love, 

Waited  her  welcome  summons  from  above. 

LIIL 

But  whatsoe'er  the  weal  or  wo 

That  Heaven  across  her  lot  might  throw. 

Full  well  her  Christian  spirit  knew 

Its  path  of  virtue,  straight  and  true. 

When  came  the  shock  of  evil  times,  menacing 

The  peaceful  land — when  blood  and  lineage  tracing 

As  the  sole  claim  to  Britain's  throne,  in  spite 

Of  Britain's  weal  or  will,  cliiefs  of  the  north. 

In  warlike  muster,  led  their  clansmen  forth. 

Brave,  faithful,  strong  and  toughly  nerved. 

Would  they  a  better  cause  had  served  ! 

For  Stuart's  dynasty  to  fight, 

Distress  to  many  a  family  came, 

Who  dreaded  more  the  approaching  shame 

Of  penury's  ill-fa vour'd  mien. 

Than  e'en  the  pang  of  hunger  keen. 

How  softly  then  her  pity  flow'd  ! 

How  freely  then  her  hand  bestow'd  ! 

She  did  not  question  their  opinion 

Of  party,  kingship,  or  dominion  : 


She  would  not  e'en  their  folly  chide. 
But  like  the  sun  and  showers  cf  heaven. 
Which  to  the  false  and  true  are  given. 
Want  and  distress  relieved  on  either  side. 

LIV. 

But  soon,  from  fear  of  future  change. 

The  evil  took  a  wider  range. 

The  northern  farmers,  spoil'd  and  bare. 

No  more  could  rent  or  produce  spare 

To  the  soil's  lords.    All  were  distress'd. 

And  on  our  noble  dame  this  evil  sorely  prees'd. 

Her  household  numerous,  her  means  withheld 

Shall  she  her  helpless  servants  now  dismiss 

To  rob  or  starve,  in  such  a  time  as  this, 

Or  wrong  to  others  do  ?  but  nothing  quell'd 

Her  calm  and  upright  mind. — ^"  Go,  summon  here 

Those  who  have  served  me  many  a  year." 

The  summons  went ;  each  lowly  name 

Full  swiftly  to  her  presence  came. 

And  thus  she  spoke :  "  Ye've  served  me  long. 

Pure,  as  I  think,  from  fraud  or  wrong. 

And  now,  my  friendly  neighbours,  true 

And  simply  I  will  deal  with  you. 

The  times  are  shrewd,  my  treasures  spent. 

My  farms  have  ceased  to  yield  me  rent ; 

And  it  may  chance  that  rent  or  grain 

I  never  shall  receive  again. 

The  dainties  which  my  table  fed. 

Will  now  be  changed  for  daily  bread. 

Dealt  sparely,  and  for  this  I  must 

Be  debtor  to  your  patient  trust. 

If  ye  consent." — Swift  through  the  hall. 

With  eager  haste,  spoke  one  and  all. 

"  No,  noble  dame  !  this  must  not  be  ! 

With  heart  as  warm  and  hand  as  free. 

Still  thee  and  thine  we'll  serve  with  pride. 

As  when  fair  fortune  graced  your  side. 

The  best  of  all  our  stores  afford 

Shall  daily  smoke  upon  thy  board ; 

And,  shouldst  thou  never  clear  the  score, 

Heaven  for  thy  sake  will  bless  our  store.'* 

She  bent  her  head  with  courtesy. 

The  big  tear  swelling  in  her  eye. 

And  thank'd  them  all.    Yet  plain  and  spare. 

She  order'd  still  her  household  fare. 

Till  fortune's  better  die  was  cast. 

And  adverse  times  were  past. 

LV. 

Good,  tender,  generous,  firm  and  sage, 

Through  grief  and  gladness,  shade  and  sheen. 

As  fortune  changed  life's  motley  scene. 

Thus  pass'd  she  on  to  reverend  age. 

And  when  the  heavenly  summons  came. 

Her  spirit  from  its  mortal  frame 

And  weight  of  mortal  cares  to  free. 

It  was  a  blessed  sight  to  see. 

The  parting  saint  her  state  of  honour  keeping 

In  gifted,  dauntless  faith,  whilst  round  her,  weeping, 

Her  children's  children  mourn'd  on  bended  knee. 

LVI. 

In  London's  fair  imperial  town 
She  laid  her  earthly  burden  down. 
In  Mellerstain,  her  northern  home, 


LORD  JOHN    OF  THE   EAST. 


387 


Was  raised  for  her  a  graven  tomb 

Which  gives  to  other  days  her  modest,  just  renown. 


And  now,  ye  polish'd  fair  of  modern  times, 

If  such  indeed  will  listen  to  my  rhymes. 

What  think  ye  of  her  simple,  modest  worth, 

Whom  I  have  faintly  tried  to  shadow  forth  ? 

How  vain  the  thought  I  as  if  ye  stood  in  need 

For  pattern  ladies  in  dull  books  to  read. 

Will  she  such  antiquated  virtues  prize. 

Who  with  superb  signoras  proudly  vies, 

Trilling  before  the  dear  admiring  crowd 

With  outstretch'd,  straining  throat,  bravuras  loud. 

Her  high-heaved  breast  press'd  hard,  as  if  to  boast 

The  inward  pain  such  mighty  efforts  cost : 

Or  on  the  white-chalk'd  floor,  at  midnight  hour. 

Her  head  with  many  a  flaunting,  full-blown  flower, 

And  bartisan  of  braided  locks  enlarged, 

Her  flimsy  gown  with  twenty  flounces  charged, 

Wheels  gayly  round  the  room  on  pointed  toe, 

Softly  supported  by  some  dandy  beau : — 

Will  she,  forsooth  !  or  any  belle  of  spirit, 

Regard  such  old,  forgotten,  homely  merit  ? 

Or  she,  whose  cultured,  high-strain 'd  talents  soar 

Through  all  th'  ambitious  range  of  letter'd  lore 

With  soul  enthusiastic,  fondly  smitten- 

With  all  that  e'er  in  classic  page  was  written. 

And  whilst  her  wit  in  critic  task  engages, 

The  technic  praise  of  all  praised  things  outrages  ; 

Whose  finger,  white  and  small,  with  ink-stain  tipt. 

Still  scorns  with  vulgar  thimble  to  be  dipt ; 

Who  doth  with  proud  pretence  her  claims  advance 

To  philosophic,  honour'd  ignorance 

Of  all,  that,  in  divided  occupation. 

Gives  the  base  stamp  of  female  degradation  ; 

Protests  she  knows  not  colour,  stripe  nor  shade, 

Nor  of  what  stuff  her  flowing  robe  is  made, 

But  wears,  from  petty,  frivolous  fancies  free, 

Whatever  careful  Betty  may  decree  ; 

As  certes,  well  she  may,  for  Betty's  skill 

Leaves  her  in  purfle,  furbelow,  or  frill, 

No  whit  behind  the  very  costliest  fair 

That  wooes  with  daily  pains  the  public  stare : 

Who  seems  almost  ashamed  to  be  a  woman, 

And  yet  the  palm  of  parts  will  yield  to  no  man 

But  holds  on  battle-ground  eternal  wrangling. 

The  plainest  case  in  mazy  words  entangling  :— 

Will  she,  I  trow,  or  any  kirtled  sage. 

Admire  the  subject  of  my  artless  page  ? 

And  yet  there  be  of  British  fair,  I  know, 

Who  to  this  legend  will  some  favour  sho\^ 

From  kindred  sympathy ;  whose  life  proceeds 

In  one  unwearied  course  of  gentle  deeds. 

And  pass  untainted  through  the  earthly  throng. 

Like  souls  that  to  some  better  world  belong. 

Nor  will  I  think,  as  sullen  cynics  do. 

Still  lib2\.ling  present  times,  their  number  few. 

Yea,  leagued  for  good  they  act,  a  virtuous  band. 

The  young,  the  rich,  the  loveliest  of  the  land. 

Who  clothe  the  naked,  and,  each  passing  week, 

The  wretched  poor  in  their  sad  dwelling  seek, 

Who,  cheer'd  and  grateful,  feebly  press  and  bless 

The  hands  which  princes  might  be  proud  to  kiss : — 

Such  will  regard  my  tale,  and  give  to  fame 

A  generous,  helpful  maid, — a  good  and  noble  dame. 


LORD  JOHN  OF  THE  EAST. 

The  fire  blazed  bright  till  deep  midnight. 

And  the  guests  sat  in  the  hall. 
And  the  lord  of  the  feast.  Lord  John  of  the  East, 

Was  the  merriest  of  them  all. 

His  dark  gray  eye,  that  wont  so  sly 

Beneath  his  helm  to  scowl, 
Flash'd  keenly  bright,  like  a  new-waked  sprite 

As  pass'd  the  circling  bowl. 

In  laughter  light,  or  jocund  lay, 

That  voice  was  heard,  whose  sound, 

Stern,  loud,  and  deep,  in  battle-fray 
Did  foemen  fierce  astound  ; 

And  stretch'd  so  balm,  like  lady's  palm. 

To  every  jester  near. 
That  hand  which  through  a  prostrate  foe 

Oft  thrust  the  ruthless  spear. 

The  gallants  sang,  and  the  goblets  rang, 

And  they  revell'd  in  careless  state. 
Till  a  thundering  sound,  that  shook  the  grounfl. 

Was  heard  at  the  castle  gate. 

"  Who  knocks  without,  so  loud  and  stout  ? 

Some  wandering  knight,  I  ween. 
Who  from  afar,  like  a  guiding  star. 

Our  blazing  hall  hath  seen. 

"  If  a  stranger  it  be  of  high  degree, 

(No  churl  durst  make  such  din,) 
Step  forth  amain,  my  pages  twain. 

And  sooth ly  ask  him  in. 

"  Tell  him  our  cheer  is  the  forest  deer. 

Our  bowl  is  mantling  high. 
And  the  lord  of  the  feast  is  John  of  the  East, 

Who  welcomes  him  courteously." 

The  pages  twain  return'd  again. 

And  a  wild,  scared  look  had  they  ; 
"  Why  look  ye  so  ? — is  it  friend  or  foe  ?" 

Did  the  angry  baron  say. 

"  A  stately  knight  without  doth  wait. 

But  further  he  will  not  hie. 
Till  the  baron  himself  shall  come  to  the  gate. 

And  ask  him  courteously." — 

"  By  my  mother's  shroud,  he  is  full  proud  I 

What  earthly  man  is  he  ?" 
"  I  know  not,  in  truth,"  quoth  the  trembling  youth, 

"  If  earthly  man  it  be. 

"  In  Raveller's  plight,  he  is  bedight, 

With  a  vest  of  the  crira'sy  meet ; 
But  his  mantle  behind,  that  streams  on  the  wind, 

Is  a  corse's  bloody  sheet." 

"  Out,  paltry  child  !  thy  wits  are  wild. 

Thy  comrade  will  tell  me  true : 
Say  plainly,  then,  what  hast  thou  seen  ? 

Or  dearly  shalt  thou  rue." 

Faint  spoke  the  second  page  with  fear. 

And  bent  him  on  his  knee, 
«  Were  I  on  your  father's  sword  to  swear, 

The  same  it  appear'd  to  me." 


388 


BAILLIE. 


Then  dark,  dark  lower'd  the  baron's  eye, 
And  his  red  cheek  changed  to  wan  ; 

For  again  at  the  gate  more  furiously, 
The  thundering  din  began. 

''^  And  is  there  ne'er  of  my  vassals  here, 

Of  high  or  low  degree, 
That  will  unto  this  stranger  go, — 

Will  go  for  the  love  of  me  ?" 

Then  spoke  and  said,  fierce  Donald  the  Red,— 

(A  fearless  man  was  he,) 
"Yes ;  I  will  straight  to  the  castle  gate, 

Lord  John,  for  the  love  of  thee." 

With  heart  full  stout,  he  hied  him  out. 

Whilst  silent  all  remain  ; 
Nor  moved  a  tongue  those  gallants  among, 

Till  Donald  return'd  again, 

"  O  speak,"  ^aid  his  lord,  "  by  thy  hopes  of  grace. 

What  stranger  must  we  hail  ?" 
But  the  haggard  look  of  Donald's  face 

Made  his  faltering  words  to  fail. 

« It  is  a  knight  in  some  foreign  guise. 

His  like  did  I  never  behold  ; 
For  the  stony  look  of  his  beamless  eyes 

Made  my  very  life-blood  cold. 

"  I  did  him  greet  in  fashion  meet, 

And  bade  him  your  feast  partake. 
But  the  voice  that  spoke,  when  he  silence  broke, 

Made  the  earth  beneath  me  quake. 

«*  O  such  a  tone  did  tongue  ne'er  own 

That  dwelt  in  mortal  head  ; — 
It  is  like  a  sound  from  the  hollow  ground, — 

Like  the  voice  of  the  coffin'd  dead. 

"  I  bade  him  to  your  social  board. 

But  in  he  will  not  hie, 
Until  at  the  gate  this  castle's  lord 

Shall  entreat  him  courteously. 

"  And  he  stretch'd  him  the  while  with  a  ghastly 
smile. 

And  sternly  bade  me  say, 
'Twas  no  depute's  task  your  guest  to  ask 

To  the  feast  of  the  woody  bay." 

Pale  grew  the  baron,  and  faintly  said, 

As  he  heaved  \2S  breath  with  pain, 
"  From  such  a  feast  as  there  was  spread, 

Do  any  return  again  ? 

"  I  bade  my  guest  to  a  bloody  feast. 
Where  the  death's  wound  was  his  fare. 

And  the  isle's  bright  maid,  who  my  love  betray'd. 
She  tore  her  raven  hair. 

The  seafowl  screams,  and  the  watch-tower  gleams. 
And  the  deafening  billows  roar. 
Where  he  unblest  was  put  to  rest. 
On  a  wild  and  distant  shore. 

"  Do  the  hollow  grave  and  the  whelming  wave 

Give  up  their  dead  agam  ? 
Doth  the  surgy  waste  waft  o'er  its  breast 

The  spirits  of  the  slain  ?'* 


But  his  loosen'd  limbs  shook  fast,  and  pour'd 

The  big  drops  from  his  brow. 
As  louder  still  the  third  time  roar'd 

The  thundering  gate  below. 

"  0  rouse  thee,  baron,  for  manhood's  worth ! 

Let  good  or  ill  befall, 
Thou  must  to  the  stranger  knight  go  forth. 

And  ask  him  to  your  hall." 

"  Rouse  thy  bold  breast,"  said  each  eager  guest, 

"  What  boots  it  shrinking  so  ? 
Be  it  fiend,  or  sprite,  or  murder'd  knight, 

In  God's  name  thou  must  go. 

"  Why  shouldst  thou  fear  ?  dost  tbou  not  weai 

A  gift  from  the  great  Glendower, 
Sandals  blest  by  a  holy  priest. 

O'er  which  naught  ill  hath  power  ?" 

All  ghastly  pale  did  the  baron  quail. 

As  he  turn'd  him  to  the  door, 
And  his  sandals  blest,  by  a  holy  priest, 

Sound  feebly  on  the  floor. 

Then  back  to  the  hall  and  his  merry  mates  all. 

He  cast  his  parting  eye, 
"  God  send  thee  amain,  safe  back  again  !" 

He  heaved  a  heavy  sigh. 

Then  listen'd  they,  on  the  lengtben'd  way. 

To  his  faint  and  lessening  tread. 
And,  when  that  was  past,  to  the  wailing  blast, 

That  wail'd  as  for  the  dead. 

But  wilder  it  grew,  and  stronger  it  blew, 

And  it  rose  with  an  elrich  sound. 
Till  the  lofty  keep  on  its  rocky  steep. 

Fell  hurling  to  the  ground. 

Each  fearful  eye  then  glanced  on  high. 

To  the  lofty-window'd  wall. 
When  a  fiery  trace  of  the  baron's  face 

Through  the  casements  shone  on  all. 

But  the  vision'd  glare  pass'd  through  the  air, 

And  the  raging  tempest  ceased. 
And  never  more  on  sea  or  shore. 

Was  seen  Lord  John  of  the  East. 

The  sandals,  blest  by  a  holy  priest, 
Lay  unscath'd  on  the  swarded  green, 

But  never  again  on  land  or  main. 
Lord  John  of  the  East  was  seen. 


MALCOM'S  HEIR. 

0  GO  not  by  Duntorloch's  walls 
When  the  moon  is  in  the  wane. 

And  cross  not  o'er  Duntorloch's  bridge, 
The  farther  bank  to  gain. 

For  there  the  Lady  of  the  Stream 
In  dripping  robes  you'll  spy, 

A-singing  to  her  pale,  wan  babe. 
An  elrich  lullaby. 


1 


MALCOM'S  HEIR. 


380 


And  stop  not  at  the  house  of  Merne. 

On  the  eve  of  good  Saint  John, 
For  then  the  Swathed  Knight  walks  his  rounds 

With  many  a  heavy  moan. 

All  swathed  is  he  in  coffin  weeds, 

And  a  wound  is  in  his  breast, 
And  he  points  still  to  the  gloomy  vault. 

Where  they  say  his  corse  doth  rest. 

But  pass  not  near  Glencromar's  tower. 
Though  the  sun  shine  e'er  so  bright ; 

More  dreaded  is  that  in  the  noon  of  day. 
Than  these  in  the  noon  of  night. 

The  nightshade  rank  grows  in  the  court. 

And  snakes  coil  in  the  wall, 
And  bats  lodge  in  the  rifted  spire, 

And  owls  in  the  murky  hall. 

On  it  there  shines  no  cheerful  light, 

But  the  deep-red  setting  sun 
Gleams  bloody  red  on  its  battlements 

When  day's  fair  course  is  run. 

And  fearfully  in  night's  pale  beams. 
When  the  moon  peers  o'er  the  wood. 

Its  shadow  grim  stretch'd  o'er  the  ground 
Lies  blackening  many  a  rood. 

No  sweet  bird's  chirping  there  is  heard. 

No  herd-boy's  horn  doth  blow ; 
But  the  owlet  hoots,  and  the  pent  blast  sobs, 

And  loud  croaks  the  carrion  crow. 

No  marvel !  for  within  its  w.alls 

Was  done  the  deed  unblest, 
And  in  its  noisome  vaults  the  bones 

Of  a  father's  murderer  rest. 

lie  laid  his  father  in  the  tomb 

With  deep  and  solemn  wo. 
As  rumour  tells,  but  righteous  Heaven 

Would  not  be  mocked  so. 

There  rest  his  bones  in  the  mouldering  earth, 

By  lord  and  by  carle  forgot ; 
But  the  foul,  fell  spirit  that  in  them  dwelt, 

Rest  hath  it  none,  I  wot ! 

*  Another  night,"  quoth  Malcom's  heir. 

As  he  turn'd  him  fiercely  round. 
And  closely  clench'd  his  ireful  hand, 

And  stamp'd  upon  the  ground  : 

"  Another  night  within  your  walls 

I  will  not  lay  my  head. 
Though  the  cloud's  of  heaven  my  roof  should  be, 

And  the  cold,  dank  earth  my  bed. 

"  Your  younger  son  has  now  your  love, 

And  my  step-dame  false  your  ear ; 
And  his  are  your  hawks,  and  his  are  your  hounds, 

And  his  your  dark-brown  deer. 

«'  To  him  you  have  given  your  noble  steed. 

As  fleet  as  the  passing  wind  ; 
But  me  have  you  shamed  before  my  friends. 

Like  the  son  of  a  base-born  hind." 

Then  answered  him  the  white-hair'd  chief. 

Dim  was  his  tearful  eye, 
"Proud  son,  thy  anger  is  all  too  keen, 

Thy  spirit  is  all  too  high. 


"  Yet  rest  this  night  beneath  my  roof. 

The  wind  blows  cold  and  shrill. 
With  to-morrow's  dawn,  if  it  so  must  be. 

E'en  follow  thy  wayward  will." 

But  nothing  moved  was  Malcom's  heir. 

And  never  a  word  did  he  say, 
But  cursed  his  father  in  his  heart, 

And  sternly  strode  away. 

And  his  coal-black  steed  he  mounted  straight. 

As  twilight  gather'd  round. 
And  at  his  feet  with  eager  speed 

Ran  Swain,  his  faithful  hound. 

Loud  rose  the  blast,  yet  ne'ertheless 

With  furious  speed  rode  he, 
Till  night,  like  the  gloom  of  a  cavern'd  mine, 

Had  closed  o'er  tower  and  tree. 

Loud  rose  the  blast,  thick  fell  the  raiu. 

Keen  flash'd  the  lightning  red. 
And  loud  the  awful  thunder  roar'd 

O'er  his  unshelter'd  head. 

At  length  full  close  before  him  shot 

A  flash  of  sheeted  light. 
And  the  high-arch'd  gate  of  Glencromar's  tower, 

Glared  on  his  dazzled  sight. 

His  steed  stood  still,  nor  step  would  move. 

Up  look'd  his  wistful  Swain, 
And  wagg'd  his  tail,  and  feebly  whined ; 

He  lighted  down  amain. 

Through  porch  and  court  he  pass'd,  and  still 

His  listening  ear  he  bow'd, 
Till  beneath  the  hoofs  of  his  trampling  steed 

The  paved  hall  echoed  loud. 

And  other  echoes  answer  gave 

From  arches  far  and  grand  ; 
Close  to  his  horse  and  his  faithful  dog 

He  took  his  fearful  stand. 

The  night-birds  shriek'd  from  the  creviced  roof, 

And  the  fitful  blast  sung  shrill ; 
But  ere  the  midwatch  of  the  night. 

Were  all  things  hush'd  and  still. 

But  in  the  midwatch  of  the  night, 

W^hen  hush'd  was  every  sound. 
Faint,  doleful  music  struck  his  ear. 

As  if  waked  from  the  hollow  ground. 

And  loud  and  louder  still  it  grew, 

And  upward  still  it  wore, 
Till  it  seem'd  at  the  end  of  the  farthest  aisle 

To  enter  the  eastern  door. 

0 !  never  did  music  of  mortal  make 

Such  dismal  sounds  contain  ; 
A  horrid  elrich  dirge  it  seem'd, — 

A  wild,  unearthly  strain. 

The  yell  of  pain,  and  the  wail  of  wo, 
And  the  short,  shrill  shriek  of  fear. 

Through  the  winnowing  sound  of  a  furnace  flame 
Confusedly  struck  his  ear. 

And  the  serpent's  hiss,  and  the  tiger's  growl. 

And  the  famish'd  vulture's  cry. 
Were  mix'd  at  times,  as  with  measured  skill 

In  this  horrid  haimony. 


890 


BAILLIE. 


Up  brizzled  the  locks  of  Malcom's  heir. 

And  his  heart  it  quickly  beat. 
And  his  trembling  steed  shook  under  his  hand. 

And  Swain  cower'd  close  to  his  feet. 

Back  from  the  bier  with  strong  recoil. 

Still  onward  as  they  go. 
Doth  he  in  vain  his  harrow 'd  heaC. 

And  writhing  body  throw. 

When,  lo  !  a  faint  light  through  the  porch 
Still  strong  and  stronger  grew. 

And  shed  o'er  the  walls  and  the  lofty  roof 
Its  wan  and  dismal  hue. 

For,  closing  round,  a  band  of  fiends 
Full  fiercely  with  him  deal. 

And  force  him  o'er  the  bier  to  bend. 
With  their  fangs  of  red-hot  steel. 

And  ^owly  entering  then  appear'd, 
Approaching  with  soundless  tread, 

A  funeral  band  in  dark  array. 
As  in  honour  of  the  dead. 

Still  on  they  moved,  and  stopp'd  at  length, 
Tn  the  midst  of  the  trembling  hall. 

When  the  dismal  dirge,  from  its  loudest  pitch. 
Sunk  to  a  dying  fall. 

The  first  that  walk'd  were  torchmen  ten 
To  lighten  their  gloomy  road, 

And  each  wore  the  face  of  an  angry  fiend, 
And  on  cloven  goats'  feet  trod. 

But  what  of  horror  next  ensued. 

No  mortal  tongue  can  tell. 
For  the  thrill'd  life  paused  in  Malcom'a  heir. 

In  a  death-like  trance  he  fell. 

And  the  next  that  walk'd  as  mourners  meet. 
Were  murderers  twain  and  twain. 

With  bloody  hands  and  surtout  red, 
Befoul'd  with  many  a  stain. 

The  morning  rose  with  cheerful  light. 
On  the  country  far  and  near. 

But  neither  in  country,  tower,  nor  town. 
Could  they  find  Sir  Malcom's  heir. 

Each  with  a  cut-cord  round  his  neck, 
And  red-strain 'd,  starting  eyen, 

Show'd  that  upon  the  gibbet  tree 
His  earthly  end  had  been. 

They  sought  him  east,  they  sought  him  west, 

O'er  hill  and  vale  they  ran, 
And  met  him  at  last  on  the  blasted  heath, 

A  crazed  and  wretched  man. 

And  after  these,  in  solemn  state. 

There  came  an  open  bier. 
Borne  on  black,  shapeless,  rampant  forms, 

That  did  but  half  appear. 

He  will  to  no  one  utter  his  tale, 
But  the  priest  of  St.  Cuthbert's  cell. 

And  aye,  when  the  midnight  warning  sounds 
He  hastens  his  beads  to  tell. 

And  on  that  bier  a  corse  was  laid. 

As  corse  could  never  lie. 
That  did  by  decent  hands  composed 
In  nature's  struggles  die. 

THE  ELDEN  TREE. 

Nor  stretch'd,  nor  swathed,  but  every  limb 

In  strong  distortion  lay. 
As  in  the  throes  of  a  violent  death 

Is  fix'd  the  lifeless  clay. 

A  FEAST  was  spread  in  the  baron's  hall 
And  loud  was  the  merry  sound. 

As  minstrels  play'd  at  lady's  call. 
And  the  cup  went  sparkling  round. 

And  iu  its  breast  was  a  broken  knife, 
With  the  black  blood  bolter'd  round  ; 

And  its  face  was  the  face  of  an  aged  man, 
With  the  filleted  locks  unbound. 

For  gentle  dames  sat  there,  I  trov/. 

By  men  of  mickle  might, 
And  many  a  chief  with  dark-ied  trot 

And  many  a  burly  knJjjht. 

Its  features  were  fix'd  in  horrid  strength, 
And  the  glaze  of  its  half-closed  eye 

A  last  dread  parting  look  express'd, 
Of  wo  and  agony. 

Each  had  fought  in  war's  grim  rank.' 
And  some  on  the  surgy  sea. 

And  some  on  Jordan'a  sacred  banks. 
For  the  cause  of  Cliristentie. 

But,  oh  !  the  horrid  form  to  trace. 
That  follov/'d  it  close  behind. 

In  fashion  of  the  chief  mourner, 
What  words  shall  minstrel  find  ? 

But  who  thinks  nov/  of  blood  or  strite, 

Or  Moorish  or  Faynim  foe  ? 
Their  eyes  beam  bright  with  sociaMife, 

And  their  hearts  with  kindness  glow. 

In  his  lifted  hand,  with  straining  grasp, 

A  broken  knife  he  press'd. 
The  other  half  of  the  cursed  blade 

Was  that  in  the  corse's  breast. 
And  in  his  blasted,  horrid  face. 

Full  strongly  mark'd,  I  ween. 
The  features  of  the  aged  corse 

In  life's  full  prime  were  seen. 

•  -  gnash  thy  teeth  and  tear  thy  hair, 
And  roll  thine  eyeballs  wild, 

A  uou  horrible,  accursed  son. 
With  a  father's  blood  defiled ! 


«  Gramercie,  chieftain,  on  thy  tale  ! 

It  smacks  of  thy  merry  mood." — 
"  Ay,  monks  are  sly,  and  women  frail. 

Since  lock  and  mountain  stood." 
"  Fy,  fy '  sir  knight,  thy  tongue  is  keen 

'Tis  sharper  than  thy  steel." — 
"  So,  gentle  lady,  are  thine  eyen. 

As  we  poor  lovers  feel. 
"  Come,  pledge  me  well,  my  lady  gay, 

Come,  pledge  me,  noble  frere  ; 
Each  cheerful  mate  on  such  a  day, 

Is  friend  or  mistress  dear." 


THE    ELDEN   TREE. 


391 


And  louder  still  comes  jeer  and  boast, 

As  the  flagons  faster  pour, 
Till  song,  and  tale,  and  laugh  are  lost 

In  a  wildly  mingled  roar. 

Ay,  certes,  'tis  an  hour  of  glee. 
For  the  baron  himself  doth  smile, 

And  nods  his  head  right  cheerily. 
And  quaffs  his  cup  the  while. 

What  recks  he  now  of  midnight  fear, 
Or  the  night  wind's  dismal  moan  ? 

As  it  tosses  the  boughs  of  that  Elden  Tree, 
Which  he  thinketh  so  oft  upon?  ? 

Long  years  have  past  since  a  deed  was  done, 

By  its  doer  only  seen, 
And  there  lives  not  a  man  beneath  the  sun, 

Who  wotteth  that  deed  hath  been. 

So  gay  was  he,  so  gay  were  all. 

They  mark'd  not  the  growing  gloom  ; 

Nor  wist  they  how  the  darkening  hall 
Lower'd  like  the  close  of  doom. 

Dull  grew  the  goblet's  sheen,  and  grim 

The  features  of  every  guest, 
And  colourless  banners  aloft  hung  dim, 

}.iike  the  clouds  of  the  drizzly,  west. 

Hilh  time  pass'd  then  so  swift  of  pace  ? 

Is  this  the  twilight  gray  ? 
A  flash  of  light  pass'd  through  the  place, 

Like  the  glaring  noon  of  day. 

Fierce  glanced  the  momentary  blaze 

O'er  all  the  gallant  train. 
And  each  visage  pale,  with  dazzled  gaze. 

Was  seen  and  lost  again. 

And  the  thunder's  rolling  peal,  from  far. 

Then  on  and  onward  drew. 
And  varied  its  sound  like  the  broil  of  war, 

And  loud  and  louder  grew. 

Still  glares  the  lightning  blue  and  pale. 

And  roars  th'  astounding  din  ; 
And  rattle  the  windows  with  bickering  hail. 

And  the  rafters  ring  within. 

And  cowering  hounds  the  board  beneath 
Are  howling  with  piteous  moan, 

While  lords  and  dames  sit  still  as  death. 
And  words  are  utter'd  none. 

At  length  in  the  waning  tempest's  fall. 
As  light  from  the  welkin  broke, 

A.  frighten'd  man  rush'd  through  the  hall, 
And  words  to  the  baron  spoke. 

*  The  thunder  hath  stricken  your  tree  so  fair, 

Its  roots  on  green-sward  lie." — 

*  What  tree  ?"— "  The  Elden  planted  there 

Some  thirty  years  gone  by." 

*And  wherefore  starest  thou  on  me  so. 
With  a  face  so  ghastly  wild  ?" 

*  White  bones  are  found  in  the  mould  below, 

Like  the  bones  of  a  stripling  child." 

Pale  he  became  as  the  shrouded  dead, 

And  his  ej-eballs  fix'd  as  stone  ; 
And  down  on  his  bosom  dropp'd  his  head, 

And  he  utter'd  a  stifled  groan. 


Then  from  the  board,  each  guest  amazed. 

Sprang  up,  and  curirusly 
Upon  his  sudden  misery  gazed. 

And  wonder'd  what  might  be. 

Out  spoke  the  ancient  seneschal, 

"  I  pray  ye  stand  apart, 
Both  gentle  dames  and  nobles  all. 

This  grief  is  at  his  heart. 

"  Go,  call  St.  Cuthbert's  monk  with  speed. 

And  let  him  be  quickly  shriven. 
And  fetch  ye  a  leech  for  his  body's  need. 

To  dight  him  for  earth  or  heaven." 

"  No,  fetch  me  a  priest,"  the  baron  said. 
In  a  voice  that  seem'd  utter'd  with  pain  ; 

And  he  shudder'd  and  shrunk,  as  he  faintly  bade 
His  noble  guests  remain. 

"  Heaven's  eye  each  secret  deed  doth  scan 

Heaven's  justice  all  should  fear  : 
What  I  confess  to  the  holy  man. 

Both  heaven  and  you  shall  hear." 

And  soon  St.  Cuthbert's  monk  stood  by 

With  visage  sad,  but  sweet, 
And  cast  on  the  baron  a  piteous  eye. 

And  the  turon  knelt  low  at  his  feet. 

*  0,  father  !  I  have  done  a  deed 

Which  God  alone  did  know  ; 
A  brother's  blood  these  hands  have  shed. 

With  many  a  fiend-like  blow  : 

"  For  fiends  lent  strength  like  a  powerful  charm. 

And  my  youthful  breast  impell'd. 
And  I  laugh'd  to  see  beneath  my  arm 

The  sickly  stripling  quell'd. 

'*  A  mattock  from  its  pit  I  took, 

Dug  deep  for  the  Elden  Tree, 
And  I  tempted  the  youth  therein  to  look 

Some  curious  sight  to  see. 

"  The  woodmen  to  their  meal  were  gone, 

And  ere  they  return'd  again, 
I  had  planted  that  tree  with  my  strength  alone, 

O'er  the  body  of  the  slain. 

"  Ah !  gladly  smiled  my  father  then. 

And  seldom  he  smiled  on  me. 
When  he  heard  that  my  skill,  like  the  skill  of  men| 

Had  planted  the  Elden  Tree. 

"  But  where  was  his  eldest  son  so  dear, 

Who  nearest  his  heart  had  been  ? 
Tiiey  sought  him  far,  they  sought  him  near, 

But  the  boy  no  more  was  seen. 

"  And  thus  his  life  and  lands  he  lost. 

And  his  father's  love  beside  : 
The  thought  that  ever  rankled  most 

In  this  heart  of  secret  pride. 

"  Ah  !  could  the  partial  parent  wot 

The  cruel  pang  he  gives. 
To  the  child  neglected  and  forgot, 

Who  under  his  cold  eye  lives  ! 

"  His  elder  rights  did  my  envy  move. 
These  lands  and  their  princely  hall  5 

But  it  was  our  father's  partial  love 
I  envied  him  most  of  all. 


399 


BAILLIE. 


**  Now  thirty  years  have  o'er  me  pass'd, 

And,  to  the  eye  of  man, 
My  lot  was  with  the  happy  cast. 

My  heart  it  could  not  scan. 

«  0  !  I  have  heard  in  the  dead  of  night, 

My  murder'd  brother's  groan. 
And  shudder'd,  as  the  pale  moonlight 

On  the  mangled  body  shone. 

"  My  very  miners,  pent  in  gloom. 

Whose  toil  my  coffers  stored, 
And  cursed  belike  their  cheerless  doom, 

Were  happier  than  their  lord. 

"  0,  holy  man  !  my  tale  is  told 

With  pain,  with  tears,  with  shame  ; 

May  penance  hard,  may  alms  of  gold, 
Some  ghostly  favour  claim  ? 

«  The  knotted  scourge  shall  drink  my  blood, 

The  earth  my  bed  shall  be. 
And  bitter  tears  my  daily  food. 

To  earn  Heaven's  grace  for  me." 

Now,  where  that  rueful  deed  was  done, 
Endow'd  with  rights  and  lands. 

Its  sharp  spires  brightening  in  the  sun, 
A  stately  abbey  stands. 

And  the  meek'st  monk,  whose  life  is  there 

Still  spent  on  bended  knee, 
Is  he  who  built  that  abbey  fair, 

And  planted  the  Elden  Tree. 


THE  GHOST  OF  FADON. 

Ok  Gask's  deserted  ancient  hall 

Was  twilight  closing  fast. 
And,  in  its  dismal  shadows,  all 

Seem'd  lofty,  void,  and  vast. 

All  sounds  of  life,  now  reft  and  bare. 
From  its  walls  had  pass'd  away, 

But  the  stir  of  small  birds  shelter'd  there. 
Dull  owl,  or  clattering  jay. 

Loop-hole  and  window,  dimly  seen. 
With  faint  light  passing  through. 

Grew  dimmer  still  and  the  dreary  scene 
Was  fading  from  the  view : 

When  the  trampling  sound  of  banded  men. 
Came  from  the  court  without ; 

Words  of  debate  and  call,  and  then 
A  loud  and  angry  shout. 

But  mingled  echoes  from  within 

A  mimic  mockery  made. 
And  the  bursting  door,  with  furious  din, 

On  jarring  hinges  bray'd. 

An  eager  band,  press'd  rear  on  van, 
Rush'd  in  with  clamorous  sound, 

And  their  chief,  the  goodliest,  bravest  man 
That  e'er  trodc  Scotish  ground. 

Then  spoke  forthwith  that  leader  bold, 
"  We  war  with  wayward  fate : 

These  walls  are  bare,  the  hearth  is  cold. 
And  all  is  desolate. 


"  With  fast  unbroke  and  thirst  unslaked, 
Must  we  on  the  hard  ground  sleep  ? 

Or,  like  ghosts  from  vaulted  charnel  waked. 
Our  cheerless  vigil  keep  ?" 

"  Hard  hap  this  day  in  bloody  field. 

Ye  bravely  have  sustain'd, 
And  for  your  pains  this  dismal  bield. 

And  empty  board  have  gam'd. 

"  Hie,  Malcom,  to  that  varlet's  steed, 

And  search  if  yet  remain 
Some  homely  store,  but  good  at  need, 

Spent  nature  to  sustain. 

"  Cheer  up,  my  friends  !   still  heart  in  hand. 

Though  few  and  spent  we  be, 
We  are  the  pith  of  our  native  land. 

And  we  shall  still  be  free. 

•'  Cheer  up  !  though  scant  and  coarse  our  meali 

In  this  our  sad  retreat. 
We'll  fill  our  horn  to  Scotland's  weal. 

And  that  will  make  it  sweet." 

Then  all,  full  cheerly,  as  they  could, 

Their  willing  service  lent. 
Some  broke  the  boughs,  some  heap'd  the  wood. 

Some  struck  the  sparkling  flint. 

And  a  fire  they  kindled  speedily, 
Where  the  hall's  last  fire  had  been. 

And  pavement,  walls,  and  rafters  high. 
In  the  rising  blaze  were  seen. 

Red  gleam  on  each  tall  buttress  pour'd 

The  lengthen'd  hall  along, 
And  tall  and  black  behind  them  lower'fl 

Their  shadows  deep  and  strong. 

The  ceiling,  ribb'd  with  massy  oak. 

From  bickering  flames  below, 
As  light  and  shadow  o'er  it  broke, 

Seem'd  wavering  to  and  fro. 

Their  scanty  meal  was  on  the  ground. 

Spread  by  the  friendly  light. 
And  they  made  the  brown  horn  circle  round. 

As  cheerly  as  they  might. 

Some  talk  of  horses,  weapons,  mail. 

Some  of  their  late  defeat, 
By  treachery  caused,  and  many  a  tale 

Of  Southron  spy's  retreat. 

«  Ay,  well,"  says  one,  "  my  sinking  heart 

Did  some  disaster  bode. 
When  faithless  Fadon's  wily  art 

Beguiled  us  from  the  road." 

"  But  well  repaid  b}''  Providence 

Are  such  false  deeds  we  see  ; 
He's  had  his  rightful  recompense. 

And  cursed  let  himbe." 

«  0  !  curse  him  not !  I  needs  must  rue 

That  stroke  so  rashly  given  : 
If  he  to  us  were  false  or  true, 

Is  known  to  righteous  Heaven." 

So  spoke  their  chief,  then  silent  all 

Remain'd  in  sombre  mood. 
Till  they  heard  a  bugle's  larum  call 

Sound  distant  through  the  wood. 


THE   GHOST   OF   FADON. 


393 


*  Rouse  ye,  my  friends  !"  the  chieftain  said, 

«  That  blast,  from  friend  or  foe, 
Comes  from  the  west ;  through  forest  shade 

With  wary  caution  go, 

'*  And  hring  me  tidings.     Speed  ye  well !" 

Forth  three  bold  warriors  pass'd, 
Then  from  the  east  with  fuller  swell 

Was  heard  the  bugle  blast. 

Out  pass'd  three  warriors  more  ;  then  shrill 

The  horn  blew  from  the  north, 
And  other  eager  warriors  still. 

As  banded  scouts,  went  forth. 

Till  from  their  chief  each  war-mate  good 

Had  to  the  forest  gone, 
And  he,  who  fear'd  not  flesh  and  blood, 

Stood  by  the  fire  alone. 

He  stood,  wrapp'd  in  a  musing  dream, 

Nor  raised  his  drooping  head, 
nil  a  sudden,  alter'd,  paly  gleam 

On  all  around  was  spread. 

Such  dull,  diminish'd,  sombre  sheen 

From  moon  eclipsed,  by  swain 
Belated,  or  lone  herd  is  seen 

O'er-raantling  hill  and  plain. 

Then  to  the  fitful  fire  he  turn'd. 

Which  higher  and  brighter  grew, 
Till  the  flame  like  a  baleful  meteor  burn'd 

Of  clear  sulpliureous  blue. 

Then  wist  the  chief,  some  soul  unblest, 

Of  spirit  of  power  was  near  ; 
And  his  eyes  adown  the  hall  he  cast, 

Yet  naught  did  there  appear. 

But  he  felt  a  strange,  unearthly  breath 

Upon  the  chill  air  borne. 
And  he  heard  at  the  gate,  like  a  blast  of  wrath. 

The  sound  of  Fadon's  horn. 

Owls,  bats,  and  svyallows,  fluttering,  out 

From  hole  and  crevice  flew, 
Circling  the  lofty  roof  about. 

As  loud  and  long  it  blew. 

His  noble  hound  sprang  from  his  lair. 

The  midnight  rouse  to  greet, 
Then,  like  a  timid  trembling  hare 

Couch'd  at  nis  master's  feet. 
Between  his  legs  his  drooping  tail, 

Like  dog  of  vulgar  race, 
He  hid,  and  with  strange  piteous  wail 

Look'd  in  his  master's  face. 

The  porch  seem'd  void,  but  vapour  dim 

Soon  fill'd  the  lowering  room. 
Then  was  he  aware  of  a  figure  grim. 

Approaching  through  the  gloom. 

And  striding  as  it  onward  came. 

The  vapour  wore  away, 
Till  it  stood  distinctly  by  the  flame. 

Like  a  form  in  the  noon  of  day. 

Well  Wallace  knew  that  form,  that  liead. 

That  throat  unbraced  and  bare, 
Mark'd  deep  with  streaming  circlet  red, 

And  he  uttered  a  rapid  prnyer. 


But  when  the  spectre  raised  its  arm, 
And  brandish'd  its  glittering  blade, 

That  moment  broke  fear's  chilly  charm 
On  noble  Wallace  laid. 

The  threaten 'd  combat  was  to  him 

Relief ;  with  Aveapon  bare, 
He  rush'd  upon  the  warrior  grim. 

But  his  sword  shore  empty  air. 

Then  the  spectre  smiled  with  a  ghastly  grin, 
And  Its  warrior-semblance  fled. 

And  its  features  gre^v  stony,  fix'd,  and  thin. 
Like  the  face  of  the  stiffen'd  dead. 

The  head  a  lurther  moment  crown'd. 

The  body's  stately  wreck 
Shook  hideously,  and  to  the  ground 

Dropt  from  the  bolter'd  neck. 

Back  shrunk  the  noble  chief  aghast. 

And  longer  tarried  not. 
But  quickly  to  the  portal  pass'd, 

To  shun  the  horrid  spot. 

But  in  the  portal,  stifl['  and  tall. 

The  apparition  stood. 
And  Wallace  turn'd  and  cross'd  the  hall, 

Where  entrance  to  the  wood. 

By  other  door  he  hoped  to  snatch. 
Whose  pent  arch  darkly  lower'd, 

But  there,  like  sentry  on  his  watch. 
The  dreadful  phantom  tower'd. 

Then  up  the  ruin'd  stairs  so  steep. 

He  ran  with  panting  breath, 
And  from  a  window — desperate  leap  I 

Sprang  to  the  court  beneath. 

O'er  wall  and  ditch  he  quickly  got. 
Through  brake  and  bushy  stream, 

When  suddenly  through  darkness  shoi 
A  red  and  lurid  gleam. 

He  look'd  behind,  and  that  lurid  light 

Forth  from  the  castle  came  ; 
Within  its  circuit  through  the  night 

Appear'd  an  elrich  flame. 

Red  glow'd  each  window,  slit,  and  door 

Like  mouths  of  furnace  hot, 
And  tint  of  deepest  blackness  wore 

The  walls  and  steepy  moat. 

But  soon  it  rose  with  brightening  power. 

Till  bush  and  ivy  green, 
And  wall-flower,  fringing  breach  and  tower. 

Distinctly  might  be  seen. 

Then  a  spreading  blaze  with  eddying  sweep. 

Its  spiral  surges  rear'd. 
And  then  aloft  on  the  stately  keep, 

Fadon's  Ghost  appear'd. 

A  burning  rafter,  blazing  bright. 

It  wielded  in  its  hand  ; 
And  its  warrior  form,  of  human  height. 

Dilated  grew,  and  grand. 

Coped  by  a  curling  tawny  cloud. 

With  tints  sulphureous  blent,  , 

It  rose  with  burst  of  thunder  loud, 

And  up  the  welkin  went. 


394 


BAILLIE. 


High,  high  it  rose  with  widening  glare. 

Sent  far  o'er  land  and  main, 
And  shut  into  the  lofty  air, 

And  all  v/as  dark  again. 

A  spell  of  horror  lapt  him  round, 

Chill'd,  motionless,  amazed. 
His  very  pulse  of  life  was  bound 

As  on  black  night  he  gazed. 

Till  harness'd  warriors'  heavy  tread. 

From  echoing  dell  arose  ; 
**  Thank  God  !"  with  utter'd  voice,  he  said, 

•'  For  here  come  living  foes." 

With  kindling  soul  that  brand  he  drew 

Which  boldest  Southron  fears, 
But  soon  the  friendly  call  he  knew. 

Of  his  gallant,  brave  compeers. 

With  haste  each  wondrous  tale  was  told. 

How  still,  in  vain  pursuit. 
They  follow'd  the  horn  through  wood  and  wold. 

And  Wallace  alone  was  mute. 

Day  rose  ;  but  silent,  sad  and  pale. 
Stood  the  bravest  of  Scottish  race ; 

And  each  warrior's  heart  began  to  quail, 
When  he  look'd  in  his  leader's  face. 


A  NOVEMBER  NIGHT'S  TRAVELLER. 

He,  who  with  journey  well  begun, 
Beneath  the  beam  of  morning's  sun, 
Stretching  his  view  o'er  hill  and  dale. 
And  distant  city,  (through  its  veil 
Of  smoke,  dark  spires  and  chimneys  showing,) 
O'er  harvest  lands  with  plenty  flowing, 
What  time  the  roused  and  busy,  meeting 
On  king's  highway,  exchange  their  greeting. 
Feels  his  cheer'd  heart  with  pleasure  beat, 
As  on  his  way  he  holds.     And  great 
Delight  hath  he,  who  travels  late. 
What  time  the  moon  doth  hold  her  state 
In  the  clea^r  sk}-^,  while  down  and  dale 
Repose  in  light  so  pure  and  pale  I — 
While  lake,  and  pool,  and  stream  are  seen 
Weaving  their  maze  of  silvery  sheet  ,— 
While  cot  and  mansion,  rock  and  glade. 
And  tower  and  street,  in  light  and  shade 
Strongly  contrasted,  are,  I  trow  I 
3rander  than  aught  of  noonday  show, 
Soothing  the  pensive  mind. 

And  yet. 
When  moon  is  dark,  and  sun  is  set. 
Not  reft  of  pleasure  is  the  wight, 
Who,  in  snug  chaise,  at  close  of  night 
Begins  his  journey  in  the  dark. 
With  crack  of  whip  and  ban-dog's  bark. 
And  jarring  wheels,  and  children  bawling. 
And  voice  of  surly  ostler,  calling 
To  postboy,  through  the  mingled  din. 
Some  message  to  a  neighbouring  inn. 
Which  sound  confusedly  in  his  ear ; 
The  lonely  way's  commencing  cheer. 

With  dull  November's  starless  sky 
O'er  head,  his  fancy  soars  not  high. 


The  carriage  lamps  a  white  light  throw 

Along  the  road,  and  strangely  show 

Familiar  things  which  cheat  the  eyes. 

Like  friends  in  motley  masker's  guise. 

"  What's  that  ?  or  dame,  or  mantled  maid. 

Or  herdboy  gather'd  in  his  plaid. 

Which  leans  against  yon  wall  his  back  t 

No ;  'tis  in  sooth  a  tiny  stack 

Of  turf  or  peat,  or  rooty  wood. 

For  cottage  fire  the  winter's  food." — 

"  Ha  !  yonder  shady  nook  discovers 

A  gentle  pair  of  rustic  lovers. 

Out  on't !  a  pair  of  harmless  calves. 

Through  straggling  bushes  seen  by  halves.* 

"What  thing  of  strange  unshapely  height 

Approaches  slowly  on  the  light, 

That  like  a  hunchback'd  giant  seems. 

And  now  is  whitening  in  its  beams  ? 

'Tis  but  a  hind,  whose  burly  back 

Is  bearing  home  a  loaded  sack." — 

"  What's  that,  like  spots  of  flecker'd  snow 

Which  on  the  road's  wide  margin  show .? 

'Tis  linen  left  to  bleach  by  night." — 

"  Gra 'mercy  on  us  !  see  I  right  ? 

Some  witch  is  casting  cantraips  there ; 

The  linen  hovers  in  the  air  I — 

Pooh  !  soon  or  late  all  wonders  cease. 

We  have  but  scared  a  flock  of  geese."— 

Thus  oft  through  life  we  do  misdeem 

Of  things  that  are  not  what  they  seem. 

All !  could  we  there  with  as  slight  scathe 

Divest  us  of  our  cheated  faith  ! 

And  then  belike,  when  chiming  bells 

The  near  approach  of  wagon  tells, 

He  wistful  looks  to  see  it  come. 

Its  bulk  emerging  from  the  gloom. 

With  dun  tarpauling  o'er  it  thrown. 

Like  a  huge  mammoth,  moving  on. 

But  yet  more  pleased,  through  murky  air 

He  spies  the  distant  bonfire's  glare ; 

And,  nearer  to  the  spot  advancing. 

Black  imps  and  goblins  round  it  dancing  ; 

And,  nearer  still,  distinctly  traces 

The  featured  disks  of  happy  faces. 

Grinning  and  roaring  in  their  glory. 

Like  Bacchants  wild  of  ancient  story. 

And  making  murgeons  to  the  flame, 

As  it  were  playmate  of  their  game. 

Full  well,  I  trow,  could  modern  stage 

Such  acting  for  the  nonce  engage, 

A  crowded  audience  every  night 

Would  press  to  see  the  jovial  sight ; 

And  this,  from  cost  and  squeezing  free, 

November's  nightly  travellers  see. 

Through  village,  lane,  or  hamlet  going: 
The  light  from  cot  tage  window  showing 
Its  inmates  at  their  evening  fare. 
By  rousing  fire,  and  earthenware— 
And  pewter  trenches  on  the  shelf, — 
Harmless  display  of  w'orldly  pelf! — 
Is  transient  vision  to  the  eye 
Of  hasty  traveller  passing  by  ; 
Yet  much  of  pleasing  import  tells, 
And  cherish'd  in  the  fancy  dwells. 
Where  simple  innocence  and  mirth 
Encircle  ^till  the  cottage  hearth. 


A  NOVEMBER   NIGHT'S  TRAVELLER. 


395 


Across  the  road  a  fiery  glare 
Doth  blacksmith's  open  forge  declare, 
Where  furnace  blast,  and  measured  din 
Of  hammers  twain,  and  all  within, — 
The  brawny  males  their  labour  plying, 
From  heated  bar  the  red  sparks  Hying, 
And  idle  neighbours  standing  by 
With  open  mouth  and  dazzled  eye, 
The  rough  and  sooty  walls  with  store 
Of  chains  and  horseshoes  studded  o'er, — 
An  armory  of  sullied  sheen, — 
All  momently  are  heard  and  seen. 
Nor  does  he  often  fail  to  meet. 
In  market  town's  dark  narrow  street 
(E'en  when  the  night  on  pitchy  wings 
The  sober  hour  of  bed-time  brings,) 
Amusement.     From  the  alehouse  door. 
Having  full  bravely  paid  his  score, 
Issues  the  tipsy  artizan. 
With  tipsier  brother  of  the  can. 
And  oft  to  wile  him  homeward  tries 
With  coaxing  words,  so  wondrous  wise  ! 
The  dame  demure,  from  visit  late, 
Her  lantern  borne  before  in  state 
By  sloven  footboy,  paces  slow. 
With  patten'd  feet  and  hooded  brow. 
Where  the  seam'd  window-board  betrays 
Interior  light,  full  closely  lays 
The  eavesdropper  his  curious  ear. 
Some  neighbour's  fireside  talk  to  hear ; 
While,  from  an  upper  casement  bending 
A  household  maid,  belike,  is  sending 
From  jug  or  ewer  a  slopy  shower. 
That  makes  him  homeward  fleetly  scour. 
From  lower  rooms  few  gleams  are  sent, 
From  blazing  hearth,  through  chink  or  rent ; 
But  from  the  loftier  chambers  peer, 
(Where  damsels  doff  their  gentle  geer, 
For  rest  preparing,)  tapers  bright. 
Which  give  a  momentary  sight 
Of  some  fair  form  with  visage  glowing, 
With  loosen'd  braids  and  tresses  flowing, 
Who',  busied,  by  the  mirror  stands. 
With  bending  head  and  upraised  hands, 
Whose  moving  shadow  strangely  falls 
With  size  enlarged  on  roof  and  walls. 
Ah !  lovely  are  the  things,  I  ween. 
By  arrowy  speed's  light  glam'rie  seen  ! 
Fancy,  so  touch'd,  will  long  retain 
That  quickly  seen,  nor  seen  again. 

But  now  he  spies  the  flaring  door 
Of  bridled  Swan  or  gilded  Boar, 
At  which  the  bowing  waiter  stands 
To  know  th'  alighting  guest's  commands. 
A  place  of  bustle,  dirt,  and  din. 
Cursing  without,  scolding  within  ; 
Oi  narrow  means  and  ample  boast. 
The  traveller's  stated  halting  post. 
Where  trunks  are  missing  or  deranged, 
And  parcels  lost  and  horses  chanji;ed. 

Yet  this  short  scene  of  noisy  coil 
But  serves  our  traveller  as  a  foil. 
Enhancing  what  succeeds,  and  lending 
A  charm  to  pensive  quiet,  sending 
To  home  and  friends,  left  far  behind, 
The  kindliest  musings  of  his  mind; 


Or,  should  they  stray  to  thoughts  of  pain, 
A  dimness  o'er  the  haggard  train, 
A  mood  and  hour  like  this  will  throw, 
As  vex'd  and  burden'd  spirits  know. 

Night,  loneliness,  and  motion  are 
Agents  of  power  to  distance  care  ; 
To  distance,  not  discard  ;  for  then, 
Withdrawn  from  busy  haunts  of  men. 
Necessity  to  act  suspended, 
The  present,  past,  and  future  blended. 
Like  figures  of  a  mazy  dance. 
Weave  round  the  soul  a  dreamy  trance. 
Till  jolting  stone,  or  turnpike  gate 
Arouse  him  from  the  soothing  state. 

And  when  the  midnight  hour  is  past. 
If  through  the  night  his  journey  last. 
When  still  and  lonely  is  the  road. 
Nor  living  creature  moves  abroad. 
Then  most  of  all,  like  fabled  wizard. 
Night  slily  dons  her  cloak  and  vizard, 
His  eyes  at  every  corner  greeting. 
With  some  new  slight  of  dexterous  cheating, 
And  cunningly  his  sight  betrays. 
E'en  with  his  own  lamps'  partial  rays. 

The  road,  that  in  fair  simple  day 
Through  pasture  land  or  corn-fields  lay, 
A  broken  hedge- row's  ragged  screen 
Skirting  its  weedy  margin  green, — 
With  boughs  projecting,  interlaced 
With  thorn  and  brier,  distinctly  traced 
On  the  deep  shadows  at  their  back. 
That  deeper  sink  to  pitchy  black. 
Appearing  oft  to  fancy's  eye. 
Like  woven  boughs  of  tapestrie, — 
Seems  now  to  wind  through  tangled  wood. 
Or  forest  wild,  where  Robin  Hood, 
With  all  his  outlaws,  stout  and  bold. 
In  olden  days  his  reign  might  hold, 
Where  vagrant  school-boy  fears  to  roam. 
The  gipsy's  haunt,  the  woodman's  home. 
Yea,  roofless  barn,  and  ruin'd  wall. 
As  passing  lights  upon  them  fall. 
When  favour'd  by  surrounding  gloom, 
The  castle's  ruin'd  state  assume. 

The  steamy  vapour  that  proceeds 
From  moistcn'd  hide  of  weary  steeds. 
And  high  on  either  hand  doth  rise. 
Like  clouds,  storm-drifted,  past  him  flies ; 
While  liquid  mire,  by  their  hoof'd  feet 
Cast  up,  adds  magic  to  the  cheat. 
Glancing  presumptuously  before  him, 
Like  yellow  diamonds  of  Cairngorum. 

How  many  are  the  subtle  ways. 
By  which  sly  night  the  eye  betrays. 
When  in  her  wild  fantastic  mood, 
By  lone  and  wakeful  traveller  wooed ! 
Shall  I  proceed  ?  O  no  !  for  now 
Upon  the  black  horizon's  brow 
Appears  a  line  of  tawny  light ; 
Thy  reign  is  ended,  witching  night ! 
And  soon  thy  place  a  wizard  elf, 
(But  only  second  to  thyself 
in  glam'rie's  art)  will  quickly  take. 
Spreading  o'er  meadow,  vale,  and  brake, 
Her  misty  shroud  of  pearly  white  :— 
A  modest,  though  deceitful  wigh 


596 


BAILLIE. 


Who  in  a  softer,  gentler  way, 
Will  with  the  wakeful  fancy  play, 
When  knolls  of  woods,  their  bases  losing. 
Are  islands  on  a  lake  reposing. 
And  streeted  town,  of  high  pretence. 
As  rolls  away  the  vapour  dense. 
With  all  its  wavy,  curling  billows. 
Is  but  a  row  of  poliard  willows. — 
O  no  !  my  traveller,  still  and  lone, 
A  far,  fatiguing  way  hath  gone  ; 
His  eyes  are  dim,  he  stoops  his  crest. 
And  folds  his  arms,  and  goes  to  rest. 


SIR  MAURICE. 

A   BALLAD. 

Sir  Maurice  was  a  wealthy  lord. 

He  lived  in  the  north  countrie. 
Well  would  he  cope  with  foeman's  sword 

Or  the  glance  of  a  lady's  eye. 

Now  all  his  armed  vassals  wait, 

A  stanch  and  burly  band. 
Before  his  stately  castle's  gate. 

Bound  for  the  Holy  Land. 

Above  the  spearmen's  lengthen'd  file. 

Are  figured  ensigns  flying ; 
Stroked  by  their  keeper's  hand  the  while. 

Are  harness'd  chargers  neighing. 

And  looks  of  wo,  and  looks  of  cheer. 

And  looks  the  two  between. 
On  manj-^  a  warlike  face  appear, 

Where  tears  have  lately  been. 

For  all  they  love  is  left  behind  ; 

Hope  beckons  them  before : 
Their  parting  sails  spread  to  the  wind, 

Blown  from  their  native  shore. 

Then  through  the  crowded  portal  pass'd 

Six  goodly  knights  and  tall ; 
Sir  Maurice  himself,  who  came  the  last. 

Was  goodliest  of  them  all. 

And  proudly  roved  with  hasty  eye 

O'er  all  the  warlike  train  ; — 
"  Save  ye,  brave  comrades  !  prosperously. 

Heaven  send  us  o'er  the  main  ! 

"  But  see  I  right  ?  an  armed  band 

From  Moorham's  lordless  hall ; 
And  he  who  bears  the  high  command. 

Its  ancient  seneschal  I 

«  Return  ;  your  stately  keep  defend  ; 

Defend  your  lady's  bower. 
Lest  rude  and  lawless  hands  should  rend 

That  lone  and  lovely  flower." — 

«  God  will  defend  our  lady  dear, 

And  we  will  cross  the  sea, 
From  slavery's  chain,  his  lot  severe. 

Our  noble  lord  to  free." — 

«  Nay,  nay !  some  wandering  minstrel's  tongue. 

Hath  framed  a  story  vain  j 
Thy  lord,  his  liegemen  brave  among. 

Near  Acre's  wall  was  slain."— 


"  Nay,  good  my  lord  !  for  had  his  life 

Been  lost  on  battle-ground, 
When  .ceased  that  fell  and  fatal  strife, 

His  body  had  been  found. 

"  No  faith  to  such  delusions  give  ; 

His  mortal  term  is  past." — 
"  Not  so  !  not  so  !  he  is  alive. 

And  will  be  found  at  last !" 

These  latter  words  right  eagerly 
From  a  slender  stripling  broke, 

Who  stood  the  ancient  warrior  by. 
And  trembled  as  he  spoke. 

Sir  Maurice  started  at  the  sound, 

And  all  from  top  to  toe 
The  stripling  scann'd,  who  to  the  ground 

His  blushing  face  bent  low. 

"  Is  this  thy  kinsman,  seneschal  ? 

Thine  own  or  thy  sister's  son  ? 
A  gentler  page,  in  tent  or  hall, 

Mine  eyes  ne'er  look'd  upon. — 

'  To  thine  own  home  return,  fair  youth, 

To  thine  own  home  return  ; 
Give  ear  to  likely,  sober  truth, 

Nor  prudent  counsel  spurn. 

"  War  suits  thee  not,  if  boy  thou  art ; 

And  if  a  sweeter  name 
Befit  thee,  do  not  lightly  part 

With  maiden's  honour'd  fame." 

He  turn'd  him  from  his  liegemen  all, 
Who  round  their  chieftain  press'd  ; 

His  very  shadow  on  the  wall 
His  troubled  mind  express'd. 

As  sometimes  slow  and  sometimes  fast 

He  paced  to  and  fro. 
His  plumy  crest  now  upward  cast 

In  air,  now  drooping  low. 

Sometimes  like  one  in  frantic  mood. 
Short  words  of  sound  he  utter'd. 

And  sometimes,  stopping  short,  he  stood 
As  to  himself  he  mutter'd. 

"  A  daughter's  love,  a  maiden's  pride  I 

And  may  they  not  agree  ? 
Could  man  desire  a  lovelier  bride, 

A  truer  friend  than  she  ? 

«  Down,  cursed  thought !  a  boy's  garb 

Betrays  not  wanton  will. 
Yet,  sharper  than  an  arrow's  barb, 

That  fear  might  haunt  me  still." 

He  mutter'd  long,  then  to  the  gate. 

Return 'd  and  look'd  around. 
But  the  seneschal  and  his  stripling  matt 

Were  nowhere  to  be  found. 

With  outward  cheer  and  inward  smart. 

In  warlike  fair  array. 
Did  Maurice  with  his  bands  depart. 

And  shoreward  bent  his  way. 

Their  stately  ship  rode  near  the  port, 

The  warriors  to  receive  ; 
And  there,  with  blessings  kind,  but  short, 

Did  friends  of  friends  take  leave. 


SIR   MAURICE. 


397 


And  soon  they  saw  the  crowded  strand 

Wear  dimly  from  their  view  ; 
And  soon  they  saw  the  distant  land, 

A  line  of  hazy  blue. 

The  white-sail'd  ship  with  favouring  breeze, 

In  all  her  gallant  pride. 
Moved  like  the  mistress  of  the  seas, 

That  rippled  far  and  wide. 

Sometimes  with  steady  course  she  went. 
O'er  wave  and  surge  careering ; 

Sometimes  with  sidelong  mast  she  bent, 
Her  wings  the  sea-foam  sheering. 

Sometimes,  with  poles  and  rigging  bare. 

She  scudded  before  the  blast ; 
But  safely  by  the  Syrian  shore. 

Her  anchor  dropt  at  last. 

V7hat  martial  honours  Maurice  won, 
Join'd  with  the  brave  and  great, 

From  the  fierce,  faithless  Saracen, 
I  may  not  here  relate. 

With  boldest  band  on  bridge  or  moat. 

With  champion  on  the  plain, 
I'  th'  breach  with  clustering  foes  he  fought, 

Choked  up  with  grisly  slain. 

Most  valiant  by  the  valiant  styled. 
Their  praise  his  deeds  proclaim'd, 

And  oft  his  lieg«^mcn  proudly  smiled 
To  hear  their  leader  named. 

But  fate  will  quell  the  hero's  strength. 

And  dim  the  loftiest  brow  ; 
And  this,  our  noble  chief,  at  length 

Was  in  the  dust  laid  low. 

He  lay  the  heaps  of  dead  beneath. 

As  sunk  life's  flickering  flame. 
And  thought  it  was  the  trace  of  death. 

That  o'er  his  senses  came. 

And  when  again  day's  blessed  light 

Did  on  his  vision  fall. 
There  stood  by  his  side, — a  wondrous  sight  I 

The  ancient  seneschal. 

He  strove,  but  cou.i  not  utter  word. 

His  misty  senses  fled  ; 
Again  he  woke,  and  Moorham's  lord 

Was  bending  o'er  his  bed. 

A  third  time  sank  he,  as  if  dead. 

And  then,  his  eyelids  raising, 
He  saw  a  chief  with  turban'd  head. 

Intently  on  him  gazing. 

**  The  prophet's  zealous  servant  I ; 

His  battles  I've  fought  and  won  ; 
Christians  I  scorn,  their  creeds  deny,  » 

But  honour  Mary's  Son. 

**  And  I  have  wedded  an  English  dame, 

And  set  her  parent  free  ; 
And  none,  who  wears  an  English  name. 

Shall  e'er  be  thrall'd  by  me. 

•*  For  her  dear  sake  I  can  endure 
All  wrong,  all  hatred  smother ; 

Whate'er  I  feel,  thou  art  secure. 
As  though  thou  werl  my  brother." — 


"  And  thou  hast  wedded  an  English  dame  !" 

Sir  Maurice  said  no  more. 
For  o'er  his  heart  soft  weakness  came, 

He  sigh'd  and  wept  full  sore. 

And  many  a  dreary  day  and  night 

With  the  Moslem  chief  stay'd  he. 
But  ne'er  could  catch,  to  bless  his  sight 

One  glimpse  of  the  fair  lady. 
Oft  gazed  he  on  her  lattice  high 

As  he  paced  the  court  below. 
And  turn'd  his  listening  ear  to  try 

If  word  or  accent  low 

Might  haply  reach  him  there ;  and  oft 

Traversed  the  garden  green, 
Wotting  her  footsteps  small  and  soft 

Might  on  the  turf  be  seen. 

And  oft  to  Moorham's  lord  he  gave 

His  listening  ear,  who  told. 
How  he  became  a  wretched  slave 

Within  that  Syrian  hold  ; 

What  time  from  liegemen  parted  far. 

Upon  the  battle  field. 
By  stern  and  adverse  fate  of  war 

He  was  obliged  to  yield  : 

And  how  his  daughter  did  by  stealth 

So  boldly  cross  the  sea 
With  secret  store  of  gather'd  wealth, 

To  set  her  father  free  : 

And  how  into  the  foeman's  hands 

She  and  her  people  fell ; 
And  how  (herself  in  captive  bands) 

She  sought  him  in  his  cell ; 

And  but  a  captive  boy  appear'd, 

Till  grief  her  sex  betray 'd. 
And  the  fierce  Saracen,  so  fear'd ! 

Spoke  gently  to  the  maid  : 

How  for  her  plighted  hand  sued  he. 

And  solemn  promise  gave. 
Her  noble  father  should  be  free 

With  every  Christian  slave ; 

(For  many  there,  in  bondage  kept. 

Felt  the  stern  rule  of  vice  5) 
How,  long  she  ponder'd,  sorely  wept. 

Then  paid  the  fearful  price. — 

A  tale  which  made  his  bosom  thrill. 

His  faded  eyes  to  weep  ; 
He,  waking,  thought  upon  it  still. 

And  saw  it  in  his  sleep. 

But  harness  rings,  and  the  trumpet's  bray 

Again  to  battle  calls ; 
And  Christian  po%vers,  in  grand  array. 

Are  near  those  Moslem  walls. 

Sir  Maurice  heard;  untoward  fate  ) 

Sad  to  be  thought  upon  : 
But  the  castle's  lord  unlocked  its  gate. 

And  bade  his  guest  be  gone. 

"  Fight  thou  for  faith  by  thee  adored 

By  thee  so  well  maintain'd! 
But  never  may  this  trusty  sword 

With  blood  of  thine  be  stain'd  !"— 


JBAILLIE. 


Sir  Maurice  took  him  by  the  hand, 
«  God  bless  thee,  too," — he  cried ; 

Then  to  the  nearest  Christian  band 
With  mingled  feelings  hied. 

The  battle  join'd,  with  dauntless  pride 

'Gainst  foemen,  foemen  stood ; 
And  soon  the  fatal  field  was  dyed 

With  many  a  brave  man's  blood. 

At  length  gave  way  the  Moslem  force ; 

Their  valiant  chief  was  slain ; 
Maurice  protected  his  lifeless  corse. 

And  bore  it  from  the  plain. 

There's  mourning  in  the  Moslem  halls, 

A  dull  and  dismal  sound : 
The  lady  left  its  'leaguer'd  walls, 

And  safe  protection  found. 

When  months  were  past,  the  widow'd  dame 

Look'd  calm  and  cheerfully ; 
Then  Maurice  to  her  presence  came. 

And  bent  him  on  his  knee. 

What  words  of  penitence  or  suit 

He  utter'd,  pass  we  by ; 
The  lady  wept,  awhile  was  mute. 

Then  gave  this  firm  reply : 

"  That  thou  didst  doubt  my  maiden  pride 
(A  thought  that  rose  and  vanish'd 

So  fleetingly)  I  will  not  chide  ; 
'Tis  from  remembrance  banish'd. 

"  But  thy  fair  fame,  earn'd  by  thy  sword. 

Still  spotless  shall  it  be  : 
1  was  the  bride  of  a  Moslem  lord, 

And  will  never  be  bride  to  thee." 

So  firm,  though  gentle,  was  her  look, 

Hope  i'  the  instant  fled  : 
A  solemn,  dear  farewell  he  took, 

And  from  her  presence  sped. 

And  she  a  plighted  nun  became, 

God  serving  day  and  night ; 
And  he  of  blest  Jerusalem 

A  brave  and  zealous  knight. 

But  that  their  lot  was  one  of  wo. 

Wot  ye,  because  of  this 
Their  seperate  single  state  ?  if  so. 

In  sooth  ye  judge  amiss. 

She  tends  the  helpless  stranger's  bed. 

For  alms  her  wealth  is  stored ; 
On  her  meek  worth  God's  grace  is  shed, 

Man's  grateful  blessings  pour'd. 

He  still  in  warlike  mail  doth  stalk. 

In  arms  his  prowess  prove ; 
And  oft  of  siege  or  battle  talk, 

And  sometimes  of  his  love. 

She  was  the  fairest  of  the  fair. 

The  gentlest  of  the  kind ; 
Search  ye  the  wide  world  everywhere, 

Her  like  ye  shall  not  find. 

She  was  the  fairest,  is  the  best, 
Too  good  for  a  monarch's  bride'; 

I  would  not  give  her  in  her  nun's  coif  dress'd 
For  all  her  sex  beside. 


ADDRESS  TO  A  STEAM-VESSEL. 

Freighted  with  passengers  of  every  sort, 
A  motley  throng,  thou  leavest  the  busy  port. 
Thy  long  and  ample  deck,  where  scatter'd  lie 
Baskets,  and  cloaks,  and  shawls  of  scarlet  dye ; 
Where  dogs  and  children  through  the  crowd  ai« 

straying, 
And,  on  his  bench  apart,  the  fiddler  playing, 
While  matron  dames  to  tressell'd  seats  repair,— 
Seems,  on  the  gleamy  waves  a  floating  fair 
Its  dark  form  on  the  sky's  pale  azure  cast. 
Towers  from  this  clustering  group  thy  pillar'd  eiAst, 
The  dense  smoke  issuing  from  its  narrow  vent 
Is  to  the  air  in  curly  volumes  sent, 
Which,  coiling  and  uncoiling  on  the  wind, 
Trails  like  a  writhing  serpent  far  behind. 
Beneath,  as  each  merged  wheel  its  motion  plica. 
On  either  side  the  white-churn 'd  waters  rise, 
And,  newly  parted  from  the  noisy  fray. 
Track  with  light  ridgy  foam  thy  recent  way. 
Then  far  diverged,  in  many  a  welted  hne 
Of  lustre,  on  the  distant  surface  shine. 

Thou  hold'st  thy  course  in  independent  pride  • 
No  leave  ask'st  thou  of  either  wind  or  tide. 
To  whate'er  point  the  breeze,  inconstant,  veer. 
Still  doth  thy  careless  helmsman  onward  steer; 
As  if  the  stroke  of  some  magician's  wand 
Had  lent  thee  power  the  ocean  to  command. 
What  is  this  power  which  thus  within  thee  lurks^ 
And,  all  unseen,  like  a  mask'd  giant  works  ? 
E'en  that  which  gentle  dames,  at  morning's  tea. 
From  silver  urn  ascending,  daily  see 
With  tressy  wreathmgs  playing  in  the  air. 
Like  the  loosed  ringlets  of  a  lady's  hair  ; 
Or  rising  from  th'  enamell'd  cup  beneath, 
With  the  soft  fragrance  of  an  infant's  breath: 
That  which  within  the  peasant's  humble  cot 
Comes  from  th'  uncover'd  mouth  of  savoury  pot. 
As  his  kind  mate  prepares  his  noonday  fare, 
Which  cur,  and  cat,  and  rosy  urchins  share : 
That  which,  all  silver'd  with  the  moon's  pale  beam. 
Precedes  the  mighty  Geyser's  upcast  stream, 
What  time,  with  bellowing  din  exploded  forth, 
It  decks  the  midnight  of  the  frozen  north, 
Whilst  travellers  from  their  skin-spread  couchef 

rise 
To  gaze  upon  the  sight  with  wondering  eyes. 

Thou  hast  to  those  "  in  populous  city  pent,* 
Glimpses  of  wild  and  beauteous  nature  lent ; 
A  bright  remembrance  ne'er  to  be  destroy'd, 
Which  proves  to  them  a  treasure,  long  enjoy 'd. 
And  for  this  scope  to  beings  erst  confined, 
I  fain  would  hail  thee  with  a  grateful  mind. 
They  who  had  naught  of  verdant  freshness  seen 
But  suburb  orchards  choked  with  colworts  green 
Now,  seated  at  their  ease  may  glide  along, 
Lochlomond's  fair  and  fairy   isles  among  ; 
Where  bushy  promontories  fondly  peep 
At  their  own  beauty  in  the  nether  deep, 
O'er  drooping  birch  and  berried  row'n  that  lavt 
Their  vagrant  branches  in  the  glassy  wave  ; 
They,  who  on  higher  objects  scarce  have  counted 
Than  church's  spire  with  gilded  vane  surmounted, 
May  view,  within  their  near,  distinctive  ken. 
The  rocky  summits  of  the  lofty  Ben  ; 


TO   MRS.   SIDDONS. 


399 


Or  see  his  purpled  shoulders  darkly  lower 
Through  the  din  drapery  of  a  summer  shower. 
V/here,   spread  in    broad   and    fair  expanse,  the 

Clyde 
Mingles  his  waters  with  the  briny  tide, 
Along  the  lesser  Cumra's  rocky  shore, 
With  moss  and  crusted  lichens  flecker 'd  o'er, 
E'en  he,  who  hath  but  warr'd  with  thieving  cat, 
Or  from  his  cupboard  chased  a  hungry  rat. 
The  city  cobbler, — scares  the  wild  seamew 
In  its  mid-flight  with  loud  and  shrill  halloo  ; 
Or  valiantly  with  fearful  threatening  shakes 
His  lank  and  greasy  head  at  Kittywakes,* 
The  eyes  that  hath  no  fairer  outline  seen 
Than  chimney'd  walls  with  slated  roofs  between. 
Which  hard  and  harshly  edge  the  smoky  sky, 
May  Aron's  sof tly- vision 'd  peaks  descry, 
Cooping  with  graceful  state  her  steepy  sides, 
O'er  which  the  cloud's  broad  shadow  swiftly  glides. 
And  interlacing  slopes  that  gently  merge 
Into  the  pearly  mist  of  ocean's  verge. 
Ej'es  which  admired  that  work  of  sordid  skill. 
The  storied  structure  of  a  cotton  mill, 
May,  wondering,  now  behold  the  unnumber'd  host 
Of  marshall'd  pillars  on  fair  Ireland's  coast. 
Phalanx  on  phalanx  ranged  with  sidelong  bend, 
Or  broken  i-anks  that  to  the  main  descend, 
Like  Pharaoh's  army,  on  the  Red  Sea  shore, 
Which  deep  and  deeper  went  to  rise  no  more. 
Yet  ne'ertheless,  whate'er  we  owe  to  thee. 
Rover  at  will  on  river,  lake,  and  sea. 
As  profit's  bait  or  pleasure's  lure  engage. 
Thou  offspring  of  that  philosophic  sage, 
Watt,  who  in  heraldry  of  science  ranks, 
With  those  to  whom  men  owe  high  meed  of  thanks. 
And  shall  not  be  forgotten,  e'en  when  fame 
Graves  on  her  annals  Davy's  splendid  name  ! — 
Dearer  to  fanc}-,  to  the  e^'e  more  fair. 
Are  the  light  skiffs,  that  to  the  breezy  air 
Unfurl  their  swelling  sails  of  snowy  hue 
Upon  the  moving  lap  of  ocean  blue : 
As  the  proud  swan  on  summer  lake  displays. 
With  plumage  brightening  in  the  morning  rays, 
Her  fair  pavilion  of  erected  wings, — 
They  change,  and  veer,  and  turn  like  living  things. 

So  fairly  rigg'd,  with  shrouding,  sails  and  mast, 
To  brave  with  manly  skill  the  winter  blast 
Of  every  clime, — in  vessels  rigg'd  like  these 
Did  great  Columbus  cross  the  western  seas. 
And  to  the  stinted  thoughts  of  man  reveal'd 
What  yet  the  course  of  ages  had  conceal'd. 
In  such  as  these,  on  high  adventure  bent 
Round  the  vast  world  Magellan's  comrades  went. 
To  such  as  these  are  hardy  seamen  found 
As  with  the  ties  of  kindred  feeling  bound, 
Boasung,  as  cans  of  cheering  grog  they  sip. 
The  varied  fortunes  of  "  our  gallant  ship." 
The  offspring  these  of  bold  sagacious  man 
Ere  yet  the  reign  of  letter'd  lore  began. 

In  very  truth,  compared  to  these  thou  art 
A  daily  labourer,  a  mechanic  swart. 
In  working  weeds  array'd  of  homely  gray. 
Opposed  to  gentle  nymph  or  lady  gay. 


♦  The  common  Jf  vulgar  name  of  a  water-bird  frequent- 
ing that  coast. 


To  whose  free  robes  the  graceful  right  is  given 
To  play  and  dally  with  the  winds  of  heaven. 
Beholding  thee,  the  great  of  other  days 
And  modern  men  with  all  their  alter'd  ways, 
Across  my  mind  with  hasty  transit  gleam. 
Like  fleeting  shadows  of  a  feverish  dream : 
Fitful  I  gaze  with  adverse  humours  teased. 
Half  sad,  half  proud,  half  angry,  and  half  pleased. 


TO  MRS.  SIDDONS. 

Gifted  of  Heaven  !  who  hast,  in  days  gone  by. 
Moved  every  heart,  delighted  every  eye, 
While  age  and  youth,  of  high  and  low  degree. 
In  sympathy  were  join'd,  beholding  thee. 
As  in  the  drama's  ever  changing  scene 
Thou  heldst  thy  splendid  state,  our  tragic  queen  J 
No  barriers  there  thy  fair  domain  confined. 
Thy  sovereign  sway  was  o'er  the  human  mind; 
And,  in  the  triumph  of  that  witching  hour. 
Thy  lofty  bearing  well  became  thy  power. 

Th'  impassion'd  changes  of  thy  beauteous  face. 
Thy  stately  form  and  high  imperial  grace  ; 
Thine  arms  impetuous  tost,  thy  robe's  wide  flow. 
And  the  aark  tempest  gather'd  on  thy  brow. 
What  time  thy  flashing  eye  and  lip  of  scorn 
Down  to  the  dust  thy  mimic  foes  have  borne  ; 
Remorseful  musings,  sunk  to  deep  dejection. 
The  fix'd  and  yearning  looks  of  strong  affection  ; 
The  action'd  turmoil  of  a  bosom  rending. 
When  pity,  love,  and  honour  are  contending; — 
Who  have  beheld  all  this,  right  well  I  ween  ! 
A  lovely,  grand,  and  wondrous  sight  have  seen. 

Thy  varied  accents,  rapid,  fitful,  slow. 
Loud  rage,  and  fear's  snatch'd  whisper,  quick  an<J 

low. 
The  burst  of  stifled  love,  the  wail  of  grief. 
And  tones  of  high  command,  full,  solemn,  brief; 
The  change  of  voice  and  emphasis  that  threw 
Light  on  obscurity,  and  brought  to  view 
Distinctions  nice,  when  grave  or  comic  mood. 
Or  mingled  humours,  terse  and  new,  elude 
Common  perception,  as  earth's  smallest  things 
To  size  and  form  the  vesting  hoarfrost  brings. 
Which  seem'd  as  if  some  secret  voice,  to  clear 
The  ravell'd  meaning,  whisper'd  in  thine  ear. 
And  thou  had'st  even  with  him  communion  kept, 
Who  hath  so  long  in  Stratford's  chancel  slept. 
Whose  lines,  where  Nature's  brightest  traces  shine 
Alone  were  worthy  deem'd  of  powers  like  thine ; 
They,  who  have  heard  all  this,  have  proved  fuJ! 

well 
Of  soul-exciting  sound  the  mightiest  spell. 

But  though  time's  lengthen'd  shadows  o'er  thee 

glide. 
And  pomp  of  regal  state  is  cast  aside. 
Think  not  the  glory  of  thy  course  is  spent ; 
There's  moonlight  radiance  to  thy  evening  lent. 
Which  from  the  mental  world  can  never  fade. 
Till  all  who've  seen  thee  in  the  grave  are  laid. 
Thy  graceful  form  still  moves  in  nightly  dreams. 
And  what  thou  wert  to  the  wrapt  sleeper  seems: 
While  feverish  fancy  oft  doth  fondly  trace 
Within  her  curtain 'd  couch  thy  wondrous  face, 


100 


BAILLIE. 


Yea  ;  and  to  many  a  wight,  bereft  and  lone, 
In  musing  hours,  though  all  to  thee  unknown. 
Soothing  his  earthly  course  of  good  and  ill. 
With  all  thy  potent  charm  thou  actest  still. 
And  now  in  crowded  room  or  rich  saloon, 
Thy  stately  presence  recognised,  how  soon 
The  glance  of  many  an  eye  is  on  thee  cast, 
In  grateful  memory  of  pleasures  past ! 
Pleased  to  behold  thee  with  becoming  grace 
Take,  as  befits  thee  well,  an  honour'd  place 
(Where,  blest  by  many  a  heart,  long  mayst  thou 

stand) 
Amongst  the  virtuous  matrons  of  the  land. 


A  VOLUNTEER  SONG. 

Yk,  who  Britain's  soldiers  be. 
Freemen,  children  of  the  free, 
Who  freely  come  at  danger's  call 
From  shop  and  palace,  cot  and  hall, 
And  brace  ye  bravely  up  in  warlike  geer 
For  all  that  ye  hold  dear  ! 

Blest  in  your  hands  be  sword  and  spear  ! 

There  is  no  banded  Briton  here 

On  whom  some  fond  mate  hath  not  smiled. 

Or  hung  in  love  some  lisping  child  ; 

Or  aged  parent,  grasping  his  last  stay 

With  locks  of  honour'd  gray. 

Such  men  behold  with  steady  pride 

The  threaten'd  tempest  gathering  wide, 

And  list,  with  onward  forms  inclined. 

To  sound  of  foemen  on  the  wind, 

And  bravely  act,  mid  th*d  wild  battle's  roar. 

In  scenes  untried  before. 

Let  veterans  boast,  as  well  they  may. 
Nerves  steel'd  in  many  a  bloody  day ; 
The  generous  heart,  who  takes  his  stand 
Upon  his  free  and  native  land. 
Doth  with  the  first  sound  of  the  hostile  drum 
A  fearless  man  become. 

Come  then,  ye  hosts  that  madly  pour 
From  wave-toss'd  floats  upon  our  shore  ! 
If  fell  or  gentle,  false  or  true, 
Ltit  those  inquire  who  wish  to  sue  : 
Nor  fiend  nor  hero  from  a  foreign  strand 
Shall  lord  it  in  our  land. 

Come  then,  ye  hosts  that  madly  pour 
From  wave-toss'd  floats  upon  our  shore  ! 
An  adverse  wind  or  breezeless  main, 
Lock'd  in  their  ports  our  tars  detain, 
To  waste  their  wistful  spirits,  vainly  keen. 
Else  here  ye  had  not  been. 


Yet,  ne'ertheless,  in  strong  array, 

Prepare  ye  for  a  well-fought  day. 

Let  banners  wave,  and  trumpets  sounds 

And  closing  cohorts  darken  round. 

And  the  fierce  onset  raise  its  mingled  maf 

New  sound  on  England's  shore  ! 

Freemen,  children  of  the  free. 

Are  brave  alike  on  land  or  sea  ;* 

And  every  rood  of  British  ground. 

On  which  a  hostile  glave  is  found. 

Proves  under  their  firm  tread  and  vig<-  r^»  stroka 

A  deck  of  royal  oak. 


TO  A  CHILD. 

Whose  imp  art  thou,  with  dimpled  cbr^k, 

And  curly  pate  and  merry  eye, 
And  arm  and  shoulders  round  and  slefc\'. 

And  soft  and  fair  ?  tliou  urchin  sly  ! 

What  boots  it  who,  with  sweet  caresses. 
First  call'd  thee  his,  or  squire  or  hind  ?— 

For  thou  in  every  wight  that  passes. 
Dost  now  a  friendly  playmate  find. 

Thy  downcast  glances,  grave,  but  cunning, 

As  fringed  eyelids  rise  and  fall. 
Thy  shyness,  swiftly  from  me  running, — 

'lis  infantine  coquetry  all ! 

Btit  far  afield  thou  hast  not  flown, 

With  mocks  and  threats  half  lisp'd,  naif  spoken 
I  feel  thee  pulling  at  my  gown. 

Of  right  goodwill  thy  simple  token. 

And  thou  must  laugh  and  wrestle  too, 

A  mimic  warfare  with  me  waging, 
To  make,  as  wily  lovers  do. 

Thy  after  kindness  more  engaging. 

The  wilding  rose,  sweet  as  thyself. 

And  new-cropt  daisies  are  thy  treasure : 

I'd  gladly  part  with  worldly  pelf. 
To  taste  again  thy  youthful  pleasure. 

But  yet  for  all  thy  merry  look. 

Thy  frisks  and  wiles,  the  time  is  coming, 
When  thou  shalt  sit  in  cheerless  nook. 

The  weary  spell  or  horn-book  thumbing. 

Well ;  let  it  be  !  through  weal  and  wo, 
Thou  know'st  not  now  thy  future  range  5 

Life  is  a  motley,  shifting  show. 

And  thou  a  thing  of  hope  and  change. 


♦  It  was  then  frequently  said,  that  our  seamen  exc«llac 
our  soldier*. 


ROBERT  BLOOMFIELD. 


Robert  Bloomfield,  the  son  of  a  tailor  at 
Honington,  in  Suffolk,  was  born  on  the  3d  of 
December,  1766.  His  mother,  who  was  the  village 
school-mistress,  gave  him  the  only  education  he 
ever  received,  and  placed  him  first,  with  a  farmer 
of  Sapiston,  as  his  assistant,  and  afterward  with 
George,  the  brother  of  our  poet,  who  was  a  shoe- 
maker in  London.  His  principal  occupation  was 
to  wait  upon  the  journeymen,  in  fetching  their 
dinners,  &c. ;  and,  in  his  intervals  of  leisure,  he 
read  the  newspaper,  and,  with  the  help  of  a  dic- 
tionary, was  soon  able  to  comprehend  and  admire 
the  speeches  of  Burke,  Fox,  and  other  statesmen  of 
the  daj'.  His  next  step  toward  improvement  was  in 
his  attendance  at  a  dissenting  meeting-house,  where, 
he  says,  he  soon  learned  to  accent  "  hard  words  ," 
besides  which,  he  also  visited  a  debating  society, 
went  sometimes  to  the  theatre,  and  read  the  His- 
tory of  England,  the  British  Traveller,  and  a  book 
of  geography.  A  perusal  of  some  poetry  in  the 
London  Magazine,  led  to  his  earliest  attempts  in  verse, 
which  he  sent  to  a  newspaper,  under  the  title  of  the 
Milk-maid,  or  the  First  of  May,  and  the  Sailor's 
Return.  Indeed,  says  his  biographer,  in  the  An- 
nual Obituary,  he  had  so  generally  and  diligently 
improved  himself,  that,  although  only  sixteen  or 
seventeen  years  of  age,  his  brother  George  and 
his  fellow  workmen  began  to  be  instructed  by  his 
conversation. 

In  17S4,  anxious  to  avoid  a  part  in  some  disputes 
which  had  arisen  between  the  journeymen  and 
master  shoemakers,  by  whom  himself  and  his 
brother  were  employed,  Robert  returned  to  his 
relation  at  Sapiston,  and,  for  two  months,  worked 
at  farming.  At  the  expiration  of  that  time  he  was 
put  apprentice  to  Mr.  Dudbridge,  a  ladies'  snoe- 
maker,  and  soon  became  expert  at  his  trade.  In 
1790,  he  married  the  daughter  of  a  boat-builder, 
and  after  some  years  of  conjugal  poverty,  hired  a 
room  up  one  pair  of  stairs,  at  No.  14  Bell  Alley, 
Coleman  Street.  The  master  of  the  house,  it  is 
said,  giving  him  leave  to  work  in  the  light  garret, 
two  pair  of  stairs  higher,  he  not  only  there  carried 
on  his  occupation,  but,  in  the  midst  of  six  or  seven 
other  workmen,  actually  completed  his  Farmer's 
Boy :  the  parts  of  Autumn  and  Winter  having  been 
composed  in  his  head  before  a  line  of  them  was 
committed  to  paper.  When  the  manuscript  was  fit 
for  publication,  he  offered  it,  but  in  vain,  to  various 
booksellers,  and  to  the  editor  of  the  Monthly 
Magazine,  who,  in  his  number  for  September,  1823, 
gives  the  following  interesting  account  of  the 
affair : — "  He  brought  his  poem  to  our  ofl!ice  ;  and, 
though  his  unpolished  appearance,  his  coarse  hand- 
writing, and  wretched  orthography,  afforded  no 
Vol.  III.— 26 


I  prospect  that  his  production  could  be  printed,  yet 
he  found  attention  by  his  repeated  calls,  and  by  ihe 
humility  of  his  expectations,  which  were  limited  to 
half-a-dozen  copies  of  the  magazine.  At  length, 
on  his  name  being  announced  when  a  literacy 
gentleman,  particularly  conversant  in  rural  economy, 
happened  to  be  present,  the  poem  was  finally  re- 
examined, and  its  general  aspect  excited  the  risi- 
bility of  that  gentleman  in  so  pointed  a  manner, 
that  Bloomfield  was  called  into  the  room,  and  ex- 
horted not  to  waste  his  time,  and  neglect  his  em- 
ployment, in  making  vain  attempts,  and  particularly 
in  treading  on  the  ground  which  Thomson  had 
sanctified.  His  earnestness  and  confidence,  how- 
ever, led  the  editor  to  advise  him  to  consult  his 
countryman,  Mr.  Capel  Lofft,  of  Trooton,  to  whom 
he  gave  him  a  letter  of  introduction.  On  his 
departure,  the  gentleman  present  warmly  com- 
plimented the  editor  on  the  sound  advice  which 
he  had  given  '  the  poor  fellow  ;'  and  it  was  mutually 
conceived  that  an  industrious  man  was  thereby 
likely  to  be  saved  from  a  ruinous  infatuation." 

The  poem  at  length  reached  the  hands  of  Mr. 
Capel  Lofft,  who  sent  it,  with  the  strongest  recon»- 
mendations,  to  Mr.  Hill,  the  proprietor  of  the 
Monthly  Mirror,  who  negotiated  the  sale  of  the 
poem  with  the  publishers,  Messrs.  Vernor  and 
Hood.  These  gentlemen  acted  with  great  liberality 
towards  Bloomfield,  by  voluntarily  giving  hira 
£200  in  addition  to  the  £50  originally  stipulated 
for,  and  by  securing  to  him  a  moiety  of  the  copy- 
right of  his  poem,  which,  on  its  appearance,  was 
received  with  a  burst  of  wonder  and  applause  from 
all  quarters.  The  most  eminent  critics  and  literati 
of  the  day  were  profuse  in  their  praise  of  both  the 
author  and  his  poem  ;  and  the  most  polished  circles 
of  society  were  smitten  with  the  charms  of  rural 
life,  as  depicted  by  the  Farmer's  Boy.  He  also 
received  some  substantial  proofs  of  the  estimation 
in  which  he  was  held,  by  presents  from  the  Duke 
of  York  and  other  persons  of  distinction  ;  and  tae 
Duke  of  Grafton,  after  having  had  him  down  to 
Whittlebury  Forest,  of  which  his  grace  was  ranger, 
settled  upon  him  a  gratuity  of  a  shilling  a-day,  and 
subsequently  appointed  him  under-sealer  in  the 
Seal  ofiSce.  Subscriptions  were  also  entered  into 
for  his  benefit  at  various  places ;  in  addition  to 
which,  he  derived  considerable  emolument  from  the 
sale  of  his  work,  of  which,  in  a  short  space  of  time, 
near  forty  thousand  copies  were  sold. 

His  good  fortune,  which,  he  said,  appeared  to  him 
as  a  dream,  enabled  him  to  remove  to  a  comfortable 
and  commodious  habitation  in  the  City  Road, 
where,  having  given  up  his  situation  at  the  Seal 
office,  in  consequence  of  ill  health,  he  worked  al 

401 


402 


BLOOMFIELD. 


his  trade  as  a  shoemaker,  and  also  sold  ^olian 
harps  of  his  own  construction.  He  continued  to 
employ  his  poetical  powers,  and,  besides  contribu- 
ting several  pieces  to  the  Monthly  Mirror,  published 
three  volumes  of  poems,  in  1802,  1804,  and  1806, 
successively.  In  1811,  appeared  his  Banks  of  the 
Wye,  the  result  of  a  tour  made  by  him  into  New 
South  Wales,  the  mountain  scenery  of  which 
country  made  a  novel  and  pleasing  impression  upon 
his  mind.  Not  long  afterward,  owing,  as  some 
say,  to  his  engaging  in  the  book  trade,  he  became  a 
bankrupt ;  and  about  the  same  time,  suffering  much 
from  the  dropsy,  he  left  London,  and  took  up  his 
abode  at  Shefford,  m  Bucks,  for  the  benefit  of  his 
health.  It  seems,  that  the  decreasing  sale  of  his 
works,  and  an  indiscriminate  liberality  toward  his 
friends  and  relations,  who  were  poor  and  numerous, 
had  materially  diminished  his  finances ;  and  this, 
together  with  the  illness  before  mentioned,  preying 
upon  his  mind,  threw  him  into  a  state  which 
threatened  to  terminate  in  mental  aberration.  This 
event  was,  however,  prevented  by  his  death,  which 
took  place  at  Shefford,  on  the  19th  of  August,  1823, 
in  the  fifty-seventh  year  of  his  age.  He  left  a 
widow  and  four  children ;  and  had  published, 
shortly  before  his  death.  May  Day  with  the  Muses, 
and  Hazlewood  Hall,  a  Village  Drama,  in  three 
acts. 

The  characteristics  of  the  poem  of  the  Farmer's 
Boy  are  too  well  known  to  need  a  repetition  of  them 
here  ;  it  is  sufficient  to  say,  that  the  popularity  of 
the  work  is  justified  by  the  unqualified  eulogy  of 
Parr,  Southey,  Aikin,  Watson,  (Bishop  of  Llandaff',) 


and  all  the  most  eminent  critics  and  poets  of  a 
later  date.  Dr.  Drake,  in  his  Literary  Hours,  hai 
taken  a  very  masterly  view  of  the  merits  of  this 
poem,  which  he  considers  not  inferior  to  the  Seasons 
of  Thomson,  from  which  Bloomfield  probably  took 
the  idea  of  the  Farmer's  Boy ;  though  there  is  iw 
other  affinity  between  the  two,  than,  as  Mr.  Loflt 
observes,  "  flowing  numbers,  feeling  piety,  poetic 
imagery  and  animation,  a  taste  for  the  picturesque, 
force  of  thought,  and  a  true  sense  of  the  natural 
and  pathetic."  The  great  difference  between  the 
composition  of  Thomson  and  Bloo^nfield  consists 
in  that  of  the  latter  being  exclusively  pastoral 
throughout ;  and,  indeed,  says  Dr.  Drake,  "  such 
are  its  merits,  that  in  true  pastoral  imagery  and 
simplicity,  I  do  not  think  any  production  can  be 
put  in  competition  with  I  since  the  days  of  Theo- 
cratus."  A  Latin  version  of  the  Farmer's  Boy,  by 
Mr.  Clubbe,  was  published  in  1805,  and  it  has  been 
translated,  by  M.  Etienne  Allard,  into  Frenchi 
under  the  title  of  le  Valet  du  Fermier.  We  con- 
clude our  memoir  of  Bloomfield,  who  appears  to 
have  blended  with  great  genius,  an  innate  modesty 
and  amiableness  of  character,  with  the  following 
verse,  from  a  very  eloquent  tribute  to  his  memory, 
by  Bernard  Barton : 

It  is  not  quaint  and  local  terms 

Besprinkled  o'er  thy  rustic  lay, 
Though  well  such  dialect  confirms 

Its  power  unlelter'd  minds  to  sway; 
But  'tis  not  these  that  most  display 

Thy  sweetest  charms,  thy  gentlest  thrall  — 
Words,  phrases,  fashions,  pass  away, 

But  Truth  and  Nature  live  through  all. 


THE   FARMER'S  BOY. 


SPRING. 


ARGUMENT. 

Invocation,  &c.   Seed-time.   Harrowing.    Morning  walks. 

Milking.    The  dairy.    Suffolk  cheese.    Spring  coming 

forth.    Sheep  fond  of  changing.    Lambs  at  play.    The 

butcher,  &c. 

O  COME,  blest  spirit !  whatsoe'er  thou  art. 
Thou  kindling  warmth  that  hoverest  round  my  heart, 
Sweet  inmate,  hail !  thou  source  of  sterling  joy, 
That  poverty  itself  cannot  destroy, 
Be  thou  my  muse  ;  and  faithful  still  to  me, 
Retrace  the  paths  of  wild  obscurity. 
No  deeds  of  arms  my  humble  lines  rehearse ; 
No  Alpine  wonders  thunder  through  my  verse. 
The  roaring  cataract,  the  snow-topt  hill. 
Inspiring  awe,  till  breath  itself  stands  still ; 
Nature's  sublimer  scenes  ne'er  charm'd  mine  eyes, 
Nor  science  led  me  through  the  boundless  skies ; 
From  meaner  objects  far  my  raptures  flow : 
O  point  these  raptures  !  bid  my  bosom  glow  ! 
And  lead  my  soul  to  ecstasies  of  praise 
For  all  the  blessings  of  my  infant  days  ! 
Bear  me  through  regions  where  gay  fancy  dwells : 
But  mould  to  trutn's  fair  form  what  memory  tells. 


Live  trifling  incidents,  and  grace  my  song, 
That  to  the  humblest  menial  belong  : 
To  him  whose  drudgery  unheeded  goes. 
His  joys  unreckon'd,  as  his  cares  or  woes. 
Though  joys  and  cares  in  every  path  are  sown, 
And  youthful  minds  have  feelings  of  their  own, 
Quick  springing  sorrows,  transient  as  the  dew, 
Delights  from  trifles,  trifles  ever  new. 
'Twas  thus  with  Giles :  meek,  fatherless  and  poo,  | 
Labour  his  portion,  but  he  felt  no  more  ; 
No  stripes,  no  tyranny  his  steps  pursued ; 
His  life  was  constant,  cheerful  servitude ; 
Strange  to  the  world,  he  wore  a  bashful  look. 
The  fields  his  study,  nature  was  his  book  ' 
And  as  revolving  seasons  changed  the  scene 
From  heat  to  cold,  tempestuous  to  serene. 
Though  every  change  still  varied  his  employ, 
Yet  each  new  duty  brought  its  share  of  joy. 

Where  noble  Grafton  spreads  his  rich  domains 
Round  Euston's  water'd  vale,  and  sloping  plains. 
Where  woods  and  groves  in  solemn  grandeur  ny«£, 
Where  the  kite  brooding  unmolested  flies; 
The  woodcock  and  the  painted  pheasant  race, 
And  skulking  foxes,  destined  for  the  chase  ; 
There  Giles,  untaught  and  unrepining,  stray'd 
Through  every  copse,  and  grove,  and  winding  glade  i 
There  his  first  thoughts  to  nature's  charms  inclines, 
That  stamps  devotion  on  th'  inquiring  mind. 


THE   FARMER'S   BOY. 


403 


A  little  farm  his  generous  master  till'd, 

Who  with  peculiar  grace  his  station  fiU'd ; 

By  deeds  of  hospitality  endear'd, 

Served  from  affection,  for  his  worth  revered; 

A  happy  offspring  blest  his  plenteous  board, 

His  fields  were  fruitful,  and  his  barns  well  stored. 

And  fourscore  ewes  he  fed,  a  sturdy  team. 

And  lowing  kine  that  grazed  beside  the  stream. 

Unceasing  industry  he  kept  in  view  ; 

And  never  lack'd  a  job  for  Giles  to  do. 

Fled  now  the  sullen  murmurs  of  the  north. 
The  splendid  raiment  of  the  Spring  peeps  forth  ; 
Her  universal  green,  and  the  clear  sky, 
Delight  still  more  and  more  the  gazing  eye. 
Wide  o'er  the  fields,  in  rising  moisture  strong, 
Shoots  up  the  simple  flower  or  creeps  along 
The  mellow'd  soil ;  imbibing  fairer  hues. 
Or  sweets  from  frequent  showers  and  evening  dews ; 
That   summon   from  their  sheds   the   slumbering 

ploughs, 
While  health  impregnates  every  breeze  that  blows. 
No  wheels  support  the  diving,  pointed  share ; 
No  groaning  ox  is  doom'd  to  labour  there  ; 
No  helpmates  teach  the  docile  steed  his  road ; 
(Alike  unknown  the  ploughboy  and  the  goad ;) 
But,  unassisted  through  each  toilsome  day, 
With  smiling  brow  the  ploughman  cleaves  his  way. 
Draws  his  fresh  parallels,  and  widening  still. 
Treads  slow  the  heavy  dale,  or  climbs  the  hill : 
Strong  on  the  wing  his  busy  followers  play,    [day  ; 
Where  writhing  earth  worms  meet  th'  unwelcome 
Till  all  is  changed,  and  hill  and  level  down 
Assume  a  livery  of  sober  brown  : 
Again  disturb'd,  when  Giles  with  wearying  strides 
From  ridge  to  ridge  the  ponderous  harrow  guides ; 
His  heels  deep  sinking  every  step  he  goes, 
Till  dirt  adhesive  loads  his  clouted  shoes. 
Welcome,  green  headland  !  firm  beneath  his  feet; 
Welcome  the  friendly  bank's  refreshing  seat ; 
There,  warm  with  toil,  his  panting  horses  browse 
Their  sheltering  canopy  of  pendent  boughs  ; 
Till  rest,  delicious,  chase  each  transient  pain, 
And  new-born  vigour  dwell  in  every  vein. 
Hour  after  hour,  and  day  to  day  succeeds ; 
Till  every  clod  and  deep-drawn  furrow  spreads 
To  crumbling  mould  ;  a  level  surface  clear. 
And  strew'd  with  corn  to  crown  the  rising  year ; 
And  o'er  the  whole  Giles  once  transverse  again, 
In  earth's  moist  bosom  buries  up  the  grain. 
The  work  is  done  ;  no  more  to  man  is  given  ; 
The  grateful  farmer  trusts  the  rest  to  Heaven. 
Yet  oft  with  anxious  heart  he  looks  around. 
And  marks  the  first  green  blade  that  breaks  the 

ground : 
In  fancy  sees  his  trembling  oats  uprun, 
His  tufted  barley  yellow  with  the  sun  ; 
Sees  clouds  propitious  shed  their  timely  store. 
And  ail  his  harvest  gather'd  round  his  door. 
But  still  unsafe  the  big  swoln  grain  below, 
A  favourite  morsel  with  the  rook  and  crow ; 
From  field  to  field  the  flock  increasing  goes : 
To  level  crops  most  formidable  foes  ; 
Their  danger  well  the  wary  plunderers  know, 
And  place  a  watch  on  some  conspicuous  bough ; 
Yet  oft  the  skulking  gunner  by  surprise 
Will  scatter  death  amongst  them  as  they  rise. 


These,  hung  in  triumph  round  the  spacious  field. 
At  best  will  but  a  shortlived  .terror  yield: 
Nor  guards  of  property  ;  (not  penal  law. 
But  harmless  riflemen  of  rags  and  straw  ;) 
Familiarized  to  these,  they  boldly  rove. 
Nor  heed  such  sentinels  that  never  move. 
Let  then  your  birds  lie  prostrate  on  the  earth 
In  dying  posture,  and  with  wings  stretch'd  forth 
Shift  them  at  eve  or  morn  from  place  to  place, 
And  death  shall  terrify  the  pilfering  race ; 
In  the  mid  air,  while  circling  round  and  round, 
They  call  their  lifeless  comrades  from  the  ground  j 
With  quickening  wing,  and  note  of  loud  alarm, 
Warn  the  whole  flock  to  shun  th'  impending  harm. 

This  task  had  Gi^es,  in  fields  remote  from  home : 
Oft  has  he  wish'd  the  rosy  morn  to  come : 
Yet  never  famed  was  he  nor  foremost  found 
To  break  the  seal  of  sleep;  his  sleep  was  sound; 
But  when  at  daybreak  summon'd  from  his  bed. 
Light  as  the  lark  that  caroll'd  o'er  his  head. — 
His  sandy  way,  deep  worn  by  hasty  showers, 
O'erarch'd  with  oaks  that  form'd  fantastic  bowers, 
Waving  aloft  their  towering  branches  proud. 
In  borrow'd  tinges  from  the  eastern  cloud. 
Gave  inspiration,  pure  as  ever  flow'd. 
And  genuine  transport  in  his  bosom  glow'd. 
His  own  shrill  matin  join'd  the  various  notes 
Of  nature's  music,  from  a  thousand  throats  : 
The  blackbird  strove  with  emulation  sweet. 
And  echo  answer'd  from  her  close  retreat ; 
The  sporting  whitethroat  on  some  twig's  end  borne, 
Pour'd  hymns  to  freedom  and  the  rising  morn  ;- 
Stopt  in  her  song,  perchance  the  starting  thrush 
Shook  a  white  shower  from  the  blackthorn  bush, 
Where  dewdrops  thick  as  early  blossoms  hung, 
And  trembled  as  the  minstrel  sweetly  sung. 
Across  his  path,  in  either  grove  to  hide, 
The  timid  rabbit  scouted  by  his  side ; 
Or  pheasant  boldly  stalk'd  along  the  road, 
Whose  gold  and  purple  tints  alternate  glow'd. 

But  groves  no  farther  fenced  the  devious  way, 
A  wide-extended  heath  before  him  lay. 
Where  .on  the  grass  the  stagnant  shower  had  run. 
And  shone  a  mirror  to  the  rising  sun. 
Thus  doubly  seen  to  light  a  distant  wood, 
To  give  new  life  to  each  expanding  bud ; 
And  chase  away  the  dewy  footmarks  found, 
Where  prowling  Reynard  trod  his  nightly  round ; 
To  shun  whose  thefts  was  Giles's  evening  care. 
His  feather'd  victims  to  suspend  in  air. 
High  on  the  bough  that  nodded  o'er  his  head. 
And  thus  each  morn  to  strew  the  field  with  dead. 

His  simple  errand  done,  he  homeward  hies ; 
Another  instantly  its  place  supplies. 
The  clattering  dairy  maid,  immersed  in  steam. 
Singing  and  scrubbing  midst  her  milk  and  cream, 
Bawls  out  ^^  Go  fetch  the  cows .'" — he  hears  no  mere 
For  pigs,  and  ducks,  and  turkeys  throng  the  cjoor. 
And  sitting  hens,  for  constant  war  prepared  ; 
A  concert  strange  to  that  which  late  he  heard. 
Straight  to  the  meadow  then  he  whistling  goes; 
With  well  known  halloo  calls  his  lazy  cows ; 
Down  the  rich  pasture  heedlessly  they  graze. 
Or  hear  the  summons  with  an  idle  gaze  ; 
For  well  they  know  the  cowyard  yields  no  more 
Its  tempting  fragrance  .nor  its  wintry  store, 


404 


BLOOMFIELD. 


Reluctance  marks  their  steps,  sedate  and  slow ; 
The  right  of  conquest  all  the  law  they  know : 
The  strong  press  on,  the  weak  by  turns  succeed, 
And  one  superior  always  takes  the  lead  ; 
Is  ever  foremost,  wheresoe'er  they  stray : 
Allow'd  precedence,  undisputed  sway: 
With  jealous  pride  her  station  is  maintain'd, 
For  many  a  broil  that  post  of  honour  gain'd. 
At  home,  the  yard  affords  a  grateful  scene  ; 
For  Spring  makes  e'en  a  miry  cowyard  clean. 
Thence  from  its  chalky  bed  behold  convey'd 
The  rich  manure  that  drenching  Winter  made. 
Which  piled  near  home,  grows  green  with  many  a 
A  promised  nutriment  for  Autumn's  seed,      [weed, 
Forth  comes  the  maid,  and  like  tjje  morning  smiles  ; 
The  mistress  too,  and  follow'd  close  by  Giles. 
A  friendly  tripod  forms  their  humble  seat, 
With  pails  bright  scour'd,  and  delicately  sweet. 
W^here  shadowing  elms  obstruct  the  morning  ray. 
Begins  the  work,  begins  the  simple  lay ; 
The  full  charged  udder  yields  its  willing  streams. 
While  Mary  sings  some  lover's  amorous  dreams  ; 
And  crouching  Giles,  beneath  a  neighbouring  tree, 
Tugs  o'er  his  pail,  and  chants  with  equal  glee: 
Whose  hat  with  tatter'd  brim,  of  nap  so  bare, 
Prom  the  cow's  side  purloins  a  coat  of  hair, 
A  mottled  ensign  of  his  harmless  trade. 
An  unambitious,  peaceable  cockade. 
As  unambitious  too  that  cheerful  aid 
The  mistress  yields  beside  her  rosy  maid: 
With  joy  she  views  her  plenteous,  reeking  store. 
And  bearS  a  brimmer  to  the  dairy  door ; 
Her  cows  dismiss'd  the  luscious  mead  to  roam, 
Till  eve  again  recalls  them  loaded  home. 
And  now  the  dairy  claims  her  choicest  care, 
And  half  her  household  find  employment  there : 
Slow  rolls  the  churn,  its  load  of  clogging  cream 
At  once  foregoes  its  quality  and  name  ; 
From  knotty  particles  first  floating  wide 
Congealing  butter's  dash'd  from  side  to  side  ; 
Streams  of  new  milk  through  flowing  coolers  stray, 
And  snow-white  curd  abounds,  and  wholesome 

whey. 
Due  north  th'  unglazed  windows,  cold  and  clear 
For  warming  sunbeams  are  unwelcome  here. 
Brisk  goes  the  work  beneath  each  busy  hand, 
And  Giles  must  trudge,  whoever  gives  command ; 
A  Gibeonite,  that  serves  them  all  by  turns : 
H&  drains  the  pump,  from  hira  the  fagot  burns  ; 
From  him  the  noisy  hogs  demand  their  food  ; 
While  at  his  heels  i-un  many  a  chirping  brood, 
Or  down  his  path  in  expectation  stand, 
With  equal  claims  upon  his  strewing  hand. 
Thus  wastes  the  morn,  till  each  with  pleasure  sees 
The  bustle  o'er,  and  press'd  the  new-made  cheese. 

Unrivall'd  stands  thy  country  cheese,  0  Giles  ! 
Whose  very  name  alone  engenders  smiles ; 
Whose  fame  abroad  by  every  tongue  is  spoke, 
The  well-known  butt  of  many  a  flinty  joke, 
That  pass  like  current  coin  the  nation  through: 
And,  ah  !  experience  proves  the  satire  true. 
Provision's  grave,  thou  ever  craving  mart. 
Dependant,  huge  metropolis  !  where  art 
Her  poring  thousands  stows  in  breathless  rooms, 
Midst  poisonous  smokes  and  steams,  and  rattling 
looms ; 


Where  grandeur  revels  in  unbounded  stores ; 
Restraint,  a  slighted  stranger  at  their  doors  I 
Thou,  like  a  whirlpool,  drain'st  the  country  roun^ 
Till  London  market,  London  price,  resound 
Through  every  town,  round  every  passing  load, 
And  dairy  produce  throngs  the  eastern  road  : 
Delicious  veal,  and  butter,  every  hour, 
From  Essex  lowlands,  and  the  banks  of  Stouri 
And  further  far,  where  numerous  herds  repose. 
From  Orwell's  brink,  from  Waveny,  or  Ouse. 
Hence  Suffolk  dairy  wives  run  mad  for  cream, 
And  leave  their  milk  with  nothing  bui  its  name* 
Its  name  derision  and  reproach  j  nrsue. 
And  strangers  tell  of  "  three  times  skimm'd  sky- 
blue." 
To  cheese  converted,  what  can  be  its  boast; 
What,  but  the  common  virtues  of  a  post ! 
If  drought  o'ertake  it  faster  than  the  knife, 
Most  fair  it  bids  for  stubborn  length  of  life. 
And,  like  the  oaken  shelf  whereon  'tis  laid. 
Mocks  the  weak  efforts  cf  the  bending  blade; 
Or  in  the  hog-trough  rests  :;i  perfect  spite. 
Too  big  to  swallow,  and  too  hard  to  bite. 
Inglorious  victory  !  Ye  Cheshire  meads, 
Or  Severn's  flowery  dales,  where  plenty  treads, 
Was  your  rich  milk  to  suffer  wrongs  like  these. 
Farewell  your  pride  !  farewell  renowned  cheese  I 
The  skimmer  dread,  whose  ravages  alone. 
Thus  turn  the  mead's  sweet  nectar  into  stone. 

Neglected  now  the  early  daisy  lies : 
Nor  thou,  pale  primrose,  bloom'st  the  only  prize  ! 
Advancing  Spring  profusely  spreads  abroad 
Flowers  of  all  hut;s,with  sweetest  fragrance  stored  { 
Where'er  she  treads.  Love  gladdens  every  plain. 
Delight  on  tiptoe  bears  her  lucid  train  ; 
Sweet  Hope  with  conscious  brow  before  her  flies. 
Anticipating  wealth  from  summer  skies 
All  nature  feels  her  renovating  sway  ; 
The  sheep-fed  pasture,  and  the  meadow  gay. 
And  trees,  and  shrubs,  no  lonf^er  budding  seen, 
Display  the  new-grown  brar<jh  of  lighter  green ; 
On  airy  downs  the  idling  sLepherd  lies. 
And  sees  to-morrow  in  t^e  marbled  skies. 
Here  then,  my  soul,  thy  darling  theme  pursue. 
For  every  day  was  Glies  a  shepherd  too. 

Small  was  his  charge  ;   no  wilds   had   they  to 
roam  ; 
But  bright  enclosures  circling  round  their  home. 
No  yellow-blo3Som'd  furze,  nor  stubborn  thorn, 
The  heath's  rough  produce,  had  their  fleeces  torn  j 
Yet  ever  roving,  ever  seeking  thee. 
Enchanting  spirit,  dear  Variety  ! 
O  happy  tenants,  prisoners  of  a  day  ! 
Released  to  ease,  to  pleasure,  and  to  play ; 
Indulged  through  every  field  by  turns  to  range, 
And  taste  them  all  in  one  continual  change. 
For  though  luxuriant  their  grassy  food. 
Sheep  long  confined  but  loathe  the  present  goodj 
Bleating  around  the  homeward  gate  they  meet. 
And  starve,  and  pine,  with  plenty  at  their  feet. 
Loosed  from  the  winding  lane,  a  joyful  throng. 
Sec,  o'er  yon  pasture,  how  they  pour  along  ! 
Giles  round  their  boundaries  takes  his  usual  stroll; 
Sees  every  pass  secured,  and  fences  whole  ; 
High  fences,  proud  to  charm  the  gazing  eye. 
Where  many  a  nestling  first  essays  to  fly ; 


»33JJ     3  3  333 

3039*    *3>oa 


SUMMER. 


THE   FARMER'S   BOY. 


404 


Where  blows  the  woodbine,  faintly  streak'd  with 
And  rests  on  every  bough  its  tender  head ;         [red, 
Hound  the  young  asli  its  twining  branches  meet, 
Or  crown  the  hawthorn  with  its  odours  sweet. 

Say,  ye  that  know,  ye  who  have  felt  and  seen 
Spring's  morning  smiles,  and  soul-enlivening  green  : 
Say,  did  you  give  the  thrilling  transport  way  ? 
Did  3'our  eye  brighten,  when  young  lambs  at  play 
Leap'd  o'er  your  path  with  animated  pride, 
Or  gazed  in  merry  clusters  by  your  side  ? 
Ye  who  can  smile,  to  wisdom  no  disgrace. 
At  the  arch  meaning  of  a  kitten's  face  : 
If  spotless  innocence,  and  infant  mirth. 
Excites  to  praise,  or  gives  reflection  birth, 
In  shades  like  these  pursue  your  favourite  joy. 
Midst  nature's  revels,  sports  that  never  cloy. 

A  few  begin  a  short  but  vigorous  race. 
And  indolence  abash'd  soon  flies  the  place  ; 
Thus  challenged  forth,  see  thither  one  by  one, 
From  every  side  assembling  playmates  run  ; 
A  thousand  wily  antics  mark  their  stay, 
A  starting  crowd,  impatient  of  delay. 
Like  the  fond  dove  from  fearful  prison  freed. 
Each  seems  to  say,  "  Come,  let  us  try  our  speed  ;" 
Away  they  scour,  impetuous,  ardent,  strong. 
The  green  turf  trembling  as  they  bound  along ; 
Adown  the  slope,  then  up  the  hillock  climb. 
Where  every  molehill  is  a  bed  of  thyme  ; 
There  panting  stop  ;  yet  scarcely  can  refrain  ; 
A  bird,  a  leaf,  will  set  them  off  again  : 
Or,  if  a  gale  with  strength  unusual  blow. 
Scattering  the  wild-briar  roses  into  snow. 
Their  little  limbs  increasing  efforts  try. 
Like  the  torn  flower  the  fair  assemblage  fly. 
Ah,  fallen  rose  !  sad  emblem  of  their  doom  ; 
Frail  as  thyself,  they  perish  while  they  bloom  ! 
Though  unoffending  innocence  may  plead. 
Though  frantic  ewes  may  mourn  the  savage  deed, 
Their  shepherd  comes,  a  messenger  of  blood. 
And  drives  them  bleating  from  their  sports  and  food. 
Care  loads  his  brow,  and  pity  wrings  his  heart, 
For  lo,  the  murdering  butcher,  with  his  cart, 
Demands  the  firstlings  of  his  flock  to  die. 
And  makes  a  sport  of  life  and  liberty ! 
His  gay  companions  Giles  beholds  no  more  5 
Closed  are  their  eyes,  their  fleeces  drench'd  in  gore. 
Nor  can  compassion,  with  her  softest  notes. 
Withhold  the  knife  that  plunges  through  their  throats. 

Down,  indignation  !  hence,  ideas  foul ! 
Away  the  shocking  image  from  my  soul ! 
Let  kindlier  visitants  attend  my  way. 
Beneath  approaching  Summer's  fervid  ray ; 
Nor  thankless  glooms  obtrude,  nor  cares  annoy. 
Whilst  the  sweet  theme  is  universal  joy. 


SUMMER. 

ARGU3IENT. 
Turnip  sowing.    Wheat  ripening.    Sparrows.     Insects. 
The  skylark.     Reaping,  &c.     Harvest-field.      Dairy- 
maid,&c.    Labourers  of  the  barn.    The  gander.   Night: 
a  thunder-storm.    Harvest-home.    Reflections,  &c. 

The  farmer's  life  displays  in  every  part 
A  moral  lesson  to  the  sensual  heart. 
Though  in  the  lap  of  plenty,  thoughtful  still. 
He  looks  bej'ond  the  pre -ent  good  or  ill ; 


Nor  estimates  alone  one  blessing's  worth, 

From  changeful  seasons,  or  capricious  earth  ; 

But  views  the  future  with  the  present  houra, 

And  looks  for  failures  as  he  looks  for  showers ; 

For  casual  as  for  certain  want  prepares. 

And  round  his  yard  the  reeking  haystack  rears  ; 

Or  clover,  blossom'd  lovely  to  the  sight. 

His  team's  rich  store  through  many  a;win try  night. 

What  though  abundance  round  his  dwelling  spreads 

Though  ever  moist  his  self-improving  meads 

Supply  his  dairy  with  a  copious  flood. 

And  seems  to  promise  unexhausted  food ; 

That  promise  fails,  when  buried  deep  in  snow. 

And  vegetative  juices  cease  to  flow. 

For  this,  his  plough  turns  up  the  destined  lands, 

Whence  storm^^  Winter  draws  its  full  demands ; 

For  this,  the  ieed  minutely  small,  he  sows. 

Whence,  sound  and  sweet,  the  hardy  turnip  grows, 

But  how  unlike  to  April's  closing  days  I 

High  climte  the  sun,  and  darts  his  powerful  rays  ; 

Whitens  the  fresh-drawn  mould,  and  pierces  through 

The  cumbrous  clods  that  tumble  round  the  plough. 

O'er  heaven's  bright  azure,  hence  with  joyful  eyes, 

The  farmer  sees  dark  clouds  assembling  rise ; 

Borne  o'er  his  fields  a  heavy  torrent  falls. 

And  strikes  the  earth  in  hasty  driving  squalls. 

"  Right  welcome   down,  ye   precious  drops,"  he 

cries  ; 
But  soon,  too  soon,  the  partial  blessing  flies. 
"  Boy,  bring  the  harrows,  try  how  deep  the  ram 
Has  forced  its  way."     He  comes,  but  comes  in 

vain, 
Dry  dust  beneath  the  bubbling  surface  lurks 
And  mocks  his  pains  the  more,  the  more  he  works 
Still,  midst  huge  clods,  he  plunges  on  forlorn. 
That  laugh  his  harrows  and  the  shower  to  scorn. 
E'en  thus  the  living  clod,  the  stubborn  fool. 
Resists  the  stormy  lectures  of  the  school. 
Till  tried  with  gentler  means,  the  dunce  to  please, 
His  head  imbibes  right  reason  by  degrees  : 
As  when  from  eve  till  morning's  wakeful  hour,     • 
Light,  constant  rain  evinces  secret  power. 
And,  ere  the  day  resumes  its  wonted  smiles. 
Presents  a  cheerful,  easy  task  for  Giles. 
Down  with  a  touch  the  mellow'd  soil  is  laid. 
And  yon  tall  crop  next  claims  his  timely  aid ; 
Thither  well  pleased  he  hies,  assured  to  find 
Wild,  trackless  haunts,  and  objects  to  his  mind. 

Shot  up  from  broad  rank  blades  that  droop  below. 
The  nodding  wheat-ear  forms  a  graceful  bow. 
With  milky  kernels  starting  full,  weigh'd  down. 
Ere  yet  the  sun  hath  tinged  its  head  with  browi\ ; 
There  thousands  in  a  flock,  for  ever  gay. 
Loud  chirping  sparrows  welcome  on  the  day, 
And  from  the  mazes  of  the  leafy  thorn 
Drop  one  by  one  upon'the  bending  corn. 
Giles  with  a  pole  assails  their  close  retreats 
And  round  the  grass-grown,  dewy  border  beats 
On  either  side  completely  overspread, 
Here  branches  bend,  there  corn  o'erstoops  his  head. 
Green  covert,  hail  1  for  through  the  varying  year 
No  hours  so  sweet,  no  scene  to  him  so  dear. 
Here  wisdom's  placid  eye  delighted  sees 
His  frequent  intervals  of  lonely  ease. 
And  with  one  ray  his  infant  soul  inspires. 
Just  kindling  there  her  never-dying  fires. 


406 


BLOOMFIELD. 


Whence  solitude  derives  peculiar  charms, 
And  heaven  directed  thought  his  bosom  warms. 
Just  where  the  parting  boughs  light  shadows  play, 
Scarce  in  the  shade,  nor  in  the  scorching  day, 
Stretch'd  on  the  turf  he  lies,  a  peopled  bed, 
Where  swarming  insects  creep  around  his  head. 
The  ffmall,  dust-colour'd  beetle  climbs  with  pain 
O'er  the  smooth  plantain  leaf,  a  spacious  plain  ! 
Thence  higher  still,  by  countless  steps  convey'd, 
He  gains  the  summit  of  a  shivering  blade, 
And  flirts  his  filmy  wings,  and  looks  around, 
Exulting  in  his  distance  from  the  ground. 
The  tender  speckled  moth  here  dancing  seen, 
The  vaulting  grasshopper  of  glossy  green, 
And  all  prolific  summer's  sporting  train, 
Their  little  lives  by  various  powers  sustain. 
But  what  can  unassisted  vision  do  ? 
What,  but  recoil  where  most  it  would  pursue ; 
His  patient  gaze  but  finish  with  a  sigh. 
When  music  waking  speaks  the  skylark  nigh. 
Just  starting  from  the  corn,  he  cheerly  sings. 
And  trusts  with  conscious  pride  his  downj"-  wings  ; 
Still  louder  breaths,  and  in  the  face  of  day 
Mounts  up,  and  calls  on  Giles  to  mark  his  way. 
Close  to  his  eyes  his  hat  he  instant  bends, 
And  forms  a  friendly  telescope,  that  lend? 
Just  aid  enough  to  dull  the  glaring  light, 
And  place  the  wandering  bird  before  his  sight, 
That  oft  beneath  a  light  cloud  sweeps  along 
Lost  for  a  while,  yet  pours  the  varied  song ; 
The  eye  still  follows,  and  the  cloud  moves  b}"-, 
Again  he  stretches  up  the  clear  blue  sky ; 
His  form,  his  motion,  undistinguish'd  quite. 
Save  when  he  wheels  direct  from  shade  to  light  : 
E'en  then  the  songster  a  mere  speck  became. 
Gliding  like  fancy's  bubbles  in  a  dream, 
The  gazer  sees  ;  but  yielding  to  repose. 
Unwittingly  his  jaded  eyelids  close. 
Delicious  sleep  !     From  sleep  who  could  forbear. 
With  guilt  no  more  than  Giles,  and  no  more  care  ? 
I'eace  o'er  his  slumbers  waves  lier  guardian  wing, 
Nor  conscience  once  disturbs  him  with  a  sting ; 
He  wakes  refresh'd  from  every  trivial  pain. 
And  takes  his  pole,  and  brushes  round  again. 

Its  dark  green  hue,  its  sicklier  tints  all  fail, 
And  ripening  harvest  rustles  in  the  gale. 
A  glorious  sight,  if  glory  dwells  below, 
Where  Heaven's  munificence  makes  all  the  show 
O'er  every  field  and  golden  prospect  found. 
That  glads  the  ploughman's  Sunday  morning's  round. 
When  on  some  eminence  he  takes  his  stand. 
To  judge  the  smiling  produce  of  the  land. 
Here  vanity  slinks  back,  her  head  to  hide ; 
What  is  there  here  to  flatter  human  pride  ? 
The  towering  fabric,  or  the  dome's  loud  roar, 
And  steadfast  columns  may  astonish  more. 
Where  the  charm'd  gazer  long  delighted  stays. 
Yet  traced  but  to  the  architect  the  praise ; 
Whilst  here,  the  veriest  clown  that  treads  the  sod, 
Without  one  scruple  gives  the  praise  to  God  ; 
And  twofold  joys  possess  his  raptured  mind. 
From  gratitude  and  admiration  join'd. 

Here,  midst  the  boldest  triumphs  of  her  worth, 
Nature  herself  invites  the  reapers  forth; 
Dares  the  keen  sickle  from  its  twelvemonth's  rest, 
And  gives  that  ardour  which  in  every  breast 


From  infancy  to  age  alike  appears. 

When  the  first  sheaf  its  plumy  top  uprears. 

No  rake  takes  here  what  Heaven  to  all  bestows — 

Children  of  want,  for  you  the  bounty  flows  ! 

And  every  cottage  from  the  plenteous  store 

Receives  a  burden  nightly  at  its  door. 

Hark  !   where  the   sweeping  scythe  now  slip* 
along: 
Each  sturdy  mower,  emulous  and  strong, 
Whose  writhing  form  meridian  heat  defies, 
Bends  o'er  his  work,  and  every  sinew  tries ; 
Prostrates  the  waving  treasure  at  his  feet, 
But  spares  the  rising  clover,  short  and  sweet 
Come,  health  !  come,  jollity  !  light-footed,  come; 
Here  hold  your  revels,  and  make  this  your  home. 
Each  heart  awaits  md  hails  you  as  its  own  ; 
Each  moisten'd  brow,  that  scorns  to  wear  a  frown 
The  unpeopled   dwelling    mourns    its    tenants 

stray 'd ; 
E'en  the  domestic,  laughing  dairy-maid 
Plies  to  the  field,  the  general  toil  to  share. 
Meanwhile  the  farmer  quits  his  elbow  chair. 
His  cool  brick  floor,  his  pitcher,  and  his  ease. 
And  bravej  the  sultry  beams,  and  gladly  sees 
His  gates  thrown  open,  and  his  team  abroad, 
The  ready  group  attendant  on  his  word. 
To  turn  the  swarth,  the  quivering  load  to  rear. 
Or  ply  the  busy  rake,  the  land  to  clear. 
Summer's  liglit  garb  itself  now  cumbrous  grown, 
Each  his  thin  doublet  in  the  shade  throws  down ; 
Where  oft  the  mastiff  skulks  with  half  shut  eye, 
And  rouses  at  the  stranger  passing  b}-- ; 
While  unrestrain'd  the  social  converse  flows. 
And  every  breast  love's  powerful  impulse  knows, 
And  rival  wits  with  more  than  rustic  grace 
Confess  the  presence  of  a  pretty  face. 

For,  lo  !  encircled  there,  the  lovely  maid, 
In  youth's  own  bloom  and  native  smiles  array'd ; 
Her  hat  awry,  divested  of  her  gown, 
Her  crealjing  stays  of  leather,  stout  and  brown ; 
Invidious  barrier ;  why  art  thou  so  high, 
When  the  slight  covering  of  her  neck  slips  by. 
There  half  revealing  to  the  eager  sight, 
Her  full,  ripe  bosom,  exquisitely  white  ? 
In  many  a  local  tale  of  harmless  mirth, 
And  many  a  joke  of  momentary  birth. 
She  bears  a  part,  and  as  she  stops  to  speak, 
Strokes  back  the  ringlets  from  her  glowing  cheek 

Now  noon  gone  by,  and  four  declining  hours, 
The  weary  limbs  relax  their  boasted  powers  ; 
Thirst  rages  strong,  the  fainting  spirits  fail. 
And  ask  the  sovereign  cordial,  home-brew'd  ale ; 
Beneath  some  sheltering  heap  of  yellow  corn 
Rests  the  hoop'd  keg,  and  friendly  cooling  horn, 
That  mocks  alike  the  goblet's  brittle  frame, 
Its  costlier  potions,  and  its  nobler  name. 
To  Mary  first  the  brimming  draught  is  given. 
By  toil  made  welcome  as  the  dews  of  heaven, 
And  never  lip  that  press'd  its  homely  edge 
Had  kinder  blessings,  or  a  heartier  pledge. 

Of  wholesome  viands  here  a  banquet  smiles, 
A  commo-n  cheer  for  all ;— e'en  humble  Giles, 
Who  joys  his  trivial  services  to  yield 
Amidst  the  fragrance  of  the  open  field  ; 
Oft  doora'd  in  suffocating  heat  to  bear 
The  cobweb'd  barn's  impme  and  dusty  airj 


THE    FARMER'S   BOY. 


407 


To  ride  in  murky  state  the  panting  steed, 
Destined  aloft  th'  unloaded  grain  to  tread, 
Where,  in  his  path  as  heaps  on  heaps  are  thrown, 
He  rears,  and  plunges  the  loose  mountain  down  : 
Laborious  task  I  with  what  delight  when  done 
Both  horse  and  rider  greet  th'  unclouded  sun  ! 

Yet  by  th'  unclouded  sun  are  hourly  bred 
The  bold  assailants  that  surround  thine  head, 
Poor,  patient  Ball  !  and  with  insulting  wing 
Roar  in  thine  ears,  and  dart  the  piercing  sting. 
In  thy  behalf  the  crest-waved  boughs  avail 
More  than  thy  short-clipt  remnant  of  a  tail, 
A  moving  mockery,  a  useless  name, 
A  living  proof  of  cruelty  and  shame. 
Shame  to  the  man,  whatever  fame  he  bore. 
Who  took  from  thee  what  man  can  ne'er  restore. 
Thy  weapon  of  defence,  thy  chiefest  good. 
When  swarming  flies  contending  suck  thy  blood. 
Nor  thine  alone  the  suffering,  thine  the  care. 
The  fretful  ewe  bemoans  an  equal  share  ; 
Tormented  into  sores,  her  head  she  hides, 
Or  angry  sweeps  them  from  her  new-shorn  sides. 
Penn'd  in  the  yard,  e'en  now  at  closing  day. 
Unruly  cows  with  mark'd  impatience  stay, 
And  vainly  striving  to  escape  their  foes, 
The  pail  kick  down ;  a  piteous  current  flows. 

Is't  not  enough  that  plagues  like  these  molest  ? 
Must  still  another  foe  annoy  their  rest  ? 
He  comes,  the  pest  and  terror  of  the  yard. 
His  full-fledg'd  progeny's  imperious  guard  ; 
The  gander: — spiteful,  insolent,  and  bold, 
At  the  colt's  footlock  takes  his  daring  hold  : 
There,  serpent-like,  escapes  a  dreadful  blow, 
And  straight  attacks  a  poor  defenceless  cow  : 
Each  booby  goose  th'  unworthy  strife  enjoys, 
And  hails  his  prowess  with  redoubled  noise. 
Then  back  he  stalks,  of  self-importance  full, 
Seizes  the  shaggy  foretop  of  the  bull. 
Till  whirl'd  aloft  he  falls  :  a  timely  check. 
Enough  to  dislocate  his  worthless  neck : 
For  lo  !  of  old,  he  boasts  an  honour'd  wound ; 
Behold  that  broken  wing  that  trails  the  ground ! 
Thus  fools  and  bravoes  kindred  pranks  pursue. 
As  savage  quite,  and  oft  as  fatal  too. 
Happy  the  man  that  foils  an  envious  elf. 
Using  the  darts  of  spleen  to  serve  himself. 
As  when  by  turns  the  strolling  swine  engage 
The  utmost  efforts  of  the  bully's  rage, 
Whose  nibbling  warfare  on  the  grunter's  side 
Is  welcome  pleasure  to  his  bristly  hide  ; 
Gently  he  stoops,  or  stretch'd  at  ease  along, 
Enjoys  the  insults  of  the  gabbling  throng. 
That  march  exulting  round  his  fallen  head, 
As  human  victors  trample  on  their  dead.        [thou  ! 
Still  twilight,  welcome !    Rest,  how  sweet  art 
Now  eve  o'erhangs  the  western  cloud's  thick  brow : 
The  far  stretch'd  curtain  of  retiring  light, 
With  fiery  treasures  fraught ;  that  on  the  sight 
Flash  from  its  bulging  sides,  where  darkness  lours, 
In  fancy's  eye,  a  chain  of  mouldering  towers  ; 
Or  craggy  coasts  just  rising  into  view, 
Midst  javelins  dire,  and  darts  of  streaming  blue. 

An|n  tired  labourers  bless  their  sheltering  home. 
When  midnight,  and  the  frightful  tempest  come. 
The  farmer  wakes,  and  sees  with  silent  dread 
The  angry  shafts  of  Heaven  gleam  round  his  bed  ;  I 


The  bursting  cloud  reiterated  roars, 

Shakes  his  straw  roof,  and  jars  his  bolted  doors : 

The  slow-wing'd  storm  along  the  troubled  skies 

Spreads  its  dark  course  ;  the  wind  begins  to  rise  J 

And  full-leaPd  elms,  his  dwelling's  shade  by  day, 

With  mimic  thunder  give  its  fury  way  : 

Sounds  in  his  chimney-top  a  doleful  peal 

Midst  pouring  rain,  or  gusts  of  rattling  hail ; 

With  tenfold  danger  low  the  tempest  bends. 

And  quick  and  strong  the   sulphurous   flame  det 

scends : 
The  frighten'd  mastiff  from  his  kennel  flies. 
And  cringes  at  the  door  with  piteous  cries. — 
Where  now's   the  trifler  ?   where  the  child  of 
pride  ? 
These  are  the  moments  when  the  heart  is  tried  ! 
Nor  lives  the  man,  with  conscience  e'er  so  clear, 
But  feels  a  solemn,  reverential  fear ; 
Feels  too  a  joy  relieve  his  aching  breast. 
When  the  spent  storm  hath  howl'd  itself  to  rest. 
Still,  welcome  beats  the  long-contLnued  shower. 
And  sleep  protracted,  comes  with  o:    ble  power ; 
Calm  dreams  of  bliss  bring  on  the  rcrrning  sun. 
For  every  barn  is  fill'd,  and  harvest  done  ! 

Now,  ere  sweet  Summer  bids  its  long  adieu. 
And  winds  blow  keen  where  late  the  blossom  grew, 
The  bustling  day  and  jovial  night  must  come. 
The  long  accustomed  feast  of  harvest-home. 
No  l-lood-stain'd  victory,  in  story  bright, 
Can  give  the  philosophic  mind  delight ; 
No  triumph  please,  while  rage  and  death  destroy: 
Reflection  sickens  at  the  monstrous  joy. 
And  where  the  joy,  if  rightly  understood. 
Like  cheerful  praise  for  universal  good  ? 
The  soul  nor  check  nor  doubtful  anguish  knows. 
But  pure  and  free  the  grateful  current  flows. 
Behold  the  sound  oak  table's  massy  frame 
Beside  the  kitchen  floor  !  nor  careful  dame 
And  generous  host  invite  their  friends  around. 
For  all  that  clear'd  the  crop,  or  till'd  the  ground 
Are  guests  by  right  of  custom : — old  and  young  ; 
And  many  a  neighbouring  yeoman  join  the  throng, 
With  artizans  that  lent  their  dexterous  aid. 
When  o'er  each  field  the  flaming  sunbeams  play'd. 
Yet  plenty  reigns,  and  from  her  boundless  hoard. 
Though  not  one  jelly  trembles  on  the  board. 
Supplies  the  feast  with  all  that  sense  can  crav«»; 
With  all  that  made  our  great  forefathers  brave 
Ere  the  cloy'd  palate  countless  flavours  tried, 
And  cooks  had  nature's  judgment  set  aside. 
With  thanks  to  heaven,  and  tales  of  rustic  lore 
The  mansion  echoes  when  the  banquet's  o'er: 
A  wider  circle  spreads,  and  smiles  abound. 
As  quick  the  frothing  horn  performs  its  round } 
Care's  mortal  foe  ;  that  sprightly  joys  imparts 
To  cheer  the  frame  and  elevate  their  hearts. 
Here,  fresh  and  brown,  the  hazel's  produce  lies 
In  tempting  heaps,  and  peals  of  laughter  rise, 
And  crackling  music,  with  the  frequent  song, 
Unheeded  bear  the  midnight  hour  along. 

Here  once  a  year  distinction  lowers  its  crest, 
The  master,  servant,  and  the  merry  guest. 
Are  equal  all;  and  round  the  happy  ring 
The  reaper's  ej'es  exulting  glances  fling. 
And,  warm'd  with  gratitude,  he  quits  his  place. 
With  sun-burnt  hands  and  ale-enliven'd  face. 


408 


BLOOMFIELD. 


Refills  the  jug,  his  honour'd  host  to  tend, 
To  serve  at  once  the  master  and  the  friend ; 
Proud  thus  to  meet  his  snyles,  to  share  his  tale, 
His  nuts,  his  conversation,  and  his  ale. 

Such  were  the  days, — of  days  long  past  I  sing. 
When  pride  gave  place  to  mirth  without  a  sting  ; 
Ere  tyrant  customs  strength  sufficient  bore 
To  violate  the  feelings  of  the  poor : 
To  leave  them  distanced  in  the  maddening  race, 
Where'er  refinement  shpws  its  hated  face  : 
Nor  causeless  hated  ;— 'tis  the  peasant's  curse. 
That  hourly  makes  his  wretched  station  worse ; 
Destroys  life's  intercourse  ;  the  social  plan 
That  rank  to  rank  cements,  as  man  to  man  : 
Wealth  flows  around  him,  fashion  lordly  reigns ; 
Yet  poverty  is  his,  and  mental  pains. 

Methinks  I  hear  the  mourner  thus  impart 
The  stifled  murmurs  of  his  wounded  heart : 
"  Whence  comes  this  change,  ungracious,  irksome, 

cold  ? 
Whence  the  new  grandeur  that  mine  eyes  behold  ? 
The  widening  distance  which  I  daily  see. 
Has  wealth  done  this  ? — then  wealth's  a  foe  to  me  ; 
Foe  to  our  rights  ;  that  leaves  a  powerful  few 
The  paths  of  emulation  to  pursue : — 
For  emulation  stoops  to  us  no  more  : 
The  hope  of  humble  industry  is  o'er : 
The  blameless  hope,  the  cheering  sweet  presage 
Of  future  comforts  for  declining  age. 
Can  my  sons  share  from  this  paternal  hand 
The  profits  with  the  labours  of  the  land  ? 
No  ;  though  indulgent  Heaven  its  blessing  deigns, 
Where's  the  small  farm  to  suit  my  scanty  means  ? 
Content,  the  poet  sings,  with  us  resides  : 
In  lonely  cots  like  mine,  the  damsel  hides  ; 
And  will  he  then  in  raptured  visions  tell 
That  sweet  content  with  want  can  ever  dwell  ? 
A  barley  loaf,  'tis  true,  my  table  crowns. 
That,  fast  diminishing  in  lusty  rounds. 
Stops  nature's  cravings  ;  yet  her  sighs  will  flow 
From  knowing  this,— that  once  it  was  not  so. 
Our  annual  feast,  v/hen  earth  her  plenty  yields, 
When  crown'd  with  boughs  the  last  load  quits  the 

fields. 
The  aspect  still  of  ancient  joy  puts  on  ; 
The  aspect  only,  with  the  substance  gone : 
The  selfsame  horn  is  still  at  our  command, 
But  serves  none  now  but  the  plebeian  hand  : 
For  home-brew'd  ale,  neglected  and  debased, 
is  quite  discarded  from  the  realms  of  taste. 
Where  unaffected  freedom  charm'd  the  soul, 
The  separate  table  and  the  costly  bowl. 
Cool  as  the  blast  that  checks  the  budding  Spring, 
A  mockery  of  gladness  round  them  fling. 
For  oft  the  farmer,  ere  his  heart  approves. 
Yields  up  the  custom  which  he  dearly  loves : 
Refinement  rushes  on  him  like  a  tide  ; 
Bold  innovations  down  its  current  ride, 
That  bear  no  peace  beneath  their  showy  dress, 
Nor  add  one  tittle  to  his  happiness. 
His  guests  selected  ;  rank's  punctilios  known  ; 
What  trouble  waits  upon  a  casual  frown  ; 
Restraint's  foul  manacles  his  pleasures  maim  ; 
Selected  guests  selected  phrases  claim  ; 
Nor  reigns  that  joy,  when  hand  in  hand  they  join. 
That  good  old  master  felt  in  shaking  mine. 


Heaven  bless  his  memory  !  bless  his  honour'd  name . 
(The  poor  will  speak  his  lasting,  worthy  fame  :) 
To    souls    fair-purposed    strength    and    guidance 

give  ; 
In  pity  to  us  still  let  goodness  live : 
Let  labour  have  its  due  !  my  cot  shall  be 
From  chilling  want  and  guilty  murmurs  free  i 
Let  labour  have  its  due  ;  then  peace  is  mine. 
And  never,  never  shall  my  heart  repine." 


AUTUMN. 

ARGUIVIENT. 
Acorns.  Hogs  in  the  wood.  Wheat-sowing.  rh« 
church.  Village  girls.  The  mad  girl.  The  bird- 
boy's  hut.  Disappointment;  Reflections, &c.  Euslon. 
hall.  Fox-hunting.  Old  Trouucer.  Long  nights.  A 
welcome  to  Winter. 

AGA:r,  the  year's  decline,  midst  storms  and  floods, 
The  thundering  chase,  the  yellow  fading  woods, 
Invite  my  song  ;  that  fain  would  boldly  tell 
Of  upland  coverts  and  the  echoing  dell, 
By  turns  resoundin-  loud,  at  eve  and  morn. 
The  swineherd's  halloo,  or  the  huntsman's  horn. 
No  more  the  fields  with  scatter'd  grain  supply 
The  restless,  wandering  tenants  of  the  sty ; 
From  oak  to  oak  they  run  with  eager  haste, 
And  wrangling  share  the  first  delicious  taste 
Of  fallen  acorns  ;  yet  but  thinly  found 
Till  the  strong  gale  has  shook  them  to  the  ground.   ^ 
It  comes  ;  and  roaring  woods  obedient  wave  : 
Their  home  well   pleased  the  joint  adventurers 

leave : 
The  trudging  sow  leads  forth  her  numerous  young, 
Playful,  and  white,  and  clean,  the  briars  among. 
Till  briers  and  thorns  increasing,  fence  them  round, 
Where  last  year's  mouldering  leaves  bestrew  the 

ground. 
And  o'er  their  heads,  loud  lash'd  by  furious  squalls. 
Bright  from  their  cups  the  rattling  treasure  falls  ; 
Hot,  thirsty  food  ;  whence  doubly  sweet  and  cool 
The  welcome  margin  of  some  rush^grown  pool, 
The  wild  duck's  lonely  haunt,  whose  jealous  eye 
Guards  every  point ;  who  sits,  prepared  to  fly, 
On  the  calm  bosom  of  her  little  lake, 
Too  closely  screen'd  for  ruffian  winds  to  shake  j 
And  as  the  bold  intruders  press  around, 
At  once  she  starts,  and  rises  with  a  bound : 
With  bristles  raised  the  sudden  noise  they  hear. 
And  ludicrously  wild,  and  wing'd  with  fear, 
The  herd  decamp  with  more  than  swinish  speed. 
And  snorting  dash  through  sedge,  and  rush,  and 

reed : 
Through  tangling  thickets  headlong  on  they  go. 
Then  stop  and  listen  for  their  fancied  foe ; 
The  hindmost  still  the  growing  panic  spreads. 
Repeated  fright  the  first  alarm  succeeds, 
Till  folly's  wages,  wounds  and  thorns,  they  reap  t 
Yet  glorying  in  their  fortunate  escape, 
Their  groundless  terrors  by  degrees  soon  cease, 
And  night's  dark  reign  restores  their  wonted  peace 
For  now  the  gale  subsides,  and  from  each  bough 
The  roosting  pheasant's  short  but  frequent  crow 
Invites  to  rest ;  and  huddling  side  by  side, 
The  herd  in  closest  ambush  seek  to  hide  ; 


THE   FARMER'S   BOY. 


409 


Seek   some  warm  slope  with  shagged  moss  o'er- 

spread. 
Dried  leaves  their  copious  covering  and  their  bed. 
In  vain  may  Giles,  through  gathering  glooms  that 

fall, 
And  solemn  silence,  urge  his  piercing  call. 
Whole  days  and  nights  they  tarry  midst  their  store, 
Nor  quit  the  woods  till  oaks  can  yield  no  more. 

Beyond  bleak  Winter's  rage,  beyond  the  Spring, 
That  rolling  earth's  unvarying  course  will  bring, 
Who  tills  the  ground  looks  on  with  mental  eye, 
And  sees  next  Summer's  sheaves  and  cloudless  sky. 
And  even  now,  whilst  nature's  beauty  dies. 
Deposits  seed,  and  bids  new  harvest  rise  ; 
Seed  well  prepared,  and  warm'd  with  glowing  .Time, 
'Gainst  earth-bred  grubs,  and  cold,  and  lapse  of  time : 
For  searching  frosts  and  various  ills  invade, 
Whilst  wintry  months  depress  the  springing  blade. 
The  plough  moves  heavily,  and  strong  the  soil. 
And  clogging  harrows  with  augmented  toil 
Dive  deep :  and  clinging,  mixes  with  the  mould 
A  fattening  treasure  from  the  nightly  fold. 
And  all  the  cowyard's  highly  valued  store. 
That  late  bestrew'd  the  blacken'd  surface  o'er. 
No  idling  hours  are  here,  when  fancy  trims 
Her  dancing  taper  over  outstretch'd  limbs, 
And  in  her  thousand  thousand  colours  dress'd. 
Plays  round  the  grassy  couch  of  noontide  rest : 
Here  Giles  for  hours  of  indolence  atones 
With  strong  exertion,  and  with  weary  bones, 
And  knows  no  leisure,  till  the  distant  chime 
Of  Sabbath  bell  he  hears  at  sermon  time, 
That  down  the  brook  sound  sweetl}'  in  the  gale, 
Or  strike  the  rising  hill,  or  skim  the  dale. 

Nor  his  alone  the  sweets  of  ease  to  taste : 
iind  rest  extends  to  all ; — save  one  poor  beast. 
That  true  to  time  and  pace,  is  doom'd  to  plod. 
To  bring  the  pastor  to  the  House  of  God  : 
Mean  structure  ;  where  no  bones  of  heroes  lie  .' 
The  rude  inelegance  of  poverty 
Reigns  here  alone  ;  else  why  that  roof  of  straw  ? 
Those  narrow  windows  with  the  frequent  flaw  ? 
O'er  whose  low  cells  the  dock  and  mallow  spread, 
And  rampant  nettles  lift  the  spiry  head. 
Whilst  from  the  hollows  of  the  tower  on  high 
The  gray-capp'd  daws  in  saucy  legions  fly. 

Round  these  lone  walls  assembling  neighbours 
meet. 
And  tread  departed  friends  beneath  their  feet ; 
And  new-briar'd  graves,  that  prompt  the  secret  sigh, 
Show  each  the  spot  where  he  himself  must  lie. 

Midst  timely  greetings  village  news  goes  round. 
Of  crops  late  shorn,  or  crops  that  deck  the  ground  ; 
Experienced  ploughmen  in  the  circle  join  ; 
While  sturdy  boys,  in  feats  of  strength  to  shine, 
With  pride  elate,  their  young  associates  brave 
To  jump  from  hollow-sounding  grave  to  grave  ; 
Then  close  consulting,  each  his  talent  lends 
To  plan  fresh  sports  when  tedious  service  ends. 

Hither  at  times,  with  cheerfulness  of  soul, 
Sweet  village  maids  from  neighbouring  hamlets 

stroll. 
That  like  the  light-heel'd  does  o'er  lawns  that  rove, 
Look  shyly  curious  ;  ripening  into  love  ; 
For  love's  their  errand  :  hence  the  tints  that  glow 
On  either  cheek,  a  heighten'd  lustre  know: 


When,  conscious  of  their  charms,  e'en  age  looks  sly 
And  rapture  beams  from  youth's  observant  eye. 
The  pride  of  such  a  party,  nature's  pride, 
Was  lovely  Ann,  who  innocently  tried, 
With  hat  of  airy  shape  and  ribands  gay. 
Love  to  inspire,  and  stand  in  Hymen's  way : 
But,  ere  her  twentieth  summer  could  expand, 
Or  youth  was  render'd  happy  with  her  hand, 
Her  mind's  serenity,  her  peace  was  gone. 
Her  eye  grew  languid,  and  she  wept  alone : 
Yet  causeless  seem'd  her  grief ;  for  quick  restrain 'd, 
Mirth  foli-v'd  loud  ;  or  indignation  reign'd ; 
Whims  wild  and  simple  led  her  from  her  home. 
The  heath,  the  common,  or  the  fields  to  roam: 
Terror  and  joy  alternate  ruled  her  hours  ; 
Now  blithe  she  sung,  and  gather'd  useless  flowers ; 
Now  pluck'd  a  tender  twig  from  every  bough, 
To  whip  the  hovering  demons  from  her  brow. 
I'll  fated  maid  !  thy  guiding  spark  is  fled. 
And  lasting  wretchedness  awaits  thy  bed — 
Thy  bed  of  straw  !  for  mark,  where  even  now 
O'er  their  lost  child  afflicted  parents  bow  ; 
Their  wo  she  knows  not,  but  perversely  coy. 
Inverted  customs  yield  her  sullen  joy  ; 
Her  midnight  meals  in  secrecy  she  takes. 
Low  muttering  to  the  moon,  that  rising  breaks 
Through  night's  dark  gloom :    0  how  much  more 

forlorn 
Her  night,  that  knows  of  no  returning  morn  !— 
Slow  from  the  threshold,  once  her  infant  seat. 
O'er  the  cold  earth  she  crawls  to  her  retreat ; 
Quitting  the  cot's  warm  walls,  unhoused  to  lie, 
Or  share  the  swine's  impure  and  narrow  sty; 
The  damp  night  air  her  shivering  limbs  assails : 
In  dreams  she  moans,  and  fancied  wrongs  bewails. 
When   morning  wakes,  none  earlier  roused  than 

she. 
When  pendant  drops  fall  glittering  from  the  tree ; 
But  naught  her  rayless  melancholy  cheers. 
Or  soothes  her  breast,  or  stops  her  streaming  tears. 
Her  matted  locks  unornamented  flow ; 
Clasping  her  knees,  and  waving  to  and  fro  ; — 
Her  head  bow'd  down,  her  faded  cheek  to  hide  ;— 
A  piteous  mourner  by  the  pathway  side. 
Some  tufted  molehill  through  the  livelong  daj' 
She  calls  her  throne  ;  there  weeps  her  life  away  I 
And  oft  the  gayly-passing  stranger  stays 
His  well-timed  step,  and  takes  a  silent  gaze. 
Till  sympathetic  drops  unbidden  start. 
And  pangs  quick  springing  muster  round  his  heart 
And  soft  ne  treads  with  other  gazers  round, 
And  fain  would  catch  her  sorrow's  plaintive  soiind: 
One  word  alone  is  all  that  strikes  the  ear. 
One  short,  pathetic,  simple  word, — "  Oh  dear  !" 
A  thousand  times  repeated  to  the  wind. 
That  wafts  the  sigh,  but  leaves  the  pang  behind  ! 
For  ever  of  the  profFer'd  parley  sh}^. 
She  hears  th'  unwelcome  foot  advancing  nigh; 
Nor  quite  unconscious  of  her  wretched  plight. 
Gives  one  sad  look,  and  hurries  out  of  sight. — 
Fair  promised  sunbeams  of  terrestrial  bliss, 
Health's  gallant  hopes, — and  are  ye  sunk  to  this  .' 
For  in  life's  road,  though  thorns  abundant  grow. 
There  still  are  joys  poor  Ann  can  never  know ; 
Joys  which  the  gay  companions  of  her  prime 
Sip,  as  they  drift  along  the  stream  of  time  ; 


410 


BLOOMFIELD. 


At  eve  to  hear  beside  their  tranquil  home 
The  lifted  latch,  that  speaks  the  lover  come  : 
That  love  matured,  next  playful  on  the  knee 
To  press  the  velvet  lip  of  infancy  ; 
To  stay  the  tottering  step,  the  features  trace  ; — 
Inestimable  sweets  of  social  peace  ! 

O  thou,  who  bidst  the  vernal  juices  rise  ! 
Thou,  on  whose  blasts  autumnal  foliage  flies  ! 
Let  peace  ne'er  leave  me,  nor  my  heart  grow  cold, 
Whilst  life  and  sanity  are  mine  to  hold. 

Shorn  of  their  flowers  that  shed  th'  untreasured 
seed, 
The  withering  pasture,  and  the  fading  mead, 
Less  tempting  grown,  diminish  more  and  more, 
The  dairy's  pride  ;  sweet  Summer's  flowing  store 
New  cares  succeed,  and  gentle  duties  press. 
Where  the  fireside,  a  school  of  tenderness, 
Revives  the  languid  chirp,  and  warms  the  blood 
Of  cold-nipt  weaklings  of  the  latter  brood, 
That  from  the  shell  just  bursting  into  day. 
Through  yard  or  pond    pursue     their   venturous 
way. 

Far  weightier  cares  and  wider  scenes  expand ; 
What  devastation  marks  the  new-sown  land  ! 
"  From  hungry  woodland  foes  go,  Giles,  and  guard 
The  rising  wheat ;  ensure  its  great  reward: 
A  future  sustenance,  a  Summer's  pride, 
Demand  thy  vigilance  ;  then  be  it  iried  : 
Exert  thy  voice,  and  wield  thy  shotless  gun  ; 
Go,  tarry  there  from  morn  till  setting  sun." 

Keen  blows  the  blast,  or  ceaseless  rain  descends  5 
The  half-stripp'd  hedge  a  sorry  shelter  lends. 
O  for  a  hovel,  e'er  so  small  or  low, 
Whose  roof,  repelling  winds  or  early  snow. 
Might  bring  home's  comfort  fresh  before  his  eyes  ! 
No  sooner  thought,  than  see  the  structure  rise, 
In  some  sequester'd  nook,  embank'd  around, 
Sods  for  its  walls,  and  straw  in  burdens  bound: 
Dried  fuel  hoarded  is  his  richest  store. 
And  circling  smoke  obscures  his  little  door; 
Whence  creeping  forth,  to  duty's  call  he  yields, 
And  strolls  the  Crusoe  of  the  lonely  fields. 
On  whitethorns  towering,  and  the  leafless  rose, 
A  frost-nipt  feast  in  bright  vermilion  glows  : 
Where  clustering  sloes  in  glossy  order  rise, 
He  crops  the  loaded  branch  ;  a  cumbrous  prize ; 
And  o'er  the  flame  the  sputtering  fruit  he  rests, 
Placing  green  sods  to  seat  his  coming  guests  ; 
His  guests  by  promise  ;  playmates  young  and  gay : — 
But,  ah  !  fresh  pastimes  lure  their  steps  away  ! 
He  sweeps  his  hearth,  and  homeward  looks  in  vain 
Till  feeling  disappointment's  cruel  pain, 
His  fairy  revels  are  exchanged  for  rage. 
His  banquet  marr'd,  grown  dull  his  hermitage. 
The  field  becomes  his  prison,  till  on  high 
Benighted  birds  to  shades  and  coverts  fly. 
Midst  air,  health,  daylight,  can  he  prisoner  be  ? 
If  fields  are  prisons,  where  is  liberty  ? 
Here  still  she  dwells,  and  here  her  votaries  stroll ; 
But  disappointed  hope  untunes  the  soul: 
Restraints  unfelt  whilst  hours  of  rapture  flow. 
When  troubles  press  to  chains  and  barriers  grow. 
Look  then  from  trivial  up  to  greater  woes  ; 
From  the  poor  bird-boj'  with  his  roasted  sloes. 
To  where  the  dungeon'd  mourner  heaves  the  sigh 
Where  not  one  cheering  sunbeam  meets  his  eye. 


Though  ineffectual  pity  thme  may  be, 
No  weaJa,  no  power  to  set  the  captive  free 
Though  only  to  thy  ravish 'd  sight  is  given 
The  radiant  path  that  Howard  trod  to  heaven  ; 
Thy  slights  can  make  the  wretched  more  forlorn, 
And  deeper  drive  afl3iction's  barbed  thorn. 
Say  not,  "  I'll  come  and  cheer  thy  gloomy  cell 
With  news   of    dearest  friends  ;    how  good,  ho"W 

well ; 
I'll  be  a  joyful  herald  to  thine  heart:" 
Then  fail,  and  play  the  worthless  trifler's  part, 
To  sip  flat  pleasures  from  thy  glass's  brim, 
And  waste  the  precious  hour  that's  due  to  him. 
In  mercy  spare  the  base,  unmanly  blow  : 
Where  can  he  turn,  to  whom  complain  of  you  ? 
Back  to  past  joys  in  vain  his  thoughts  may  stray. 
Trace  and  retrace  the  beaten,  woin-out  way. 
The  rankling  injury  will  pierce  his  breast, 
And  curses  on  thee  break  his  midnight  rest. 

Bereft  of  song,  and  ever-cheering  green. 
The  soft  endearments  of  the  Summer  scene, 
New  harmony  pervades  the  solemn  wood. 
Dear  to  the  soul,  and  healthful  to  the  blood: 
For  bold  exertion  follows  on  the  sound 
Of  distant  sportsmen,  and  the  chiding  hound  ; 
First  heard  from  kennel  bursting,  mad  with  joy. 
Where  smiling  Euston  boasts  her  good  Fitzroy, 
Lord  of  pure  alms,  and  gifts  that  wide  extend  ; 
The  farmer's  patron  and  the  poor  man's  friend. 
Whose  mansion  glitters  with  the  eastern  ray. 
Whose  eleyated  temple  points  the  way, 
O'er  slopes  and  lawns,  the  park's  extensive  pride, 
To  where  the  victims  of  the  chase  reside, 
Ingulf'd  in  earth,  in  conscious  safety  warm. 
Till  lo  !  a  plot  portends  their  coming  harm. 

In  earliest  hours  of  dark  and  hooded  morn. 
Ere  yet  one  rosy  cloud  bespeaks  the  dawn, 
Whilst  far  abroad  the  fox  pursues  his  prey, 
He's  doom'd  to  risk  the  perils  of  the  day. 
From  his  strong  hold  block'd  out ;  perhaps  to  bleed 
Or  owe  his  life  to  fortune  or  to  speed. 
For  now  the  pack,  impatient  running  on, 
Range  through  the  darkest  coverts  one  by  one  ; 
Trace  every  spot ;  whilst  down  each  noble  glade 
That  guides  the  eye  beneath  a  changeful  shade, 
The  loitering  sportsman  feels  th'  instinctive  flame 
And  checks  his  steed  to  mark  the  springing  game. 
Midst  intersecting  cuts  and  winding  ways 
The  huntsman  cheers  his  dogs,  and  anxious  strays. 
Where  every  narrow  riding,  even  shorn. 
Gives  back  the  echo  of  his  mellow  horn  ; 
Till  fresh  and  lightsome,  every  power  untried. 
The  starting  fugitive  leaps  by  his  side, 
His  lifted  finger  to%his  ear  he  plies. 
And  the  view  halloo  bids  a  chorus  rise 
Of  dogs   quick-mouth'd,  and   shouts  that  mingte 

loud, 
As  bursting  thunder  rolls  from  cloud  to  cloud 
With  ears  erect,  and  chest  of  vigorous  mould. 
O'er  ditch,  o'er  fence,  unconquerably  bold. 
The  shining  courser  lengthens  every  bound, 
And  his  strong  footlocks  suck  the  moisten'd  ground, 
As  from  the  confines  of  the  wood  they  pour, 
And  joj'ous  villages  partake  the  roar. 
O'er  heath  far  stretch'd,  or  down,  or  valley  low. 
The  stiff-limb'd  peasant  glorying  in  the  show 


THE    FARMER'S   BOY. 


41 


P\^-iues  in  vain,  where  youth  itself  soon  tires, 
Spue  of  the  transports  that  the  chase  inspires  : 
Foi  who  unmounted  long  can  charm  the  eye. 
Or  riea*  the  music  of  the  leading  cry  ? 

1  oor,  faiUiful  Trouncer !    thou   canst    lead    no 
more; 
All  thy  fatigues  and  all  thy  triumphs  o'er  ! 
Triumphs  of  worth,  whose  long-excelling  fame 
Was  still  to  follow  true  the  hunted  game ; 
Beneath  enormous  oaks,  Britannia's  boast, 
In  thick,  impenetrable  covers  lost, 
When  the  warm  pack  in  faltering  silence  stood, 
Thine  was  the  note  that  roused  the  listening  wood, 
Rekindling  every  joy  with  tenfold  force, 
Through  all  the  mazes  of  the  tainted  course, 
Still  foremost  thou  the  dashing  stream  to  cross. 
And  tempt  along  the  animated  horse  ; 
Foremost  o'er  fen  or  level  mead  to  pas?. 
And  sweep  the  showering  dewdrops  from  the  grass  ; 
Then  bright  emerging  from  the  mist  below 
To  climb  the  woodland  hill's  exulting  brow. 
.    Pride  of  thy  race  !  with  Avorth  far  less  than  thine. 
Full  many  human  leaders  daily  shine  I 
Less  faith,  less  constancy,  less  generous  zeal  I — 
Then  no  disgrace  my  humble  verse  shall  feel. 
Where  not  one  lying  line  to  riches  bows. 
Or  poison'd  sentiment  from  rancour  flows  ; 
Nor  flowers  are  strewn  around  ambition's  car : 
An  honest  dog's  a  nobler  theme  by  far. 
Each  sportsman  heard  the  tidings  with  a  sigh. 
When  death's   cold  touch  had  stopt    his    tuneful 

cry; 
And  though  high  deeds,  and  fair  exalted  praise, 
In  memory  lived,  and  flow'd  in  rustic  lays. 
Short  was  the  strain  of  monumental  wo  : 
"  Foxes  rejoice  !  here  buried  lies  your  foe  !" 
In   safety  housed,  throughout  night's   lengthening 

reign 
The  cock  sends  forth  a  loud  and  piercing  strain  ; 
More  frequent,  as  the  glooms  of  midnight  flee, 
And  hours  roll  round  that  brought  him  libertj', 
When  Summer's  early  dawn,  mild,  clear,  and  bright. 
Chased  quick  away  the  transitory  night : — 
Hours  now  in  darkness  veil'd ;  yet  loud  the  scream 
Of  geese  impatient  for  the  playful  stream  ; 
And  all  the  feather'd  tribe  imprison'd  raise 
Their  morning  notes  of  inharmonious  praise: 
And  man}'  a  clamorous  hen  and  cockrel  gay, 
When  daylight  slowly  through  the  fog  breaks  way. 
Fly  wantonly  abroad:  but,  ah,  how  soon 
The  shades  of  twilight  follow  hazy  noon, 
Shortening  the  busy  day  ! — day  that  slides  by 
Amidst  th'  unfinish'd  toils  of  husbandry  ; 
Toils  still  each  morn  resumed  with  double  care. 
To  meet  the  icy  terrors  of  the  year  ; 
To  meet  the  threats  of  Boreas  undismay'd. 
And  Winter's  gathering  frowns  and  hoary  head. 

Then  welcome  cold;  welcome  ye  snowy  nights! 
Heaven  midst  your  rage  shall  mingle  pure  delights 
And  confidence  of  hope  the  soul  sustain, 
While  devastation  sweeps  along  the  plain  : 
Nor  shall  the  child  of  povert\'  despair. 
But  bless  the  power  that  rules  the  changing  j'ear, 
Assured, —  though    horrors    round    his    cottage 

reign, — 
T>iat  Spring  wiH  <  '^we  and  nature  smile  again. 


WINTER. 

ARGUfllENT. 
Tenderness  to  cattle.  Frozen  turnips.  The  cowyard 
Night.  The  farm-house.  Fireside.  Farmer's  advice 
and  instruction.  Nightly  cares  of  the  stable.  Dobbin. 
The  post-horse.  Sheep-stealing  dogs.  Walks  occa« 
sioned  thereby.  The  ghost.  Lamb  lime.  Returning 
Spring.    Conclusion. 

With  kindred  pleasures  moved,  and  cares  oppress'd, 
Sharing  alike  our  weariness  and  rest ; 
Who  lives  the  daily  partner  of  our  hours, 
Through   every  change   of  heat,  and    frost,  ani 

showers ; 
Partakes  our  cheerful  meals,  partaking  first 
In  mutual  labour,  and  fatigue,  and  thirst ; 
The  kindly  intercourse  will  ever  prove 
A  bond  of  amity  and  social  love. 
To  more  than  man  this  generous  warmth  extends, 
And  oft  the  team  and  shivering  herd  befriends  ; 
Tender  solicitude  the  bosom  fills, 
And  pity  executes  what  reason  wills  : 
Youth  learns  compassion's  tale  from  every  tongue 
And  flies  to  aid  the  helpless  and  the  j'oung. 

When  now,  unsparing  as  the  scourge  of  war. 
Blasts  follow  blasts,  and  groves  dismantled  roar. 
Around  their  home  the  storni-pinch'd  cattle  lows 
No  nourishment  in  frozen  pastures  grows ; 
Yet  frozen  pastures  every  morn  resound 
With  fair  abundance  thundering  to  the  ground. 
For  though  on  hoary  twigs  no  buds  peep  out, 
And  e'en  the  hardy  brambles  cease  to  sprout, 
Beneath  dread  Winter's  level  sheets  of  snow 
The  sweet  nutritious  turnip  deigns  to  grow. 
Till  now  imperious  want  and  wide-spread  dearth 
Bid  labour  claim  her  treasures  from  the  earth. 
On  Giles,  and  such  as  Giles,  the  labour  falls, 
To  strew  the  frequent  load  where  hunger  calls. 
On  driving  gales  sharp  hail  indignant  flies. 
And  sleet,  more  irksome  still,  assails  his  ej'es  ; 
Snow  clogs  his  feet ;  or  if  no  snow  is  seen. 
The  field  with  all  its  juicy  store  to  screen, 
Deep  goes  the  frost,  till  every  root  is  found 
A  mass  of  rolling  ice  upon  the  ground. 
No  tender  ewe  can  break  her  nightly  fast, 
Nor  heifer  strong  begin  the  cold  repast. 
Till  Giles  with  ponderous  beetle  foremost  go, 
And  scattering  splinters  fly  at  every  blow  ; 
When  pressing  round  him,  eager  for  the  prize. 
From  their  mix'd  breath  warm  exhalations  rise. 

In  beaded  rows  if  drops  now  deck  the  spray. 
While  the  sun  grants  a  momentary  ray, 
Let  but  a  cloud's  broad  shadow  intervene, 
And  stifTen'd  into  gems  the  drops  are  seen ; 
And  down  the  furrow'd  oak's  broad  southern  side 
Streams  of  dissolving  rime  no  longer  glide. 

Though  night  approaching  bids  for  rest  prepare. 
Still  the  flail  echoes  through  the  frosty  air, 
Nor  stops  till  deepest  shades  of  darknes?  come, 
Sending  at  length  the  weary  labourer  home. 
From  him,  with  bed  and  nightly  food  supplied, 
Throughout  the  yard,  housed  round  on  every  side, 
Deep  plunging  cows  their  rustling  ff^ast  enjoy, 
And  snatch  sweet  mouthfuls  from  the  passing  boy 
Who  moves  unseen  beneath  his  trailing  load. 
Fills  the  t3ll  racks,  and  leaves  a  scatter'd  road, 


412 


BLOOMFIELD 


Where  oft  the  swine  from  ambush  •,varm  and  dry 
Kolt  out,  and  scamper  headlong  to  their  sty, 
When  Giles  with  well-known  voice,  already  there, 
Deigns  them  a  portion  of  his  evening  care. 

Him,  though   the   cold  may  pierce,  and  storms 
'    molest, 
Succeeding  hours  shall  cheer  with  warmth  and  rest ; 
Gladness  to  spread,  and  raise  the  grateful  smile. 
He  hurls  the  fagot  bursting  from  the  pile, 
'^nd  many  a  log  and  rifted  trunk  conveys, 
To  heap  the  fire,  and  wide  extend  the  blaze, 
That  quivering  strong  through  every  opening  flies, 
Whilst  smoky  columns  unobstructed  rise. 
For  the  rude  architect,  unknown  to  fame, 
(Nor  symmetry  nor  elegance  his  aim,) 
Who  spread  his  floors  of  solid  oak  on  high. 
On  beams  rough-hewn,  from  age  to  age  that  lie. 
Bade  his  wide  fabric  unimpair'd  sustain 
The  orchard's  store,  and  cheese,  and  golden  grain  ; 
Bade,  from  its  central  base,  capacious  laid. 
The  well-wrought  chimney  rear  its  lofty  head  ; 
Where  since  hath  many  a  savory  ham  been  stored. 
And  tempests  howl'd,  and  Christmas  gambols  roar'd. 

Flat  on  the  hearth  the  glowing  embers  lie, 
And  flames  reflected  dance  in  every  eye  : 
There  the  long  billet,  forced  at  last  to  bend. 
While  gushing  sap  froths  out  at  either  end, 
Throws  round  its  welcome  heat : — the  ploughman 

smiles. 
And  oft  the  joke  runs  hard  on  sheepish  Giles, 
Who  sits  joint  tenant  of  the  corner  stool. 
The  converse  sharing,  though  in  duty's  school ; 
For  now  attentively  'tis  his  to  hear. 
Interrogations  from  the  master's  chair. 
"  Left  ye  your  bleating  charge,  when  daylight  fled, 
Near  where  the  haystack  lifts  its  snowy  head  ? 
Whose  fence  of  bushy  furze,  so  close  and  warm, 
May  stop  the  slanting  bullets  of  the  storm. 
For,  hark  !  it  blows  ;  a  dark  and  dismal  night: 
Heaven  guide  the  traveller's  fearful  steps  aright ! 
Now  from  the  woods  mistrustful  and  sharp-eyed. 
The  fox  in  silent  darkness  seems  to  glide. 
Stealing  around  us,  listening  as  he  goes. 
If  chance  the  cock  or  stammering  capon  crows. 
Or  goose,  or  nodding  duck,  should  darkling  cry 
As  if  apprized  of  lurking  danger  nigh : 
Destruction  waits  them,  Giles,  if  e'er  you  fail 
To  bolt  their  doors  against  the  driving  gale. 
Strew'd  you  (still  mindful  of  th'  unshelter'd  head) 
Burdens  of  straw,  the  cattle's  welcome  bed  ?     [see. 
Thine  heart  should  feel,  what  thou  mayst  hourly 
That  duty^s  basis  is  humanity. 
Of  pain's  unsavory  cup  though  thou  mayst  taste, 
(The  wrath  of  Winter  from  the  bleak  north-east,) 
Thine  utmost  sufferings  in  the  coldest  day 
A  period  terminates,  and  joys  repay. 
Perhaps  e'en  now,  while  here  those  joys  we  boast. 
Full  many  a  bark  rides  down  the  neighbouring  coast, 
Where  the  high  northern  waves  tremendous  roar. 
Drove  down  by  blasts  from  Norway's  icy  shore. 
The  seaboy  there,  less  fortunate  than  thou, 
Feels  all  thy  pains  in  all  the  gusts  that  blow  ; 
His  freezing  hands  now  drench'd,  now  dry,  by  turns ; 
Now  lost,  now  seen,  the  distant  light  that  burns, 
on  some  tall  cliff  upraised  a  flaming  guide, 
That  throws  its  friendly  radiance  o'er  the  tide. 


His  labours  cease  not  with  declining  day. 
But  toils  and  perils  mark  his  watery  way ; 
And  whilst  in  peaceful  dreams  secure  xve  lie, 
The  ruthless  whirlwinds  rage  along  the  skj^ 
Round  his  head  whistling ; — and  shalt  thou  repine. 
While  this  protecting  roof  still  shelters  thine  !" 

Mild  as  the  vernal  shower,  his  words  prevail. 
And  aid  the  moral  precept  of  his  tale : 
His  wondering  hearers  learn,  and  ever  keep 
These  first  ideas  of  the  restless  deep  ; 
And,  as  the  opening  mind  a  circuit  tries. 
Present  felicities  in  value  rise. 
Increasing  pleasures  every  hour  they  find. 
The  warmth  more  precious,  and  the  shelter  kind: 
Warmth  that  long  reigning  bids  the  eyelids  close. 
As  through  the  blood  its  balmy  influence  goes. 
When  the  cheer'd  heart  forgets  fatigues  and  cares. 
And  drowsiness  alone  dominion  bears. 

Sweet  then  the  ploughman's  slumbers,  hale  and 
young. 
When  the  last  topic  dies  upon  his  tongue ; 
Sweet  then  the  bliss  his  transient  dreams  inspire, 
Till  chilblains  wake  him,  or  the  snapping  fire. 

He  starts,  and  ever  thoughtful  of  his  team,  : 

Along  the  glittering  snow  a  feeble  gleam 
Shoots  from  his  lantern,  as  he  yawning  goes 
To  add  fresh  comforts  to  their  night's  repose  ; 
Diffusing  fragrance  as  their  food  he  moves, 
And  pats  the  jolly  sides  of  those  he  loves. 
Thus  full  replenish'd,  perfect  ease  possess'd. 
From  night  till  morn  alternate  food  and  rest. 
No  rightful  cheer  withheld,  no  sleep  debarr'd. 
Their  each  day's  labour  brings  its  sure  reward. 
Yet  when  from  plough  or  lumbering  cart  set  free, 
They  taste  a  while  the  sweets  of  liberty : 
E'en  sober  Dobbin  lifts  his  clumsy  heel 
And  kicks,  disdainful  of  the  dirty  wheel : 
But  soon,  his  frolic  ended,  yields  again. 
To  trudge  the  road,  and  wear  the  chinkling  chain. 

Shortsighted  Dobbin  ! — thou  canst  only  see 
The  trivial  hardships  that  encompass  thee : 
Thy  chains  were  freedom,  and  thy  toils  repose : 
Could  the  poor  post-horse  tell  thee  all  his  woes : 
Show' thee  his  bleeding  shoulders,  and  unfold 
The  dreadful  anguish  he  endures  for  gold : 
Hired  at  each  call  of  business,  lust,  or  rage, 
That  prompts  the  traveller  on  from  stage  to  stage. 
Still  on  his  strength  depends  their  boasted  speed ; 
For  them    his  limbs    grow  weak,  his  bare  ribs 

bleed ; 
And  though  he  groaning  quickens  at  command, 
Their  extra  shilling  in  the  rider's  hand 
Becomes  his  bitter  scourge : — 'tis  he  must  feel 
The  double  efforts  of  the  lash  and  steel ; 
Till  when,  up  hill,  the  destined  inn  he  gains. 
And  trembling  under  complicated  pains, 
Prone  from  his  nostrils,  darting  on  the  ground. 
His  breath  emitted  floats  in  clouds  around : 
Drops  chase  each  other  down  his  chest  and  sides. 
And  spatter'd  mud  his  native  colour  hides : 
Through  his  swoln  veins  the  boiling  torrent  flow* 
And  every  nerve  a  separate  torture  knows. 
His  harness  loosed,  he  welcomes,  eager-eyed, 
The  pail's  full  draught  that  quivers  by  his  side ; 
And  joys  to  see  the  well-known  stable  door. 
As  the  starved  mariner  the  friendly  shore. 


THE    FARMER'S   BOY. 


413 


Ah,  well  for  him  if  here  his  sufferings  ceased, 
And  ample  hours  of  rest  his  pains  appeased ! 
But  roused  again,  and  sternly  bade  to  rise, 
And  sh»ke  refreshing  slumber  from  his  eyes, 
Ere  his  exhausted  spirits  can  return. 
Or  through  his  frame  reviving  ardour  burn,     [sore. 
Come  forth  he  must,  though  limping,  maim'd,  and 
He  hears  the  whip  ;  the  chaise  is  at  the  door ; — 
The  collar  tightens,  and  again  he  feels 
His  half-heal'd  wounds  inflamed  ;  again  the  wheels 
With  tiresome  sameness  in  his  ears  resound. 
O'er  blinding  dust,  or  miles  of  flinty  ground. 
Thus  nightly  robb'd,  and  injured  day  by  day, 
His  piecemeal  murderers  wear  his  life  away. 
What  say'st  thou,  Dobbin  ?   what  though  hounds 

await 
With  open  jaws  the  moment  of  thy  fate, 
No  better  fate  attends  his  public  race ; 
His  life  is  misery,  and  his  end  disgrace. 
Then  freely  bear  thy  burden  to  the  mill: 
Obey  but  one  short  law, — thy  driver's  will. 
Affection  to  thy  memory  ever  true. 
Shall  boast  of  mighty  loads  that  Dobbin  drew  ; 
And  back  to  childhood  shall  the  mind  with  pride 
Recount  thy  gentleness  in  many  a  ride 
To  pond,  or  field,  or  village  fair,  when  thou 
Heldst  high  thy  braided  mane  and  comely  brow  ! 
And  oft  the  tale  shall  rise  to  homely  fame 
Upon  thy  generous  spirit  and  thy  name. 

Though  faithful  to  a  proverb  we  regard 
The  midnight  chieftain  of  the  farmer's  yard. 
Beneath  whose  guardianship  all  hearts  rejoice, 
Woke  by  the  echo  of  his  hollow  voice  ; 
Yet  as  the  hound  may  faltering  quit  the  pack, 
Snuff  the  fowl  scent,  and  hasten  yelping  back  ; 
And  e'en  the  docile  pointer  know  disgrace, 
Thwarting  the  general  instinct  of  his  race ; 
E'en  so  the  mastiff,  or  the  meaner  cur 
At  times  will  from  the  path  of  duty  err, 
(A  pattern  of  fidelity  by  day : 
By  night  a  murderer,  lurking  for  his  prey ;  j 
And  round  the  pastures  or  the  fold  will  creep. 
And  coward-like,  attack  the  peaceful  sheep. 
Alone  the  wanton  mischief  he  pursues. 
Alone  in  reeking  blood  his  jaws  imbrues ; 
Chasing  amain  his  frighten'd  victims  round, 
Till  death  in  wild  confusion  strews  the  ground; 
Then  wearied  out,  to  kennel  sneaks  away, 
And  licks  his  guilty  paws  till  break  of  day. 

The  deed  discover'd,  and  the  news  once  spread. 
Vengeance  hangs  o'er  the  unknown  culprit's  head  : 
And  careful  shepherds  extra  hours  bestow 
In  patient  watchings  for  the  common  foe  ; 
A  foe  most  dreaded  now,  when  rest  and  peace 
Should  wait  the  season  of  the  flock's  increase. 

In  part  these  nightly  terrors  to  dispel, 
Giles,  ere  he  sleeps,  his  little  flock  must  tell. 
From  the  fireside  with  many  a  shrug  he  hies. 
Glad  if  the  full-orb'd  moon  salute  his  eyes. 
And  through  th'  unbroken  stillness  of  the  night 
Shed  on  his  path  her  beams  of  cheering  light. 
With  sauntering  step  he  climbs  the  distant  stile, 
Whilst  all  aroimd  him  wears  a  placid  smile  ; 
There  views   the  white-robed  clouds  in  clusters 

driven. 
And  all  the  glorious  pageantry  of  heaven. 


Low,  on  the  utmost  boundary  of  the  sight, 
The  rising  vapours  catch  the  silver  light ; 
Thence  fancy  measures,  as  they  parting  fly. 
Which  first  will  throw  its  shadow  on  the  eye. 
Passing  the  source  of  light ;  and  thence  away, 
Succeeded  quick  by  brighter  still  than  they. 
Far  yet  above  these  wafted  clouds  are  seen 
(In  a  remoter  sky,  still  more  serene,) 
Others,  detach'd  in  ranges  through  the  air. 
Spotless  as  snow,  and  countless  as  they're  fair, 
Scatter'd  immensely  wide  from  east  to  west. 
The  beauteous  semblance  of  a  flock  at  rest. 
These,  to  the  raptured  mind,  aloud  proclaim 
Their  mighty  Shepherd's  everlasting  Name. 

Whilst  thus  the  loiterer's  utmost  stretch  of  soul 
Climbs  the  still  clouds,  or  passes  those  that  roll. 
And  loosed  imagination  soaring  goes 
High  o'er  his  home,  and  all  his  little  woes. 
Time  glides  away ;  neglected  duty  calls  ; 
At  once  from  plains  of  light  to  earth  he  falls, 
And  down  a  narrow  lane,  Well  known  by  day, 
With  all  his  speed  pursues  his  sounding  way. 
In  thought  still  half-absorb 'd,  and  chill'd  with  cold. 
When  lo !  an  object  frightful  to  behold  ; 
A  grisly  spectre,  clothed  in  silver-gray. 
Around  whose  feet  the  waving  shadow's  play, 
Stands  in  his  path  ! — He  stops,  and  not  a  breath 
Heaves  from  his  heart,  that  sinks  almost  to  death. 
Loud  the  owl  halloos  o'er  his  head  unseen ; 
All  else  is  silent,  dismally  serene: 
Some  prompt  ejaculation,  whisper'd  low, 
Yet  bears  him  up  against  the  threatening  foe; 
And  thus  poor  Giles,  though  half  inclined  to  fly. 
Mutters  his  doubts,  and  strains  his  steadfast  eye. 
"  'Tis  not  my  crimes  thou  comest  here  to  reprove ; 
No  murders  stain  my  soul,  no  perjured  love ; 
If  thou'rt  indeed  what  here  thou  seem'st  to  be. 
Thy  dreadful  mission  cannot  reach  to  me. 
By  parents  taught  still  to  mistrust  mine  eyes, 
still  to  approach  each  object  of  surprise, 
Lest  fancy's  formful  visions  should  deceive 
In  moonlight  paths,  or  glooms  of  falling  eve. 
This  then's  the  moment  when  my  mind  should  try 
To  scan  thy  motionless  deformity  ; 
But  0,  the  fearful  task  I  yet  well  I  know 
An  aged  ash,  with  many  a  spreading  bough, 
(Beneath  whose  leaves  I've  found  a  summer's  bower. 
Beneath    whose    trunk    I've  weather'd   many  a 

shower,) 
Stands  singly  down  this  solitary  way, 
But  far  beyond  where  now  my  footsteps  stay. 
'Tis  true,  thus  far  I've  come  with  heedless  haste; 
No  reckoning  kept,  no  passing  objects  traced : 
And  can  I  then  have  reach 'd  that  very  tree  ? 
Or  is  its  reve  end  form  assumed  by  thee  ?" 
The  happy  thought  alleviates  his  pain  : 
He  creeps  another  step ;  then  stops  again : 
Till  slowly,  as  his  noiseless  feet  draw  near. 
Its  perfect  lineaments  at  once  appear; 
Its  crown  of  shivering  ivy  whispering  peace. 
And  its  white  bark  that  fronts  the  moon's  pale  face. 
Now,  whilst  his   blood  mounts  upward,  now  he 

knows 
The  solid  gain  that  from  conviction  flows  ; 
And  strengthen 'd  confidence  shall  hence  fulfil 
(With  conscious  innocence  more  valued  stzT 


414 


BLOOMFIELD. 


The  dreariest  task  that  winter  nights  can  bring, 
By  churchyard  dark,  or  grove,  or  fairy  ring : 
Still  buoying  up  the  timid  mind  of  youth, 
Till  loiteiing  reason  hoists  the  scale  of  truth. 
With  these  blest  guardians  Giles  his  course  pursues, 
Till  numbering  his  heavy-sided  ewes, 
Surrounding  stillness  tranquillize  his  breast. 
And  shape  tlie  dreams  that  wait  his  hours  of  rest. 

As  when  retreating  tempests  we  behold, 
Whose  skirts  at  length  the  azure  sky  unfold. 
And  full  of  murmurings  and  mingled  wrath. 
Slowly  unshroud  the  smiling  face  of  earth, 
Bringing  the  bosom  joy ;  so  Winter  flies  ! — 
And  see  the  source  of  life  and  light  uprise  ! 
A  heightening  arch  o'er  southern  hills  he  bends ; 
Warm  on  the  cheek  the  slanting  beam  descends, 
And  gives  the  reeking  mead  a  brighter  hue. 
And  draws  the  modest  primrose  bud  to  view. 
Yet  frosts  succeed,  and  winds  impetuous  rush, 
And  hailstorms  rattle  through  the  budding  bush  ; 
And  nigh-fall'n  lambs  require  the  shepherd's  care. 
And  teeming  ewes,  that  still  their  burdens  bear ; 
Beneath  whose  sides  to-morrow's  dawn  may  see 
The  milk-white  strangers  bow  the  trembling  knee ; 
At  whose  first  birth  the  powerful  instinct's  seen 
That  fills  with  champions  the  daisied  green  : 
For  ewes  that  stood  aloof  with  fearful  eye. 
With  stamping  foot  now  men  and  dogs  defy, 
And  obstinately  faithful  to  their  young, 
Guard  their  first  steps  to  join  the  bleating  throng. 

But  casualties  and  death  from  damps  and  cold 
Will  still  attend  the  well-conducted  fold: 
Her  tender  offspring  dead,  the  dam  aloud 
Calls,  and  runs  wild  amidst  th'  unconscious  crowd; 
And  orphan'd  sucklings  raise  the  piteous  cry ; 
No  wool  to  warm  them,  no  defenders  nigh. 
And  must  her  streaming  milk  then  flow  in  vain  t 
Must  unregarded  innocence  complain  ? 
No  ; — ere  this  strong  solicitude  subside. 
Maternal  fondness  may  be  fresh  applied, 
And  the  adopted  stripling  still  may  find 
A  parent  most  assiduously  kind. 


For  this  he's  doom'd  awhile  disguised  to  range, 
(For   fraud   or   force    must  work  the  wish'd-for 

change ;) 
For  this  his  predecessor's  skin  he  wears. 
Till,  cheated  into  tenderness  and  cares. 
The  unsuspecting  dam,  contented  grown. 
Cherish  and  guard  the  foundling  as  her  own. 

Thus  all  by  turns  to  fair  perfection  rise  ; 
Thus  twins  are  parted  to  increase  their  size : 
Thus  instinct  yields  as  interest  points  the  way, 
Till  the  bright  flock,  augmenting  every  day. 
On  sunny  hills  and  vales  of  springing  flowers, 
With  ceaseless  clamour  greet  the  vernal  hours. 

The  humbler  shepherd  heie  with  joy  beholds 
Th'  approved  economy  of  crowded  folds. 
And,  in  his  small  contracted  round  of  cares, 
Adjusts  the  practice  of  each  hint  he  hears : 
For  boys  with  emulation  learn  to  glow, 
And  boast  their  pastures,  and  their  healthful  show 
Of  well-grown  lambs,  the  glory  of  the  Spring ; 
And  field  to  field  in  competition  bring. 

E'en  Giles,  for  all  his  cares  and  watchings  past. 
And  all  his  contests  with  the  wintry  blast. 
Claims  a  full  share  of  that  sweet  praise  bestow'd 
By  gazing  neighbours,  when  along  the  road, 
Or  village  green,  his  curly-coated  throng 
Suspends  the  chorus  of  the  spinner's  song  ; 
When  admiration's  unaffected  grace 
Lisps  from  the  tongue,  and  beams  in  every  face. 
Delightful  moments  ! — Sunshine,  health,  and  joy. 
Play  round,  and  cheer  the  elevated  boy  ! 
"Another  spring  !"  his  heart  exulting  cries  ; 
"Another  year !  with  promised  blessings  rise  ! — 
Eternal    Power  !    from   whom    those   blessing* 

flow, 
Teach  me  still  more  to  wonder,  more  to  know ! 
Seed-time  and  harvest  let  me  see  again  ; 
Wander  the  leaf-strewn  wood,  the  frozen  plain : 
Let  the  first  flower,  corn-waving  field,  plain,  tree. 
Here  round  my  home,  still  lift  my  soul  to  thee  ; 
And  let  me  ever,  midst  thy  bounties,  raise 
An  humble  note  of  thankfulness  and  praise  !'* 


WILjlIAM  WORDSWORTH. 


William  Wordsworth,  the  founder  of  what  is 
called  the  Lake  school  of  poetry,  was  born  in  1770, 
of  a  respectable  family,  at  Cockermouth,  in  Cum- 
berland. He  received  his  early  education  at  the 
grammar-school  of  Hawkshead,  where  he  greatly 
excelled  in  his  classical  studies,  and  was  remark- 
able for  his  thoughtful  disposition,  and  taste  for 
poetry,  in  which  he  made  his  first  attempt,  when  at 
the  age  of  thirteen.  In  1787,  he  was  removed  to 
St.  John's  College,  Cambridge,  where  he  graduated 
B.  A.  and  M.  A. ;  and,  in  1793,  he  published  a 
poetical  account  of  a  pedestrian  tour  on  the  conti- 
nent, entitled  Descriptive  Sketches  in  Verse,  &c., 
followed  by  the  Evening  Walk,  an  epistle,  in  verse, 
addressed  to  a  young  lady.  In  alluding  to  the  De- 
scriptive Sketches,  says  Coleridge, "  seldom,  if  ever, 
was  the  emergence  of  an  original  poetic  genius 
above  the  literary  horizon  more  evidently  an- 
nounced." After  wandering  about  in  various  parts 
of  England,  our  author  took  a  cottage  at  Alforton, 
in  Somersetshire,  near  the  then  residence  of  Cole- 
ridge, where  they  were  regarded  by  the  good  peo- 
ple of  the  neighbourhood  as  spies  and  agents  of  the 
French  Directory.  Our  benevolent  author,  however, 
appears  to  have  been  considered  the  more  dangerous 
character  of  the  two.  "  As  to  Coleridge,"  one  of  the 
parish  authorities  is  said  to  have  remarked,  "  there 
is  not  so  much  harm  in  him,  for  he  is  a  wild  brain 
that  talks  whatever  comes  uppermost ;  but  that 
— —  (Wordsworth)  he  is  the  dark  traitor.  You 
never  hear  him  say  a  syllable  on  the  subject."  In 
1798,  he  published  a  volume  of  his  Lyrical  Ballads, 
which  met  with  much  abuse  and  few  admirers,  but 
those  who  applauded,  applauded  enthusiastically. 

In  1803,  he  married  a  Miss  Mary  Hutchinson,  of 
Penrith,  and  settled  at  Grassmere,in  Westmoreland^ 
for  which  county,  as  well  as  that  of  Cumberland, 
he  was  subsequently  appointed  distributor  of  stamps. 
In  1807,  he  gave  to  the  public  a  second  volume  of 
his  Ballads  ;  and,  in  1809,  with  an  intention  to 
recommend  a  vigorous  prosecution  of  the  war 
with  Spain,  he  published  his  only  prose  production, 
concerning  the  relations  of  Great  Britain,  Spain, 
and  Portugal  to  each  other.  In  1814,  appeared,  in 
quarto,  his  Excursion,  a  poem,  which  has  been 
highly  extolled,  and  is  undoubtedly  one  of  his  most 
original  and  best  compositions.  It  was  followed, 
in  1815,  by  the  White  Doe  of  Rylstone;  and,  in 
1819,  by  his  Peter  Bell,  to  the  merits  of  which  we 
must  confess  ourselves  strangers.  During  the  same 
year,  he  published  his  Wagonner,  a  tale  ;  followed, 
in  1820,  b}'  the  River  Duddon,  a  series  of  sonnets  ; 
and  Vaudracour  and  Julia,  with  other  pieces  ;  and 
Ecclesiastical  Sketches.    In  1822,  he  printed  Me- 


morials of  a  Tour  on  the  Continent;  also  a  De- 
scription of  the  Scenery  of  the  Lakes  in  the  North 
of  England,  with  illustrative  remarks  on  the  sce- 
nery of  the  Alps.  His  last  publication  was  Yarrow 
Revisited,  which  appeared  in  1834. 

The  genius  of  Mr.  Wordsworth  has  been  a  matter 
of  critical  dispute  ever  since  he  first  made  pretension 
to  any,  and  it  is  yet  a  question  with  some,  whether 
his  productions  are  not  those  of  "  an  inspired  idiot." 
It  would  be,  however,  useless  to  deny  him  the 
reputation  of  a  poet,  though  between  the  equally 
extravagant  adoration  and  censure,  of  which  he  has 
been  the  object,  it  is  diflicult  to  define  the  exact 
position  which  will  be  ultimately  assigned  him  in 
the  rank  of  literature.  Coleridge,  who,  as  might  be 
expected,  "§  one  of  his  most  enthusiastic  admirers, 
says  tha:^,  "  in  imaginative  powers,  Wordsworth 
stands  nearest  of  all  modern  writers  to  Shakspeare 
and  Milton,  and  yet  in  a  kind  perfectly  unborrowed, 
and  his  own."  The  author  of  an  essay  on  his 
theory  and  writings,  printed  in  Blackwood's  Ma- 
gazine for  1S30,  gives  a  very  fair  estimate  of  his 
poetical  genius.  "  The  variety  of  subjects,"  he 
observes,  "  which  Wordsworth  has  touched  ;  the 
varied  powers  which  he  has  displaj^ed  ;  the  passages 
of  redeeming  beauty  interspersed  even  amongst  the 
worst  and  dullest  of  his  productions  ;  the  origin- 
ality of  detached  thoughts,  scattered  thioughout 
works,  to  which,  on  the  whole,  we  must  deny  the 
praise  of  originality ;  the  deep  pathos,  and  occa- 
sional grandeur  of  his  style  ;  the  real  poetical 
feeling  which  generally  runs  through  its  many 
modulations ;  his  accurate  observation  of  external 
nature  ;  and  the  success  with  which  he  blends  the 
purest  and  most  devotional  thoughts  with  the  glo- 
ries of  the  visible  universe — all  these  are  merits, 
which  so  far  '  make  up  in  number  what  they  want 
in  weight,'  that,  although  insufficient  to  raise  him 
to  the  shrine,  they  fairly  admit  him  within  the 
sacred  temple  of  poesy."  For  our  own  parts,  though 
we  are  not  among  those  who  call,  as  some  of  his 
admirers  do,  the  poetry  of  Wordsworth  "  an  actual 
revelation,"  we  admit  to  have  found  in  his  works 
beauties  which  no  other  poet,  perhaps,  could  have 
struck  out  of  the  peculiar  sphere  to  which  he  has 
confined  his  imagination.  His  Recollections  of  Early 
Childhood,  and  a  few  others,  are  sublime  composi- 
tions ;  whilst,  on  the  other  hand,  his  lines  to  a 
Glow-worm,  et  id  omne  genus,  are  despicable  and 
ridiculous. 

The  private  character  of  Mr.  Wordsworth  has 
never  been  impeached  by  his  most  virulent  enemies, 
if  he  has  any  ;  and  no  man  is  more  esteemed  and 
respected  for  his  amiable  qualities. 

415 


416 


WORDSWORTH. 


THE    EXCURSION, 


BEING   A   PORTION   OF   THE   RECLUSE. 


PREFACE. 

The  title  announces  that  this  is  only  a  portion 
of  a  poem  ;  and  the  reader  must  be  here  apprized 
that  it  belongs  to  the  second  part  of  a  long  and 
laborious  work  which  is  to  consist  of  three  parts. 
—The  author  will  candidly  acknowledge  that,  if 
the  first  of  these  had  been  completed,  and  in  such 
a  manner  as   to  satisfy  his  own  mind,  he  should 
have  preferred  the  natural  order  of  publication,  and 
have   given  that  to  the  world  first ;  but,  as   the 
second  division  of  the  work  was  designed  to  refer 
more  to  passing  events,  and  to  an  existing  state  of 
things,  than   the   others  were  meant  to  do,  more 
continuous  exertion  was  naturall}''  bestowed  upon 
it,  and  greater  progress  made  here  than  in  the  rest 
of  the  poem  ;  and  as  this  part  does  not  depend  upon 
the  preceding,  to  a  degree  which  will  materially 
injure  its  own  peculiar  interest,  the  author,  com- 
plying with  the  earnest  entreaties  of  some  valued 
friends,  presents  the  following  pages  to  the  public. 
It  may  be  proper  to  state  whence  the  poem,  of 
which  the  Excursion  is  a  part,  derives  its  title  of 
the  Recluse. — Several  years  ago,  when  the  author 
retired  to  his  native  mountains,  with  the  hope  of 
being  enabled  to   construct  a  literary  work  that 
might  live,  it  was  a  reasonable  thing  that  he  should 
take  a  review  of  his  own  mind,  and  examine  how 
far  nature  and  education  had  qualified  him  for  such 
employment.     As  subsidiary  to  this  preparation,  he 
undertook  to  record,  in  verse,  the  origin  and  pro- 
gress of  his  own  powers,  as  far  as  he  was  acquaint- 
ed with  them.      That  work,  addressed  to  a  dear 
friend,  most  distinguished  for  his  knowledge  and 
genius,  and   to  whom  the    author's    intellect   is 
deeply  indebted,  has  been  long  finished ;  and  the 
result  of  the  investigation  which  gave  rise  to  it  was 
a  determination  to  compose  a  philosophical  poem, 
containing  views  of  man,  nature,  and  society  ;  and 
to  be  entitled,  the   Recluse ;    as   having  for  its 
principal  subject  the  sensations  and  opinions  of  a 
poet  living  in  retirement. — The  preparatory  poem 
is  biographical,  and  conducts  the  history  of  the 
author's  mind    to    the   point  when   he   was   im- 
boldened  to  hope  that  his  faculties  were  sufficiently 
matured  for  entering  upon   the    arduous    labour 
which  he  had  proposed  to  himself;   and  the  two 
works   have  the   same  kind  of  relation   to   each 
other,  if  he  may  so  express  himself,  as  the  anti- 
chapel  has  to  the  body  of  a  Gothic  church.     Con- 
tinuing this  allusion,  he  may  be  permitted  to  add, 
that  his  minor  pieces,  which  have  been  long  before 
the  public,  when  they  shall  be  properly  arranged, 
will  be  found  by  the  attentive  reader  to  have  such 
connexion  with  the  main  work  as  may  give  them 
claim  to  be  likened  to  the  little  cells,  oratories, 
and   sepulchral   recesses,  ordinarily  included    in 
those  edifices. 

The  author  would  not  have  deemed  himself 
justified  in  saying,  upon  this  occasion,  so  much  of 
performances  either  unfinished,  or  unpublished,  if 


he  had  not  thought  that  the  labour  lestowed  by 
him  upon  what  he  has  heretofore  and  now  laid 
before  the  public,  entitled  him  to  candid  attention 
for  such  a  statement  as  he  thinks  necessary  to 
throw  light  upon  his  endeavours  to  please,  and  he 
would  hope,  to  benefit  his  countrymen. — Nothing 
further  need  be  added,  than  that  the  first  and  third 
parts  of  the  Recluse  will  consist  chiefly  of  medita- 
tions in  the  author's  own  person ;  and  that  in  the 
intermediate  part  (the  Excursion)  the  intervention 
of  characters  speaking  is  employed,  and  something 
of  a  dramatic  form  adopted. 

It  is  not  the  author's  intention  formally  to  an- 
nounce a  system  :  it  was  more  animating  to  him  to 
proceed  in  a  different  course  ;  and  if  he  shall  suc- 
ceed in  conveying  to  the  mind  clear  thoughts,  lively 
images,  and  strong  feelings,  the  reader  will  have 
no  difficulty  in  extracting  the  system  for  himself. 
And  in  the  mean  time  the  following  passage,  taken 
from  the  conclusion  of  the  first  book  of  the  Recluse, 
may  be  acceptable  as  a  kind  of  prospectus  of  the 
design  and  scope  of  the  whole  poem. 


"  On  man,  on  nature,  and  on  human  life, 
Musing  in  solitude,  I  oft  perceive 
Fair  trains  of  imagery  before  me  rise, 
Accompanied  by  feelings  of  delight 
Pure,  or  with  no  unpleasing  sadness  mixt; 
And  I  am  conscious  of  affecting  thoughts 
And  dear  remembrances  whose  presence  soothei 
Or  elevates  the  mind,  intent  to  weigh 
The  good  and  evil  of  our  mortal  state. 
— To  these  emotions,  whensoe'er  they  corfie, 
Whether  from  breath  of  outward  circumstance, 
Or  from  the  soul — an  impulse  to  herself, 
I  would  give  utterance  in  numerous  verse. 
Of  truth,  of  grandeur,  beauty,  love,  and  hope— 
And  melancholy  fear  subdued  by  faith  ; 
Of  blessed  consolations  in  distress  ; 
Of  moral  strength,  and  intellectual  power ; 
Of  joy  in  widest  commonalty  spread  ; 
Of  the  individual  mind  that  keeps  her  own 
Inviolate  retirement,  subject  there 
To  conscience  only,  and  the  law  supreme 
Of  that  Intelligence  which  governs  all ; 
I  sing: — '  fit  audience  let  me  find  though  few  !' 
"  So   pray'd,  more  gaining  than   he   ask'd,  tli« 
bard. 
Holiest  of  men. — Urania,  I  s'hall  need 
Thy  guidance,  or  a  greater  muse,  if  such 
Descend  to  earth  or  dwell  in  highest  heaven  ! 
For  I  must  tread  on  shadowy  ground,  must  sink 
Deep — and,  aloft  ascending,  breathe  in  world 
To  which  the  heaven  of  heavens  is  but  a  veil. 
All  strength — all  terror,  single  or  in  bands. 
That  ever  was  put  forth  in  personal  form ; 
Jehovah — with  his  thunder,  and  the  choir 
Of  shouting  angels,  and  the  empyreal  thrones 
I  pass  them  unalarm'd.     Not  chaos,  not 
The  darkest  pit  of  lowest  Erebus, 
Nor  aught  of  blinder  vacancy — scoop'd  out 
By  help  of  dreams,  can  breed  such  fear  and  awe 
As  fall  upon  us  often  when  we  look 
Into  our  minds,  into  the  mind  of  man. 
My  haunt,  and  the  main  region  of  my  song. 
—Beauty — a  living  presence  of  the  earth. 


THE    EXCURSION. 


4n 


Surpassing  the  most  fair  ideal  forms 

Which  craft  of  delicate  spirits  hath  composed 

From  earth's  materials— waits  upon  my  steps  ; 

Pitches  her  tents  before  me  as  I  move. 

An  hourly  neighbour.     Paradise,  and  groves 

Elysian,  fortunate  fields— like  those  of  old 

Sought  in  th'  Atlantic  main,  why  should  they  be 

A  history  only  of  departed  things, 

Or  a  mere  fiction  of  what  never  was 

For  the  discerning  intelleet  of  man, 

When  wedded  to  this  goodly  universe 

In  love  and  holy  passion,  shall  find  these 

A  simple  produce  of  the  common  day. 

— I,  long  before  the  blissful  hour  arrives, 

Would  chant,  in  lonely  peace,  the  spousal  verse 

Of  this  great  consummation  ; — and,  by  words 

Which  speak  of  nothing  more  than  what  we  are, 

Would  I  arouse  the  sensual  from  their  sleep 

Of  death,  and  win  the  vacant  and  the  vain 

To  noble  raptures  ;  while  my  voice  proclaims 

How  exquisitely  the  individual  mind 

(And  the  progressive  powers  perhaps  no  less 

Of  the  whole  species)  to  the  external  world 

Is  fitted  ; — and  how  exquisitely,  too, 

Theme  this  but  little  heard  of  among  men, 

Th'  external  world  is  fitted  to  the  mind  ; 

And  the  creation  (by  no  lower  name 

Can  it  be  call'd)  which  they  with  blended  might 

Accomplish: — this  is  our  high  argument. 

— Such  grateful  haunts  fo-regoing,  if  I  oft 

Must  turn  elsewhere — to  travel  near  the  tribes 

And  fellowships  of  men,  and  see  ill  sights 

Of  madding  passions  mutually  inflamed  ; 

Must  hear  humanity  in  fields  and  groves 

Pipe  solitary  anguish  ;  or  must  hang 

Brooding  above  the  fierce  confederate  storm 

Of  sorrow,  barricadoed  evermore 

Within  the  walls  of  cities  ;  may  these  sounds 

Have  their  authentic  comment, — that  even  these 

Hearing,  I  be  not  downcast  or  forlorn  r 

— Descend,  prophetic  spirit !  that  inspiresl 

The  human  soul*  of  universal  earth. 

Dreaming  on  things  to  come  ;  and  dost  possess 

A  metropolitan  temple  in  the  hearts 

Of  mighty  poets ;  upon  me  bestow 

A  gift  of  genuine  insight ;  that  my  song 

W^ith  star-like  virtue  in  its  place  may  shine ; 

Shedding  benignant  influence, — and  secure, 

Itself,  from  all  malevolent  effect 

Of  those  mutations  that  extend  their  sway 

Throughout  the  nether  sphere  ! — And  if  with  this 

I  mix  more  lowly  matter  ;  with  the  thing 

Contemplated,  describe  the  mind  and  man 

Contemplating,  and  who,  and  what  he  was, 

The  transitory  being  that  beheld 

This  vision, — when  and  where,  and  how  he  lived  ;- 

Be  not  this  labour  useless.     If  such  theme 

May  sort  with  highest  objects,  then,  dread  power. 

Whose  gracious  favour  is  the  primal  source 

Of  all  illumination,  may  my  life 

Express  the  image  of  a  better  time. 

More  wise  desires,  and  simpler  manners ;  -nurse 


My  heart  in  genuine  freedom  : — all  pure  thoughts 
Be  with  me  ; — so  shall  thy  unfailing  love 
Guide,  and  support,  and  cheer  me  to  the  end  !" 


TO  THE  RIGHT  HONOUKABLE 

WILLIAM,  EARL  OF  LONSDALE,  K.  G.  &c.  &c 

Oft,  through  thy  fair  domains,  illustrious  peer  ! 
In  youth  I  roam'd,  on  youthful  pleasures  bent } 
And  mused  in  rocky  cell  or  sylvan  tent. 
Beside  swift-flowing  Lowther's  current  clear. 
— Now,  by  thy  care  befriended,  I  appear 
Before  thee,  Lonsdale,  and  this  work  present, 
A  token  (may  it  prove  a  monument!) 
Of  high  respect  and  gratitude  sincere. 
Gladly  would  I  have  waited  till  my  task 
Hau  reached  its  close ;  but  life  is  insecure, 
And  hope  full  oft  fallacious  as  a  dream : 
Tlierefore,  for  what  is  here  produced  I  ask 
Thy  favour;  trusting  that  thou  wilt  not  deem 
The  offering,  though  imperfect,  premature. 

WiLLIAJI  WORDSWOHTH 

Rydal  Mount,  Westmoreland, 
July  29,  :S14. 


I 


♦  Not  mine  own  fears,  nor  the  prophetic  soul 
Of  the  wide  world  dreaming  on  things  to  come. 

Shakspcare's  Sonnet*. 

YoL.  III.— 2T 


THE  EXO    RSION. 

ARGUMENT. 
A  summer  forenoon.  The  author  reaches  a  ruined  cottage 
upon  a  common,  and  there  meets  with  a  revered  friend 
the  Wanderer,  of  whom  he  gives  an  account.  The  Wan- 
derer while  resting  under  the  shade  of  the  trees  that 
surround  the  cottage  relates  the  history  of  its  last  inht 
bilant 


BOOK  FIRST. 
THE  WANDERER. 
'TwAS  summer,  and  the  sun  had  mounted  high : 
Southward  the  landscape  indistinctly  glared 
Through  a  pale  steam :  but  all  the  northern  downs, 
In  clearest  air  ascending,  show'd  far  off 
A  surface  dappled  o'er  with  shadows  flung 
From  brooding  clouds  :  shadows  that  lay  in  spots 
Determined  and  unmoved,  with  steady  beams 
Of  bright  and  pleasant  sunshine  interposed  ; 
Pleasant  to  him  who  on  the  soft  cool  moss 
Extends  his  careless  limbs  along  the  front 
Of  some  huge  cave,  whose  rocky  ceiling  casts 
A  twilight  of  its  own,  an  ample  shade, 
Where  the  wien  warbles  ;  while  the  dreaming  man 
Half  conscious  of  the  soothing  melody. 
With  sidelong  eye  looks  out  upon  the  scene, 
By  power  of  that  impending  covert  thrown 
To  finer  distance.     Other  lot  was  mine  ; 
Yet  with  good  hope  that  soon  I  should  obtain 
As  grateful  resting-place,  and  livelier  joy. 
Across  a  bare  wide  common  I  was  toiling 
With  languid  steps  that  by  the  slippery  ground 
Were  baffled  ;  nor  could  my  weak  arm  disperse 
The  host  of  insects  gathering  round  my  face. 
And  ever  with  me  as  I  paced  along. 

Upon  that  open  level  stood  a  grove, 
The  wish'd  for  port  to  which  my  course  was  Doun4 


418 


WORDSWORTH. 


Thither  I  came,  and  there,  amid  the  gloom 
Spread  by  a  brotherhood  of  lofty  elms, 
Appear'd  a  roofless  hut ;  four  naked  walls 
That  stared  upon  each  other  !  I  looked  round, 
And  to  my  wish  and  to  my  hope  espied 
Him  whom  I  sought ;  a  man  of  reverend  age, 
But  stout  and  hale,  for  travel  unimpair'd. 
There  was  he  seen  upon  the  cottage  bench, 
Recumbent  in  the  shade,  as  if  asleep  ; 
An  iron-pointed  staff  lay  at  his  side. 

Him  had  I  mark'd  the  day  before — alone 
And  station'd  in  the  public  way,  with  face 
Turn'd  toward  the  sun  then  setting,  while  that  staff 
Afforded  to  the  figure  of  the  man 
Detain'd  for  contemplation  or  repose, 
Graceful  support ;  his  countenance  meanwhile 
Was  hidden  ifrom  my  view,  and  he  remain'd 
Unrecognised  ;  but,  stricken  by  the  sight. 
With  slacken'd  footsteps  I  advanced,  and  soon 
A  glad  congratulation  we  exchanged. 
At  such  unthought  of  meeting. — For  the  night 
We  parted,  nothing  willingly  ;  and  now 
He  by  appointment  waited  for  me  here. 
Beneath  the  shelter  of  these  clustering  elms. 

We  were  tried  friends  :  amid  a  pleasant  vale. 
In  the  antique  market  village  where  were  pass'd 
My  school-days,  an  apartment  he  had  own'd, 
To  which  at  intervals  the  Wanderer  drew,   . 
And  found  a  kind  of  home  or  harbour  there. 
He  loved  me  ;  from  a  swarm  of  rosy  boj's 
Singled  out  me,  as  he  in  sport  would  say. 
For  my  grave  looks — too  thoughtful  for  my  years. 
As  I  grew  up,  it  was  my  best  delight 
To  be  his  chosen  comrade.     Many  a  time. 
On  holydays,  we  rambled  through  the  woods : 
We  sate — we  walk'd ;  he  pleased  me  with  report 
Of  things  which  he  had  seen  ;  and  often  touch'd 
Abstrusest  matter,  reasonings  of  the  mind 
Turn'd  inward ;  or  at  my  request  would  sing 
Old  songs — the  product  of  his  native  hills  ; 
A  skilful  distribution  of  sweet  sounds, 
Feeding  the  soul,  and  eagerly  imbibed 
As  cool,  refreshing  water  by  the  care 
Of  the  industrious  husbandman,  diffused    [drought, 
Through   a  parch'd  meadow-ground,  in   time   of 
Still  deeper  welcome  found  his  pure  discourse : 
How  precious  when  in  riper  days  I  learn'd 
To  weigh  with  care  his  words,  and  to  rejoice 
In  the  plain  presence  of  his  dignity  ! 

0  !  many  are  the  poets  that  are  sown 
By  nature  ;  men  endow 'd  with  highest  gifts, 
The  vision  and  the  faculty  divine  ; 
Yet  wanting  the  accomplishment  of  verse, 
(Which,  in  the  docile  season  of  their  youth. 
It  was  denied  them  to  acquire,  through  lack 
Of  culture  and  th'  inspiring  aid  of  books, 
Or  haply  by  a  temper  too  severe. 
Or  a  nice  backwardness  afraid  of  shame,) 
Not  having  here  as  life  advanced,  been  led 
By  circumstance  to  take  unto  the  height 
The  measure  of  themselves,  these  favour'd  beings, 
All  but  a  scatter'd  few,  live  out  their  time. 
Husbanding  that  which  they  possess  within. 
And  go  to  the  grave  unthought  of.     Strongest  minds 
Are  often  those  of  whom  the  noisy  world 
Hears  least ;  else  surely  this  man  had  not  left 


His  graces  unreveal'd  and  unproclaim'd. 
But,  as  the  mind  was  fiU'd  with  inward  light. 
So  not  without  distinction  had  he  lived, 
Beloved  and  honour'd — far  as  he  was  known. 
And  some  small  portion  of  his  eloquent  speech, 
And  something  that  may  serve  to  set  in  view 
The  feeling  pleasures  of  his  loneliness, 
His  observations,  and  the  thoughts  his  mind 
Had  dealt  with — I  will  here  record  in  verse  ; 
Which,  if  with  truth  it  correspond,  and  sink 
Or  rise  as  venerable  nature  leads. 
The  high  and  tender  muses  shall  accept 
With  gracious  smiie,  deliberately  pleased, 
And  listening  time  reward  with  sacred  praise. 

Among  the  hills  of  Athol  he  was  born  ; 
Where,  on  a  small  hereditary  farm, 
An  unproductive  slip  of  rugged  ground. 
His  parents,  with  their  numerous  offspring,  dwelt 
A  virtuous  household,  though  exceeding  poor  ! 
Pure  livers  were  they  all,  austere  and  grave. 
And  fearing  God  ;  the  very  children  taught 
Stern  self-respect,  a  reverence  for  God's  word. 
And  an  habitual  piety,  maintain'd 
With  strictness  scarcely  known  on  English  ground 

From  his  sixth  year,  the  boy  of  whom  I  speak. 
In  summer  tended  cattle  on  the  hills  ; 
But,  through  th'  inclement  and  the  perilous  days 
Of  long-continuing  winter,  he  repair'd, 
Equipp'd  with  satchel,  to  a  school,  that  stood 
Sole  building  on  a  mountain's  dreary  edge, 
Remote  from  view  of  city  spire,  or  sound 
Of  minster  clock  !    From  that  bleak  tenement 
He,  many  an  evening,  to  his  distant  home 
In  solitude  returning,  saw  the  hills 
Grow  larger  in  the  darkness,  all  alone 
Beheld  the  stars  come  out  above  his  head. 
And  travell'd  through  the  wood,  with  no  one  neai 
To  v/hom  he  might  confess  the  things  he  saw. 
So  the  foundations  of  his  mind  were  laid. 
In  such  communion,  not  from  terror  free, 
While  yet  a  child,  and  long  before  his  time. 
He  had  perceived  the  presence  and  the  power 
Of  greatness ;  and  deep  feelings  had  impress'd 
Great  objects  on  Ivis  mind,  with  portraiture 
And  colour  so  distinct,  that  on  his  mind 
They  lay  like  substances,  and  almost  seem'd 
To  haunt  the  bodily  sense.     He  had  received 
A  precious  gift ;  for,  as  he  grew  in  years, 
With  these  impressions  would  he  still  compare 
All  his  remembrances,  thoughts,  shapes,  and  forms 
And,  being  still  unsatisfied  with  auglit 
Of  dimmer  character,  he  thence  attain'd 
An  active  power  to  fasten  images 
Upon  his  brain  ;  and  on  their  pictured  lines 
Intensely  brooded,  even  till  they  acquired 
The  liveliness  of  dreams.     Nor  did  he  fail, 
While  3^et  a  child,  with  a  child's  eagerness 
Incessantly'-  to  turn  his  ear  and  eye 
On  all  things  which  the  moving  seasons  brought 
To  feed  such  appetite  :  nor  this  alone 
Appeased  his  yearning: — in  the  after  day 
Of  boyhood,  many  an  hour  in  caves  forlorn, 
And  mid  the  hollow  depths  of  naked  crags 
He  sate,  and  e'en  in  their  fix'd  Imeancents, 
Or  from  the  power  of  a  peculiar  eye. 
Or  by  creative  feeling  overborne. 


THE    EXCURSION. 


419 


Or  by  predominance  of  thought  oppress'd, 
E'en  in  their  fix'd  and  steady  lineaments 
He  traced  an  ebbing  and  a  flowing  mind, 
Expression  ever  varying  ! 

Thus  inform'd 
He  had  small  need  of  books  ;  for  many  a  tale 
Traditionary,  round  the  mountains  hung, 
And  many  a  legend,  peopling  the  dark  woods, 
Nourish'd  imagination  in  her  growth, 
And  gave  the  mind  that  apprehensive  power 
By  which  she  is  made  quick  to  recognise 
The  moral  properties  and  scope  of  things. 
But  eagerly  he  read,  and  read  again, 
Whate'er  the  minister's  old  shelf  supplied  ; 
The  life  and  death  of  martyrs,  who  sustain'd, 
With  will  inflexible,  those  fearful  pangs 
Triumphantly  display'd  in  records  left 
Of  persecution,  and  the  covenant — times 
Whose  echo  rings  through  Scotland  to  this  hour  ! 
And  there,  by  lucky  hap,  had  been  preserved 
A  straggling  volume,  torn  and  incomplete, 
That  left  half  told  the  preternatural  tale, 
Romance  of  giants,  chronicle  of  fiends. 
Profuse  in  garniture  of  wooden  cuts 
Strange  and  uncoutn  ;  dire  faces,  figures  dire, 
Sharp-kneed,  sharp-elbow'd,  and  lean-ankled  too, 
With  long  and  ghostly  shanks — forms  which  once 

seen 
Could  never  be  forgotten  ! 

Tn  his  heart, 
Where  fear  sate  thus,  a  cherish'd  visitant. 
Was  wanting  yet  the  pure  delight  of  love 
By  sound  diffused,  or  by  the  breathing  air, 
Or  by  the  silent  looks  of  happy  things, 
Or  flowing  from  the  universal  face 
Of  earth  and  sky.     But  he  had  felt  the  powe 
Of  nature,  and  already  was  prepared, 
By  his  intense  conceptions,  to  receive 
Deeply  the  lesson  deep  of  love  which  he, 
Whom  nature,  bj'  whatever  means,  has  taught 
To  feel  intensely,  cannot  but  receive. 
Such  was  the  boy — but  for  the  growing  youth 
What  soul  was  his,  when,  from  the  naked  top 
Of  some  bold  headland,  he  beheld  the  sun 
Rise  up,  and  bathe  the  world  in  light !  He  look'd — 
Ocean  and  earth,  the  solid  frame  of  earth 
And  ocean's  liquid  mass,  beneath  him  lay 
In  gladness  and  deep  joy.     The  clouds  were  touch 'd, 
And  in  their  silent  faces  did  he  read 
Unutterable  love.     Sound  needed  none, 
Nor  any  voice  of  joy  ;  his  spirit  drank 
The  spectacle ;  sensation,  soul,  and  form, 
All  melted  into  him  ;  they  swallow'd  up 
His  animal  being ;  in  them  did  he  live. 
And  by  them  did  he  live  ;  they  were  his  life. 
In  such  access  of  mind,  in  such  high  hour 
Of  visitation  from  the  living  God, 
Thought  was  not ;  in  enjoyment  it  expired. 
No  thanks  he  breathed,  he  proffer'd  no  request; 
Rapt  into  still  communion  that  transcends 
Th'  imperfect  offices  of  prayer  and  praise. 
His  mind  was  a  thanksgiving  to  the  power 
That  made  him,  it  was  blessedness  and  love  ! 

A  herdsman  on  the  lonely  mountain  tops, 
Such  intercourse  was  his,  and  in  this  sort 
Was  his  existence  oftentimes  possessed. 


O  then  how  beautiful,  how  bright  appear'd 

The  written  promise  !  Early  had  he  learn'd 

To  reverence  the  volume  that  displays 

The  mystery,  the  life  which  cannot  die  ; 

But  in  the  mountains  did  he  feel  his  faith. 

All  things,  responsive  to  the  writing,  there 

Breathed  immortality,  revolving  life. 

And  greatness  still  revolving  ;  infinite  ; 

There  littleness  was  not ;  the  least  of  things 

Seem'd  infinite ;  and  there  his  spirit  shaped 

Her  prospects,  nor  did  he  believe, — he  saw. 

What  wonder  if  his  being  thus  became 

Sublime  and  comprehensive  !  Low  desires. 

Low  thoughts  had  there  no  place ;  yet  was  his  heart 

Lowly ;  for  he  was  meek  in  gratitude. 

Oft  as  he  call'd  those  ecstasies  to  mind. 

And  whence  they  flow'd ;  and  from  them  he  acquired 

Wisdom,  which  works  through  patience ;   thence 

he  learn'd 
In  oft-recurring  hours  of  sober  thought 
To  look  on  nature  with  a  humble  heart, 
Self-question'd  where  it  did  hot  understand, 
And  with  a  superstitious  eye  of  love. 

So  pass'd  the  time ;  yet  to  the  nearest  town 
He  duly  went  with  what  small  overplus 
His  earnings  might  supply,  and  brought  away 
The  book  that  most  had  tempted  his  desires 
While  at  the  stall  he  read.     Among  the  hills 
He  gazed  upon  that  mighty  orb  of  song, 
The  divine  Milton.     Lore  of  different  kind, 
The  annual  savings  of  a  toilsome  life, 
His  schoolmaster  supplied :  books  that  explain 
The  purer  elements  of  truth  involved 
In  lines  and  numbers,  and,  by  charm  severe, 
(Especially  perceived  where  nature  droops 
And  feeling  is  suppress'd)  preserve  the  mind 
Busy  in  solitude  and  poverty. 
These  occupations  oftentimes  deceived 
The  listless  hours,  while  in  the  hollow  vale. 
Hollow  and  green,  he  lay  on  the  green  turf 
In  pensive  idleness.     What  could  he  do. 
Thus  daily  thirsting,  in  that  lonesome  life, 
With  blind  endeavours  ?     Yet  still  uppermost. 
Nature  was  at  his  heart  as  if  he  felt, 
Though  yet  he  knew  not  how,  a  wasting  power 
In  all  things  that  from  her  sweet  influence 
Might  tend  to  wean  him.     Therefore  with  her  hues 
Her  forms,  and  with  the  spirit  of  her  forms. 
He  clothed  the  nakedness  of  austere  truth. 
While  yet  he  linger'd  in  the  rudiments 
Of  science,  and  among  her  simplest  laws. 
His  triangles — they  were  the  stars  of  heaven, 
The  silent  stars  !     Oft  did  he  take  delight 
To  measure  the  altitude  of  some  small  crag 
That  is  the  eagle's  birthplace,  or  some  peak 
Familiar  with  forgotten  years,  that  shows 
Inscribed,  as  with  the  silence  of  the  thought. 
Upon  its  bleak  and  visionary  sides, 
The  history  of  many  a  winter  storm. 
Or  obscure  records  of  the  path  of  fire. 

And  thus  before  his  eighteenth  year  was  told, 
Accumulated  feelings  press 'd  his  heart 
With  still  increasing  weight ;  he  was  o'erpower'd 
B3'  nature,  by  the  turbulence  subdued 
Of  his  own  mind  ;  by  mystery  and  hope. 
And  the  first  virgin  passion  of  a  soul 


420 


WORDSWORTH. 


Communing  with  the  glorious  universe. 
Full  often  wish'd  he  that  the  winds  might  rage 
When  they  were  silent ;  far  more  fondly  now 
Than  in  his  earlier  season  did  he  love 
Tempestuous  nights — the  conflict  and  the  sounds 
That  live  in  darkness : — from  his  intellect 
And  from  the  stillness  of  abstracted  thought 
He  ask'd  repose;  and,  failing  oft  to  win 
The  peace  required,  he  scann'd  the  laws  of  light 
Amid  the  roar  of  torrents,  where  they  send 
From  hollow  clefts  up  to  the  clearer  air 
A  cloud  of  mist,  that  smitten  by  the  sun 
Varies  its  rainbow  hues.     But  vainly  thus. 
And  vainly  by  all  other  means,  he  strove 
To  mitigate  the  fever  of  his  heart. 

In  dreams,  in  study,  and  in  ardent  thought, 
Thus  was  he  rear'd;  much  wanting  to  assist 
The  growth  of  intellect,  yet  gaining  more, 
And  every  moral  feeling  of  his  soul 
Strengthen'd  and  braced,  by  breathing  in  content 
The  keen,  the  wholesome  air  of  poverty, 
And  drinking  from  the  well  of  homely  life. — 
But,  from  past  liberty,  and  tried  restraints. 
He  now  was  summon'd  to  select  the  course 
Of  humble  industry  that  promised  best 
To  yield  him  no  unworthy  maintenance. 
Urged  by  his  mother,  he  essay'd  to  teach 
A  village  school ;  but  wandering  thoughts  were  then 
A  misery  to  him  ;  and  the  youth  resign'd 
A  task  he  was  unable  to  perform. 

That  stern  yet  kindly  spirit,  who  constrains 
The  Savoyard  to  quit  his  naked  rocks 
The  freeborn  Swiss  to  leave  his  narrow  vales, 
(Spirit  attach'd  to  regions  mountainous 
Like  their  own  steadfast  clouds,)  did  now  impel 
His  restless  mind  to  look  abroad  with  hope, 
An  irksome  drudgery  seems  it  to  plod  on. 
Through  hot  and  dusty  ways,  or  pelting  storm, 
A  vagrant  merchant  bent  beneath  his  load  ! 
Yet  do  such  travellers  find  their  own  delight ; 
And  their  hard  service,  deem'd  debasing  now, 
Gain'd  merited  respect  in  simpler  times  ; 
When  squire,  and  priest,  and  they  who  round  them 

dwelt 
In  rustic  sequestration — all  dependent 
Upon  the  pedlar's  toil — supplied  their  wants, 
Or  pleased  their  fancies  with  the  wares  he  brought. 
Not  ignorant  was  the  youth  that  still  no  few 
Of  his  adventurous  countrymen  were  led 
By  perseverance  in  this  track  of  life 
To  competence  and  ease  ; — for  him  it  bore 
Attractions  manifold  ; — and  this  he  chose. 
His  parents  on  the  enterprise  bestow 'd 
Their  farewell  benediction,  but  with  hearts 
Foreboding  evil.     From  his  native  hills 
He  waiider'd  far;  much  did  he  see  of  men,* 


♦  Al  the  risk  of  giving  a  shock  to  the  prejudices  of  arti- 
ficial society,  I  have  ever  been  ready  to  pay  homage  to  the 
aristocracy  of  nature ;  under  a  conviction  that  vigorous 
human-heariedness  is  the  constituent  principle  of  true 
taste.  It  may  still,  how^ever,  be  satisfactory  to  have  prose 
te8tim;)ny  how  far  a  character,  employed  for  purposes 
of  imagination,  is  founded  upon  general  fact.  I,  therefore, 
subjVin  an  extract  from  an  author  who  had  opportunities 
of  being  well  acquainted  with  a  class  of  men,  from  whom 
my  own  personal  knowledge  imboldened  me  to  draw  this 
vonrait. 


Their  manners,  their  enjoyments  and  pursuits, 

Their  passions  and  their  feelings  ;  chiefly  those 

Essential  and  eternal  in  the  heart. 

That,  mid  the  simpler  forms  of  rural  life. 

Exist  more  simple  in  their  elements. 

And  speak  a  plainer  language.     In  the  woods, 

A  lone  enthusiast,  and  among  the  fields. 

Itinerant  in  this  labour,  he  had  pass'd 

The  better  portion  of  his  time  ;  and  there 

Spontaneously  had  his  affections  thriven 

Amid  the  bounties  of  the  year,  the  peace 

And  liberty  of  nature  ;  there  he  kept     . 

In  solitude  and  solitary  thought 

His  mind  in  a  just  equipoise  of  love. 

Serene  it  was,  unclouded  by  the  cares 

Of  ordinary  life  ;  unvex'd,  unwarp'd 

By  partial  bondage.     In  his  steady  course, 

No  piteous  revolutions  had  he  felt, 

No  wild  varieties  of  joy  and  grief. 

Unoccupied  by  sorrow  of  its  own. 

His  heart  lay  open  ;  and,  by  nature  tuned 

And  constant  disposition  of  his  thoughts 

To  sympathy  with  man,  he  was  alive 

To  all  that  was  enjoy'd  where'er  he  went, 

And  all  that  was  endured  ;  foj  in  himself 

Happy,  and  quiet  in  his  cheerfulness. 

He  had  no  painful  pressure  from  without 

That  made  him  turn  aside  from  wretchedness 

With  coward  fears.     He  could  afford  to  suffer 

With  those  whom  he  saw  suffer.     Hence  it  came 

That  in  our  best  experience  he  was  rich, 

And  in  the  wisdom  of  our  daily  life. 

"  We  learn  from  Csesar  and  other  Roman  writers,  thai 
the  travelling  merchants  who  frequented  Gaul  and  othei 
barbarous  countries,  either  newly  conquered  by  the  Roman 
arms,  or  bordering  on  the  Roman  conquests,  were  ever  the 
first  to  make  the  inhabitants  of  those  countries  familiarly 
acquainted  with  the  Roman  modes  of  life,  and  to  inspire 
them  with  an  inclination  to  follow  the  Roman  fashions, 
and  to  enjoy  Roman  conveniencies.  In  North  America, 
travelling  merchants  from  the  settlements  have  done  and 
continue  to  do  much  more  toward  civilizing  the  Indian 
natives,  than  all  the  missionaries,  Papist  or  Protestant, 
who  have  ever  been  sent  among  them. 

"  It  is  farther  to  be  observed,  for  ihg  credit  of  this  most 
useful  class  of  men,  that  they  commonly  contribute,  by 
their  personal  manners,  no  less  than  by  the  sale  of  theu 
wares,  to  the  refinement  of  the  people  among  whom  the, 
travel.  Their  dealings  form  them  to  great  quickness  o» 
wit  and  acuteness  of  judgment.  Having  constant  occa- 
sion to  recommend  themselves  and  their  goods,  they  ac- 
quire habits  of  the  most  obliging  attention  and  the  most 
insinuating  address.  As  in  their  peregrinations  they  iiave 
opportunity  of  contemplating  the  manners  of  various  men 
and  various  cities,  they  become  eminently  skilled  in  the 
knowledge  of  the  world.  As  they  wander^  each  alone, 
through  thinly-inhabited  districts,  they  form  habits  ofre- 
Jlection  and  of  sublime  contemplation.  With  all  these 
qualifications,  no  wonder,  that  they  should  often  be,  in 
remote  parts  of  the  country,  the  best  mirrors  of  fashion, 
and  censors  of  manners:  and  should  contribute  much  to 
polish  the  roughness,  and  soften  the  rusticity  of  our  pea- 
santry. It  is  not  more  than  twenty  or  thirty  years,  since  a 
young  man  going  from  any  part  of  Scotland  to  England, 
of  purpose  to  carry  the  pack.,  was  considered,  as  going  to 
lead  the  life,  and  acquire  the  fortune  of  a  gentleman. 
When,  after  twenty  years'  absence,  in  that  honourable 
Ime  of  employment,  he  returned  with  his  acquisitions  to 
his  native  country,  he  was  regarded  as  a  gentleman  to  ail 
intents  and  purposes."— Hlercwi's  Journey  in  Scotland, 
vol.  i.  p.  89. 


THE    EXCURSION. 


421 


For  hence,  minutely,  in  his  various  rounds. 

He  had  observed  the  progress  and  decay 

Of  many  minds,  of  minds  and  bodies  too 

The  history  of  many  families, 

How  th^  had   prosper'd  ;    how  they  were   o'er- 

thrown 
By  passion  or  mischance  ;  or  such  misrule  • 
Among  the  unthinking  masters  of  the  earth 
As  makes  the  nations  groan. — This  active  course 
He  follow'd  till  provision  for  his  wants 
Had  been  obtain'd  ; — the  wanderer  then  resolved 
To  pass  the  remnant  of  his  days — untask'd 
With  needless  services — from  hardship  free. 
His  calling  laid  aside,  he  lived  at  ease. 
But  still  he  loved  to  pace  the  public  roads 
And  the  wild  paths  ;  and  by  the  summer's  warmth 
Invited,  often  would  he  leave  his  home 
And  journey  far,  revisiting  the  scenes 
That  to  his  memory  were  most  endear'd. — 
Vigorous  in  health,  of  hopeful  spirits,  undamp'd 
By  worldly-mindedness  or  anxious  care  ; 
Observant,  studious,  thoughtful,  and  refresh'd 
By  knowledge  gather'd  up  from  day  to  day  ; — 
Thus  had  he  lived  a  long  and  innocent  life. 

The  Scottish  church,  both  on  himself  and  those 
With  whom  from  childhood  he  grew  up,  had  held 
The  strong  hand  of  her  purity;  and  still 
Had  watch'd  him  with  an  unrelenting  eye. 
This  he  remember'd  in  his  riper  age 
With  gratitude,  and  reverential  thoughts. 
But  by  the  native  vigour  of  his  mind, 
By  his  habitual  wanderings  out  of  doors. 
By  loneliness,  and  goodness,  and  kind  works, 
Whate'er,  in  docile  childhood  or  in  youth. 
He  had  imbibed  of  fear  or  darker  thought 
Was  melted  all  away  :  so  true  was  this. 
That  sometimes  his  religion  seem'd  to  me 
Self-taught,  as  of  a  dreamer  in  the  w^oods  ; 
Who  to  the  model  of  his  own  pure  heart 
Shaped  his  belief  as  grace  divine  inspired, 
Or  human  reason  dictated  with  awe. 
And  surely  never  did  there  live  on  earth 
A  man  of  kindlier  nature.     The  rough  sports 
And  teasing  ways  of  children  vex'd  not  him  ; 
Indulgent  listener  was  he  to  the  tongue 
Df  garrulous  age  ;  nor  did  the  sick  man's  tale. 
To  his  fraternal  sympathy  address'd, 
Obtain  reluctant  hearing. 

Plain  his  garb ; 
Such  as  might  suit  a  rustic  sire,  prepared 
For  Sabbath  duties  ;  yet  he  was  a  man 
Whom  no  one  could  have  pass'd  without  remark. 
Active  and  nervous  was  his  gait ;  his  limbs 
And  his  whole  figure  breathed  intelligence. 
Time  had  compress'd  the  freshness  of  his  cheek 
Into  a  narrower  circle  of  deep  red. 
But  ha  J  not  tamed  his  eye  ;  that,  under  brows 
Shaggy  and  gray,  had  meanings  which  it  brought 
From  years  of  youth  ;  which,  like  a  being  made 
Of  mmy  beings,  he  had  wondrous  skill 
To  blend  with  knowledge  of  the  years  to  come, 
Human,  or  such  as  lie  beyond  the  grave. 


So  was  he  framed  ;  and  such  his  course  of  life 
Who  now,  with  no  appendage  but  a  staff, 
The  prized  memorial  of  relinquish'd  toils. 


Upon  that  cottage  bench  reposed  his  limbs, 
Screen'd  from  the  sun.     Supine  the  wanderer  lay. 
His  eyes  as  if  in  drowsiness  half  shut, 
The  shadows  of  the  breezy  elms  above 
Dappling  his  face.     He  had  not  heard  the  sound 
Of  my  approaching  steps,  and  in  the  shade 
Unnoticed  did  I  stand,  some  minutes'  space. 
At  length  I  hail'd  him,  seeing  that  his  hat 
Was  moist  with  water-drops,  as  if  the  brim 
Had  newly  scoop'd  a  running  stream.     He  rose. 
And  ere  our  lively  greeting  into  peace 
Had  settled,  "  'Tis,"  said  I,  "  a  burning  day  : 
My  lips  are  parch'd  with  thirst,  but  you^  it  seems, 
Have  somewhere  found  relief."    He,  at  the  word. 
Pointing  towards  a  sweet-brier,  bade  me  climb 
The  fence  where  that  aspiring  shrub  look'd  out 
Upon  the  public  way.     It  was  a  plot 
Of  garden  ground  run  wild,  its  matted  weeds 
Mark'd  with  the  steps   of  those,  whom,  as   they 

pass'd. 
The  gooseberry  trees  that  shot  in  long  lank  slips 
Or  currants,  hanging  from  their  leafless  stems 
In  scanty  strings,  had  temj-ted  to  o'erleap 
The  brukeu  wall.     I  look'd  around,  and  there. 
Where  loo  tall  hedge-rows  of  thick  alder  boughs 
Join'd  in  a  cold,  damp  nook,  espied  a  well 
Shrouded  with  willow  flowers  and  plumy  fern. 
My  thirst  I  slaked,  and  from  the  cheerless  spot 
Withdrawing,  straightway  to  the  shade  return'd 
Where  sate  the  old  man  on  the  cottd^e  bench ; 
And,  while  beside  him,  with  uncover'd  head, 
I  j-et  was  standing,  freely  to  respire. 
And  cool  my  temples  In  the  fanning  air. 
Thus  did  he  speak.     "  I  see  around  me  here 
Things  which  you  can  ""ot  see :  we  die,  my  friend. 
Nor  we  alone,  but  that  vhich  each  man  loved 
And  prized  in  his  peculiar  nook  of  earth 
Dies  with  him,  or  is  changed  ;  and  very  soon 
Even  of  the  good  is  no  memorial  left. — 
The  poets,  in  their  elegies  and  songs  , 

Lamenting  the  departed,  call  the  groves, 
They  call  upon  the  hills  and  streams  to  mourn, 
And  senseless  rocks  ;  nor  idly  ;  for  they  speak, 
In  these  their  invocations,  with  a  voice 
Obedient  to  the  strong  creative  power 
Of  human  passion.     Sympathies  there  are 
More  tranquil,  yet  perhaps  of  kindred  birth, 
That  steal  upon  the  meditative  mind. 
And  grow  with  thought.    Beside  yon  spring  I  stood. 
And  eyed  its  waters  till  we  seem'd  to  feel 
One  sadness,  they  and  I.     For  them  a  bond 
Of  brotherhood  is  broken  :  time  has  been 
When,  every  day,  the  touch  of  human  hand 
Dislodged  the  natural  sleep  that  binds  them  up 
In  mortal  stillness  ;  and  they  minister'd 
To  human  comfort.     Stooping  down  to  drink. 
Upon  t])e  f  limy  footstone  I  espied 
The  usele?^  fragment  of  a  wooden  bowl. 
Green  with  the  moss  of  years,  and  subject  only 
To  the  soft  handling  of  the  elements  : 
There  let  the  relic  lie — fond  thought—  vain  Avord*  i 
Forgive  them  ; — never — never  did  my  steps 
Approach  this  door  but  she  who  dwelt  within 
A  daughter's  welcome  gave  me,  and  I  loved  her 
As  my  own  child.     O,  sir  !  the  good  die  first. 
And  they  whose  hearts  are  dry  as  summer  dust 


422 


WORDSWORTH. 


Burn  to  the  socket.    Many  a  ^assenger 
Hath  bless'd  poor  Margaret  for  her  gentle  looks, 
When  she  upheld  the  cool  refreshment  drawn 
From  that  forsaken  spring :  and  no  one  came 
But  he  was  welcome  ;  no  one  went  away 
But  that  it  seem'd  she  loved  him.     She  is  dead, 
The  light  extinguish'd  of  her  lonely  hut. 
The  hut  itself  abandon'd  to  decay, 
And  she  forgotten  in  the  quiet  grave  ! 

"  I  speak,"  continued  he,  "  of  one  whose  stock 
Of  virtues  bloom'd  beneath  this  lowly  roof. 
She  was  a  woman  of  a  steady  mind. 
Tender  and  deep  in  her  excess  of  love. 
Not  speaking  much,  pleased  rather  with  the  joy 
Of  her  own  thoughts  :  by  some  especial  care 
Her  temper  had  been  framed,  as  if  to  make 
A  being — who  by  adding  love  to  peace 
Might  live  on  earth  a  life  of  happiness. 
Her  wedded  partner  lack'd  not  on  his  side 
The  humble  worth  that  satisfied  her  heart : 
Frugal,  affectionate,  sober,  and  withal 
Keenly  industrious.     She  with  pride  would  tell 
That  he  was  often  seated  at  his  loom, 
In  summer,  ere  the  mower  was  abroad 
Among  the  dewy  grass, — in  early  spring. 
Ere  the  last  star  had  vanish'd. — They  who  pass'd 
At  evening,  from  behind  the  garden  fence  ■ 
Might  hear  his  busy  spade,  which  he  would  ply. 
After  his  daily  work,  until  the  light 
Had  fail'd,  and  every  leaf  and  flower  were  lost 
In  the  dark  hedges.     So  their  days  were  spent 
In  peace  and  comfort ;  and  a  pretty  boy 
Was  their  best  hope, — next  to  the  God  in  heaven. 

«'  Not  twenty  years  ago,  but  you  I  think 
Can  scarcely  bear  it  now  in  mind,  there  came 
Two  blighting  seasons,  when  the  fields  were  left 
With  half  a  harvest.     It  pleased  Heaven  to  add 
A  worse  affliction  in  the  plague  of  war  ; 
This  happy  land  was  stricken  to  the  heart ! 
A  wanderer  then  among  the  cottages 
I,  with  my  freight  of  winter  raiment,  saw 
The  hardships  of  that  season  ;  many  rich 
Sank  down,  as  in  a  dream,  among  the  poor ; 
And  of  the  poor  did  many  cease  to  be. 
And  their  place  knew  them  not.      Meanwhile, 

abridged 
Of  daily  comforts,  gladly  reconciled 
To  numerous  self-denials,  Margaret 
Went  struggling  on  through  those  calamitous  years 
With  cheerful  hope,  until  the  second  autumn. 
When  her  life's  helpmate  on  a  sick-bed  lay. 
Smitten  with  perilous  fever.     In  disease 
He  linger'd  long:  and  when  his  strength  return 'd, 
He  found  the  little  he  had  stored,  to  meet 
The  hour  of  accident  or  crippling  age, 
Was  all  consumed.     A  second  infant  now 
Was  added  to  the  troubles  of  a  time 
Laden,  for  them  and  all  of  their  degree. 
With  care  and  sorrow :  shoals  of  artisans 
From  ill  requitted  labour  turn'd  adrift. 
Sought  daily  bread  from  public  charity. 
They,  and  their  wives  and  children — happier  far 
Could  they  have  lived  as  do  the  little  birds 
That  peck  along  the  hedge-rows,  or  the  kite 
That  makes  her  dwelling  on  the  mountain  rocks  ! 
«  A  sad  reverse  it  was  for  him  who  long 


Had  fill'd  with  plenty,  and  possess'd  in  peace 
This  lonely  cottage.    At  his  door  he  stood, 
And  whistled  many  a  snatch  of  merry  tunes 
That  had  no  mirth  in  them ;  or  with  his  knife 
Carved  uncouth  figures  on  the  heads  of  stinks- 
Then,  not  less  idly,  sought,  through  every  noCK 
In  house  or  garden,  any  casual  work 
Of  use  or  ornament ;  and  with  a  strange* 
Amusing,  yet  uneasy  novelty. 
He  blended,  where  he  might,  the  various  tasks 
Of  summer,  autumn,  winter,  and  the  spring. 
But  this  endured  not ;  his  good  humour  soon 
Became  a  weight  in  which  no  pleasure  was : 
And  poverty  brought  on  a  petted  mood 
And  a  sore  temper  :  day  by  day  he  droop'd, 
And  he  would  leave  his  work — and  to  the  towa. 
Without  an  errand,  wouW  direct  his  steps 
Or  wander  here  and  there  among  the  fields. 
One  while  he  would  speak  lightly  of  his  babes. 
And  with  a  cruel  tongue :  at  other  times 
He  toss'd  them  with  a  false  unnatural  joy: 
And  'twas  a  rueful  thing  to  see  the  looks 
Of  the  poor,  innocent  children.    *  Every  smile,* 
Said  Margaret  to  me,  here  beneath  these  trees, 
'  Made  my  heart  bleed.'  " 

At  this  the  wanderer  paused  | 
And,  looking  up  to  those  enormous  elms, 
He  said,  "  'Tis  now  the  hour  of  deepest  noon.— 
At  this  still  season  of  repose  and  peace, 
This  hour  when  all  things  which  are  not  at  rest 
Are  cheerful ;  while  this  multitude  of  flies 
Is  filling  all  the  air  with  melody  ; 
Why  should  a  tear  be  in  an  old  man's  eye  ? 
Why  should  we  thus,  with  an  untoward  mind. 
And  in  the  weakness  of  humanity. 
From  natural  wisdom  turn  cur  hearts  away. 
To  natural  comfort  shut  out  eyes  and  ears. 
And,  feeding  on  disquiet,  th:»E  rlisturb 
The  calm  of  nature  with  on;:  restless  thoughts  ?" 

He  spake  with  somewhat  of  a  solomn  tone : 

But,  when  he  ended,  there  was  in  his  face 

Such  easy  cheerfulness,  a  look  so  mild. 

That  for  a  little  time  it  stole  av/ay 

All  recollection,  and  that  simple  tale 

PaS'S'd  from  my  mind  like  a  forgotten  sound. 

Awhile  on  trivial  things  we  held  discourse, 

To  me  soon  tasteless.     In  my  own  despite, 

I  thought  of  that  poor  woman  as  of  one 

Whom  I  had  known  and  loved.     He  had  reheai£e4 

Her  homely  tale  with  such  familiar  power, 

With  such  an  active  countenance,  an  eye 

So  busy,  that  the  things  of  which  he  spake 

Seem'd  present ;  and  attention  now  relax'd, 

A  heartfelt  chillness  crept  along  ray  veins. 

I  rose  ;  and,  having  left  the  breezy  shade. 

Stood  drinking  comfort  from  the  warmer  sun. 

That  had  not  cheer'd  me  long — ere,  looking  romid 

Upon  that  tranquil  ruin,  I  return'd. 

And  begg'd  of  the  old  man  that,  for  my  sake, 

He  would  resume  his  story. — 

He  replied, 
"  It  were  a  wantonness,  and  would  demand 
Severe  reproof,  if  we  were  men  whose  hearts 
Could  hold  vain  dalliance  with  the  misery 
Even  of  the  dead :  contented  thence  to  draw 


THE   EXCURSION. 


An 


A.  moraentarj'  pleasure,  never  mark'd 

By  reason,  barren  of  all  future  good. 

But  we  have  known  that  there  is  often  found 

In  mournful  thoughts,  and  always  might  be  found, 

A  power  to  virtue  friendly :  were  't  not  so, 

I  am  a  dreamer  among  men,  indeed, 

An  idle  dreamer  !  'tis  a  common  tale. 

An  ordinary  sorrow  of  man's  life, 

A  tale  of  silent  suffering,  hardly  clothed 

In  bodily  form. — But  without  further  bidding 

I  will  proceed. 

"While  thus  it  fared  with  them. 
To  whom  this  cottage,  till  those  hapless  years, 
Had  been  a  blessed  home,  it  was  ray  chance 
To  travel  in  a  country  far  remote ; 
And  when  these  lofty  elms  once  more  appear'd, 
What  pleasant  expectations  lured  me  on 
O'er  the  flat  common  I — With  quick  step  I  reach'd 
The  threshold,  lifted  with  light  hand  the  latch  ; 
But,  when  I  enter'd,  Margaret  look'd  at  me 
A  little  while  ;  then  turn'd  her  head  away 
Speechless, — and,  sitting  down  upon  a  chair. 
Wept  bitterl}'.     I  wist  not  what  to  do, 
rJ'or  how  to  speak  to  her.     Poor  wretch  !  at  last 
She  rose  from  off  her  seat,  and  then, — 0  sir  ! 
I  cannot  fell  hov/  she  pronounced  my  name : — 
With  fervent  love,  and  with  a  face  of  grief, 
Unutterably  helpless,  and  a  look 
That  seem'd  to  cling  upon  me,  she  inquired 
If  I  had  seen  her  husband.     As  she  spake 
A  strange  surprise  and  fear  came  to  my  heart, 
Nor  had  I  power  to  answer  ere  she  told 
That  he  had  disappear'd — not  two  months  gone. 
He  left  his  house :  two  wretched  days  had  past, 
And  on  the  third,  as  wistfully  she  raised  ^ 

Her  head  from  off  her  pillow,  to  look  forth, 
Like  one  in  trouble,  for  returning  light. 
Within  her  chamber  casement  she  espied 
A  folded  paper,  Ij'ing  as  if  placed 
To  meet  her  waking  e^-es.     This  tremblingly 
She  open'd — found  no  writing,  but  beheld 
Pieces  of  money  carefully  enclosed, 
Silver  and  gold. — <  I  shudder'd  at  the  sight,' 
Said  Margaret, '  for  I  knew  it  was  his  hand 
Which  placed  it  there  :  and  ere  that  day  was  ended. 
That  long  and  anxious  day  !  I  leam'd  from  one 
Sent  hither  by  my  husband  to  impart 
The  heavy  news, — that  he  had  join'd  a  troop 
Of  soldiers,  going  to  a  distant  land. 
He  left  me  thus — he  could  not  gather  heart 
To  take  a  farewell  of  me  ;  for  he  fear'd 
That  I  should  follow  with  my  babes,  and  sink 
Beneath  the  misery  of  that  wandering  life.' 

"  This  tale  did  Margaret  tell  with  many  tears  : 
And,  when  she  ended,  I  had  little  power 
To  give  her  comfort,  and  was  glad  to  take 
Such  words  of  hope  from  her  own  mouth  as  served 
To  cheer  us  both : — but  long  we  had  not  talk'd 
Ere  we  built  up  a  pile  of  better  thoughts 
And  with  a  brighter  eye  she  look'd  around 
As  if  she  had  been  shedding  tears  of  joy. 
We  parted. — 'Twas  the  time  of  early  spring; 
I  left  her  busy  wuth  her  garden  tools  ; 
And  well  remember,  o'er  that  fence  she  look'd, 
And,  while  I  paced  along  the  footway  path, 
Call'd  out,  and  sent  a  blessing  after  me. 


With  tender  cheerfulness  ;  and  with  a  voice 
That  seem'd  the  very  sound  of  happy  thoughts. 

"  I  roved  o'er  many  a  hill  and  many  a  dale. 
With  my  accustom'd  load  ;  in  heat  and  cold. 
Through  many  a  wood,  and  many  an  open  ground 
In  sunshine  and  in  shade,  in  wet  and  fair. 
Drooping  or  blithe  of  heart,  as  might  befall ; 
My  best  companions  now  the  driving  winds. 
And  now  the '  trotting  brooks'  and  whispering  treei, 
And  now  the  music  of  my  own  sad  steps. 
With  many  a  shortlived  thought  that  pass  i  t^ 

tween. 
And  disappear'd. — I  journej  'd  back  this  way. 
When,  in  the  warmth  of  :^';:  ^summer,  the  wheat 
Was  yellow:  and  the  so.'t  ?.id  bladed  grass, 
Springing  afresh,  had  o'er  xh^  hay-field  spread 
Its  tender  verdure.    At  the  door  arrived, 
I  found  that  she  was  iteent.     In  the  shade, 
Where  now  we  sit,  I  waited  her  return. 
Her  cottage,  then  a  cheerful  object,  wore 
Its  customary  look, — only,  it  seem'd. 
The  honeysuckle,  crowding  round  the  porch. 
Hung  down  in  heavier  tufts :  and  that  bright  weed. 
The  yellow  stonecrop,  suffer'd  to  take  root 
Along  the  window's  edge,  profusely  grew, 
Blinding  the  lower  panes.     I  turn'd  aside. 
And  stroird  into  her  garden. ,  It  appear'd 
To  lag  behind  the  season,  and  had  lost 
Its  pride  of  neatness.     Daisy  flowers  and  thrift 
Had  broken  their  trim  lines,  and  straggled  o'er 
The  paths  they  used  to  deck  : — carnations,  once 
Prized  for  surpassing  beauty,  and  no  less 
For  the  peculiar  pains  thej'  had  required. 
Declined  their  languid  heads,  wanting  support. 
The  cumbrous    bindweed,  with   its  wreaths   and 

bells. 
Had  twined  about  her  two  small  rows  of  pease. 
And  dragg'd  them  to  the  earth. — Ere  this  an  hour 
Was  wasted. — Back  I  turn'd  my  restless  steps  ; 
A  stranger  pass'd  ;  and,  guessing  whom  I  sought. 
He  said  that  she  was  used  to  ramble  far.-— 
The  sun  was  sinking  in  the  west ;  and  now 
I  sate  with  sad  impatience.     From  within 
Her  solitary  infant  cried  aloud  ; 
Then,  like  a  blast  that  dies  away  self-still'd. 
The  voice  was  silent.     From  the  bench  I  rose ; 
But  neither  could  divert  nor  soothe  my  thoughts. 
The  spot,  though  fair,  was  very  desolate— 
The  longer  I  remain'd  more  desolate 
And,  looking  round  me,  now  I  first  observed 
The  corner-stones,  on  either  side  the  porch, 
W^ith  dull  red  stains  discolour'd  and  stuck  o'er 
With  tufts  and  hairs  of  wool,  as  if  the  sheep 
That  fed  upon  the  common,  thither  came 
Familiarly  ;  and  found  a  couching-place 
Even  at  her  threshold.     Deeper  shadows  fell 
From  these  tall  elms  ; — the  cottage  clock   struck 

eight : — 
I  turn'd,  and  saw  her  distant  a  few  hieps. 
Her  face  was  pale  and  thin — her  figure,  too, 
Was  changed.     As  she  uhlock'd  the  door,  she  said, 
'  It  grieves  me  you  have  waited  here  so  long, 
But,  in  good  truth,  I've  wander'd  much  of  late, 
And,  sometimes — to  my  shame  I  speak — have  need 
Of  my  best  prayers  to  bring  me  back  again.' 
While  on  the  board  she  spread  our  evening  meal. 


424 


WORDSWORTH. 


She  told  ras — interrupting  not  the  work 

Which  gave  employment  to  her  listless  hands — 

That  she  had  parted  with  her  elder  child ; 

To  a  kind  master  on  a  distant  farm 

Now  happily  apprenticed. — '  I  perceive 

You  look  at  me,  and  you  have  cause  ;  to-day 

I  have  been  travelling  far ;  and  many  days  ! 

About  the  fields  I  wander,  knowing  this 

Only,  that  what  I  seek  I  cannot  find  ; 

And  so  I  waste  my  time  :  for  I  am  changed  ; 

And  to  myself,'  said  she, '  have  done  much  wrong 

And  to  this  helpless  infant.     I  have  slept 

Weeping,  and  weeping  have  I  waked  ;  my  tears 

Have  flow'd  as  if  my  body  were  not  such 

As  others  are  ;  and  I  could  never  die. 

But  I  am  now  in  mind  and  in  my  heart 

More  easy,  and  I  hope,'  said  she, '  that  God 

Will  give  me  patience  to-  endure  the  things 

Which  I  behold  at  home.'    It  would  have  grieved 

Your  very  soul  to  see  her ;  sir,  I  feel 

The  story  linger  in  my  heart ;  I  fear 

*Tis  long  and  tedious  ;  but  my  spirit  clings 

To  that  poor  woman  : — so  familiarly 

Do  I  perceive  her  manner,  and  her  look 

And  presence,  and  so  deeply  do  I  feel 

Her  goodness,  that,  not  seldom,  in  my  walks 

A  momentary  trance  comes  over  me  ; 

And  to  myself  I  seem  to  muse  on  one 

By  sorrow  laid  asleep  : — or  borne  away, 

A  human  being  destined  to  awake 

To  human  life,  or  something  very  near 

To  human  life,  when  he  shall  come  again 

For  whom  she  sufFer'd.    Yes,  it  would  have  grieved 

Your  very  soul  to  see  her  :  evermore 

Her  eyelids  droop'd,  her  eyes  were  downward  cast ; 

And,  when  she  at  her  table  gave  me  food, 

She  did  not  look  at  me.    Her  voice  was  low. 

Her  body  was  subdued.     In  every  act 

Pertaining  to  her  house  affairs,  appear'd 

The  careless  stillness  of  a  thinking  mind 

Self  occupied ',  to  which  all  outward  things 

Are  like  an  idle  matter.    Still  she  sigh'd. 

But  yet  no  motion  of  the  breast  was  seen, 

No  heaving  of  the  heart.    While  by  the  fire 

We  sate  together,  sighs  came  on  my  ear, 

I  knew  not  how,  and  hardly  whence  they  came. 

"  Ere  my  departure,  to  her  care  I  gave, 
For  her  son's  use,  some  tokens  of  regard. 
Which  with  a  look  of  welcome  she  received  ; 
And  I  exhorted  her  to  place  her  trust 
In  God's  good  love,  and  seek  his  help  by  prayer. 
I  took  my  staff,  and  when  I  kiss'd  her  babe 
The  tears  stood  in  her  eyes.     I  left  her  then 
With  the  best  hope  and  comfort  I  could  give  ; 
She  thank'd  me  for  my  wish  ; — but  for  ray  hope 
Methought,  she  did  not  thank  me. 

«  I  return 'd, 
And  took  my  rounds  along  this  road  again 
Ere  on  its  sunny  bank  the  primrose  flower 
Peep'd  forth;  to  give  an  earnest  of  the  spring. 
I  found  her  sad  and  drooping ;  she  had  learn'd 
No  tidings  of  her  husband  ;  if  he  lived. 
She  knew  not  that  he  lived  ;  if  he  were  dead, 
She  knew  not  he  was  dead.    She  seem'd  the  same 
In  person  and  appearance  ;  but  her  house 
Bcspake  a  sleepy  hand  of  negligence  ; 


The  floor  was  neither  dry  nor  neat,  the  hearth 

Was  comfortle^-^,  and  her  small  lot  of  books^ 

Which  in  the  cottage  window,  heretofore 

Had  been  piled  up  against  the  corner  panes 

In  seemly  order,  now,  with  straggling  leaves 

Lay  scatter'd  here  and  there,  open  or  shut. 

As  they  had  chanced  to  fall.     Her  infant  babe 

Had  from  its  mother  caught  the  trick  of  grief, 

And  sigh'd  among  its  playthings.     Once  agaii: 

I  turn'd  towards  the  garden  gate,  and  saw, 

More  plainly  still,  that  poverty  and  grief 

Were  now  come  nearer  to  her :  weeds  defaced 

The  harden'd  soil,  and  knots  of  withci'd  grass: 

No  ridges  there  appear  .1  of  clear,  black  mould, 

No  winter  greenness  ;  of  her  herbs  and  flowers. 

It  seem'd  the  better  part  were  gnaw'd  away 

Or  trampled  into  earth  ;  a  chain  of  straw, 

WJiich  had  been  twined  about  the  slender  stem 

Of  a  young  apple  tree,  lay  at  its  root. 

The  bark  was  nibbled  round  by  truant  sheep. 

Margaret  stood  near,  her  infant  in  her  arms, 

And  noting  that  my  eye  was  on  the  tree. 

She  said, '  I  fear  it  will  be  dead  and  gone 

Ere  Robert  come  again.'     Towards  the  house 

Together  we  return 'd ;  and  she  inquired 

If  I  had  any  hope  t — but  for  her  babe 

And  for  her  little  orphan  boy,  she  said, 

She  had  no  wish  to  live,  that  she  must  die 

Of  sorrow.     Yet  I  saw  the  idle  loom 

Still  in  its  place ;  his  Sunday  garments  hung 

Upon  the  selfsame  nail ;  his  very  staff 

Stood  undisturb'd  behind  the  door.     And  when, 

In  bleak  December,  I  retraced  this  way, 

She  told  me  that  her  little  babe  was  dead, 

Anj^  she  was  left  alone.     She  now,  released 

From  her  maternal  cares,  had  taken  up 

Th'  employment  common  through  these  wilds,  and 

gain'd. 
By  spinning  hemp,  a  pittance  for  heiself ; 
And  for  this  end  had  hired  a  neighbour's  boy 
To  give  her  needful  help.     That  very  time 
Most  willingly  she  put  her  work  aside, 
And  walk'd  with  me  along  the  miry  road. 
Heedless  how  far ;  and  in  such  piteous  sort 
That  any  heart  had  ached  to  hear  her,  begg'd 
That,  wheresoe'er  I  went,  I  still  would  ask 
For  him  whom  she  had  lost.     We  parted  then— • 
Our  final  parting ;  for  from  that  time  forth 
Did  many  seasons  pass  ere  I  return'd 
Into  this  track  again. 

"  Nine  tedious  years ; 
From  their  first  separation,  nine  long  years. 
She  linger'd  in  unquiet  widowhood; 
A  wife  and  widow.     Needs  must  it  have  been 
A  sore  heart-wasting  !  I  have  heard,  my  friend. 
That  in  yon  arbour  oftentimes  she  sate 
Alone,  through  half  the  vacant  Sabbath  day 
And,  if  a  dog  pass'd  by,  she  still  would  quit 
The  shade,  and  look  abroad.     On  this  old  bench 
For  hours  she  sate  ;  and  evermore  her  eye 
Was  busy  in  the  distance,  shaping  things 
That  made  her  heart  beat  quick.     You  see  that  path 
Now  faint, — the  grass  has  crept  o'er  its  gray  line 
There,  to  and  fro,  she  paced  through  many  a  day 
Of  the  warm  summer,  from  a  belt  of  hemp 
That  girt  her  waist,  spinning  the  long-drawn  threa 


THE    EXCURSION. 


42f 


With  backward  steps.     Yet  ever  us  there  poss'd 
A  man  whose  garments  show'd  the  soldier's  red, 
Or  crippled  mendicant  in  sailor's  garb. 
The  little  child  who  sate  to  turn  the  wheel 
Ceased  from  his  task  ;  and  she  with  faltering  voice 
Made  many  a  fond  inquiry ;  and  when  they. 
Whose  presence  gave  no  comfort,  were  gone  by, 
Her  heart  was  still  more  sad.     And  by  yon  gate. 
That  bars  the  traveller's  road,  she  often  stood, 
And  when  a  stranger  horseman  came,  the  latch 
Would  lift,  and  in  his  face  look  wistfully : 
Most  happy,  if,  from  aught  discovered  there 
Of  tender  feeling,  she  might  dare  repeat 
The  same  sad  question.    Meanwhile  her  poor  hut 
Sank  to  decay :  for  he  was  gone,  whose  hand. 
At  the  first  nipping  of  October  frost, 
Closed  up  each  chink,  and  with  fresh  bands  of  straw 
Checker'd  the   green-grown  thatch.     And  so  she 

lived 
Through  the  long  winter,  reckless  and  alone ; 
Until  the  house  by  frost,  and  thaw,  and  rain. 
Was  sapp'd  ;  and  while  she  slept,  the  nightly  damps 
Did  chill  her  breast :  and  in  the  stormy  day 
Her  tatter'd  clothes  were  ruffled  by  the  wind ; 
E'en  at  the  side  of  her  ow^n  fire.     Yet  still 
She  loved  this  wretched  spot,  nor  would  for  worlds 
Have  parted  hence  :  and  still  that  length  of  road. 
And  this  rude  bench,  one  torturing  hope  endear'd, 
Fast  rooted  at  her  heart :  and  here,  my  friend. 
In  sickness  she  remain'd ;  and  here  she  died, 
Last  human  tenant  of  these  ruin'd  walls." 

The  old  man  ceased :  he  saw  that  I  was  moved  ; 
From  that  low  bench,  rising  instinctively 
I  turu'd  aside  in  weakness,  nor  had  power 
To  thank  him  for  the  tale  which  he  had  told. 
I  stood,  and  leaning  o'er  the  garden  wall. 
Review 'd  that  woman's  sufferings  ;  and  it  seem'd 
To  comfort  me  while  with  a  brother's  love 
I  bless'd  her — in  the  impotence  of  grief. 
At  length  towards  the  cottage  I  return'd 
Fondly, — and  traced,  with  interest  more  mild. 
That  secret  spirit  of  humanity 
Which,  'mid  the  calm,  oblivious  tendencies 
Of  nature,  'mid  her  plants,  and  weeds,  and  flowers. 
And  silent  overgrowings,  still  survived. 
The  old  man,  noting  this,  resumed,  and  said, 
*'  My  friend  !  enough  to  sorrow  you  have  given. 
The  purposes  of  wisdom  ask  no  more  ; 
Be  wise  and  cheerful ;  and  no  longer  read 
The  forms  of  thii.gs  with  an  unworthy  eye. 
She  sleeps  in  the  :alm  earth,  and  peace  is  here. 
I  well  remember   hat  those  very  plumes, 
Those  weeds,  and  the  high  speargrass  on  that  wall. 
By  mist  and  silent  rain-drops  silver'd  o'er. 
As  once  I  pass'd,  did  to  my  heart  convey 
So  still  an  image  of  tranquillity, 
So  calm  and  still,  and  look'd.  so  beautiful 
Amid  th'  uneasy  thoughts  which  fill'd  my  mind. 
That  what  we  feel  of  sorrow  and  despair 
From  ruin  and  from  change,  and  all  the  grief 
The  passing  shows  of  being  leave  behind, 
Appear'd  an  idle  dream,  that  could  not  live 
Where  meditation  was.     I  turn'd  away, 
And  walk'd  along  my  road  in  happiness." 

He  ceased.     Ere  long  the  sun  declining  shot 
t  slant  and  mellow  radiance,  which  began 


To  fall  upon  us,  while,  beneath  the  trees, 
We  sate  on  that  low  bench  :  and  now  we  felt, 
Admonish'd  thus,  the  sweet  hour  coming  on. 
A  linnet  warbled  from  those  lofty  elms, 
A  thrush  sang  loud,  and  other  melodies. 
At  distance  heard,  peopled  the  milder  air. 
The  old  man  rose,  and,  with  a  spriglitly  mien 
Of  hopeful  preparation,  grasp'd  his  staff: 
Together  casthig  then  a  farewell  look 
Upon  those  silent  walls,  we  left  the  shade  ; 
And,  ere  the  stars  were  visible,  had  reach'd 
A  village  inn, — our  evening  resting  place. 


BOOK    II. 
THE   SOLITARY. 

ARGUMENT. 

The  author  describes  his  travels  with  the  wanderer, 
whose  character  is  further  illustrated.  Morning  scene, 
a:id  view  of  a  village  wake.  Wanderer's  account  of 
a  friend  whom  he  purposes  to  visit.  View,  from  an 
eminence,  of  the  valley  which  his  friend  had  chosen 
for  his  reireai.  Feelings  of  the  author  at  ihe  sight  of  • 
it.  Sound  of  singing  from  below.  A  funeral  proces- 
sion. Descent  inio  the  valley.  Observations  drawn 
from  the  wanderer  at  sight  of  a '  book  accidentally 
discovered  in  a  recess  in  the  valley.  Meeting  with 
the  wanderer's  friend,  the  solitary.  Wanderer's  de- 
scription of  the  mode  of  burial  in  this  mountainous 
district.  Solitary  contrasts  with  this,  that  of  the  in- 
dividual carried  a  few  minutes  before  from  the  cottage. 
Brief  conversation.  The  cottage  entered.  Descripticn 
of  the  solitary's  a|jartment.  Kepast  there.  View 
from  the  window  of  two  mountain  sunmiits  and 
the  solitary's  doscripiion  of  the  companionship  they 
afford  him.  Account  of  the  departed  inmate  of  the 
cottage.  Descrii)tion  of  a  grand  spectacle  upon  tha 
mountains,  with  its  effect  upon  the  solitary's  mind 
Quit  the  house. 

Ix  days  of  yore  how  fortunately  fared 
The  minstrel !  wandering  on 'from  hall  to  hall. 
Baronial  court  or  royal  I  cheer'd  with  gifts 
Munificent,  and  love,  and  ladies'  praise; 
Now  meeting  on  his  road  an  armed  knigh 
Now  resting  with  a  pilgrim  by  the  side 
Of  a  clear  brook  ; — beneath  an  abbey's  roof 
One  evening  sumptuously  lodged  ;  the  next 
Humbly  in  a  religious  hospital ; 
Or  with  some  merry  outlaws  of  the  wood  ; 
Or  haply  shrouded  in  a  hermit's  cell. 
Him,  sleeping  or  awake,  the  robber  spared  ; 
He  walk'd — protected  from  the  sword  of  war 
By  virtue  of  that  sacred  instrument 
His  harp,  suspended  at  the  traveller's  side: 
His  dear  companion  wheresoe'er  he  went 
Opening  from  land  to  land  an  easy  way 
By  melody,  and  by  the  charm  of  verse. 
Yet  not  the  noblest  of  that  honour'd  race 
Drew  happier,  loftier,  more  impassion'd  thoughts 
From  his  long  journeyings  and  eventful  life. 
Than  this  obscure  itinerant  had  skill 
To  gather,  ranging  through  the  tamer  ground 
Of  these  our  unimaginative  days  ; 
Both  v,'hile  he  trod  the  earth  in  humblest  guise 
Accoutred  with  his  burden  and  his  staff  ; 
And  now,  when  free  to  move  with  lighter  pace. 
What  wonder,  then,  if  I,  whose  favourite  school 


426 


WORDSWORTH. 


Hath  been  the  fields,  the  roads,  and  rural  lanes, 
Look'd  on  this  guide  with  reverential  love  ? 
Each  with  the  other  pleased,  we  now  pursued 
Our  journey — ^beneath  favourable  skies. 
Turn  wheresoe'er  we  would,  he  was  a  light 
Unfailing  :  not  a  haralet  could  we  pass, 
Rarely  a  house,  that  did  not  yield  to  him 
Remembrances  :  or  from  his  tongue  call  forth 
Some  way-beguiling  tale.     Nor  less  regard 
Accompanied  those  strains  of  apt  discourse. 
Which  nature's  various  objects  might  inspire  ; 
And  in  the  silence  of  his  face  I  read 
His  overflowing  spirit.     Birds  and  beasts, 
And  the  mute  fish  that  glances  in  the  stream, 
And  harmless  reptile  coiling  in  the  sun. 
And  gorgeous  insect  hovering  in  the  air. 
The  fowl  domestic,  and  the  household  dog, 
In  his  capacious  mind — he  loved  them  all: 
Their  rights  acknowledging  he  felt  for  all. 
Oft  was  occasion  given  me  to  perceive 
How  the  calm  pleasures  of  the  pasturing  herd 
To  happy  contemplation  sooth'd  his  walk  ; 
How  the  poor  brute's  condition,  forced  to  run 
Its  course  of  suffering  in  the  public  road, 
Sad  contrast !  all  too  often  smote  his  heart 
With  unavailing  pity.     Rich  in  love 
And  sweet  humanity,  he  was,  himself, 
To  the  degree  that  he  desired,  beloved. 
Greetings  and  smiles  we  met  with  all  day  long 
From  faces  that  he  knew ;  we  took  our  seats 
By  many  a  cottage  hearth,  where  he  received 
The  welcome  of  an  inmate  come  from  far. 
Nor  was  he  loath  to  enter  ragged  huts, 
Huts  where  his  charity  was  blest ;  his  voice 
Heard  as  the  voice  of  an  experienced  friend. 
And,  sometimes,  where  the   poor  man   held  dis- 
pute 
With  his  own  mind,  unable  to  subdue 
Impatience  through  inaptness  to  perceive 
General  distress  in  his  particular  lot ; 
Or  cherishing  resentment,  or  in  vain 
Struggling  against  it,  with  a  soul  perplex'd, 
And  finding  in  herself  no  steady  power 
To  draw  the  line  of  comfort  that  divides 
Calamity,  the  chastisement  of  heaven, 
From  the  injustice  of  our  brother  men ; 
To  him  appeal  was  made  as  to  a  judge  ! 
Who,  with  an  understanding  heart,  allay'd 
The  perturbation  ;  listen'd  to  the  plea ; 
Resolved  the  dubious  point ;  and  sentence  gave 
So  grounded,  so  applied,  that  it  was  heard 
With  soften'd  spirit — even  when  it  condemn'd. 

Such  intercourse  I  witness'd,  while  we  roved. 
Now  as  his  choice  directed,  now  as  mine  ; 
Or  both,  with  equal  readiness  of  will. 
Our  course  submitting  to  the  changeful  breeze 
Of  accident.     But  when  the  rising  sun 
Had  three  times  call'd  us  to  renew  our  walk, 
My  fellow  traveller,  with  earnest  voice. 
As  if  the  thought  were  but  a  moment  old, 
Claim'd  absolute  dominion  for  the  day. 
We  started — and  he  led  towards  the  hills 
Up  through  an  ample  vale,  with  higher  hills 
Before  us,  mountains  stern  and  desolate ; 
But,  in  the  majesty  of  distance,  now 
Set  off,  and  to  our  ken  appearing  fair 


Of  aspect,  with  aerial  softness  clad, 

And  beautified  with  morning's  purple  beams. 

The  wealthy,  the  luxurious,  by  the  stress 
Of  business  roused,  or  pleasure,  ere  their  time. 
May  roll  in  chariots,  or  provoke  the  hoofs 
Of  the  fleet  coursers  they  bestride,  to  raise 
From  earth  the  dust  of  morning,  slow  to  rise ; 
And  they,  if  blest  with  health  and  hearts  at  ease. 
Shall  lack  not  their  enjoyment : — but  how  faint 
Compared  with  ours  !  who,  pacing  side  by  side 
Could,  with  an  eye  of  leisure,  look  on  all 
That  we  beheld  ;  and  lend  the  listening  sense 
To  every  grateful  sound  of  earth  and  air ; 
Pausing  at  will — our  spirits  braced,  our  thought* 
Pleasant  as  roses  in  the  thickets  blown. 
And  pure  as  dew  bathing  their  crimson  leaves. 

Mount  slowly,  sun  !  that  we  may  journey  long, 
By  this  dark  hill  protected  from  thy  beams  ! 
Such  is  the  summer  pilgrim's  frequent  wish ; 
But  quickly  from  among  our  morning  thoughts 
'Twas  chased  away  :  for,  toward  the  western  side 
Of  the  broad  vale,  casting  a  casual  glance. 
We  saw  a  throng  of  people  ; — wherefore  met  ? 
Blithe  notes  of  music,  suddenly  let  loose 
On  the  thrill'd  ear,  and  flags  uprising,  yield 
Prompt  answer:  they  proclaim  the  annual  wake, 
Which  the  bright  season  favours. — Tabor  and  pipt 
In  purpose  join  to  hasten  and  reprove 
The  laggard  rustic  ;  and  repay  with  boon 
Of  merriment  a  party-colour'd  knot. 
Already  form'd  upon  the  village  green. 
Beyond  the  limits  of  the  shadow  cast 
By  the  broad  hill,  glisten'd  upon  our  sight 
That  gay  assemblage.     Round  them  and  above 
Glitter,  with  dark  recesses  interposed. 
Casement,  and  cottage-roof,  and  stems  of  trees 
Half-veil'd  in  vapory  cloud,  the  silver  steam 
Of  dews  fast  melting  on  their  leafy  boughs 
By  the  strong  sunbeams  smitten.     Like  a  mast 
Of  gold,  the  maypole  shines  ;  as  if  the  rays 
Of  morning,  aided  by  exhaling  dew, 
With  gladsome  influence  could  reanimate 
The  faded  garlands  dangling  from  its  sides. 

Said  I,  "  the  music  and  the  sprightly  scene 
Invite  us  ;  shall  we  quit  our  road,  and  join 
These  festive  matins  ?" — He  replied,  "  not  loath 
Here  would  I  linger,  and  with  you  partake. 
Not  one  hour  merely,  but  till  evening's  close 
The  simple  pastimes  of  the  day  and  place. 
By  the  fleet  racers,  ere  the  sun  be  set. 
The  turf  of  yon  large  pasture  will  be  skimm'd; 
There,  too,  the  lusty  wrestlers  shall  contend: 
But  know  we  not  that  he,  who  intermits 
Th'  appointed  task  and  duties  of  the  day. 
Untunes  full  oft  the  pleasures  of  the  day  ; 
Checking  the  finer  spirits  that  refuse 
To  flow,  when  purposes  are  lightly  changed  ? 
We  must  proceed — a  length  of  journey  yet 
Remains  untraced."     Then,  pointing  with  his  stafi 
Raised  toward  those  craggy  summits,  his  intent 
Fe  thus  imparted. 

"  In  a  spot  that  lies 
Among  yon  mountain  fastnesses  conceal'd 
You  will  receive,  before  the  hour  of  noon. 
Good  recompense,  I  hope,  for  this  day's  toil— 
From  sight  of  one  who  lives  secluded  there 


THE    EXCURSION. 


427 


Lonesome   and  lost:   of  whom,  and  whose   past 

life, 
(Not  to  forestall  such  knowledge  as  may  be 
More  faithfully  collected  from  himself,) 
This  brief  communication  shall  suffice. 

"  Though  now  sojourning  there,  he,  like  myself, 
Sprang  from  a  stock  of  lowly  parentage 
Among  the  wilds  of  Scotland,  in  a  tract 
Where  many  a  shelter'd  and  well-tended  plant, 
Bears,  on  the  humblest  ground  of  social  life, 
Blossoms  of  piety  and  innocence. 
Such  grateful  promises  his  j'outh  display'd  : 
And,  having  shown  in  study  forward  zeal. 
He  to  the  ministry  was  duly  call'd  ; 
And  straight  incited  by  a  curious  mind 
Fill'd  with  vague  hopes,  he  undertook  the  charge 
Of  chaplain  to  a  m.ilitary  troop, 
Cheer'd  by  the  Highland  bagpipe,  as  they  march'd 
In  plaided  vest, — his  fellow  countrymen. 
This  office  filling,  yet  by  native  power 
And  force  of  native  inclination,  made 
An  intellectual  ruler  in  the  haunts 
Of  social  vanity — he  walk'd  the  world, 
Gay,  and  affecting  graceful  gayety  ; 
Lax,  buoyant — less  a  pastor  with  his  flock 
Than  a  soldier  among  soldiers — lived  and  roam'd 
Where  fortune  led : — and  fortune,  who  oft  proves 
The  careless  wanderer's  friend,  to  him  made  known 
A  blooming  lady — a  conspicuous  flower. 
Admired  for  beauty,  for  her  sweetness  praised  ; 
Whom  he  had  sensibility  to  love. 
Ambition  to  attempt,  and  skill  to  win. 

"  For  this  fair  ^ride,  most  rich  in  gifts  of  mind, 
Nor  sparingly  endow'd  with  worldly  wealth 
His  office  he  relinquish'd  ;  and  retired 
From  the  world's  notice  to  a  rural  home. 
Youth's  season  yet  with  him  was  scarcely  past. 
And  she  was  in  youth's  prime.     How  full  their  joy. 
How  free  their  love  !  nor  did  that  love  decay. 
Nor  joy  abate,  till,  pitiable  doom  ! 
In  the  short  course  of  one  undreaded  year 
Death  blasted  all. — Death  suddenly  o'erthrew 
Two  lovely  children — all  that  they  possess'd  ! 
The  mother  follow'd  : — miserably  bare 
The  one  survivor  stood  ;  he  wept,  he  pray  d 
For  his  dismissal ;  day  and  night,  compell'd 
By  pain  to  turn  his  thoughts  towards  the  grave, 
And  face  the  regions  of  eternity. 
And  uncomplaining  apathy  displaced 
This  anguish  ;  and,  indifferent  to  delight. 
To  aim  and  purpose,  he  consumed  his  days. 
To  private  interest  dead,  and  public  care. 
So  lived  he  ;  so  he  might  have  died. 

"  But  novf, 
To  the  wide  world's  astonishment,  appear'd 
A  glorious  opening,  the  unlook'd  for  dawn, 
That  promised  everlasting  joy  to  France  ! 
Her  voice  of  social  transport  reach'd  e'en  him  ! 
He  broke  from  his  contracted  bounds,  repair'd 
To  the  great  city,  an  emporium  then 
Of  golden  expectations,  and  receiving 
Freights  every  day  from  a  new  world  of  hope. 
Thither  his  popular  talents  he  transferr'd 
And,  from  the  pulpit,  zealously  maintain'd 
The  cause  of  Christ  and  civil  liberty. 
As  one,  and  moving  to  one  glorious  end. 


Intoxicating  service  !  I  might  say 

A  happy  service  ;  for  he  was  sincere 

As  vanity  and  fondness  for  applause. 

And  nev/  and  shapeless  wishes,  would  allow. 

"  That  righteous  cause  (such  power  hath  freedom) 
bound. 
For  one  hostility,  in  friendly  league 
Ethereal  natures  and  the  worst  of  slaves  ; 
Was  served  by  rival  advocates  that  came 
From  regions  opposite  as  heaven  and  hell. 
One  courage  seem'd  to  animate  them  all : 
And,  from  the  dazzling  conquests  daily  gain'd 
By  their  united  efforts,  there  arose 
A  proud  and  most  presumptuous  confidence 
In  the  transcendent  wisdom  ot  the  age. 
And  her  discernment ;  not  alone  in  rights, 
And  in  the  origin  and  bounds  of  power 
Social  and  temporal ;  but  in  laws  divine. 
Deduced  by  reason,  or  to  faith  reveal'd. 
An  overweening  trust  was  raised  ;  and  fear 
Cast  out,  alike  of  person  and  of  thing. 
Plague  from  this  union  spread,  whose  subtle  bane 
The  strongest  did  not  easily  escape  : 
And  he,  what  wonder  !  took  a  mortal  taint. 
How  shall  I  trace  the  change,  how  bear  to  tell 
That  he  broke  faith  with  them  whom  he  had  laid 
In  earth's  dark  chambers,  with  a  Christian's  hope  ! 
An  infidel  contempt  of  holy  writ 
Stole  by  degrees  upon  his  mind ;  and  hence 
Life,  like  that  Roman  Janus,  double-faced  ; 
Vilest  hypocrisy,  the  laughing,  gay 
Hypocrisy,  not  leagued  with  fear,  but  pride. 
Smooth  words  he  had  to  wheedle  simple  souls 
But,  for  disciples  of  the  inner  school. 
Old  freedom  was  old  servitude,  and  they 
The  wisest  whose  opinions  stoop'd  the  least 
To  known  restraints  :  and  who  most  boldly  drew 
Hopeful  prognostications  from  a  creed, 
That,  in  the  light  of  false  philosophy, 
Spread  like  a  halo  round  a  misty  moon. 
Widening  its  circle  as  the  storms  advance. 

"  His  sacred  function  was  at  length  renounced  j 
And  every  day  and  every  place  enjoy 'd 
Th'  unshackled  layman's  natural  liberty ; 
Speech,  manners,  morals,  all  without  disguise. 
I  do  not  Avish  to  wrong  him  ; — though  the  course 
Of  private  life  licentiously  display'd 
Unhallow'd  actions — planted  like  a  crown 
Upon  the  :iosolent,  aspiring  brow 
Of  spiiriotjs  notions— worn  as  open  signs 
Of  prejudice  subdued — he  still  retain 'd, 
'Mid' such  abasement,  what  he  had  received 
From  nature — an  intense  and  glowing  mind. 
Wherefore,  when  humbled  liberty  grew  weak. 
And  mortal  sickness  on  her  face  appear'd, 
He  colour'd  objects  to  his  own  desire 
As  with  a  lover's  passion.     Yet  his  moods 
Of  pain  were  keen  as  those  of  bettor  men. 
Nay  keener — as  his  fortitude  was  less. 
And  he  continued,  when  worse  days  were  come. 
To  deal  about  his  sparkling  eloquence. 
Struggling  against  the  strange  reverse  with  zeal 
That  show'd  like  happiness  :  but,  in  despite 
Of  all  this  outside  bravery,  within. 
He  neither  felt  encouragement  nor  hope  : 
For  moral  dignity,  and  strength  of  mind. 


428 


WORDSWORTH. 


Were  wanting; ;  and  simplicity  of  life  ; 
And  reverenco  for  himself;  and,  last  and  best, 
Confiding  thoughts,  through  love  and  fear  of  him 
Before  whose  sight  the  troubles  of  this  world 
Are  vain  as  billows  in  a  tossing  sea. 

"  The  glory  of  the  times  fading  away. 
The  splendour,  which  had  given  a  festal  air 
To  self-importance,  hallow'd  it,  and  veil'd 
From  his  own  sight, — this  gone,  he  forfeited 
All  joy  in  human  nature  ;  was  consumed. 
And  vex'd,  and  chafed,  by  levity  and  scorn, 
And  fruitless  indignation  ;  gall'd  by  pride  ; 
Made  desperate  by  contempt  of  men  who  throve 
Before  his  sight  in  power  or  fame,  and  won, 
Without  desert,  what  he  desired  ;  weak  men, 
Too  weak  e'en  for  his  envy  or  his  hate  ! 
Tormented  thus,  after  a  wandering  course 
Of  discontent,  and  inwardly  opprest 
With  malady — in  part,  I  fear,  provoked 
By  weariness  of  life,  he  fix'd  his  home. 
Or,  rather  sa}'^,  sate  down  by  very  chance. 
Among  these  rugged  hills  ;  where  now  he  dwells. 
And  wastes  the  sad  remainder  of  his  hours 
In  self-indulging  spleen,  that  doth  not  want 
Its  own  voluptuousness  ;  on  this  resolved. 
With  this  content,  that  he  will  live  and  die 
Forgotten, — at  safe  distance  from  a  *  world 
Not  moving  to  his  mind.'  " 

.   These  serious  words 
Closed  the  preparatory  notices 
That  served  my  fellow  traveller  to  beguile 
The  way,  while  we  advanced  up  that  wide  vale. 
Diverging  now  (as  if  his  quest  had  been 
Some  secret  of  the  mountains,  cavern,  fall 
Of  water — or  some  boastful  eminence, 
Renown'd  for  splendid  prospect  far  and  wide) 
We  scaled,  without  a  track  to  ease  our  steps, 
A  steep  ascent ;  and  reach'd  a  dreary  plain, 
With  a  tumultuous  waste  of  huge  hill  tops 
Before  us  ;  savage  region  I  which  I  paced 
Dispirited  :  when,  all  at  once,  behold  ! 
Beneath  our  feet,  a  little  lowly  vale. 
A  lowly  vale,  and  yet  uplifted  high 
Among  the  mountains  ;  even  as  if  the  spot 
Had  been,  from  eldest  time  by  wish  of  theirs, 
So  placed,  to  be  shut  out  from  all  the  world  ! 
Urn-like  it  was  in  shape,  deep  as  an  urn  ; 
With  rocks  encompass'd,  save  that  to  the  south 
Was  one  small  opening,  where  a  heath-clad  ridge 
Supplied  a  boundary  less  abrupt  and  close  : 
A  quiet,  treeless  nook,  with  two  green  fields. 
A  liquid  pool  that  glitter'd  in  the  sun, 
And  one  bare  dwelling ;  one  abode,  no  more  ! 
It  seem'd  the  home  of  poverty  and  toil. 
Though  not  of  want:  the  little  fields,  made  green 
By  husbandry  of  many  thrifty  years. 
Paid  cheerful  tribute  to  the  moorland  house. 
There  crows  the  cock,  single  in  his  domain  : 
The  small  birds  find  in  spring  no  thicket  there 
To  shroud  them  ;  only  from  the  neighbouring  vales 
The  cuckoo,  straggling  up  to  the  hill  tops, 
Shouteth  faint  lidings  of  some  gladder  place. 

Ah  I  what  a  sweet  recess,  thought  I,  is  here  ! 
Instantly  throwing  down  my  limbs  at  ease 
Upon  a  bed  of  heath  ; — full  many  a  spot 
Qf  hidden  beauty  have  I  chanced  t'  espy 


Among  the  mountains  ;  never  one  like  this ; 
So  lonesome,  and  so  perfectly  secure : 
Not  melancholy — no,  for  it  is  green. 
And  bright,  and  fertile,  furnish'd  in  itself 
With  the  few  needful  things  that  life  requires. 
In  rugged  arms  how  soft  it  seems  to  lie, 
How  tenderly  protected  !  Far  and  near 
We  have  an  image  of  the  pristine  earth, 
The  planet  in  its  nakedness  ;  were  this 
Man's  only  dwelling,  sole  appointed  seat, 
First,  last,  and  single  in  the  breathing  world. 
It  could  not  be  more  quiet :  peace  is  here 
Or  nowhere  ;  days  unruffled  by  the  gale 
Of  public  news  or  private  ;  years  that  pass 
Forgetfully  ;  uncall'd  upon  to  pay 
The  common  penalties  of  mortal  life, 
Sickness  or  accident,  or  grief,  or  pain. 

On  these  and  kindred  thoughts  intent  I  lay 
In  silence  musing  by  my  comrade's  side. 
He  also  silent :  when  from  out  the  heart 
Of  that  profound  abyss  a  solemn  voice. 
Or  several  voices  in  one  solemn  sound. 
Was  heard — ascending:  mournful,  deep,  and  sI&m^ 
The  cadence,  as  of  psalms — a  fimeral  dirge  ; 
We  listen'd,  looking  down  upon  the  hut. 
But  seeing  no  one  :  meanwhile  from  below 
The  strain  continued,  spiritual  as  before. 
And  now  distinctly  could  I  recognise 
These  words : — "  Shall  in  the  grave  thy  love  be 

known, 
In  death  thy  faithfulness  ?" — "  God  rest  his  sou]  !*• 
The  wanderer  cried,  abruptly  breaking  silence,— 
"  He  is  departed,  and  finds  peace  at  last  !" 

This  scarcely  spoken,  and  those  holy  strains 
Not  ceasing,  forth  appear'd  in  view  a  band 
Of  rustic  persons,  from  behind  the  hut 
Bearing  a  coffin  in  the  midst,  with  which 
They  shaped  their  course  along  the  sloping  side 
Of  that  small  valley  ;  singing  as  they  moved ; 
A  sober  company  and  few,  the  men 
Bareheaded,  and  all  decently  attired  ! 
Some  steps  when  they  had  thus  advanced,  the  dirgfl 
Ended  ;  and,  from  the  stillness  that  ensued 
Recovering,  to  my  friend  I  said,  "  You  spake, 
Methought,  with  apprehension  that  these  rites 
Are  paid  to  him  upon  whose  sliy  retreat 
This  day  we  purposed  to  intrude." — "  I  did  so. 
But  let  us  hence,  that  we  may  learn  the  truth : 
Perhaps  it  is  not  he  but  some  one  else 
For  whom  this  pious  service  is  perform 'd  ; 
Some  other  tenant  of  the  solitude." 

So,  to  a  steep  and  difficult  descent 
Trusting  ourselves,  we  wound  from  crag  to  crag. 
Where  passage  could  be  won  ;  and,  as  the  last 
Of  the  mute  train,  upon  the  heathy  top 
Of  that  off-sloping  outlet,  disappear'd, 
I,  more  impatient  in  my  downward  course, 
Had  landed  upon  easy  ground  ;  and  there 
Stood  waiting  for  my  comrade.     When  behold 
An  object  that  enticed  my  steps  aside.' 
A  narrow,  winding  entry  open'd  out 
Into  a  platform — that  la}',  sheepfold  wise. 
Enclosed  between  an  upright  mass  of  rock 
And  one  old  moss-grown  wall ; — a  cool  recess 
And  fanciful  !    For,  where  the  rock  and  wall 
Met  in  an  angle,  hung  a  penthouse,  framed, 


THE    EXCURSION. 


439 


By  thrusting  two  rude  staves  into  the  wall 

And  overlaying  them  with  mountain  sods  ; 

To  weather-fend  a  little  turf-built  seat 

Whereon  a  full  grown  man  might  rest,  nor  dread 

The  burning  sunshine,  or  a  transient  shower; 

But  the  whole  plainly  wrought  by  children's  hands ! 

Whose  skill  had  throng'd  the  floor  with  a  proud  show 

Of  baby-houses,  curiously  arranged  ; 

N'or  wanting  ornaments  of  walks  between, 

With  mimic  trees  inserted  in  the  turf. 

And  gardens  interposed.     Pleased  with  the  sight, 

I  could  not  choose  but  beckon  to  my  guide. 

Who,  entering,  round  him  threw  a  careless  glance. 

Impatient  to  pass  on,  when  I  exclaim'd, 

"  Lo  !  what  is  here  ?"  and  stooping  down,  drew 

forth 
A  book,  that,  in  the  midst  of  stones  and  moss 
And  wreck  of  party-colour'd  earthenware 
Aptly  disposed,  had  lent  its  help  to  raise 
One  of  those  petty  structures.    "  Gracious  heaven  !" 
The  wanderer  cried,  "  it  cannot  but  be  his. 
And  he  is  gone  ?"    The  book,  which  in  my  hand 
Had  opened  of  itself,  (for  it  was  swoln 
With  searching  damp,  and  seemingly  had  lain 
To  the  injurious  elements  exposed 
From  week  to  week,)  I  found  to  be  a  work 
In  the  French  tongue,  a  novel  of  Voltaire, 
His  famous  optimist.     "  Unhappy  man  !" 
Exclaim'd  my  friend  :  "  here  then  has  been  to  him 
Retreat  within  retreat,  a  sheltering  place 
Within  how  deep  a  shelter  !  He  had  fits, 
E'en  to  the  last,  of  genuine  tenderness. 
And  loved  the  haunts  of  children  here,  no  doubt. 
Pleasing  and  pleased,  he  shared  their  simple  sports, 
Or  sate  companionless  ;  and  here  the  book, 
Left  and  forgotten  in  his  careless  way. 
Must  by  the  cottage  children  have  been  found : 
Heaven  bless  them,  and  their  inconsiderate  work  ! 
To  what  odd  purpose  have  the  darlings  turn'd 
This  sad  memorial  of  their  hapless  friend  !" 

"  Me,"  said  I,  "  most  doth  it  surprise  to  find 
Such  book  in  such  a  piace  !" — "  A  book  it  is," 
He  answered,  "  to  the  person  suited  well. 
Though  little  suited  to  surrounding  things  ; 
'Tis  strange,  I  grant ;  and  stranger  still  had  been 
To  see  the  man  whoown'd  it,  dwelling  here, 
With  one  poor  shepherd,  far  from  all  the  world ! 
Now,  if  our  erfand  hath  been  thrown  away, 
As  from  these  intimations  I  forbode. 
Grieved  shall  I  be — less  for  my  sake  than  yours  ; 
And  least  :t' all  for  him  who  is  no  more." 

By  this,  the  book  was  in  the  old  man's  hand  ; 
And  he  continued,  glancing  on  the  leaves 
An  eye  of  scorn.    "  The  lover,"  said  he,  "  doom'd 
To  love  when  hope  hath  fail'd  him — whom  no  depth 
Of  privacy  is  deep  enough  to  hide, 
Hath  yet  his  bracelet  or  his  lock  of  hair. 
And  that  is  joy  to  him.     When  change  of  times 
Hath  summon'd  kings  to  scaffolds,  do  but  give 
The  faithful  servant,  who  must  hide  his  head 
Henceforth  in  whatsoever  nook  he  may, 
A  kerchief  sprinkled  with  his  master's  blood, 
And  he  too  hath  his  comforter.     How  poor, 
Beyond  all  poverty  how  destitute. 
Must  that  man  have  been  left,  who,  hither  driven, 
Flying  or  seeking,  could  yet  bring  with  him 


No  dearer  relic,  and  no  better  staj^. 
Than  this  dull  product  of  a  scoffer's  pen, 
Impure  conceits  discharging  from  a  heart 
Harden'd  by  impious  pride  !  I  did  not  fear 
To  tax  you  with  this  journey ;" — mildly  said 
My  venerable  friend,  as  forth  we  stepp'd 
Into  the  presence  of  the  cheerful  light — 
"  For  I  have  knowledge  that  you  do  not  shrink 
From  moving  spectacles  ; — but  let  us  on." 

So  speaking,  on  he  went,  and  at  the  word 
I  follow'd,  till  he  made  a  sudden  stand : 
For  full  in  view,  approaching  through  a  gate 
That  open'd  from  the  enclosure  of  green  fields 
Into  the  rough  uncultivated  ground, 
Behold  the  man  whom  he  had  fancied  dead  ! 
I  knew,  from  his  deportment,  mien,  and  dress. 
That  it  could  be  no  other  ;  a  pale  face, 
A  tall  and  meagre  person,  in  a  garb 
Not  rustic,  dull  and  faded  like  himself ! 
He  saw  us  not,  though  distant  but  few  steps  ; 
For  he  was  busy,  dealing,  from  a  store 
Upon  a  broad  leaf  carried,  choicest  strings 
Of  red,  ripe  currants  ;  gift  by  which  he  strove. 
With  intermixture  of  endearing  words, 
To  soothe  a  child,  who  walk'd  beside  him,  weeping 
As  if  disconsolate. — "  They  to  the  grave 
Are  bearing  him,  my  little  one,"  he  said, 
"  To  the  dark  pit ;  but  he  will  feel  no  pain  ; 
His  body  is  at  rest,  his  soul  in  heaven." 
More  might   have  follow'd — but  my  honour*d 
friend 
Broke  in  upon  the  speaker  with  a  frank 
And  cordial  greeting. — Vivid  v.-as  the  light 
That  flash'd  and  sparkled  from  the  other's  eyes ; 
He  was  all  fire :  the  sickness  from  his  face 
Pass'd  like  a  fancy  that  is  swept  away  ; 
Hands  join'd  he  with  his  visitant, — a  grasp. 
An  eager  grasp  ;  and  many  moments'  space. 
When  the  first  glow  of  pleasure  was  no  .-nore, 
And  much  of  what  had  vanish'd  was  return'd. 
An  amicable  smile  retain'd  the  life 
Which  it  had  unexpectedly  received, 
Upon  his  hollow  cheek.    "  How  kind,"  he  said, 
"  Nor  could  your  coming  have  been  better  limed  : 
For  this,  you  see,  is  in  our  narrow  world 
A  day  of  sorrow.     I  have  here  a  charge" — 
And,  speaking  thus,  he  patted  tenderly 
The  sunburnt  foreH%ad  of  the  weeping  child — 
"  A  little  mourner,  whom  it  is  my  task 
To  comfort ; — but  how  came  ye  ? — if  yon  track 
(Which  doth  at  once  befriend  us  and  betray) 
Conducted  hither  your  most  welcome  feet, 
Ye  could  not  miss  the  funeral  train — they  yet 
Have  scarcely  disappear'd."  "  This  blooming  child," 
Said  the  old  man,  "  is  of  an  age  to  weep 
At  any  grave  or  solemn  spectacle, 
Inly  distress 'd  or  overpower'd  with  awe, 
He  knows  not  why  ; — but  he,  perchance,  this  day- 
Is  shedding  orphan's  tears  ;  and  you  yourself 
Must  have  sustain 'd  a  loss." — "  The  hand  of  death," 
He  answer'd,  "  has  been  here ;  but  could  not  well 
Have  fall'n  more  lightly,  if  it  had  not  fall'n 
Upon  myself." — The  other  left  these  words 
Unnoticed,  thus  continuing.— 

"  From  yon  crag 
Down  whose  steep  sides  we  dropp'd  into  the  vale. 


430 


WORDSWORTH. 


We  heard  the  hymn  they  sang — a  solemn  sound 

Heard  anywhere,  but  in  a  place  like  this 

»Tis  more  than  human  !     Many  precious  rites 

And  customs  of  our  rural  ancestry 

Are  gone,  or  stealing  from  us  ;  this,  I  hope, 

Will  last  for  ever.     Often  have  I  stopp'd 

When  on  my  way,  I  could  not  choose  but  stop, 

So  much  I  felt  the  awfulness  of  life, 

In  that  one  moment  when  the  corse  is  lifted 

In  silence,  with  a  hush  of  decency. 

Then  from  the  threshold  moves  with  song  of  peace, 

And  confidential  yearnings,  to  its  home, 

Its  final  home  in  earth.     What  traveller — who — 

(How  far  soe'er  a  stranger)  does  not  own 

The  bond  of  brotherhood,  when  he  sees  them  go, 

A  mute  procession  on  the  houseless  road  ; 

Or  passing  by  some  single  tenement 

Or  cluster'd  dwellings,  where  again  they  raise 

The  monitory  voice  ?    But  most  of  all 

It  touches,  it  confirms,  and  elevates. 

Then,  when  the  body,  soon  to  be  consign'd 

Ashes  to  ashes,  dust  bequeath'd  to  dust, 

Is  raised  from  the  church  aisle,  and  forward  borne 

Upon  the  shoulders  of  the  next  in  love, 

The  nearest  in  affection  or  in  blood ; 

Yea.,  by  the  very  mourners  who  had  knelt 

Beside  the  coffin,  resting  on  its  lid 

In  silent  grief  their  unuplifted  heads, 

And    heard  meanwhile   the    psalmist's  mournful 

plaint, 
And  that  most  awful  scripture  which  declares 
We  shall  not  sleep,  but  we  shall  all  be  changed  ! — 
Have  I  not  seen  ? — Ye  likewise  may  have  seen — 
Son,  husband,  brothers — brothers  side  by  side. 
And  son  and  father  also  side  by  side. 
Rise  from  that  posture  ; — and  in  concert  move, 
On  the  green  turf  following  the  vested  priest, 
Four  dear  supporters  of  one  senseless  weight. 
From  which  they  do  not  shrink,  and  under  which 
They  faint  not,  but  advance  toward  the  grave 
Step  after  step — together,  with  their  firm 
Unhidden  faces  ;  he  that  suffers  most. 
He  outwardly,  and  inwardly  perhaps. 
The  most  serene,  with  most  undaunted  eye  ! 

0  !  blest  are  they  who  live  and  die  like  these. 
Loved  with  such    love,  and   with   such    sorrow 

mourn 'd !" 
"  That  poor  man  taken  henc^  to-day,"  replied 
The  solitary,  with  a  faint,  sarcastic  smile 
Which  did  not  please  me,  "  must  be  deem'd,  I  fear. 
Of  the  unblest  5  for  he  will  surely  sink 
Into  his  mother  earth  without  such  pomp 
Of  grief,  depart  without  occasion  given 
By  him  for  such  array  of  fortitude. 
Full  seventy  winters  hath  he  lived,  and  mark  ! 
This  simple  child  will  mourn  his  one  short  hour 
And  I  shall  miss  him ;  scanty  tribute  !  yet. 
This  wanting,  he  would  leave  the  sight  of  men. 
If  love  were  his  sole  claim  upon  their  care. 
Like  a  ripe  date  which  in  the  desert  falls 
Without  a  hand  to  gather  it."    At  this 

1  interposed,  though  loath  to  speak,  and  said, 
**  Can  it  be  thus  among  so  small  a  band 

As  ye  must  needs  be  here  ?  in  such  a  place 
I  would  not  willingly,  methinks,  lose  sight 
*H  a  departing  cloud." — "  'Twas  not  for  love," 


Answer'd  the  sick  man  with  a  careless  voice — 
"  That  I  came  hither ;  neither  have  I  found 
Among  associates  who  have  power  of  speech. 
Nor  in  such  other  converse  as  is  here. 
Temptation  so  prevailing  as  to  change 
That  mood,  or  undermine  my  first  resolve."— 
Then  speaking  in  like  careless  sort,  he  said 
To  my  benign  companion, — ^"  #ity  'tis 
That  fortune  did  not  guide  you  to  this  house 
A  few  days  earlier ;  then  would  you  have  seen 
What  stuff  the  dwellers  in  a  solitude. 
That  seems  by  nature  hollow'd  out  to  be 
The  seat  and  bosom  of  pure  innocence. 
Are  made  of;  an  ungracious  matter  this  ! 
Which,  for  truth's  sake,  3'et  in  remembrance  too 
Of  past  discussions  with  this  zealous  friend 
And  advocate  of  humble  life,  I  now 
Will  force  upon  his  notice ;  undeterr'd 
By  the  example  of  his  own  pure  course. 
And  that  respect  and  deference  which  a  soul 
May  fairly  claim,  by  niggard  age  enrich'd 
In  what  she  values  most — the  love  of  God 
And  his  frail  creature,  man : — tut  ye  shall  hear. 
I  talk — and  ye  are  standing  in  the  sun 
Without  refreshment !" 

Saying  this,  he  led 
Towards  the  cottage  ; — homely  was  the  spot ; 
And,  to  my  feeling,  ere  we  reach'd  the  door, 
Had  almost  a  forbidding  nakedness  ; 
Less  fair,  I  grant,  e'en  painfully  less  fair. 
Than  it  appear'd  when  from  the  beetling  rock 
We  had  look'd  down  upon  it.     All  within. 
As  left  by  the  departed  company. 
Was  silent ;  and  the  solitary  clock 
Tick'd,  as  I  thought,  with  melancholy  sound.— 
Following  our  guide,  we  clomb  the  cottage  stairj 
And  reach'd  a  small  apartment  dark  and  low, 
Which  was  no  sooner  enter'd  than  our  host 
Said  gayly,  "  This  is  my  domain,  my  cell. 
My  hermitage,  my  cabin, — what  you  will — 
I  love  it  better  than  a  snail  his  house. 
But  now  ye  shall  be  feasted  with  our  best." 
So,  with  more  ardour  than  an  unripe  girl 
Left  one  day  mistress  of  her  mother's  stores. 
He  went  about  his  hospitable  task. 
My  eyes  were  busy,  and  my  thoughts  no  less. 
And  pleased  I  look'd  upon  my  gray-hair'd  friend, 
As  if  to  thank  him :  he  return 'd  that  look, 
Cheer'd,  plainly,  and  yet  serious.     What  a  wreck 
Had  we  around  us  !  scatter'd  was  the  floor. 
And,  in  like  sort,  chair,  window-seat,  and  shelf. 
With  books,  maps,  fossils,  wither'd   plants  anfc 

flowers. 
And  tufts  of  mountain  moss :  mechanic  tools 
Lay  intermix'd  with  scraps  of  paper,— some 
Scribbled  with  verse  ;  a  broken  angling-rod 
And  shatter'd  telescope,  together  link'd 
By  cobwebs,  stood  within  a  dusty  nook  ; 
And  instruments  of  music,  some  half  made. 
Some  in  disgrace,  hung  dangling  from  the  walls.    • 
But  speedily  the  promise  was  fulfill'd ; 
A  feast  before  us,  and  a  courteous  host 
Inviting  us  in  glee  to  sit  and  eat. 
A  napkin,  white  as  foam  of  that  rough  brook 
By  which  it  had  been  bleach 'd,  o'erspread  th-e  board  ( 
And  was  itself  half  cover'd  with  a  load 


THE   EXCURSION. 


4SI 


Df  dainties, — oaten  bread,  curd,  cheese,  and  cream. 
And  cakes  of  butter  curiously  emboss'd. 
Butter  that  had  imbibed  from  meadow  flowers 
A  golden  hue,  delicate  as  their  own. 
Faintly  reflected  in  a  lingering  stream ; 
Nor  lack'd,  for  more  delight  on  that  warm  day, 
Our  table,  small  parade  of  garden  fruits, 
And  whortleberries  from  the  mountain  side. 
The  child,  who  long  ere  this  had  still'd  his  sobs 
Was  now  a  help  to  his  late  comforter. 
And  moved,  a  willing  page,  as  he  was  bid. 
Ministering  to  our  need. 

In  genial  mood. 
While  at  our  pastoral  banquet  thus  we  sate 
Fronting  the  window  of  that  little  cell, 
I  could  not,  ever  and  anon,  forbear 
To  glance  an  upward  look  on  two  huge  peaks. 
That  from  some  other  vale  peer'd  into  this. 
"  Those  lusty  twins,"  exclaim 'd  our  host,  "  if  here 
It  were  your  lot  to  dwell,  would^oon  become 
your  prized  companions. — Many  are  the  notes 
Which,  in  his  tuneful  course,  the  wind  draws  forth 
From  rocks,  woods,  caverns,  heaths,  and  dashing 

shores ; 
And  well  those  lofty  brethren  bear  their  part 
In  the  wild  concert — chiefly  when  the  storm 
Rides  high ;  then  all  the  upper  air  they  fill 
With  roaring  sound,  that  ceases  not  to  flow. 
Like  smoke,  along  the  level  of  the  blast, 
In  mighty  current ;  theirs,  too,  is  the  song 
Of  stream  and  headlong  flood  that  seldom  fails ; 
And,  in  the  grim  and  breathless  hour  of  noon, 
Methinks  that  I  have  heard  them  echo  back 
The  thunder's  greeting : — nor  have  nature's  laws 
Left  them  unglfted  with  a  power  to  yield 
Music  of  finer  tone  ;  a  harmony. 
So  do  I  call  it,  though  it  be  the  hand 
Of  silence,  though  there  be  no  voice  ; — the  clouds. 
The  mist,  the  shadows,  light  of  golden  suns. 
Motions  of  moonlight,  all  come  thither — touch. 
And  have  an  answer — thither  come,  and  shape 
A  language  not  unwelcome  tc  sick  hearts 
And  idle  spirits : — there  the  sun  himself. 
At  the  calm  close  of  summer's  longest  day. 
Rests  his  substantial  orb ; — between  those  heights 
And  on  the  top  of  either  pinnacle, 
More  keenly  than  elsewhere  in  night's  blue  vault. 
Sparkle  the  stars,  as  of  their  station  proud. 
Thoughts  are  not  busier  in  the  mind  of  man 
Than  the  mute  agents  stirring  there : — alone 
Here  do  I  si "  and  watch." — 

A  fall  of  voice, 
Regretted  like  the  nightingale's  last  note. 
Had  scarcely  closed  this  high-wrought  rhapsody 
Ere  with  inviting  smile  the  wanderer  said, 
"  Now  for  the  tale  with  which  you  threaten'd  us  I" 
"  In  truth  the  threat  escaped  me  unawares ; 
Should  the  tale  tire  you,  let  this  challenge  stand 
For  my  excuse.     Dissever'd  from  mankind. 
As  to  your  eyes  and  thoughts  we  must  nave  seem'd 
When  ye  look'd  down  upon  us  from  the  crag. 
Islanders  of  a  stormy  mountain  sea. 
We  are  not  so  ; — perpetually  we  touch 
Upon  the  vulgar  ordinance  of  the  world, 
And  he,  whom  this  our  cottage  hath  to-day 
Relinquish'd,  lived  dependent  for  his  bread 


Upon  the  laws  of  public  charity. 

The  housewife,  tempted  by  such  slender  gainf 

As  might  from  that  occasion  be  distill'd, 

Open'd,  as  she  before  had  done  for  me, 

Her  doors  t'  admit  this  homeless  pensioner ; 

The  portion  gave  of  course  but  wholesome  fare 

Which  appetite  required — a  blind,  dull  nook 

Such  as  she  had — the  kennel  of  his  rest ! 

This,  in  itself  not  ill,  would  j^et  have  been 

111  borne  in  earlier  life,  but  his  was  now 

The  still  contentedness  of  seventy  j'ears. 

Calm  did  he  sit  beneath  the  wide-spread  tree 

Of  his  old  age  ;  and  yet  less  calm  and  meek. 

Willingly  meek  or  venerably  calm. 

Than  slow  and  torpid  ;  paying  in  this  wise 

A  penalty,  if  penalty  it  were. 

For  spendthrift  feats,  excesses  of  his  prime. 

I  loved  the  old  man,  for  I  pitied  him  ! 

A  task  it  was,  I  ov/n,  to  hold  discourse 

With  one  so  slow  in  gathering  up  his  thoughts, 

But  he  was  a  cheap  pleasure  to  my  eyes ; 

Mild,  inoffensive,  ready  in  his  way. 

And  helpful  to  his  utmost  power:  and  there 

Our  housewife  knew  full  well  what  she  possess'd  ' 

He  was  her  vassal  of  oil  labour,  till'd 

Her  garden,  from  the  pasture  fetch'd  her  kine ; 

And,  one  among  the  orderly  array 

Of  haymakers,  beneath  the  burning  sun 

Maintain 'd  his  place :  or  heedfuUy  pursued 

His  course,  on  errands  bound,  to  other  vales, 

Leading  sometimes  an  inexperienced  child. 

Too  young  for  any  profitable  task. 

So  moved  he  like  a  shadow  that  perform'd 

Substantial  service.     Mark  me  now,  and  leam 

For  what  reward  !     The  moon  her  monthly  round 

Hath  not  completed  since  our  dame,  the  queen 

Of  this  one  cottage  and  this  lonely  dale. 

Into  my  little  sanctuary  rush'd — 

Voice  to  a  rueful  treble  humanized. 

And  features  in  deplorable  dismay — 

I  treat  the  matter  lightly,  but,  alas  ! 

It  is  most  serious :  persevering  rain 

Had  fall'n  in  torrents  ;  all  the  mountain  tops 

Were  hidden,  and  black  vapours  coursed  their  sides  j 

This  had  I  seen,  and  saw  ;  but,  till  she  spake. 

Was  wholly  ignorant  that  my  ancient  friend, 

Who  at  her  bidding,  early  and  alone. 

Had  clomb  aloft  to  delve  the  moorland  turf 

For  winter  fuel,  to  his  noontide  meal 

Return'd  not,  and  now,  haply,  on  the  heights 

Lay  at  the  mercy  of  this  raging  storm. 

'  Inhuman  ." — said  I, '  was  an  old  man's  life 

Not  worth  the  trouble  of  a  thought  ? — alas  ? 

This  notice  comes  too  late.'    With  joy  I  saw 

Her  husband  enter — from  a  distant  vale. 

We  sallied  forth  together ;  found  the  tools 

Which  the  neglected  veteran  had  dropp'd. 

But  through  all  quarters  look'd  for  him  in  vain. 

We  shouted — but  no  answer  !     Darkness  fell 

Without  remission  of  the  blast  or  shower. 

And  fears  for  our  own  safety  drove  us  home. 

I,  who  weep  little,  did  I  will  confess. 

The  moment  I  was  seated  here  alone. 

Honour  my  little  cell  with  some  few  tears 

Which  anger  and  resentment  could  not  dry. 

All  night  the  storm  endured ;  and  soon  as  helo 


432 


WORDSWORTH. 


Had  been  collected  from  the  neighbouring  vale. 

With  morning  we  renew'd  our  quest ;  the  wind 

Was  fall'n,  the  rain  abatfed,  but  the  hills 

Lay  shrouded  in  impenetrable  mist ; 

And  long  and  hopelessly  we  sought  in  vain. 

Till,  chancing  on  that  lofty  ridge  to  pass 

A  heap  of  ruin,  almost  without  walls, 

And  wholly  without  roof,  (the  bleach'd  remains 

Of  a  small  chapel,  where,  in  ancient  time, 

The  peasants  of  these  lonely  valleys  used 

To  meet  for  worship  on  that  central  height) — 

We  there  espied  the  object  of  our  search, 

Lying  full  three  parts  buried  among  tufts 

Of  heath  plant,  under  and  above  him  strewn. 

To  baffle,  as  he  might,  the  watery  storm : 

And  there  we  found  him  breathing  peaceably, 

Snug  as  a  child  that  hides  itself  in  sport 

'Mid  a  green  haycock  in  a  sunny  field. 

We  spake — he  made  reply,  but  would  not  stir 

At  our  entreaty ;  less  from  want  of  power 

Than  apprehension  and  bewildering  thoughts. 

So  was  he  lifted  gently  from  the  ground, 

And  with  their  freight  the  shepherds   homeward 

moved 
Through  the  dull  mist,  I  following — when  a  step, 
A  single  step,  that  freed  me  from  the  skirts 
Of  the  blind  vapour,  open'd  to  my  view 
Glory  beyond  all  glory  ever  seen 
By  waking  sense  or  by  the  dreaming  soul ! 
Th'  appearance,  instantaneously  disclosed. 
Was  of  a  "nighty  city — boldly  say 
A  wilderr.GSs  of  building,  sinking  far 
And  self-withdrawn  into  a  wondrous  depth, 
Far  sinking  into  splendour — without  end ! 
Fabric  it  seem'd  of  diamond  and  of  gold, 
With  alabaster  domes,  and  silver  spires. 
And  blazing  terrace  upon  terrace,  high 
Uplifted ;  here,  serene  pavilions  bright. 
In  avenues  disposed  ;  there  towers  begirt 
With  battlements  that  on  their  restless  fronts 
Bore  stars — illumination  of  all  gems  ! 
By  earthly  nature  had  the  effect  been  wrought 
Upon  the  dark  materials  of  the  storm 
Now  pacified ;  on  them,  and  on  the  coves 
And  mountain  steeps  and  summits,  whereunto 
The  vapours  had  receded,  taking  there 
Their  station  under  a  cerulean  sky. 
O,  'twas  an  unimaginable  sight ! 
Clouds,  mists,  streams,  watery  rocks  and  emerald 

turf. 
Clouds  of  all  tincture,  rocks  and  sapphire  sky. 
Confused,  commingled,  mutually  inflamed, 
Molten  together,  and  composing  thus. 
Each  lost  in  each,  that  marvellous  array 
Of  temple,  palace,  citadel,  and  huge 
Fantastic  pomp  of  structure  without  name. 
In  fleecy  folds  voluminous  inwrapp'd. 
Right  in  the  midst,  where  interspace  appear'd 
Of  open  court,  an  object  like  a  throne 
Beneath  a  shining  canopy  of  state 
Stood  fix'd ;  and  fix'd  resemblances  were  seen 
To  implements  of  ordinary  use. 
But  vast  in  size,  in  substance  glorified  ; 
Such  as  by  Hebrew  prophets  were  beheld 
In  vision — forms  uncouth  of  mightiest  power 
For  admiration  and  mysterious  awe. 


Below  me  was  the  earth  ;  this  little  vale 

Lay  low  beneath  my  feet ;  'twas  visible—  ' 

I  saw  not,  but  I  felt  that  it  was  there. 

That  which  I  saiv  was  the  reveal'd  abode 

Of  spirits  in  beatitude  :  my  heart 

Swell'd  in  my  breast. — '  I  have  been  dead,'  I  cried, 

«  And  now  I  live  !  0  !  wherefore  do  I  live  ?' 

And  with  that  pang  I  pray'd  to  be  no  more  ! 

But  I  forget  our  charge,  as  utterly 

I  then  forgot  him  : — there  I  stood  and  gazed  ; 

The  apparition  faded  not  away, 

And  I  descended.     Having  reach'd  the  house, 

I  found  its  rescued  inmate  safely  lodged. 

And  in  serene  possession  of  himself, 

Beside  a  genial  fire ;  that  seem'd  to  spread 

A  gleam  of  comfort  o'er  his  pallid  face. 

Great  show  of  joy  the  housewife  made,  and  truly 

Was  glad  to  find  her  conscience  set  at  ease ; 

And  not  less  glad,  for  sake  of  her  good  name, 

That  the  poor  sufferer  had  escaped  with  life. 

But,  though  he  seem'd  at  first  to  have  received 

No  harm,  and  uncomplaining  as  before 

Went  through  his  usual  tasks,  a  silent  change 

Soon  show'd  itself;  he  linger'd  three  short  weeks  j 

And  from  the  cottage  hath  been  borne  to-day. 

"  So  ends  my  dolorous  tale,  and  glad  I  am 
That  it  is  ended."    At  these  words  he  turn'd — 
And,  with  blithe  air  of  open  fellowship, 
Brought  from  the  cupboard  wine  and  stouter  cheer, 
Like  one  who  would  be  merry.     Seeing  this, 
My  gray-hair'd  friend  said  courteously — "  Nay,  nay, 
You  have  regaled  us  as  a  hermit  ought ; 
Now  let  us  forth  into  the  sun  I" — Our  host 
Rose,  though  reluctantly,  and  forth  we  went. 


BOOK  in. 

DESPONDENCY. 

ARGUMENT. 

Images  in  the  valley.  Another  recess  in  it  entered  and 
described.  Wanderer's  sensations.  Solitary's  excited 
by  the  same  objects.  Contrast  between  these.  Des- 
pondency of  the  solitary  gently  reproved.  Conversa* 
tion  exhibiting  the  solitary's  past  and  present  opinions 
and  feelings,  till  he  enters  upon  his  own  history  at 
length.  His  domestic  felicity.  Afflictions.  Dejection. 
Roused  by  the  French  revolution.  Disappointment 
and  disgust.  Voyage  to  America.  Disappointment  and 
disgust  pursue  him.  His  return.  His  languor  and 
depression  of  mind,  from  want  of  faith  in  the  great 
truths  of  religion,  and  want  of  confidence  in  the  virtue 
of  mankind. 

A  HUMMING  bee — a  little  tinkling  rill — 

A  pair  of  falcons,  wheeling  on  the  wing. 

In  clamorous  agitation,  round  the  crest 

Of  a  tall  rock,  their  airy  citadel — 

By  each  and  all  of  these  the  pensive  ear 

Was  greeted,  in  the  silence  that  ensued, 

When  through  the  cottage  threshold  we  had  pass'd, 

And,  deep  -vltthin  that  lonesome  valley  stood 

Once  more,  beneath  the  concave  of  a  blue 

And  cloudless  sky.     Anon  !  exclaim'd  our  host 

Triumphantly  dispersing  with  tne  taunt 

The  shade  of  discontent  which  on  his  brow 

Had  gather'd, — "  Ye  have  left  my  cell, — but  see 

How  nature  hems  you  in  with  friendly  arms  ! 

And  by  her  help  ye  are  my  prisoners  still 


THE    EXCURSION. 


433 


But  which  way  shall  I  lead  you  ?  how  contrive, 

In  spot  so  parsimoniousl}'  endow'd, 

That  the  brief  hours,  which  yet  remain,  may  reap 

Some  recompense  of  knowledge  or  delight  ?" 

So  saying,  round  he  look'd,  as  if  perplex'd  ; 

And,  to  remove  those  doubts,  my  gray-hair'd  friend 

Said — "  Shall  we  take  this  pathway  for  our  guide  ? 

[Jpward  it  winds,  as  if,  in  summer  heats, 

Its  line  had  first  been  fashion 'd  by  the  flock 

A.  place  of  refuge  seeking  at  the  root 

Of  yon  black  yew  tree;  whose  protruded  boughs 

Darken  the  silver  bosom  of  the  crag, 

From  which  she  draws  her  meagre  sustenance. 

There  in  commodious  shelter  may  we  rest. 

Or  let  us  trace  this  streamlet  to  his  source ; 

Feebly  it  tinkles  with  an  earthly  sound. 

And  a  few  steps  may  bring  us  to  the  spot 

Where,  haply,  crown'd  with  flowerets  and  green 

herbs, 
The  mountain  infant  to  the  sun  comes  forth. 
Like  human  life  from  darkness." — A  quick  turn 
Through  a  strait  passage  of  incumber'd  ground. 
Proved  that  such  hope  was  vain  : — for  now  we  stood 
Shut  out  from  prospect  of  the  open  vale. 
And  saw  the  water,  that  composed  this  rill, 
Descending,  disembodied,  and  diffused 
O'er  the  smooth  surface  of  an  ample  crag, 
Lofty,  and  steep,  and  naked  as  a  tower. 
All  further  progress  here  was  barr'd.     And  who. 
Thought  I,  if  master  of  a  vacant  hour. 
Here  would  not  linger,  willingly  detain'd  ? 
Whether  to  such  wild  objects  he  were  led 
When  copious  rains  have  magnified  the  stream 
Into  a  loud  and  white-robed  waterfall. 
Or  introduced  at  this  more  quiet  time. 

Upon  a  semicirque  of  turf-clad  ground, 
The  hidden  nook  discover'd  to  our  view 
A  mass  of  rock,  resembling,  as  it  lay 
Right  at  the  foot  of  that  moist  precipice, 
A  stranded  ship,  with  keel  upturn'd, — that  rests 
Fearless  of  winds  and  waves.     Three  several  stones 
Stood  near,  of  smaller  size,  and  not  unlike 
To  monumental  pillars  ;  and  from  these 
Some  little  space  disjoin'd,  a  pair  were  seen. 
That  with  united  shoulders  bore  aloft 
A  fragment,  like  an  altar,  flat  and  smooth ; 
Barren  the  tablet,  yet  thereon  appear'd 
A  tall  and  shining  holly,  that  had  found 
A  hospitable  chink,  and  stood  upright. 
As  if  inserted  by  some  human  hand 
In  mockery,  to  wither  in  the  sun, 
Or  lay  its  beauty  flat  before  a  breeze. 
The  first  that  enter'd.    But  no  breeze  did  now 
Find  entrance  ;  high  or  low  appear'd  no  trace 
Of  motion,  save  the  water  that  descended. 
Diffused  adown  that  barrier  of  steep  rock, 
And  softly  creeping,  like  a  breath  of  air. 
Such  as  is  sometimes  seen,  and  hardly  seen, 
To  brush  the  still  breast  of  a  crystal  lake. 

"  Behold  a  cabinet  for  sages  built, 
Which  kings  might  envy  I"     Praise  to  this  effect 
Broke  from  the  happy  old  man's  reverend  lip  ; 
Who  to  the  solitary  turn'd,  and  said, 
"  In  sooth,  with  love's  familiar  privilege, 
You  have  decried  the  wealth  which  is  your  own. 
Among  these  rocks  and  stones,  methinks,  I  see 
Vol.  III.— 28 


More  than  the  heedless  impress  that  belongs 

To  lonely  nature's  casual  work  ;  they  bear 

A  semblance  strange  of  power  intelligent. 

And  of  design  not  wholly  worn  away. 

Boldest  of  plants  that  ever  faced  the  wind. 

How  gracefully  that  slender  shrub  looks  forth 

From  its  fantastic  birthplace  !     And  I  own. 

Some  shadowy  intimations  haunt  me  here. 

That  in  these  shows  a  chronicle  survives 

Of  purposes  akin  to  those  of  man. 

But  wrought  with  mightier  arm  than  now  prevailg, 

Voiceless  the  stream  descends  ii  to  the  gulf 

With  timid  lapse  ;  and  lo  !  while  in  this  strait 

I  stand — the  chasm  of  sky  above  my  head 

Is  heaven's  profoundest  azure  ;  no  domain 

For  fickle,  shortlived  clouds  to  occupy. 

Or  to  pass  through,  but  rather  an  abyss 

In  which  the  everlasting  stars  abide  ; 

And  whose  soft  gloom,  and  boundless  depth,  might 

tempt 
The  curious  eye  to  look  for  them  by  day. 
Hail  contemplation  !  from  the  stately  towers 
Rear'd  by  the  industrious  hand  of  human  art 
To  lift  thee  high  above  the  mist.y  air 
And  turbulence  of  murmuring  cities  vast : 
From  academic  groves,  that  have  for  thee 
Been  planted,  hither  come  and  find  a  lodge 
To  which  thou  mayst  resort  for  holier  peace, — 
From  whose  calm  centre  thou,  through  height  oi 

depth, 
Mayst  penetrate,  wherever  truth  shall  lead  ; 
Measuring  through  all  degrees,  until  the  scale 
Of  time  and  conscious  nature  disappear, 
Lost  in  unsearchable  eternity  !" 

A  pause  ensued  ;  and  with  minuter  care 
We  scann'd  the  various  features  of  the  scene : 
And  soon  the  tenant  of  that  lonely  vale 
With  courteous  voice  thus  spake — 

"  I  should  have  grieved 
Hereafter,  not  escaping  self-reproach. 
If  from  my  poor  retirement  ye  had  gone 
Leaving  this  nook  unvisited  :  but,  in  sooth, 
Your  unexpected  presence  had  so  roused 
My  spirits,  that  they  were  bent  on  enterprise  j 
And,  like  an  ardent  hunter,  I  forgot. 
Or,  shall  I  say  ? — disdain 'd  the  game  that  lurks 
At  my  own  door.     The  shapes  before  our  eyes. 
And  their  arrangement,  doubtless  must  be  deem'd 
The  sport  of  nature,  aided  by  blind  chance 
Rudely  to  mock  the  works  of  toiling  man. 
And  hence,  this  upright  shaft  of  unhewn  stone. 
From  fancy,  willing  to  set  off  her  stores 
By  sounding  titles,  hath  acquired  the  n-ame 
Of  Pompey's  pillar  ;  that  I  gravely  style 
My  Theban  obelisk  ;  and,  there,  behold 
A  Druid  cromlech ! — thus  I  entertain 
The  antiquarian  humour,  and  am  pleased 
To  skim  along  the  surfaces  of  things. 
Beguiling  harmlessly  the  listless  hours. 
But  if  the  spirit  be  oppress'd  by  sense 
Of  instability,  revolt,  decay. 
And  change,  and  emptiness,  these  freaks  of  nature 
And  her  blind  helper,  chance,  do  then  suffice 
To  quicken,  and  to  aggravate — to  feed 
Pity  and  scorn,  and  melancholy  pride. 
Not  less  than  that  huge  pile  (from  some  abyss 


434 


WORDSWORTH. 


Of  mortal  power  unquestionably  sprung) 

Whose  hoary  diadem  of  pendent  rocks 

Confines  the  shrill-voiced  whirlwind,  round  and 

round 
Eddying  within  its  vast  circumference, 
On  Sarum's  naked  plain  ;  than  pyramid 
Of  Egypt,  unsubverted,  undissolved  ; 
Or  Syria's  marble  ruins  towering  high 
Above  the  sandy  desert,  in  the  light 
Of  sun  or  moon, — forgive  me,  if  I  say 
That  an  appearance  which  hath  raised  your  itti  is 
To  an  exalted  pitch  (the  self-same  cause 
Different  eflfect  producing)  is  for  me 
Fraught  rather  with  depression  than  delight. 
Though  shame  it  were,  could  I  not  look  around. 
By  the  reflection  of  your  pleasure,  pleased. 
Yet  happier  in  my  judgment,  e'en  than  you 
With  your  bright  transports  fairly  may  be  deem'd, 
The  wandering  herbalist, — who,  clear  alike 
From  vain,  and,  that  worse  evil,  vexing  thoughts, 
Casts,  if  he  ever  chance  to  enter  here. 
Upon  these  uncouth  forms  a  slight  regard 
Of  transitory  interest,  and  peeps  round 
For  some  rare  floweret  of  the  hills,  or  plant 
Of  craggy  fountain  ;  what  he  hopes  for  wins. 
Or  learns,  at  least,  that  'tis  not  to  be  won : 
Then,  keen  and  eager,  as  a  fine-nosed  hound 
By  soul-engrossing  instinct  driven  along 
Through  wood  or  open  field,  the  harmless  man 
Departs,  intent  upon  his  onward  quest ! 
Nor  is  that  fellow  wanderer,  so  deem  I, 
Less  to  be  envied,  (you  may  trace  him  oft 
By  scars  which  his  activity  has  left 
Beside  our  roads  and  pathways,  though,  thank  Hea- 
ven ! 
This  covert  nook  reports  not  of  his  hand,) 
He  who  with  pocket  hammer  smites  the  edge 
Of  luckless  rock  or  prominent  stone,  disguised 
In  weather  stains  or  crusted  o'er  by  nature 
With  her  first  growths — detaching  by  the  stroke 
A  chip  or  splinter — to  resolve  his  doubts  : 
And,  with  that  ready  answer  satisfied. 
The  substance  classes  by  some  barbarous  name. 
And  hurries  on  ;  or  from  the  fragments  picks 
His  specimen,  if  haply  intervein'd 
With  sparkling  mineral,  or  should  crystal  cube 
Lurk  in  its  cells — and  thinks  himself  enrich'd, 
Wealthier,  and  doubtless  wiser,  than  before  ! 
Intrusted  safely  each  to  his  pursuit. 
Earnest  alike,  let  both  from  hill  to  hill 
Range  ;  if  it  please  them,  speed  from  clime  to  clime ; 
The  mind  is  full — no  pain  is  in  their  sport." 

"  Then,"  said  I,  interposing,  "  one  is  near, 
Who  cannot  but  possess  in  your  esteem 
Place  worthier  still  of  envy.     May  I  name. 
Without  offence,  that  fair-faced  cottage  boy  ? 
Dame  nature's  pupil  of  the  lowest  form, 
Youngest  apprentice  in  the  school  of  art ! 
Him,  as  we  enter'd  from  the  open  glen. 
You  might  have  noticed  busily  engaged. 
Heart,  soul,  and  hands, — in  mending  the  defects 
Left  in  the  fabric  of  a  leaky  dam 
Raised  for  enabling  this  penurious  stream 
To  turn  a  slender  mill  (that  new-made  plaything) 
For  his  delight — the  happiest  he  of  all !" 

*'  Far  happiest,"  answer'd  the  desponding  man. 


"  If,  such  as  now  he  is,  he  might  remain  ! 
Ah  !  what  avails  imagination  high 
Or  question  deep  ?  what  profits  all  that  earth, 
Or  heaven's  blue  vault,  is  suffer'd  to  put  forth 
Of  impulse  or  allurement,  for  the  soul 
To  quit  the  beaten  track  of  life,  and  soar 
Far  as  she  finds  a  yielding  element 
In  past  or  future  ;  far  as  she  can  go 
Through  time  or  space  ;  if  neither  in  the  one, 
Nor  in  the  other  region,  nor  in  aught 
That  fancy,  dreaming  o'er  the  map  of  things. 
Hath  placed  beyond  these  penetrable  bounds, 
Words  of  assurance  can  be  heard  ;  if  nowhere 
A  habitation,  for  consummate  good. 
Nor  for  progressive  virtue,  by  the  search 
Can  be  attain 'd. — a  better  sanctuary 
From  doubt  and  sorrow,  than  the  senseless  gravj*  ?' 
"  Is  this,"  the  gray-hair'd  wanderer  mildly  sadd« 
"  The  voice,  which  we  so  lately  overheard. 
To  that  same  child  addressing  tenderly 
The  consolations  of  a  hopeful  mind  ? 
'  His  body  is  at  rest,  his  soul  in  heaven.' 
These  were  your  words  ;  and,  verily,  methinks 
Wisdom  is  ofttimes  nearer  when  we  stoop 
Than  when  we  soar." 

The  other,  not  displeased, 
Promptly  replied — "  My  notion  is  the  same. 
And  I,  without  reluctance,  could  decline 
All  act  of  inquisition  whence  we  rise. 
And  what,  when  breath  hath  ceased,  we  may  be- 
come. 
Here  are  we,  in  a  bright  and  breathing  world — 
Our  origin,  what  matters  it  ?     In  lack 
Of  worthier  explanation,  say  at  once 
With  the  American  (a  thought  which  suits 
The  place  where  now  we  stand)  that  certain  men 
Leapt  out  together  from  a  rocky  cave  ; 
And  these  were  the  first  parents  of  mankind: 
Or,  if  a  different  image  be  recall'd 
By  the  warm  sunshine,  and  the  jocund  voice 
Of  insects — chirping  out  their  careless  lives 
On  these  soft  beds  of  thyme-besprinkled  turf, 
Choose,  with  the  gay  Athenian,  a  conceit 
As  sound — ^blithe  race  !   whose  mantles  were  be- 

deck'd 
With  golden  grasshoppers,  in  sign  that  they 
Had  sprung,  like  those  bright  creatures,  from  the 

soil 
Whereon  their  endless  generations  dwelt. 
But  stop  ! — these  theoretic  fancies  jar 
On  serious  minds:  then,  as  the  Hindoos  draw 
Their  holy  Ganges  from  a  skyey  fount. 
E'en  so  deduce  the  stream  of  human  life 
From  seats  of  power  divine ;  and  hope,  or  trust. 
That  our  existence  winds  her  stately  course 
Beneath  the  sun,  like  Ganges,  to  make  part 
Of  a  living  ocean  ;  or,  to  sink  ingulf'd. 
Like  Niger  in  impenetrable  sands 
And  utter  darkness :  thought  which  may  be  faced, 
Though  comfortless  !     Not  of  myself  I  speak 
Such  acquiescence  neither  doth  imply. 
In  me,  a  meekly  bending  spirit — sooth'd 
By  natural  piety  ;  nor  a  lofty  mind, 
By  philosophic  discipline  prepared 
For  calm  subjection  to  acknowledged  law  ; 
Pleased  to  have  been,  contented  not  to  be. 


THE    EXCURSION. 


49$ 


Such  palms  I  boast  not ;  no  !  to  me,  who  find, 
Re  aewing  my  past  way,  much  to  condemn. 
Little  to  praise,  and  nothing  to  regret, 
(Save  some  remembrances  of  dream-like  joys 
That  scarcely  seem  to  have  belong'd  to  me,) 
If  I  must  take  my  choice  between  the  pair 
That  rule  alternately  the  weary  hours, 
Night  is  than  day  more  acceptable  ;  sleep 
Doth,  in  my  estimate  of  good,  appear 
A  better  state  than  waking  ;  death  than  sleep: 
Feel.ngly  sweet  is  stillness  after  storm. 
Though  under  covert  of  the  wormy  ground  I 

"  Yet  be  it  said,  in  justice  to  myself. 
That  in  more  genial  times,  when  I  was  free 
To  explore  the  destiny  of  human  kind, 
(Not  as  an  intellectual  game  pursued 
With  curious  subtilty,  from  wish  to  cheat 
Irksome  sensations  ;  but  by  love  of  truth 
Urged  on,  or  haply  by  intense  delight 
In  feeding  thought,  wherever  thought  could  feed,) 
I  did  not  rank  with  those  (too  dull  or  nice, 
For  to  my  judgment  such  they  then  appear'd, 
Or  too  aspiring  thankless  at  the  best) 
Who,  in  this  frame  of  human  life,  perceive 
An  object  whereunto  their  souls  are  tied 
In  discontented  wedlock  ;  nor  did  e'er,  * 

From  me,  those  dark,  impervious  shades,  tliat  hang 
Upon  the  region  whither  we  are  bound. 
Exclude  a  power  to  enjoy  the  vital  beams, 
Of  present  sunshine.     Deities  that  float 
On  wings,  angelic  spirits,  I  could  muse 
O'er  what  from  eldest  time  we  have  been  told 
Of  your  bright  forms  and  glorious  faculties, 
And  with  the  imagination  be  content. 
Not  wishing  more  ;  repining  not  to  tread 
The  little  sinuous  path  of  earthly  care. 
By  flowers  embellish'd,  and  by  springs  refresh'd. 
*  Blow  winds  of  autumn  I — let  your  chilling  breath 
Take  the  live  herbage  from  the  mead,  and  strip 
The  shady  forest  of  its  green  attire, — 
And  let  the  bursting  clouds  to  fury  rouse 
The  gentle  brooks  !     Your  desolating  sway,' 
Thus  I  exclaim'd,  *  no  sadness  sheds  on  me, 
And  no  disorder  in'your  rage  I  find. 
What  dignity,  what  beauty,  in  this  change 
From  mild  to  angry,  and  from  sad  to  gay. 
Alternate  and  revolving  !     How  benign, 
How  rich  in  animation  and  delight, 
How  bountiful  these  elements — compared 
With  aught,  as  more  desirable  and  fair 
Devised  by  fancy  for  the  golden  age  ; 
Or  the  perpetual  warbling  that  prevails 
In  Arcady,  beneath  unalter'd  skies, 
Through  the  long  year  in  constant  quiet  bound, 
Night  hush'd  as  night,  and  day  serene  as  day  ." 
But  why  this  tedious  record  ?     Age,  we  know. 
Is  garrulous  ;  and  solitude  is  apt 
T'  anticipate  the  privilege  of  ago. 
From  far  ye  come  ;  and  surely  with  a  hope 
Of  better  entertainment — let  us  hence  !" 

Loath  to  forsake  the  spot,  and  still  more  loath 
To  be  diverted  from  our  present  theme, 
I  said,  "  My  thoughts  agreeing,  sir,  with  yours. 
Would  push  this  censure  farther  ;  for,  if  smiles 
Of  scornful  pity  be  the  just  reward 
)f  poesy,  thus  courteously  employ'd 


In  framing  models  to  improve  the  scheme 

Of  man's  existence,  and  recast  the  world, 

Why  should  not  grave  philosophy  be  styled 

Herself,  a  dreamer  of  a  kindred  stock, 

A  dreamer  yet  more  spiritless  and  dull  ? 

Yes,  shall  the  fine  immunities  she  boasts 

Establish  sounder  titles  of  esteem 

For  her,  who  (all  too  timid  and  reserved 

For  onset,  for  resistance  too  inert, 

Too  weak  for  suffering,  and  for  hope  too  tame) 

Placed  among  flowery  gardens,  curtain'd  round 

With  world-excluding  groves,  the  brotherhood 

Of  soft  epicureans,  taught — if  they 

The  ends  of  being  would  secure,  and  win 

The  crown  of  wisdom — to  yield  up  their  souls 

To  a  voluptuous  unconcern,  preferring 

Tranquillity  to  all  things.     Or  is  she," 

I  cried,  "  more  worthy  of  regard,  the  power, 

Who,  for  the  sake  of  sterner  quiet,  closed 

The  stoic's  heart  against  the  vain  approach 

Of  admiration,  and  all  sense  of  joy  ?" 

His  countenance  gave  notice  that  my  zeal 
Accorded  little  with  his  present  mind  ; 
I  ceased,  and  he  resumed.    "  Ah  !  gentle  sir, 
Slight,  if  you  will,  the  means:  but  spare  to  slight 
The  end  of  those,  who  did,  by  system,  rank. 
As  the  prime  object  of  a  wise  man's  aim. 
Security  from  shock  of  accident. 
Release  from  fear  ;  and  cherish'd  peaceful  days 
For  their  own  sakes,  as  mortal  life's  chief  good, 
And  only  reasonable  felicity. 
What  motive  drew,  what  impulse,  I  would  ask, 
Through  a  long  course  of  later  ages,  drove 
The  hermit  to  his  cell  in  forest  wide  ; 
Or  what  detain'd  him,  till  his  closing  eyes 
Took  their  last  farewell  of  the  sun  and  stars, 
Fast  anchor'd  in  the  desert  ?     Not  alone 
Dread  of  the  persecuting  sword — remorse. 
Wrongs  unredress'd,  or  insults  unavenged 
And  unavengeable,  defeated  pride. 
Prosperity  subverted,  maddening  want, 
Friendship  betray'd,  affection  unreturn'd, 
Love  with  despair,  or  grief  in  agony  ; 
Not  always  from  intolerable  pangs 
He  fled  ;  but,  compass'd  round  by  pleasure,  sigh'd 
For  independent  happiness :  craving  peace. 
The  central  feeling  of  all  happiness, 
Not  as  a  refuge  from  distress  or  pain, 
A  breathing-time,  vacation,  or  a  truce. 
But  for  its  absolute  self ;  a  life  of  peace, 
Stability  without  regret  or  fear  ; 
That  hath  been,  is,  and  shall  be  evermore  ! 
Such  the  reward  he  sought ;  and  wore  out  life. 
There,  where  on  few  external  things  his  heart 
Was  set,  and  those  his  own  ;  or,  if  not  his. 
Subsisting  under  nature's  steadfast  law. 

"  What  other  yearning  was  the  master  tie 
Of  the  monastic  brotherhood,  upon  rock 
Aerial,  or  in  green  secluded  vale. 
One  after  one,  collected  from  afar 
An  undissolving  fellowship  ? — What  but  this. 
The  universal  instinct  of  repose. 
The  longing  for  confirm 'd  tranquillity, 
Inward  and  outward  ;  humble,  yet  sublime  : 
The  life  where  hope  and  memory  are  as  one  ; 
Earth  quiet  and  unchanged  ;  the  human  soul 


436 


WORDSWORTH. 


Consistent  in  self-rule  ;  and  heaven  reveal'd 
To  meditation  in  that  quietness  ! 
Such  was  their  scheme : — thrice  happy  he  who  gain'd 
The  end  proposed  !     And, — though  the  same  were 

miss'd 
By  multitudes,  perhaps  obtain'd  by  none, — 
They,  for  the  attempt,  and  for  the  pains  employ'd. 
Do,  in  my  present  censure,  stand  redeem'd 
From  the  unqualified  disdain,  that  once 
Would  have  been  cast  upon  them,  by  my  voice 
Delivering  her  decisions  from  the  seat 
Of  forward  youth  :  that  scruples  not  to  solve 
Doubts,  and  determine  questions,  by  the  rules 
Of  inexperienced  judgment,  ever  prone 
To  overweening  faith  ;  and  is  inflamed. 
By  courage,  to  demand  from  real  life 
The  test  of  act  and  suffering — to  provoke 
Hostility,  how  dreadful  when  it  comes, 
Whether  affliction  be  the  foe,  or  guilt ! 

"  A  child  of  earth,  I  rested,  in  that  stage 
Of  my  past  course  to  which  these  thoughts  advert, 
Upon  earth's  native  energies  ;  forgetting 
That  mine  was  a  condition  which  required 
Nor  energy,  nor  fortitude — a  calm 
Without  vicissitude  ;  which,  if  the  like 
Had  been  presented  to  my  view  elsewhere, 
I  might  have  e'en  been  tempted  to  despise. 
But  that  which  was  serene  was  also  bright ; 
Enliven 'd  happiness  with  joy  o'erflowing. 
With  joy,  and — 0  !  that  memory  should  survive 
To  speak  the  word — with  rapture  I     Nature's  boon, 
Life's  genuine  inspiration,  happiness 
Above  what  rules  can  teach,  or  fancy  feign  ; 
Abused,  as  all  possessions  are  abused 
That  are  not  prized  according  to  their  worth. 
And  yet,  what  worth  ?  what  good  is  given  to  men 
More  solid  than  the  gilded  clouds  of  heaven  ? 
What  joy  more  lasting  than  a  vernal  flower  ? 
None  !  'tis  the  general  plaint  of  human  kind 
In  solitude,  and  mutually  address'd 
From  each  to  all,  for  wisdom's  sake.     This  truth 
The  priest  announces  from  his  holy  seat: 
And,  crown'd  with  garlands  in  the  summer  grove, 
The  poet  fits  it  to  his  pensive  lyre. 
Yet,  ere  that  final  resting  place  be  gain'd. 
Sharp  contradictions  may  arise  by  doom 
Of  this  same  life,  compelling  us  to  grieve 
That  the  prosperities  of  love  and  joy 
Should  be  permitted,  ofttimes,  to  endure 
So  long,  and  be  at  once  cast  down  for  ever. 
V  .  tremble,  ye,  to  whom  hath  been  assign 'd 
A  course  of  days  composing  happy  months, 
And  they  as  happy  years  ;  the  present  still 
So  like  the  past,  and  both  so  firm  a  pledge 
Of  a  congenial  future,  that  the  wheels 
Of  pleasure  move  without  the  aid  of  hope  : 
For  mutability  is  nature's  bane  ; 
And  slighted  hope  will  be  avenged  :  and,  when 
Ye  need  her  favours,  ye  shall  find  her  not ; 
But  in  her  stead — fear — doubt — and  agony  !" 
This  was  the  bitter  language  of  the  heart: 
But,  while  he  spake,  look,  gesture,  tone  of  voice. 
Though  discomposed  and  vehement,  were  such 
As  skill  and  graceful  nature  might  suggest 
To  a  proficient  of  the  tragic  scene 
Standing  before  the  multitude,  beset 


With  dark  events.     Desirous  to  divert 
Or  stem  the  current  of  the  speaker's  thoughts, 
We  signified  a  wish  to  leave  that  place 
Of  stillness  and  close  privacy,  a  nook 
That  seem'd  for  self-examination  made. 
Or,  for  confession,  in  the  sinner's  need, 
Hidden  from  all  men's  view.     To  our  attempt 
He  yielded  not ;  but  pointing  to  a  slope 
Of  mossy  turf  defended  from  the  sun. 
And,  on  that  couch  inviting  us  to  rest, 
Full  on  that  tender-hearted  man  he  turn'd 
A  serious  eye,  and  thus  his  speech  renew'd. 

"  You  never  saw,  your  eyes  did  never  look 
On  the  bright  form  of  her  whom  once  I  loved : 
Her  silver  voice  was  heard  upon  the  earth, 
A  sound  unknown  to  you  ;  else,  honour'd  friend ! 
Your  heart  had  borne  a  pitiable  share 
Of  what  I  suffer'd,  when  I  wept  that  loss. 
And  suffer  now,  not  seldom,  from  the  thought 
That  I  remember,  and  can  weep  no  more. 
Stripp'd  as  I  am  of  all  the  golden  fruit 
Of  self-esteem  ;  and  by  the  cutting  blasts 
Of  self-reproach  familiarly  assail'd  ; 
I  would  not  yet  be  of  such  wintry  Imreness 
But  that  some  leaf  of  your  regard  should  hang 
^ITpon  my  naked  branches  ;  lively  thoughts 
Give  birth,  full  often,  to  unguarded  words. 
I  grieve  that,  in  your  presence,  from  my  ton^e 
Too  much  of  frailty  hath  already  dropp'd  ; 
But  that  too  much  demands  still  more. 

"  You  know 
Revered  compatriot ;  and  to  you,  kind  sir, 
(Not  to  be  deem'd  a  stranger,  as  you  come 
Following  the  guidance  of  these  welcome  feet 
To  our  secluded  vale,)  it  may  be  told, 
That  my  demerits  did  not  sue  in  vain 
To  one  on  whose  mild  radiance  many  gazed 
With  hope,  and  all  with  pleasure.     This  faif     d'le^ 
In  the  devotedness  of  youthful  love. 
Preferring  me  to  parents,  and  the  choir 
Of  gay  companions,  to  the  natal  roof. 
And  all  known  places  and  familiar  sights, 
(Resign'd  with  sadness  gently  weighing  down 
Her  trembling  expectations,  but  no  more 
Than  did  to  her  due  honour,  and  to  me 
Yielded,  that  day,  a  confidence  sublime 
In  what  I  had  to  build  upon,)  this  bride. 
Young,  modest,  meek,  and  beautiful,  I  led 
To  a  low  cottage  in  a  sunny  bay. 
Where  the  salt  sea  innoculously  breaks. 
And  the  sea  breeze  as  innocently  breathes, 
On  Devon's  leafy  shores  ;  a  shelter'd  hold, 
In  a  soft  clime  encouraging  the  soil 
To  a  luxuriant  bounty  !     As  our  steps 
Approach  the  embower'd  abode — our  chosen  sea^  • 
See,  rooted  in  the  earth,  her  kindly  bed. 
The  unendanger'd  myrtle,  deck'd  with  flowers. 
Before  the  threshold  stands  to  welcome  us  . 
While  in  the  flowering  myrtle's  neighbourhood. 
Not  overlook'd  but  courting  no  regard, 
Those  native  plants,  the  holly  and  the  yew. 
Gave  modest  intimation  to  the  mind 
How  willingly  their  aid  they  would  unite 
With  the  green  myrtle,  to  endear  the  hours 
Of  winter,  and  protect  that  pleasant  place. 
Wild  were  the  walks  upon  those  lonely  downs 


THE    EXCURSION. 


437 


Track  leading  into  track,  how  maik'd,  how  worn 

Into  bright  verdure,  between  fern  and  gorse 

Winding  away  its  never-ending  line 

On  their  smooth  surface,  evidence  was  none : 

But,  there,  lay  open  to  our  daily  haunt. 

A  range  of  unappropriated  earth. 

Where  youth's  ambitious  feet  might  move  at  large  ; 

Whence,  unmolested  wanderers,  we  beheld 

The  shining  giver  of  the  day  diffuse 

His  brightness  o'er  a  tract  of  sea  and  land 

Gay  as  our  spirits,  free  as  our  desires, 

As  our  enjoyments,  boundless.     From  those  heights 

We  dropp'd,  at  pleasure,  into  sylvan  combs  ; 

Where  arbours  of  impenetrable  shade. 

And  mossy  seats,  detain'd  U6  side  by  side, 

With  hearts  at  ease,  and  knowledge  in  our  hearts 

*  That  all  the  grove  and  all  the  day  was  ours.' 

"  But  nature  call'd  my  partner  to  resign 
Her  share  in  the  pure  freedom  of  that  life, 
Enjoy 'd  by  us  in  common.     To  my  hope, 
To  my  heart's  wish,  my  tender  mate  became 
The  thankful  captive  of  maternal  bonds  ; 
And  those  wild  paths  were  left  to  me  alone. 
There  could  I  meditate  on  follies  past ; 
And,  like  a  weary  voyager  escaped 
From  risk  and  hardship,  inwardlv  retrace 
A  course  of  vain  delights  and  thoughtless  guilt. 
And  self-indulgence — without  shame  pursued. 
There,  undisturb'd,  could  think  of,  and  could  thank 
Her — whose  submissive  spirit  was  to  me 
Rule  and  restraint — my  guardian — shall  I  say 
That  earthly  providence,  whose  guiding  love 
Within  a  port  of  rest  had  lodged  me  safe ; 
Safe  from  temptation,  and  from  danger  far  ? 
Strains  follow'd  of  acknowledgment  address'd 
To  an  Authority  enthroned  above 
The  reach  of  sight:   from  whom,  as  from  their 

source, 
Proceed  all  visible  ministers  of  good 
That  walk  the  earth — Father  of  heaven  and  earth. 
Father,  and  King,  and  Judge,  adored  and  fear'd  ! 
These  acts  of  mind,  and  memory,  and  heart, 
And  spirit — interrupted  and  relieved 
Bj'  observations  transient  as  the  glance 
Of  flying  sunbeams,  or  to  the  outward  form 
Cleaving  with  power  inherent  and  intense. 
As  the  mute  insect  fix'd  upon  the  plant 
On  whose  soft  leaves  it  hangs,  and  from  whose 

cup 
Draws  imperceptibly  its  nourishment — 
Endear'd  my  wanderings  ;  and  the  uiother's  kiss 
And  infant's  smile  awaited  my  return. 

"  In  privacy  we  dwelt — a  wedded  pair- 
Companions  daily,  often  all  day  long : 
Not  placed  by  fortune  within  easy  rwich 
Of  various  intercourse,  nor  wishing  aught 
Beyond  the  allowance  of  our  own  fireside. 
The  twain  within  our  happy  cottage  born. 
Inmates,  and  heirs  of  our  united  love ; 
Graced  mutually  by  difference  of  sex. 
By  the  endearing  names  of  nature  bound, 
And  with  no  wider  interval  of  time 
Between  their  several  births  than  served  for  one 
To  establish  something  of  a  leader's  sway ; 
Yet  left  them  joiu'd  by  sympathy  in  age ; 
Equals  in  pleasure,  fellows  in  pursuit. 


On  these  two  pillars  rested  as  in  air 
Our  solitude. 

"  It  soothes  me  to  perceive. 
Your  courtesy  withholds  not  from  my  words 
Attentive  audience.     But,  0  !  gentle  friends, 
As  times  of  quiet  and  unbroken  peace. 
Though,  for  a  nation,  times  of  blessedness, 
Give  back  faint  echoes  from  the  historian'/page ! 
So,  in  th'  imperfect  sounds  of  this  discourse, 
Depress'd  I  hear,  how  faithless  is  the  voice 
Which  those  most  blissful  days  reverberate. 
What  special  record  can,  or  need,  be  given 
To  rules  and  habits,  whereby  much  was  done. 
But  all  within  the  sphere  of  little  things, 
Of  humble,  though,  to  us,  important  cares, 
And  precious  interests  ?     Smoothly  did  our  life 
Advance,  not  swerving  from  the  path  prescribed: 
Her  annual,  her  diurnal  round  alike 
Maintained  with  faithful  care.     And  you  divine 
The  worst  effects  that  our  condition  saw 
If  you  imagine  changes  slowly  wrought. 
And  in  their  progress  imperceptible  ; 
Not  wish'd  for,  sometimes  noticed  with  a  sigh, 
( VVhate'er  of  good  or  lovely  they  might  bring,) 
Sighs  of  regret,  for  the  familiar  good. 
And  loveliness  endear'd — which  they  removed. 

"  Seven  years  of  occupation  undisturb'd 
Establish'd  seemingly  a  right  to  hold 
That  happiness :  and  use  and  habit  gave 
To  what  an  alien  spirit  had  acquired 
A  patrimonial  sanctity.     And  thus. 
With  thoughts  and  wishes  bounded  to  this  world, 
I  lived  and  breathed ;  most  grateful,  if  t'  enjoy 
Without  repining  or  desire  for  more, 
For  different  lot,/or  change  to  higher  sphere 
(Only  except  some  impulses  of  pride 
With  no  determined  object,  though  upheld 
By  theories  with  suitable  support) 
Most  grateful,  if  in  such  wise  to  enjoy 
Be  proof  of  gratitude  for  what  we  have  ; 
Else,  I  allow,  most  thankless.     But,  at  once, 
From  some  dark  seat  of  fatal  power  was  urged 
A  claim  that  shatter'd  all.     Our  blooming  giri^ 
Caught  in  the  gripe  of  death,  with  such  grief  tune 
To  struggle  in  as  scarcely  would  allow 
Her  cheek  to  change  its  colour,  was  convey'd 
From  us  to  regions  inaccessible  ; 
Where  height  or  depth,  admits  not  the  approach 
Of  living  man,  though  longing  to  pursue. 
With  e'en  as  brief  a  warning — and  how  soon. 
With  what  short  interval  of  time  between, 
I  tremble  yet  to  think  of — our  last  prop. 
Our  happy  life's  only  remaining  stay — 
The  brother  follow'd ;  and  was  seen  no  more ! 

"  Calm  as  a  frozen  lake  when  ruthless  winds 
Blow  fiercely,  agitating  earth  and  sky. 
The  mother  now  remain'd  ;  as  if  in  her. 
Who  to  the  lowest  region  of  the  soul. 
Had  been  erewhile  unsettled  and  disturb'd. 
This  second  visitation  Ifed  no  power 
To  shake ;  but  only  to  bind  up  and  sea] ; 
And  to  establish  thankfulness  of  heart 
In  Heaven's  determinations,  ever  just 
The  eminence  on  which  her  spirit  stood. 
Mine  was  unable  to  attain.     Immense 
The  space  that  sever'd  us  !  But,  as  the  sight 


438 


WORDSWORTH. 


Communicates  with  heaven's  ethereal  orbs 
Incalculably  distant ;  so,  I  felt 
That  consolation  may  descend  from  far 
(And  that  is  intercourse  and  union,  too,) 
While,  overcome  with  speechless  gratitude, 
And  with  a  holier  love  inspired,  I  look'd 
On  her — at  once  superior  to  my  woes 
And  partner  of  my  loss.     0  heavy  change  ! 
Dimness  o'er  this  clear  luminary  crept 
Insensibly  ;  th'  immortal  and  divine 
Yielded  to  mortal  reflux ;  her  pure  glory, 
As  from  the  pinnacle  of  worldly  state 
Wretched  ambition  drops  astounded,  fell 
Into  a  gulf  obscure  of  silent  grief, 
And  keen  heart  anguish — of  itself  ashamed, 
Yet  obstinately  cherishing  itself; 
And,  so  consumed,  she  melted  from  my  arms, 
And  left  me,  on  this  earth,  disconsolate. 

"  What  follow'd  cannot  be  review'd  in  thought ; 
Much  less,  retraced  in  words.     If  she,  of  life 
Blameless,  so  intimate  with  love  and  joy 
And  all  the  tender  motions  of  the  soul. 
Had  been  supplanted,  could  I  hope  to  stand — 
Infirm,  dependent,  and  now  destitute  ? 
I  call'd  on  dreams  and  visions,  to  disclose 
That  which  is  veil'd  from  waking  thought;  con- 
jured 
Eternity,  as  men  constrain  a  ghost 
T'  appear  and  answer ;  to  the  grave  I  spake 
Imploringly  ;  look'd  up,  and  ask'd  the  heavens 
If  angels  traversed  their  cerulean  floors, 
If  fix'd  or  wandering  star  could  tidings  yield 
Of  the  departed  spirit — what  abode 
It  occupies — what  consciousness  retains 
Of  former  loves  and  interests.     Then  my  soul 
T'jrn'd  inward,  to  examine  of  what  stuff 
Time's  fetters  are  composed ;  and  life  was  put 
To  inquisition,  long  and  profitless  ! 
By  pain  of  heart,  now  check'd,  and  now  impell'd — 
Th'  intellectual  power,  through  words  and  things, 
Went  sounding  on,  a  dim  and  perilous  way  ! 
And  from  those  transports,  and  these  toils  abstruse, 
Some  trace  am  I  enabled  to  retain 
Of  time,  else  lost ;  existing  unto  me 
Only  by  records  in  myself  not  found. 

"  From  that  abstraction  I  was  roused, — and  how  ? 
E'en  as  a  thoughtful  shepherd  by  a  flash 
Of  lightning  startled  in  a  gloomy  cave 
Of  these  wild  hills.     For,  lo  !  the  dread  Bastile, 
With  all  the  chambers  in  its  horrid* towers, 
Fell  to  the  ground :  by  violence  o'erthrown 
Of  indignation  ;  and  with  shouts  that  drown'd 
The  crash  it  made  in  falling  !     From  the  wreck 
A  golden  palace  rose,  or  seem'd  to  rise 
Th'  appointed  seat  of  equitable  law. 
And  mild,  paternal  sway.     The  potent  shock 
I  felt:  the  transformation  I  perceived, 
As  marvellously  seized  as  in  that  moment 
When  from  the  blind  mist  issuing,  I  beheld 
Glory — bej^ond  all  glory  ever  seen. 
Confusion  infinite  of  heaven  and  earth. 
Dazzling  the  soul.    Meanwhile,  prophetic  harps 
In  every  grove  were  ringing.    '  War  shall  cease  ; 
Did  ye  not  hear  that  conquest  is  abjured  ? 
Bring  garlands,  bring  forth  choicest  flowers,  to  deck 
The  tree  of  liberty.'    My  heart  rebounded ; 


My  melancholy  voice  the  chorus  join'd  ; 

'  Be  joyful  all  ye  nations,  in  all  lands. 

Ye  that  are  capable  of  joy  be  glad  ! 

Henceforth,  whate'er  is  wanting  to  yourselves 

In  others  ye  shall  promptly  find ;  and  all 

Enrich'd  by  mutual  and  reflected  wealth, 

Shall  with  one  heart  honour  their  common  kind. 

"  Thus  was  I  reconverted  to  the  world  ; 
Society  became  my  glittering  bride. 
And  airy  hopes  my  children.     From  the  depths 
Of  natural  passion,  seemingly  escaped. 
My  soul  diffused  herself  in  wide  embrace 
Of  institutions,  and  the  forms  of  things  ; 
As  they  exist  in  mutable  array. 
Upon  life's  surface.     What,  though  in  my  veins 
There  flow'd  no  Gallic  blood,  nor  had  I  breathed 
The  air  of  France,  not  less  than  Gallic  zeal 
Kindled  and  burnt  among  the  sapless  twigs 
Of  my  exhausted  heart.     If  busy  men 
In  sober  conclave  met,  to  weave  a  web 
Of  amity,  whose  living  threads  should  stretch 
Beyond  the  seas,  and  to  the  farthest  pole, 
There  did  I  sit,  assisting.     If,  with  noise 
And  acclamations,  crowds  in  open  air 
Exprcss'd  the  tumult  of  their  minds,  my  voice 
There  mingled,  heard  or  not.     The  powers  of  song 
I  left  not  uninvoked  ;  and,  in  still  groves. 
Where  mild  enthusiasts  tuned  a  pensive  lay 
Of  thanks  and  expectation,  in  accord 
With,  their  belief,  I  sang  saturnian  rule 
Retnrn'd, — a  progeny  of  golden  years 
Permitted  to  descend,  and  bless  mankind. 
With  promises  the  Hebrew  Scriptures  teem: 
I  felt  the  invitation  ;  and  resumed 
A  long  suspended  office  in  the  house 
Of  public  worship,  where,  the  glowing  phrase 
Of  ancient  inspiration  serving  me, 
I  promised  also, — with  undaunted  trust 
Foretold,  and  added  prayer  to  prophecy ; 
The  admiration  winning  of  the  crowd; 
The  help  desiring  of  the  pure  devout. 

"  Scorn  and  contempt  forbid  me  to  proceed ! 
But  history,  time's  slavish  scribe,  will  tell 
How  rapidly  the  zealots  of  the  cause 
Disbanded,  or  in  hostile  ranks  appear'd : 
Some,  tired  of  honest  service  ;  these,  outdone. 
Disgusted,  therefore,  or  appall 'd,  by  aims 
Of  fiercer  zealots  ;  so  confusion  reign'd. 
And  the  more  faithful  were  compeli'd  t'  exclaim, 
As  Brutus  did  to  virtue, '  Liberty, 
I  worshipp'd  thee,  and  find  thee  but  a  shade  !' 

"  Such  recantation  had  for  me  no  charm. 
Nor  would  I  bend  to  it ;  who  should  have  grieve! 
At  aught,  however  fair,  that  bore  the  mien 
Of  a  conclusiow,  or  catastrophe. 
Why  then  conceal,  that,  when  the  simply  good 
In  timid  selfishness  withdrew,  I  sought 
Otner  support,  not  scrupulous  whence  it  came 
And,  by  what  compromise  it  stood,  not  nice  ? 
Enough  if  notions  seem'd  to  be  high  pitch'd. 
And  qualities  determined.     Among  men 
So  character'd  did  I  maintain  a  strife 
Hopeless,  and  still  more  hopeless  every  hour; 
But,  in  the  process,  I  began  to  feel 
That,  if  th'  emancipation  of  the  world 
Were  miss'd,  I  should  at  least  secure  my  owk 


THE    EXCURSION. 


439 


And  be  in  part  compensated.     For  rights, 
Widely — inveteiately  usurp'd  upon, 
I  spake  with  vehemence ;  and  promptly  seized 
Whate'er  abstraction  furnish'd  for  my  needs 
Of  purposes  ;  nor  scrupled  to  proclaim, 
And  propagate,  by  liberty  of  life, 
Those  new  persuasions.     Not  that  I  rejoiced. 
Or  e'en  found  pleasure,  in  such  vagrant  course, 
For  its  own  sake  ;  but  farthest  from  the  walk 
Which  I  had  trod  in  happiness  and  peace. 
Was  most  inviting  to  a  troubled  mind  ; 
That,  in  a  struggling  and  distemper'd  world. 
Saw  a  seductive  image  of  herself. 
Yet,  mark  the  contradictions  of  which  man 
Is  still  the  sport !     Here  nature  was  my  guide. 
The  nature  of  the  dissolute  ;  but  thee, 

0  fostering  nature  !  I  rejected — smiled 
At  others'  tears  in  pity :  and  in  scorn 

At  those,  which  thy  soft  influence  sometimes  drew 
From  my  unguarded  heart.     The  tranquil  shores 
Of  Britain  circumscribed  me  ;  else,  perhaps, 

1  might  have  been  entangled  among  deeds. 
Which,  now,  as  infamous,  I  should  abhor— 
Despise,  as  senseless :  for  my  spirit  relish'd 
Strangely  the  exasperation  of  that  land. 
Which  turn'd  an  angry  beak  against  the  down 
Of  her  own  breast ;  confounded  into  hope 

Of  disencumbering  thus  her  fretful  wings. 
But  all  was  quieted  by  iron  bonds 
Of  military  sway.     The  shifting  aims. 
The  moral  interests,  the  creative  might, 
The  varied  functions  and  high  attributes 
Of  civil  action,  yielded  to  a  power 
Formal,  and  odious,  and  contemptible. 
In  Britain,  ruled  a  panic  dread  of  change; 
The  weak  were  praised,  rewarded,  and  advanced  ; 
iVnd,  from  the  impulse  of  a  just  disdain, 
Once  more  did  I  retire  into  myself. 
There  feeling  no  contentment,  I  resolved 
To  fly,  for  safeguard,  to  some  foreign  shore. 
Remote  from  Europe  ;  from  her  blasted  hopes  ; 
Her  fields  of  carnage,  and  polluted  air. 
"  Fresh  blew  the  wind,  when  o'er  the  Atlantic 
main 
The  ship  went  gliding  with  her  thoughtless  crew ; 
And  who  among  them  but  an  exile,  freed 
From  discontent,  indifferent,  pleased  to  sit 
Am^iig  the  busily  employ 'd,  not  more 
Witr.  obligation  charged,  with  service  tax'd, 
Than  the  loose  pendant — to  the  idle  wind 
Upon  the  tall  mast  streaming:  but,  ye  powers 
Of  soul  and  sense — mysteriously  allied, 
O,  never  let  the  wretched,  if  a  choice 
Be  left  him,  trust  the  freight  of  his  distress 
To  a  long  voyage  on  the  silent  deep  ! 
For,  like  a  plague,  will  memory  break  out ; 
And,  in  the  blank  and  solitude  of  things. 
Upon  his  spirit,  with  a  fever's  strength. 
Will  conscience  prey.     Feebly  must  they  have  felt 
Who,  in  old  time,  attired  with  snakes  and  whips 
The  vengeful  furies.     Beautiful  regards 
Were  turn'd  on  me — the  face  of  her  I  loved  ; 
The  wife  and  mother,  pitifully  fixing 
Tender  reproaches,  insupportable ! 
Where  now  that  ooasted  liberty  ?    No  welcome 
From  unknown  objects  I  received  ;  and  those, 


Known  and  familiar,  which  the  vaulted  sky 
Did,  in  the  placid  clearness  of  the  night. 
Disclose,  had  accusations  to  prefer 
Against  my  peace.     Within  the  cabin  stood 
That  volume — as  a  compass  for  the  soul — • 
Revered  among  the  nations.     I  implored 
Its  guidance  ;  but  the  infallible  support 
Of  faith  was  wanting.     Tell  me,  why  refused 
To  one  by  storms  annoy'd  and  adverse  winds ; 
Perplex'd  with  currents  ;  of  his  weakness  sick  ; 
Of  vain  endeavours  tired  ;  and  by  his  own, 
And  by  his  nature's,  ignorance,  dismay'd  ! 

"  Long-wish'd  for  sight,  the  western  world  ap« 
pear'd ; 
And,  when  the  ship  was  moor'd^  I  leapt  ashore 
Indignantly — resolved  to  be  a  man. 
Who,  having  o'er  the  past  no  power,  would  I've 
No  longer  in  subjection  to  the  past. 
With  abject  mind — from  a  tyrannic  lord 
Inviting  penance,  fruitlessly  endured. 
So,  like  a  fugitive,  whose  feet  have  clear'd 
Some  boundary,  which  his  followers  may  not  cross 
In  prosecution  of  their  deadly  chase. 
Respiring  I  look'd  round.     How  bright  the  sun, 
How  promising  the  breeze  !     Can  aught  produced 
In  the  old  world  compare,  thought  I,  for  power 
And  majesty  with  this  gigantic  stream, 
Sprung  from  the  desert  ?    And  behold  a  city 
Fresh,  youthf-1,  and  aspiring  !     What  are  these   *^ 
To  me,  or  I  to  them  ?     As  much  at  least 
As  he  desires  that  they  should  be,  whom  winds 
And  waves  have  wafted  to  this  distant  shore, 
In  the  condition  of  a  damaged  seed, 
Whose  fibres  cannot,  if  they  would,  take  root. 
Here  may  I  roam  at  large  ;  my  business  is. 
Roaming  at  large,  to  observe,  and  not  to  feel ; 
And,  therefore,  not  to  act — convinced  that  all 
Which  bears  the  name  of  action,  howsoe'er 
Beginning,  ends  in  servitude — still  painful. 
And  mostly  profitless.     And,  sooth  to  say, 
On  nearer  view,  a  motley  spectacle 
Appear'd,  of  high  pretensions — unreproved 
But  by  the  obstreperous  voice  of  higher  still ; 
Big  passions  strutting  on  a  petty  stage  ; 
Which  a  detach'd  spectator  may  regard 
Not  unamused.     But  ridicule  demands 
Quick  change  of  objects  ;  and,  to  laugh  alone, 
At  a  composing  distance  from  the  haunts 
Of  strife  and  foil}',  though  it  be  a  treat 
As  choice  as  musing  leisure  can  bestow  ; 
Yet,  in  the  very  centre  of  the  crowd. 
To  keep  the  secret  of  a  poignant  scorn, 
Howe'er  to  airy  demon's  suitable. 
Of  all  unsoa'.al  courses,  is  least  fit 
For  the  gross  spirit  of  mankind, — the  one 
That  soonest  fails  to  please,  and  quickliest  turcs 
Into  vexation.     Let  us,  then,  I  said. 
Leave  this  unknit  republic  to  the  scourge 
Of  her  own  passions  ;  and  to  regions  haste, 
Whose  shades  have  never  felt  th'  encroaching  axe^ 
Or  soil  endured  a  transfer  in  the  mart 
Of  dire  rapacity.     There,  man  abides. 
Primeval  nature's  child.     A  creature  weak 
In  combination,  (wherefore  else  driven  b&ck 
So  far,  and  of  his  old  inheritance 
So  easily  deprived  })  but,  for  that  cause, 


440 


WORDSWORTH. 


More  dignified,  and  stronger  in  himself; 
Whether  to  act,  judge,  suffer,  or  enjoy. 
True,  the  intelligence  of  social  art 
Hath  overpower'd  his  forefathers,  and  soon 
Will  sweep  the  remnant  of  his  line  away ; 
But  contemplations,  worthier,  nobler  far 
Than  her  destructive  energies,  attend 
His  independence,  when  along  the  side 
Of  Mississippi,  or  that  northern  stream* 
That  spreads  into  successive  seas,  he  walks  ; 
Pleased  to  perceive  his  own  unshackled  life. 
And  his  innate  capacities  of  soul, 
There  imaged :  or,  when  having  gain'd  the  top 
Of  some  commanding  eminence,  which  yet 
Intruder  ne'er  beheld,  he  thence  surveys 
Regions  of  wood  and  wide  Savannah,  vast 
Expanse  of  unappropriated  earth. 
With  mind  that  sheds  a  light  on  what  he  sees  ; 
Free  as  the  sun,  and  lonely  as  the  sun. 
Pouring  above  his  head  its  radiance  down 
Upon  a  living,  and  rejoicing  world  ! 

"  So,  westward,  toward  th'  unviolated  woods 
I  bent  my  way  ;  and,  roaming  far  and  wide, 
Fail'd  not  to  greet  the  merry  mocking-bird ; 
And,  while  the  melancholy  muccawiss 
(The  sportive  bird's  companion  in  the  grovej 
Repeated,  o'er  and  o'er,  his  plaintive  cry, 
I  sympathized  at  leisure  with  the  sound  ; 
But  that  pure  archetype  of  human  greatness, 
.  found  him  not.     There,  in  his  stead,  appear'd 
A  creature,  squalid,  vengeful,  and  impure  ; 
Remorseless,  and  submissive  to  no  law 
But  superstitious  fear,  and  abject  sloth. 
Enough  is  told  I     Here  am  I.     Ye  have  heard 
What  evidence  I  seek,  and  vainly  seek ; 
What  from  my  fellow  beings  I  require. 
And  cannot  find  ;  what  I  myself  have  lost, 
Nor  can  regain.     How  languidly  I  look 


♦  "  A  man  is  syppoged  to  improve  by  going  out  into 
the  world,  by  visiting  London.  Artificial  man  does;  he 
extends  with  his  sphere ;  but,  alas !  that  sphere  is  mi- 
croscopic:  it  is  formed  of  minutiae,  and  he  surrenders 
his  genuine  vision  to  the  artist,  in  order  to  embrace  it 
in  his  ken.  His  bodily  senses  grow  acute,  even  to  bar- 
ren and  inhuman  pruriency ;  while  his  mental  become 
proportionally  obtuse.  The  reverse  is  the  man  of  mind  : 
He  who  is  placed  in  the  sphere  of  nature  and  of  God, 
might  be  a  mock  at  Tatlersall's  and  Brookes's,  and  a  sneer 
at  St.  James's :  he  would  certainly  be  swallowed  alive 
by  the  first  Pizarro  that  crossed  him :— But  when  he 
walks  along  the  river  of  Amazons;  when  he  rests  his 
eye  on  the  unrivalled  Andes;  when  he  measures  the 
long  and  watered  Savannah ;  or  contemplates,  from  a 
sudden  promontory,  the  distant,  vast  Pacific— and  feels 
himself  a  freeman  in  this  vast  theatre,  and  commanding 
each  re^dy  produced  fruit  of  this  wilderness,  and  eacli 
progeny  of  this  stream — His  exultation  is  not  less  than 
imperial.  He  is  as  gentle,  too,  as  he  is  great.  His 
emotions  of  tenderness  keep  pace  with  his  elevation  of 
Bentiment ;  for  he  says,  '  These  were  made  by  a  good 
Being,  who,  unsought  by  me,  placed  me  here  to  enjoy 
Ihem.'  He  becomes  at  once  a  child  and  a  king.  His 
mind  is  in  himself:  from  hence  he  argues,  and  from 
hence  he  acts,  and  he  argues  unerringly,  and  acts  ma- 
gisterially :  His  mind  in  himself  is  also  in  his  God  ;  and 
therefore  he  loves,  and  therefore  he  soars." — JFVo7?i  the 
Noten  upcm  the  Hurricane,  a  poem,  by  William  Gilbert. 

The  reader,  I  am  sure,  will  thank  me  for  the  above 
;[itotation,  which,  though  from  a  strange  book,  is  one 
af  the  finest  passages  of  modern  English  prose. 


Upon  this  visible  fabric  of  the  world, 
May  be  divined — perhaps  it  hath  been  said 
But  spaie  your  pity,  if  there  be  in  me 
Aught  that  deserves  respect :  for  I  exist — 
Within  myself— not  comfortless.     The  tenor 
Which  my  life  holds,  he  readily  may  conceive 
Whoe'er  hath  stood  to  watch  a  mountain  brook 
In  some  still  passage  of  its  course,  and  seen, 
Withm  the  depths  of  its  capacious  breast, 
Inverted  trees,  and  rocks,  and  azure  sky 
And,  on  its  glassy  surface,  specks  of  foam, 
And  conglobated  bubbles  undissolved. 
Numerous  as  stars  ;  that,  by  their  onward  lapse, 
Betray  to  sight  the  motion  of  the  stream. 
Else  imperceptible  ;  meanwhile,  is  heard 
A  soften'd  .•■car,  a  murmur;  and  the  sound 
Though  soothing,  and  the  little  floating  isles 
Though  beautiful,  are  both  by  nature  charged 
With  the  same  pensive  office ;  and  make  known 
Through  what  perplexing  labyrinths,  abrupt 
Precipitations,  and  untoward  straits. 
The  earth-born  wanderer  hath  pass'd  ;  and  quickly 
That  respite  o'er,  like  traverses  and  toils 
Must  be  again  encounter'd.     Such  a  stream 
Is  human  life  ;  and  so  the  spirit  fares 
In  the  best  quiet  to  its  course  allow'd  ; 
And  such  is  mine, — save  only  for  a  hope 
That  my  particular  current  soon  will  reach 
The  unfathomable  gulf,  where  all  is  still ! 


BOOK  IV. 
DESPONDENCY  CORRECTED. 

ARGUMENT. 

State  of  feeling  produced  by  the  foregoing  narrative 
A  belief  in  a  superintending  Providence  the  only  ade 
quate  support  under  affliction.  Wanderer's  ejacula 
tion.  Account  of  his  own  devotional  feelings  in  youth 
involved.  Acknowledges  the  difBculty  of  a  lively 
faith.  Hence  immoderate  sorrow.  Doubt  or  despond- 
ence not  therefore  to  be  inferred.  Consolation  to  the 
solitary.  Exhortations.  How  received.  Wanderer 
applies  his  discourse  to  that  other  cause  of  dejection 
in  the  solitary's  mind.  Disappointment  from  the  French 
revolution.  States  grounds  of  hope.  Insists  on  the 
necessity  of  patience  and  fortitude  with  respect  to 
the  course  of  great  revolutions.  Knowledge  the  source 
of  tranquillity.  Rural  solitude  favourable  to  knowledge 
of  the  inferior  creatures.  Study  of  their  habits  and 
ways  recommended.  Exhortation  to  bodily  exertion 
and  communion  with  nature.  Morbid  solitude  pitiable. 
Superstition  better  than  apathy.  Apathy  and  destitu- 
tion unknown  in  the  infancy  of  society.  The  various 
modes  of  religion  prevented  it.  Illustrated  in  the 
Jewish,  Persian,  Babylonian,  Chaldean,  and  Grecian 
modes  of  belief.  Solitary  interposes.  Wanderer  point* 
out  the  influence  of  religious  and  imaginative  feeling 
in  the  humble  ranks  of  society.  Illustrated  from 
present  and  past  times.  These  principles  tend  to 
recall  exploded  superstitions  and  popery.  Wanderer 
rebuts  this  charge,  and  contrasts  the  dignities  of  the 
imagination  with  the  presumptive  littleness  of  cenain 
modern  philosophers.  Recommends  other  lights  and 
guides.  Asserts  the  power  of  the  soul  to  regenerate 
herself.  Solitary  asks  how.  Reply.  Personal  appeal, 
Happy  that  the  imagination  and  the  affections  mitigate 
the  evils  of  that  intellectual  slavery  which  the  cal- 
culating understanding  is  apt  to  produce.  Exhortation 
to  activity  of  body  renewed.  How  to  commune  with 
nature     Wanderer  concludes  with  a  legitimate  union 


THE    EXCURSION. 


441 


of    the    imagination,  affections,    understanding,  and 

reason.    Effect  of  his  discourse.     Evening.     Return 

to  the  cottage. 
Here  closed  the  tenant  of  that  lonely  vale 
His  mournful  narrative — commenced  in  pain, 
In  pain  commenced,  and  ended  without  peace : 
Yet  temper'-d,  not  unfrequently,  with  strains 
Of  native  feeling,  grateful  to  our  minds  ; 
And  doubtless  yielding  some  relief  to  his. 
While  we  sate  listening  with  compassion  due. 
Such  pity  yet  surviving,  with  firm  voice 
That  did  not  falter  though  the  heart  was  moved, 
The  wanderer  said — 

"  One  adequate  support 
For  the  calamities  of  mortal  life 
Exists,  one  only ;  an  assured  belief 
That  the  procession  of  our  fate,  howe'er 
Sad  or  disturb'd,  is  order'd  by  a  Being 
Of  infinite  benevolence  and  power ; 
Whose  everlasting  purposes  embrace 
All  accidents,  converting  them  to  good. 
The  darts  of  anguish^x  not  where  the  seat 
Of  suffering  hath  been  thoroughly  fortified 
By  acquiescence  in  the  will  supreme 
For  time  and  for  eternity ;  by  faith, 
Faith  absolute  in  God,  including  hope. 
And  the  defence  that  lies  in  boundless  love 
Of  his  perfections  ;  with  habitual  dread 
Of  aught  unworthily  conceived,  endured 
Impatiently ;  ill-done,  or  left  undone, 
To  the  dishonour  of  his  holy  name. 
Soul  of  our  souls,  and  safeguard  of  the  worl  i 
Sustain,  thou  only  canst,  the  sick  of  heart ; 
Restore  their  languid  spirits,  and  recall 
Their  lost  affections  unto  thee  and  thine  !" 

Then,  as  we  issued  from  that  covert  nook, 
He  thus  continued,  lifting  up  his  eyes 
To  heaven,  "  How  beautiful  this  dome  of  sky, 
And  the  vast  hills,  in  fluctuation  fix'd 
At  thy  command,  how  awful !  Shall  the  soul. 
Human  and  rational,  report  of  thee 
E'en  less  than  these  ?     Be  mute  who  will,  who  can. 
Yet  I  will  praise  thee  with  impassion'd  voice  ; 
My  lips,  that  may  forget  thee  in  the  crowd. 
Cannot  forget  thee  here ;  where  thou  hast  built, 
For  thy  own  glory,  in  the  wilderness  ! 
Me  didst  thou  constitute  a  priest  of  thine, 
In  such  a  temple  as  we  now  behold 
Rear'd  for  thy  presence  ;  therefore,  am  I  bound 
To  worship,  here,  and  everywhere,  as  one 
Not  doom'd  to  ignorance,  though  forced  to  tread, 
From  childhood  up,  the  ways  of  poverty  ; 
From  unreflecting  ignorance  preserved, 
And  from  debasement  rescued.     By  thy  grace 
The  particle  divine  remain'd  unquench^l ; 
And,  'mid  the  wild  weeds  of  a  rugged  soil, 
Thy  bounty  caused  to  flourish  deathless  flowers, 
From  paradise  transplanted ;  wintry  age 
Impends  ;  the  frost  will  gather  round  my  heart ; 
And,  if  they  wither,  I  am  worse  than  dead  .' 
Come,  labour,  when  the  worn-out  frame  requires 
Perpetual  Sabbath  ;  come,  disease  and  want ; 
And  sad  exclusion  through  decay  of  sense ; 
But  leave  me  unabated  trust  in  Thee, 
A.nd  let  thy  favour,  to  the  end  of  life, 

spire  me  with  ability  to  seek 


Repose  and  hope  among  eternal  things — 
Father  of  heaven  and  earth  !  and  I  am  rich, 
And  will  possess  my  portion  in  content ! 

"  And  what  are  things  eternal  ?     Powers  depart," 
The  gray-hair'd  wanderer  steadfastly  replied. 
Answering  the  question  which  himself  had  ask'd, 
"  Possessions  vanish,  and  opinions  change, 
And  passions  hold  a  fluctuating  seat: 
But,  by  the  storms  of  circumstance  unshaken, 
And  subject  neither  to  eclipse  nor  wane. 
Duty  exists  ;  immutably  survive. 
For  our  support,  the  measures  and  the  forms. 
Which  an  abstract  intelligence  supplies  ; 
Whose  kingdom  is,  where  time  and  space  are  net, 
Of  other  converse  which  mind,  soul,  and  heart. 
Do,  with  united  urgency,  require. 
What  more  that  may  not  perish  ?     Thou,  dread 

source. 
Prime,  self-existing  cause  and  end  of  all, 
That,  in  the  scale  of  being  fill  their  place. 
Above  our  human  region,  or  below. 
Set  and  suslain'd  ;  Thou,  who  didst  wrap  the  cloud 
Of  infancy  around  us,  that  thyself, 
Therein,  with  our  simplicity  a  while 
Might'st  hold,  on  earth,  communion  undisturb'd— 
Who  from  the  anarchy  of  dreaming  sleep. 
Or  from  its  deathlike  void,  with  punctual  care. 
And  touch  as  gentle  as  the  morning  light, 
Restorest  us  daily  to  the  powers  of  sense. 
And  reason's  steadfast  rule, — Thou,  thou  alone 
Art  everlasting,  and  the  blessed  spirits, 
Which  thou  includest,  as  the  sea  her  waves : 
For  adoration  thou  endurest ;  endure 
For  consciousness  the  motions  of  thy  will ; 
For  apprehension  those  transcendent  truths 
Of  the  pure  intellect,  that  stand  as  laws, 
(Submission  constituting  strength  and  power,) 
E'en  to  thy  being's  infinite  majesty  ! 
This  universe  shall  pass  away — a  work 
Glorious  !  because  the  shadow  of  thy  might, 
A  step,  or  link,  for  intercourse  with  thee. 
Ah  !  if  the  time  must  come,  in  which  my  feet 
No  more  shall  stray  where  meditation  leads, 
By  flowing  stream,  through  wood,  or  craggy  wild, 
Loved  haunts  like  these,  the  unimprison'd  mind 
May  yet  have  scope  to  range  among  her  own. 
Her  thoughts,  her  images,  her  high  desires. 
If  the  dear  faculty  of  sight  should  fail. 
Still,  it  may  be  allow'd  me  to  remember 
What  visionary  powers  of  eye  and  soul 
In  youth  were  mine;  when,  station'd  on  the  top 
Of  some  huge  hill,  expectant,  I  beheld 
The  sun  rise  up,  from  distant  climes  return'd 
Darkness  to  chase,  and  sleep,  and  bring  the  day 
His  bounteous  gift !  or  saw  him  toward  the  deop 
Sink,  with  a  retinue  of  flaming  clouds 
Attended  ;  then,  my  spirit  was  entranced 
With  joy  exalted  to  beatitude  ; 
The  measure  of  my  soul  was  fill'd  with  bliss, 
And  holiest  love  ;  as  earth,  sea,  air,  with  light. 
With  pomp,  with  glory,  with  magnificence  ! 

"  Those  fervent  raptures  are  for  ever  flown  ; 
And,  since  their  date,  my  soul  hath  undergone 
Change  manifold,  for  better  or  for  worse  ; 
Yet  cease  I  not  to  struggle,  and  aspire 
Heavenward  ;  and  chide  the  part  of  me  that  flags  • 


443 


WORDSWORTH. 


Through  sinful  choice  ;  or  dread  necessity, 

On  human  nature  from  above  imposed. 

'Tis,  by  comparison,  an  easy  task 

Earth  to  despise  ;  but  to  converse  with  Heaven, 

This  is  not  easy ;  to  relinquish  all 

We  have,  or  hope,  of  happiness  and  joy. 

And  stand  in  freedom  loosen'd  from  this  world, 

I  deem  not  arduous  ;  but  must  needs  confess 

That  'tis  a  thing  impossible  to  frame 

Conceptions  equal  to  the  soul's  desires; 

And  the  most  difficult  of  tasks  to  keep 

Heights  which  the  soul  is  competent  to  gain. 

Man  is  of  dust:  ethereal  hopes  are  his. 

Which,   when    they    should    sustain    themselves 

aloft 
Want  due  consistence  ;  like  a  pillar  of  smoke. 
That  with  majestic  energy  from  earth 
Rises ;  but,  having  reach'd  the  thinner  air. 
Melts,  and  dissolves,  and  is  no  longer  seen. 
From  this  infirmity  of  mortal  kind 
Sorrow  proceeds,  which  else  were  not ;  at  least. 
If  grief  be  something  hallow'd  and  ordain'd. 
If,  in  proportion,  it  be  just  and  meet. 
Through  this,  'tis  able  to  maintain  its  hold. 
In  that  excess  which  conscience  disapproves. 
For  who  could  sink  and  settle  to  that  point 
Of  selfishness :  so  senseless  who  could  be 
As  long  and  perseveringly  to  mourn 
For  any  object  of  his  love,  removed 
From  this  unstable  world,  if  he  could  fix   ' 
A  satisfying  view  upon  that  state 
Of  pure,  imperishable  blessedness. 
Which  reason  promises,  and  holy  writ 
Ensures  to  all  believers  ?    Yet  mistrust 
Is  of  such  incapacity,  methinks, 
No  natural  branch  ;  despondency  far  less. 
And,  if  there  be  whose  tender  frames  have  droop'd 
E'en  to  the  dust ;  apparently,  through  weight 
Of  anguish  unrelieved,  and  lack  of  power 
An  agonizing  sorrow  to  transmute. 
Infer  not  hence  a  hope  from  those  withheld 
When  wanted  most ;  a  confidence  impair'd 
So  pitiably,  that,  having  ceased  to  see 
With  bodily  eyes,  they  are  borne  down  by  love 
Of  what  is  lost,  and  perish  through  regret. 

0  !  no,  full  oft  th'  innocent  sufferer  sees 
Too  clearly ;  feels  too  vividly ;  and  longs 
To  realize  the  vision,  with  intense 

And  over-constant  yearning — there — there  lies 
Th'  excess,  by  which  the  balance  is  destroy'd. 
Too,  too  contracted  are  these  walls  of  flesh. 
This  vital  warmth  too  cold,  these  visual  orbs, 
Though  inconceivably  endow'd,  too  dim 
For  any  passion  of  the  soul  that  leads 
To  ecstasy ;  and,  all  the  crooked  paths 
Of  time  and  change  disdaining,  takes  its  course 
Along  the  line  of  limitless  desires. 

1  speaking  now  from  such  disorder  free, 
Nor  rapt,  nor  craving,  but  in  settled  peace. 
I  cannot  doubt  that  they  whom  you  deplore 
Are  glorified  ;  or,  if  they  sleep,  shall  wake 
From  sleep,  and  dwell  with  God  in  endless  love. 
Hope,  below  this,  consists  not  with  belief 

In  mercy,  carried  infinite  degiees 
Beyond  the  tenderness  of  human  hearts: 
Hope,  below  this  consists  not  with  belief 


In  perfect  wisdom,  guiding  mightiest  power. 
That  finds  no  limits  but  her  own  pure  will. 

"  Here  then  we  rest :  not  fearing  for  our  creed 
The  worst  that  human  reasoning  can  achieve, 
T'  unsettle  or  perplex  it ;  yet  with  pain 
Acknov/ledging,  and  grievous  self-reproach. 
That,  though  immovably  convinced,  we  want 
Zeal,  and  the  virtue  to  exist  by  faith 
As  soldiers  \i\e  by  courage:  as,  by  strength 
Of  heart,  the  sailor  fights  with  roaring  seas, 
Alas  !  th'  endowment  of  immortal  power 
Is  match 'd  unequally  with  custom,  time. 
And  domineering  faculties  of  sense 
In  all ;  in  most  with  superadded  foes. 
Idle  temptations,  open  vanities. 
Ephemeral  offspring  of  th'  unblushing  world ; 
And,  in  the  private  regions  of  the  mind, 
111  govern'd  passions,  ranklings  of  despite, 
Immoderate  wishes,  pining  discontent. 
Distress  and  care.     What  then  remains  ?     To  seek 
Those  helps,  for  his  occasions  ever  near. 
Who  lacks  not  will  to  use  them  ;  vows,  renew'd 
On  the  first  motion  of  a  holy  thought ; 
Vigils  of  contemplation  ;  praise ;  and  prayer, 
A  stream,  which,  from  the  fountain  of  the  heart 
Issuing,  however  feebly,  nowhere  flows 
Without  access  of  unexpected  strength. 
But,  above  all,  the  victory  is  most  sure 
For  him,  who,  seeking  faith  by  virtue,  strives 
To  yield  entire  submission  to  the  law 
Of  conscience  ;  conscience  reverenced  and  obey'd 
As  God's  most  intimate  presence  in  the  soul. 
And  his  most  perfect  image  in  the  world. 
Endeavour  thus  to  live  ;  these  rules  regard ; 
These  helps  solicit ;  and  a  steadfast  seat 
Shall  then  be  yours  among  the  happy  few 
Who  dwell  on  earth,  yet  breathe  empyreal  air, 
Sons  of  the  morning.     For  your  nobler  part. 
Ere  disencumber'd  of  her  mortal  chains. 
Doubt  shall  be  quell'd  and  trouble  chased  away  j 
With  only  such  degree  of  sadness  left 
As  may  support  longings  of  pure  desire  ; 
And  strengthen  love,  rejoicing  secretly 
In  the  sublime  attractions  of  the  grave." 

While,  in  this  strain,  the  venerable  sage 
Pour'd  forth  his  aspirations,  and  announced 
His  judgments,  near  that  lonely  house  we  pacea 
A  plot  of  greensward,  seemingly  preserved 
By  nature's  care  from  wreck  of  scatter'd  stones. 
And  from  encroachment  of  encircling  heath ; 
Small  space !  but,  for  reiterated  steps, 
Smooth  and  commodious  ;  as  a  stately  deck 
Which  to  and  fro  the  mariner  is  used 
To  tread  for  pastime,  talking  with  his  mates 
Or  haply  thinking  of  far-distant  friends. 
While  the  ship  glides  before  a  steady  breeze. 
Stillness  prevail'd  around  us ;  and  the  voice. 
That  spake,  was  capable  to  lift  the  soul 
Toward  regions  yet  more  tranquil.    But,  methoughl 
That  he,  whose  fix'd  despondency  had  given 
Impulse  and  motive  to  that  strong  discourse. 
Was  less  upraised  in  spirit  than  abash'd. 
Shrinking  from  admonition,  like  a  man 
Who  feels,  that  to  exhort  is  to  reproach. 
Yet  not  to  be  diverted  from  his  aim. 
The  sage  continued:  "  For  that  other  loss. 


THE    EXCURSION. 


443 


The  loss  of  confidence  in  social  man, 

By  th'  unexpected  transports  of  our  age 

Carried  so  high,  that  every  thought,  which  look'd 

Beyond  the  temporal  destiny  of  the  kind 

To  many  seem'd  superfluous :  as,  no  cause 

For  such  exalted  confidence  could  e'er 

Exist ;  so  none  is  now  for  fix'd  despair  ; 

The  two  extremes  are  equally  disown'd 

By  reason  ;  if,  with  sharp  recoil,  from  one 

You  have  been  driven  far  as  its  opposite, 

Between  them  seek  the  point  whereon  to  build 

Sound  expectations.     So  doth  he  advise 

Who  shared  at  first  the  illusion  ;  but  was  soon 

Cast  from  the  pedestal  of  pride  by  shocks 

Which  nature  gently  gave,  in  woods  and  fields  ; 

Nor  unreproved  by  Providence,  thus  speaking 

To  the  inattentive  children  of  the  world, 

'  Vainglorious  generation  !  what  new  powers 

On  you  have  been  conferr'd  ?  what  gifts,  withheld 

From  your  progenitors,  have  ye  received. 

Fit  recompense  of  new  desert  ?  what  claim 

Are  ye  prepared  to  urge,  that  my  decrees 

For  you  should  undergo  a  sudden  change ; 

And  the  weak  functions  of  one  busy  day, 

Reclaiming  and  extirpating,  perform 

What  all  the  slowly  moving  j'ears  of  time. 

With  their  united  force,  have  left  undone  ? 

By  nature's  gradual  processes  be  taught ; 

By  story  be  confounded  !     Ye  aspire 

Rashly,  to  fall  once  more  ;  and  that  false  fruit 

Which  to  your  overweening  spirits,  yields 

Hope  of  a  flight  celestiaj,  will  produce 

Misery  and  shame.     But  wisdom  of  her  sons 

Shall  not  the  less,  though  late,  be  justified.' 

Such  timely  warning,"  said  the  wanderer,  "  gave 

That  visionary  voice ;  and,  at  this  day, 

When  a  Tartarean  darkness  overspreads 

The  groaning  nations ;  when  the  impious  rule, 

By  will  or  by  establish'd  ordinance. 

Their  own  dire  agents,  and  constrain  the  good 

To  acts  which  they  abhor;  though  I  bewail 

This  triumph,  yet  the  pity  of  my  heart 

Prevents  me  not  from  owning,  that  the  law, 

By  which  mankind  now  suffers,  is  most  just. 

For  by  superior  energies  ;  more  strict 

Affiance  in  each  otlier ;  faith  more  firm 

In  their  unhallow'd  principles  ;  the  bad 

Have  fairly  earn'd  a  victory  o'er  the  weak, 

The  vacillating,  inconsistent  good. 

Therefore,  not  unconsoled,  I  wait — in  hope 

To  see  the  moment,  when  the  righteous  cause 

Shall  gain  defenders  zealous  and  devout 

As  they  who  have  opposed  her ;  in  which  virtue 

Will,  to  her  efforts,  tolerate  no  bounds 

That  are  not  lofty  as  her  rights ;  aspiryig 

By  impulsj;  of  her  own  ethereal  zeal. 

That  Spirit  only  can  redeem  mankind ; 

And  when  that  sacred  spirit  shall  appear. 

Then  shall  our  triumph  be  complete  as  theirs. 

Yet,  should  tliis  confidence  prove  vain,  the  wise 

Kive  st'.ll  the  keeping  of  their  proper  peace ; 

Are  guardians  of  their  own  tranquillity. 

They  act,  or  they  recede,  observe,  and  feel ; 

'  Knowing  the  heart  of  man  is  set  to  be 

The  centre  of  this  world,  about  the  which 

Those  revolutions  of  disturbances 


Still  roll ;  where  all  the  aspects  of  misery 
Predominate  :  whose  iitrong  effects  are  such 
As  he  must  bear,  being  powerless  to  redress ; 
And  that  unless  above  himself  he  can 
Erect  himself,  how  poor  a  thing  is  man  !' 

"  Happy  is  he  who  lives  to  understand — 
Not  human  nature  only,  but  explores 
All  natures, — to  the  end  that  he  may  find 
The  law  that  governs  each  ;  and  where  begins 
The  union,  the  partition  where,  that  makes 
Kind  and  degree,  among  all  visible  beings  ; 
The  constitutions,  powers,  and  faculties. 
Which  they  inherit, — cannot  step  beyond,— 
And  cannot  fall  beneath  ;  that  do  assign 
To  every  class  its  station  and  its  office. 
Through  all  the  mighty  commonwealth  of  things 
Up  from  the  creeping  plant  to  sovereign  man. 
Such  converse,  if  directed  by  a  meek, 
Sincere,  and  humble  spirit,  teaches  love  ; 
For  knowledge  is  delight ;  and  such  delight 
Breeds  love  :  yet,  suited  as  it  rather  is 
To  thought  and  to  the  climbing  intellect. 
It  teaches  less  to  love,  than  to  adore ; 
If  that  be  not  indeed  the  highest  love  !' 

"  Yet,"  said  I,  tempted  here  to  interpose, 
"  The  dignity  of  life  is  not  impair'd 
By  aught  that  innocently  satisfies 
The  humbler  cravings  of  the  heart ;  and  he 
Is  a  still  happier  man,  who,  for  those  heights 
Of  speculation  not  unfit,  descends  ; 
And  such  benign  affections  cultivates 
Among  the  inferior  kinds  ;  not  merely  those 
That  he  may  call  his  own,  and  which  depend, 
As  individual  objects  of  regard, 
Upon  his  care, — from  whom  he  also  looks 
For  signs  and  tokens  of  a  mutual  bond, — 
But  others,  far  beyond  this  narrow  sphere. 
Whom,  for  the  very  sake  of  love,  he  loves. 
Nor  is  it  a  mean  praise  of  rural  life 
And  solitude,  that  they  do  favour  most. 
Most  frequently  call  forth,  and  best  sustain 
These  pure  sensations  ;  that  can  penetrate 
Th'  obstreperous  city  ;  on  the  barren  seas 
Are  not  unfelt, — and  much  might  recommend. 
How  much  they  might  inspirit  and  endear. 
The  loneliness  of  this  sublime  retreat !" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  sage,  resuming  the  discourse 
Again  directed  to  his  downcast  friend, 
"  If,  with  the  froward  will  and  grovelling  soul 
Of  man  offended,  liberty  is  here. 
And  invitation  every  hour  renew'd, 
To  mark  their  placid  state,  who  never  heard 
Of  a  command  which  they  have  power  to  break. 
Or  rule  which  they  are  tempted  to  transgress  ; 
These,  with  a  soothed  or  elevated  heart. 
May  we  behold  ;  their  knowledge  register ; 
Observe  their  ways  ;  and,  free  from  envy,  find 
Complacence  there  :  but  wherefore  this  to  you  ? 
I  guess  that,  welcome  to  your  lonely  hearth. 
The  redbreast  feeds  in  winter  from  your  hand  ; 
A  box,  perchance,  is  from  3''our  casement  hung 
For  the  small  wren  to  build  in  ;  not  in  vain. 
The  barriers  disregarding  that  surround 
This  deep  abiding-place,  before  your  sight 
Mounts  on  the  breeze  the  butterfly — and  soars. 
Small  creature  as  she  is,  from  earth's  bright  flower* 


444 


WORDSWORTH. 


Into  the  dewy  clouds.     Ambition  reigns 
In  the  waste  wilderness  :  the  soul  ascends 
Towards  her  native  firmament  of  heaven, 
When  the  fresh  eagle,  in  the  month  of  May, 
Upborne,  at  evening,  on  replenish 'd  wing, 
This  shaded  valley  leaves. — and  leaves  the  dark 
Impurpled  hills, — conspicuously  renewing 
A  proud  communication  with  the  sun 
Low  sunk  beneath  the  horizon  !     List !     I  heard, 
From  yon  huge  breast  of  rock,  a  solemn  bleat ; 
Sent  forth  as  if  it  were  the  mountain's  voice, 
As  if  the  visible  mountain  made  the  cry. 
Again  !"     The  effect  upon  the  soul  was  such 
As  he  express'd  ;  from  out  the  mountain's  heart 
fhe  solemn  bleat  appear'd  to  issue,  startling 
The  blank  air — for  the  region  all  around 
Stood  silent,  empty  of  all  shape  of  life  ; 
It  was  a  lamb — left  somewhere  to  itself, 
The  plaintive  spirit  of  the  solitude  .' 
He  paused,  as  if  unwilling  to  proceed, 
Through  consciousness  that  silence  in  such  place 
Was  best, — the  most  affecting  eloquence. 
But  soon  his  thoughts  return'd  upon  themselves. 
And  in  soft  tone  of  speech,  he  thus  resumed. 

"  Ah  !  if  the  heart,  too  confidently  raised, 
Perchance  too  lightly  occupied,  or  luU'd 
Too  easily,  despise  or  overlook 
The  vassalage  that  binds  her  to  the  earth, 
Her  sad  dependence  upon  time,  and  all 
The  trepidations  of  mortality, 
What  place  so  destitute  and  void — but  there 
The  little  flower  her  vanity  shall  check  ; 
The  training  worm  reprove  her  thoughtless  pride  ? 

"  These  craggy  regions,  these  chaotic  wilds 
Does  that  benignity  pervade,  that  warms 
The  mole  contented  with  her  darksome  walk 
In  the  cold  ground  ;  and  to  the  emmet  gives 
Her  foresight,  and  intelligence  that  makes 
The  tiny  creatures  strong  by  social  league  ; 
Supports  the  generations,  multiplies 
Their  tribes,  till  we  behold  a  spacious  plain 
Or  grassy  bottom,  all,  with  little  hills — 
Their  labour — cover'd,  as  a  lake  with  waves  ; 
Thousands  of  cities,  in  the  desert  place 
Built  up  of  life,  and  food,  and  means  of  life  ! 
Nor  wanting  here,  to  entertain  the  thought. 
Creatures  that  in  communities  exist, 
Less,  as  might  seem,  for  general  guardianship, 
Or  through  dependence  upon  mutual'aid, 
Than  by  participation  of  delight 
And  a  strict  love  of  fellowship,  combined. 
What  other  spirit  can  it  be  that  prompts 
The  gilded  summer  flies  to  mix  and  weave 
Their  sports  together  in  the  solar  beam. 
Or  in  the  gloom  of  twilight  hum  their  joy  ? 
More  obviously,  the  self-same  influence  rules 
The  feather'd  kinds ;  the  fieldfare's  pensive  flock. 
The  cawing  rooks,  and  seamews  from  afar. 
Hovering  above  these  inland  solitudes. 
By  the  rough  wind  unscatter'd,  at  whose  call 
Their  voyage  was  begun  :  nor  is  its  power 
Unfelt  among  the  sedentary  fowl 
That  seek  yon  pool,  and  there  prolong  their  stay 
In  silent  congress ;  or  together  roused 
Take  flight :  while  with  their  clang  the  air  resounds. 
And,  over  all,  in  that  ethereal  vault. 


Is  the  mute  company  of  changeful  clouds ; 
Bright  apparition  suddenly  put  forth. 
The  rainbow,  smiling  on  the  faded  storm  ; 
The  mild  assemblage  of  the  starry  heavens  ; 
And  the  great  sun,  earth's  universal  lord ! 

"  How  bountiful  is  nature  !  he  shall  finfl 
Who  seeks  not;  and  to  him,  who  hath  not  ask'd. 
Large  measure  shall  be  dealt.     Three  Sabbath-dcyi 
Are  scarcely  told,  since,  on  a  service  bent 
Of  mere  humanity,  you  clomb  those  heights  ; 
And  what  a  marvellous  and  heavenly  show 
Was  to  your  sight  reveal'd  I  the  swains  moved  on 
And  heeded  not ;  you  linger'd,  and  perceived. 
There  is  a  luxury  m  self-dispraise  ; 
And  inward  self-oisparagement  affords 
To  meditative  spleen  a  grateful  feast. 
Trust  me,  pronouncing  on  your  own  desert, 
You  judge  unthankfully  ;  distemper'd  nerves 
Infect  the  thoughts  :  the  languor  of  the  frame 
Depresses  the-  soul's  vigour.     Quit  your  couch- 
Cleave  not  so  fondly  to  your  moody  cell ; 
Nor  let  the  hallow'd  powers,  that  shed  from  heaven 
Stillness  and  rest,  with  disapproving  eye 
Look  down  upon  your  taper,  through  a  watch 
Of  midnight  hours,  unseasonably  twinkling 
In  this  (leep  hollow,  like  a  sullen  star 
Dimly  reflected  in  a  lonely  pool. 
Take  courage,  and  withdraw  yourself  from  ways 
That  run  not  parallel  to  nature's  course. 
Rise-  with  the  lark  !  your  matins  shall  obtain 
Grace,  be  their  composition  what  it  may, 
If  but  with  hers  perform'd  ;  climb  once  again. 
Climb  every  day,  those  ramparts  ;  meet  the  breeze 
Upon  their  tops, — adventurous  as  a  bee 
That  from  3'our  garden  thither  soars,  to  feed 
On  new  blown  heath  ;  let  yon  commanding  rock 
Be  your  frequented  watchlower ;  roll  the  stone 
In  thunder  down  the  mountains :    with  all  voui 

might 
Chase  the  wild  goat ;  and,  if  the  bold  red  deer 
Fly  to  these  harbours,  driven  by  hound  and  horn 
Loud  echoing,  add  your  speed  to  the  pursuit  : 
So,  wearied  to  your  hut  shall  you  return, 
And  sink  at  evening  into  sound  repose." 

The  solitary  lifted  toward  the  hills 
A  kindling  eye  ;  poetic  feelings  rush'd 
Into  my  bosom,  whence  these  words  broke  forth: 
"  0  !  what  a  joy  it  were,  in  vigorous  health, 
To  have  a  body  (this  our  vital  frame 
With  shrinking  sensibility  endued. 
And  all  the  nice  regards  of  flesh  and  blood) 
And  to  the  elements  surrender  it 
As  if  it  were  a  spirit !     How  divine. 
The  liberty,  for  frail,  for  mortal  man 
To  roam  at  large  among  unpeopled  glens 
And  mountainous  retirements,  only  trod 
By  devious  footsteps  ;  regions  consecrate 
To  oldest  time  !  and,  reckless  of  the  storm 
That  keeps  the  raven  quiet  in  her  nest. 
Be  as  a  presence  or  a  motion — one 
Among  the  many  there  ;  and,  while  the  rnist"« 
Flying,  and  rainy  vapours,  call  out  shapes 
And  phantoms  from  the  crags  and  solid  earth 
As  fast  as  a  musician  scatters  sounds 
Out  of  an  instrument ;  and,  while  the  streams   • 
(As  at  a  first  creation  and  in  haste 


THE    EXCURSION. 


445 


To  exercise  their  untried  faculties) 
Descending  from  the  region  of  the  clouds, 
And  starting  from  the  hollows  of  the  earth 
More  multitudinous  every  moment,  rend 
Their  way  before  them — what  a  joy  to  roam 
An  equal  among  mightiest  energies: 
And  haply  sometimes  with  articulate  voice, 
Amid  the  deafening  tumult,  scarcely  heard 
By  him  that  utters  it,  exclaim  aloud, 
*  Be  this  continued  so  from  day  to  day, 
Nor  let  the  fierce  commotion  have  an  end. 
Ruinous  though  it  be,  from  month  to  month  !'  " 

"  Yes,"  said  the  wanderer,  taking  from  my  lips 
The  strain  of  transport,  "  whosoe'er  in  youth 
Has,  through  ambition  of  his  soul,  given  way 
To  such  desires,  and  grasp'd  at  such  delight. 
Shall  feel  congenial  stirrings  late  and  long, 
In  spite  of  all  the  weakness  that  life  brings, 
Its  cares  and  sorrows ;  he  though  taught  to  own 
T^he  tranquillizing  power  of  time,  shall  wake. 
Wake  sometimes  to  a  noble  restlessness — 
Loving  the  sports  which  once  he  gloried  in. 

'*  Compatriot,  friend,  remote  are  Garry's  hills, 
The  streams  far  distant  of  your  native  glen  ; 
Yet  is  their  form  and  image  here  express 'd 
With  brotherly  resemblance.     Turn  your  steps 
Wherever  fancy-leads,  by  day,  by  night. 
Are  various  engines  working,  not  the  same 
As  those  by  which  your  soul  in  youth  was  moved. 
But  by  the  great  Artificer  endued 
With  no  inferior  power.     You  dwell  alone : 
You  walk,  you  live,  you  speculate  alone  ; 
Yet  doth  remembrance,  like  a  sovereign  prince, 
For  you  a  stately  gallery  maintain 
Of  gay  or  tragic  pictures.     You  have  seen. 
Have  acted,  sufFer'd,  travell'd  far,  observed 
With  no  incurious  eye  ;  and  books  are  yours, 
Within  whose  silent  chambers  treasure  lies 
Preserved  from  age  to  age  :  more  precious  far 
Than,  that  accumulated  store  of  gold 
And  orient  gems,  which,  for  a  day  of  need, 
The  sultan  hides  within  ancestral  tombs 
These  hoards  of  truth  you  can  unlock  at  will : 
And  music  waits  upon  your  skilful  touch, 
Sounds  which  the  wandering  shepherd  from  these 

heights 
Hears,  and  forgets  his  purpose  ;  furnish'd  thus. 
How  can  you  droop,  if  willing  to  be  raised  ? 

"  A  piteous  lot  it  were  to  flee  from  man — 
Yet  not  rejoice  in  nature.     He — whose  hours 
Are  by  domestic  pleasures  uncaress'd 
And  unenLlven'd ;  who  exists  whole  years 
Apart  from  benefits  received  or  done 
'Mid  the  transactions  of  the  bustling  crowd  ; 
Who  neither  hears,  nor  feels  a  wish  to  hear. 
Of  the  Vorld's  interests — such  a  one  hath  need 
Of  a  quick  fancy,  and  an  active  heart. 
That,  for  the  da3''s  consumption,  books  may  yield 
A  not  unwholesome  food,  and  earth  and  air 
Supply  his  morbid  humour  with  delight. 
Truth  has  her  pleasure  grounds,  her  haunts  of  ease 
Vnd  easy  contemplation, — gay  parterres, 
Ind  labyrinthine  walks,  her  sunny  glades 
A.nd  shady  groves  for  recreation  framed ; 
These  may  he  range,  if  willing  to  partake 
Their  soft  indulgences,  and  in  due  time 


May  issue  thence,  recruited  for  the  tasks 

And  course  of  service  truth  requires  from  those 

Who  tend  her  altais,  wait  upon  her  throne. 

And  guard  her  fortresses.     Who  thinks,  and  feels. 

And  recognises  ever  and  anon 

The  breeze  of  nature  stirring  in  his  soul. 

Why  need  such  man  go  desperately  astray. 

And  nurse  '  the  dreadful  appetite  of  death  !' 

If  tired  with  systems — each  in  its  degree 

Substantial,  and  all  crumbling  in  their  turn. 

Let  him  build  systems  of  his  own,  and  smile 

At  the  fond  v/ork,  demolish 'd  with  a  touch ; 

If  unreligious,  let  him  be  at  once. 

Among  ten  thousand  innocents,  enroll'd 

A  pupil  in  the  many  charnber'd  school. 

Where  superstition  weaves  her  airy  dreams. 

"  Life's  autumn  past,  I  stand  on  winter's  verge. 
And  daily  lose  what  I  desire  to  keep  ; 
Yet  rather  would  I  instantly  decline 
To  the  traditionary  sympathies 
Of  a  most  rustic  ignorance,  and  take 
A  fearful  apprehension  from  the  owl 
Or  death-watch,  and  as  readily  rejoice. 
If  two  auspicious  magpies  cross'd  my  way  ; 
To  this  would  rather  bend  than  see  and  hear 
The  repetitions  wearisome  of  sense. 
Where  soul  is  dead,  and  feeling  hath  no  place ; 
Where  knowledge,  ill  begun  in  cold  remark 
On  outward  things,  with  formal  inference  ends  ; 
Or,  if  the  mind  turn  inward,  'tis  perplex'd, 
Lost  in  a  gloom  of  uninspired  research  ; 
Meanwhile,  the  heart  within  the  heart,  the  seat 
Where  peace  and  happy  consciousness  should  dwell, 
On  its  own  axis  restlessly  revolves, 
Yet  nowhere  finds  the  cheering  light  of  truth. 

"  Upon  the  breast  of  new-created  earth 
Man  v.-aik'd ;  and  when  and  wheresoe'er  he  moved. 
Alone  or  mated,  solitude  was  not. 
He  heard,  upon  the  wind,  the  articulate  voice 
Of  God  :  and  angels  to  his  sight  appear'd, 
Crowning  the  glorious  hills  of  paradise  ; 
Or  through  the  groves  gliding  like  morning  mist 
Enkindled  by  the  sun.     He  sate,  and  talk'd 
With  winged  messengers ;  who  daily  brought 
To  his  small  island  in  the  ethereal  deep 
Tidings  of  joy  and  love.     From  these  pure  heights 
(Whether  of  actual  vision,  sensible 
To  sight  and  feeling,  or  that  in  this  sort 
Have  condescendingly  been  shadowed  forth 
Communications  spiritually  maintain 'd, 
And  intuitions  moral  and  divine) 
Fell  human  Kind — to  banishment  condemn'd 
That  flowing  years  repeal'd  not ;  and  distress 
And  grief  spread  wide  ;  but  man  escaped  the  doom 
Of  destitution  ;  solitude  was  not. 
Jehovah — shapeless  Power  above  all  powers. 
Single  and  one,  the  omnipresent  God, 
By  vocal  utterance,  or  blaze  of  light, 
Or  cloud  of  darkness,  localized  in  heaven  ; 
On  earth  enshrined  within  the  wandering  ark; 
Or,  out  of  Zion,  thundering  from  his  throne 
Between  the  cherubim,  on  the  chosen  race 
Shower'd  miracles,  and  ceased  not  to  dispense 
Judgments,  that  fill'd  the  land  from  age  to  age 
With  hope,  and  love,  and  gratitude,  and  fear ; 
And  with  amazement  smote :  thereby  t'  assert 


446 


WORDSWORTH. 


His  scorn'd,  or  unacknowledged  sovereignty. 
And  when  the  One,  ineffable  of  name, 
Of  nature  indivisible,  withdrew 
From  mortal  adoration  or  regard, 
Not  then  was  deity  ingulf'd,  nor  man. 
The  rational  creature,  left,  to  feel  the  weight 
Of  his  own  reason,  without  sense  or  thought, 
Of  higher  reason  and  a  purer  will. 
To  benefit  and  bless,  through  mightier  power ; 
Whether  the  Persian — zealous  to  reject 
Altar  and  image,  and  the  inclusive  walls 
And  roofs  of  temples  built  by  human  hands — 
To  loftiest  heights  ascending  from  their  tops. 
With  myrtle-wreath'd  tiara  on  his  brow. 
Presented  sacrifice  to  moon  and  stars, 
And  to  the  winds  and  mother  elements. 
And  the  whole  circle  of  the  heavens,  for  him 
A  sensitive  existence,  and  a  God, 
With  lifted  hands  invoked,  and  songs  of  praise : 
Or,  less  reluctantly  to  bonds  of  sense 
Yielding  his  soul,  the  Babylonian  framed 
For  influence  undefined  a  personal  shape  ; 
And,  from  the  plain,  with  toil  immense,  uprear'd 
Tower  eight  times  planted  on  the  top  of  tower ; 
That  Belus,  nightly  to  his  splendid  couch 
Descending,  there  might  rest ;  upon  that  height 
Pure  and  serene,  diffused — to  overlook 
Winding  Euphrates,  and  the  city  vast 
Of  his  devoted  worshippers,  far-stretch'd. 
With  grove,  and  field,  and  garden,  interspersed  ; 
Their  town,  and  foodful  region  for  support 
Against  the  pressure  of  belcaguring  war. 

"  Chaldean  shepherds,  ranging  trackless  fields, 
Beneath  the  concave  of  unclouded  skies 
Spread  like  a  sea,  in  boundless  solitude, 
Look'd  on  the  polar  star,  as  on  a  guide 
And  guardian  of  their  course,  that  never  closed 
His  steadfast  eye.     The  planetary  five 
With  a  submissive  reverence  they  beheld: 
Watch'd,  from  the  centre  of  their  sleeping  flocks 
Those  radiant  Mercuries,  that  seem  to  move 
Carrying  through  ether,  in  perpetual  round, 
Decrees  and  resolutions  of  the  gods  ; 
And,  by  their  aspects,  signifying  works 
Of  dim  futurity,  to  man  reveal'd. 
The  imaginative  faculty  was  lord 
Of  observations  natural ;  and,  thus 
Led  on,  those  shepherds  made  report  of  stars 
In  set  rotation  passing  to  and  fro, 
Between  the  orbs  of  our  apparent  sphere 
And  its  invisible  counterpart,  adorn'd 
With  answering  constellations,  under  earth. 
Removed  from  all  approach  of  living  sight, 
But  present  to  the  dead ;  who,  so  they  deem'd, 
Like  those  celestial  messengers  beheld 
All  accidents,  and  judges  were  of  all. 

"  The  lively  Grecian,  in  a  land  of  hills, 
Rivers,  and  fertile  plains,  and  sounding  shores. 
Under  a  cope  of  variegated  sky, 
Cofild  find  comm.odious  place  for  every  god, 
Promptly  received,  as  prodigally  brought. 
From  the  surrounding  countries — at  the  choice 
Of  all  adventurers.     With  unrivall'd  skill, 
As  nicest  observation  furnish'd  hints 
For  studious  fancy,  did  his  hand  bestow 
Qn  fluent  operations  a  fix'd  shape ; 


Metal  or  stone,  idolatrously  served, 

And  yet  triumphant  o'er  this  pompous  show 

Of  art,  this  palpable  array  of  sense. 

On  every  side  encounter'd  ;  in  despite 

Of  the  gross  fictions  chanted  in  the  streets 

By  wandering  rhapscdists  ;  and  in  contempt 

Of  doubt  and  bold  denial  hourly  urged 

Amid  the  wrangling  schools' — a  spirit  hung, 

Beautiful  region  !  o'er  thy  towns  and  farms. 

Statues  and  temples,  and  memorial  tombs ; 

And  emanations  were  perceived  ;  and  acts 

Of  immortality,  in  nature's  course. 

Exemplified  by  mysteries,  that  were  felt 

As  bonds,  on  grave  philosopher  imposed 

And  armed  warrior  5  and  in  every  grove 

A  gay  or  pensive  tenderness  prevail'd, 

V/hen  piety  more  awful  had  relax'd. 

*  Take,  running  river,  take  these  l^cks  of  mine'— 

Thus  would  the  votary  say — '  this  sever'd  hair. 

My  vow  fulfilling,  do  I  here  present. 

Thankful  for  my  beloved  child's  return. 

Thy  banks,  Cephisus,  he  again  hath  trod, 

Tliy  murmurs  heard  ;  and  drunk  the  crystal  lympj 

With  which  thou  dost  refresh  the  thirsty  lip. 

And  moisten  all  day  long  these  flowery  fields  !' 

And  doubtless,  sometimes,  v/hen  the  hair  was  shed 

Upon  the  flowing  stream,  a  thought  arose 

Of  life  continuous,  being  unimpair'd  : 

That  hath  been,  is,  and  where  it  was  and  is 

There  shall  endure, — existence  unexposed 

To  the  blind  walk  of  mortal  accident ; 

From  dimunitions  safe  and  weakening  age  ; 

While  man  grows  old,  and  dwindles,  and  decays} 

And  countless  generations  of  mankind 

Depart ;  and  leave  no  vestige  where  they  trod. 

"  We  live  by  admiration,  hope,  and  love  ; 
And,  e'en  as  these  are  well  and  wisely  fix'd. 
In  dignity  of  being  we  ascend. 
But  what  is  error  ?" — "  Answer  he  who  can  !" 
The  skeptic  somewhat  haughtily  exclaim'd: 
"  Love,  hope,  and  admiration — are  they  not 
Mad  fancy's  favourite  vassals  ?     Does  not  life 
Use  them,  full  oH,  as  pioneers  to  ruin. 
Guides  to  destruction  ?     Is  it  well  to  trust 
Imagination's  light  when  reason's  fails, 
Th'  unguarded  taper  where  the  guarded  faints  ? 
Stoop  from  those  heights,  and  soberly  declare 
What  error  is  ;  and,  of  our  errors,  which 
Doth  most  debase  the  mind  ;  the  genuine  seats 
Of  power,  where  are  they  ?     Who  shall  regulate 
With  truth,  the  scale  of  intellectual  rank  !" 

"  Methinks,"  persuasively  the  sage  replied, 
"  That  for  this  arduous  office  you  possess 
Some  rare  advantages.     Your  early  days 
A  grateful  recollection  must  supply 
Of  much  exalted  good  by  Heaven  vouchsafed 
To  dignify  the  humblest  state.     Your  voice 
Hath,  in  my  hearing,  often  testified 
That  poor  men's  children,  they,  and  they  alone 
By  their  condition  taught,  can  understand 
The  wisdom  of  the  prayer  that  daily  asks 
For  daily  bread.     A  consciousness  is  yours 
How  feelingly  religion  may  be  learn'd 
In  smoky  cabins,  from  a  mother's  tongue — 
Heard  while  the  dwelling  vibrates  to  the  din 
Of  the  contiguous  torrent,  gathering  strength 


THE    EXCURSION. 


447 


At  every  moment,  and,  with  strength,  increase 

Of  fury  ;  or,  while  snow  is  at  the  door, 

Assaulting  and  defending,  and  the  wind, 

A  sightless  labourer,  whistles  at  his  work — 

Fearful,  but  resignation  tempers  fear. 

And  piety  is  sweet  to  infant  minds. 

The  shopheid  lad,  who  in  the  sunshine  carves, 

On  the  green  turf,  a  dial,  to  divide 

The  silent  hours  ;  and  who  to  that  report 

Can  portion  out  his  pleasures,  and  adapt 

His  round  of  pastoral  duties,  is  not  left 

With  less  intelligence  for  moral  things 

Of  gravest  import.     Early  he  perceives. 

Within  himself,  a  measure  and  a  rule. 

Which  to  the  sun  of  truth  he  can  apply. 

That  shines  for  him,  and  shines  for  all  mankind. 

Experience  daily  fixing  his  regards 

On  nature's  wants,  he  knows  how  few  they  are, 

And  where  they  lie,  how  answer'd  and  appeased. 

This  knowledge  ample  recompense  affords 

For  manifold  privations  ;  he  refers 

His  notions  to  this  standard,  on  this  rock 

Rests  his  desires  ;  and  hence,  in  after  life. 

Soul-strengthening  patience,  and  sublime  content. 

Imagination — not  permitted  here 

To  waste  her  powers,  as  in  the  worldling's  mind, 

On  fickle  pleasures,  and  superfluous  cares 

And  trivial  ostentation — is  left  free 

And  puissant  to  range  the  solemn  walks 

Of  time  and  nature,  girded  by  a  zone 

That,  while  it  binds,  invigorates  and  supports. 

Acknowledge,  then,  that  whether  by  the  side 

Of  his  poor  hut,  or  on  the  mountain  top. 

Or  in  the  cultured  field,  a  man  so  bred 

(Take  from  him  what  you  will  upon  the  score 

Of  ignorance  or  illusion)  lives  and  breathes 

For  noble  purjjoses  of  mind :  his  heart 

Beats  to  the  heroic  song  of  ancient  days  ; 

His  eye  distinguishes,  his  soul  creates. 

And  those  illusions,  which  excite  the  scorn 

Or  move  the  pity  of  unthinking  minds. 

Are  they  not  mainly  outward  ministers 

Of  inward  conscience  ?  with  whose  service  charged 

They  came  and  go,  appear'd  and  disappear. 

Diverting  evil  purposes,  remorse 

Awakening,  chastening  an  intemperate  grief 

Or  pride  of  heart  abating:  and,  whene'er 

For  less  important  ends  those  phantoms  move 

Who  would  forbid  them,  if  their  presence  serve 

Among  wild  mountains  and  unpeopled  heaths. 

Filling  a  space,  else  vacant,  to  exalt 

The  forms  of  nature,  and  enlarge  her  powers  ? 

"  Once  more  to  distant  ages  of  the  world 
Let  us  revert,  and  place  before  our  thoughts 
The  face  which  rural  solitude  might  wear 
To  th'  unenlighten'd  swains  of  pagan  Greece. 
In  that  fair  clime,  the  lonely  herdsman,  stretch'd 
On  the  soft  grass  through  half  a  summer's  day. 
With  music  lull'd  his  indolent  repose: 
And  in  some  fit  of  weariness,  if  he, 
When  his  own  breath  was  silent,  chanced  to  hear 
A  distant  strain,  far  sweeter  than  the  sounds 
Which  his  poor  skill  could  make,  his  fancy  fetch'd, 
E'en  from  the  blazing  chariot  of  the  sun 
A.  beardless  youth,  who  touch'd  a  golden  lute, 
4nd  fiU'd  th'  illumined  groves  with  ravishment. 


The  nightly  hunter,  lifting  up  his  eyes 

Towards  the  crescent  moon,  with  grateful  heart 

Call'd  on  the  lovely  wanderer  who  bestow'd 

That  timely  light,  to  share  his  joyous  sport : 

And  hence,  a  beaming  goddess  with  her  nymphs. 

Across  the  lawn  and  through  the  darksome  grove 

(Not  unaccompanied  with  tuneful  notes 

By  echo  multiplied  from  rock  or  cave) 

Swept  in  the  storm  of  chase,  as  moon  and  stars 

Glance  rapidly  along  the  clouded  heaven. 

When  winds  are  blowing  strong.     The  traveller 

slaked 
His  thirst  from  rill  or  gushing  fount,  and  thank'd 
The  naiad.     Sunbeams,  upon  distant  hills 
Gliding  apace,  with  shadows  in  their  train. 
Might,  with  small  help  from  fancy,  be  transforraM 
Into  fleet  oreads  sporting  visibly. 
The  zephyrs,  fanning  as  they  pass'd,  their  wings, 
Lack'd  not,  for  love,  fair  objects  whom  they  woo'd 
With  gentle  whisper.     Wither'd  boughs  grotesque, 
Stripp'd  of  their  leaves  and  twigs  by  hoary  age, 
From  depth  of  shaggy  covert  peeping  forth 
In  the  low  vale,  or  on  steep  mountain  side ; 
And,  sometimes,  inteiTiix'd  with  stirring  horns 
Of  the  live  deer,  or  goat's  depending  beard — 
These  were  the  lurking  satyrs,  a  wild  brood 
Of  gamesome  deities  ;  or  Pan  himself,  ^ 

The  simple  shepherd's  awe-inspiring  god  I" 

As  this  apt  strain  proceeded,  I  could  mark 
Its  kindly  influence,  o'er  the  yielding  brow 
Of  our  companion,  gradually  diffused 
While,  listening  he  had  paced  the  noiseless  turf. 
Like  one  whose  untired  ear  a  murmuring  stream 
Detains  ;  but  tempted  now  to  interpose. 
He  with  a  smile  exclaim'd — 

"  'Tis  well  you  speak 
At  a  safe  distance  from  our  native  land, 
And  from  the  mansions  where  our  youth  was  taught. 
The  true  descendants  of  those  godly  men 
Who  swept  from  Scotland,  in  a  flame  of  zeal. 
Shrine,  altar,  image,  and  the  massy  piles 
That  harbour'd  them, — the  souls  retaining  yet 
The  churlish  features  of  that  after  race 
Who  fled  to  caves,  and  woods,  and  naked  rocks. 
In  deadly  scorn  of  superstitious  rites. 
Or  what  their  scruples  construed  to  be  such — 
How,  think  you,  would  they  tolerate  this  scheme 
Of  fine  propensities,  that  tends,  if  urged 
Far  as  it  might  be  urged,  to  sow  afresh 
The  weeds  of  Roman  phantasy,  in  vain 
Uprooted  ;  would  re-consecrate  our  wells 
To  good  Saint  Fillan  and  to  fair  Saint  Anne  ; 
And  from  long  banishment  recall  Saint  Giles, 
To  watch  again  with  tutelary  love 
O'er  stately  Edinborough  throned  on  crags  ? 
A  blessed  restoration,  to  behold 
The  patron,  on  the  shoulders  of  his  priests. 
Once  more  parading  through  her  crowded  streets ; 
Now  simply  guarded  by  the  sober  powers 
Of  science,  and  philosophy,  and  sense  !" 

This   answer  follow'd.    "  You  have  turn'd  mf 
thoughts 
Upon  our  brave  progenitors,  who  rose 
Against  idolatry  with  warlike  mind, 
And  shrunk  from  vain  observances,  to  lurk 
In  caves,  and  woods,  and  under  dismal  rocks. 


448 


WORDSWORTH. 


Deprived  of  shelter,  covering,  fire,  and  food  ; 

Why  ?  for  this  very  reason  that  they  felt, 

And  did  acknowledge,  wheresoe'er  they  moved, 

A  spiritual  presence,  ofttimes  misconceived  ; 

But  still  a  high  dependence,  a  divine 

Bounty  and  government,  that  fill'd  their  hearts 

With  joy,  and  gratitude,  and  fear,  and  love : 

And  from  their  fervent  lips  drew  hymns  of  praise, 

That  through  the  desert  rang.     Though  favour'd 

less. 
Far  less,  than  these,  yet  such,  in  their  degree, 
Were  those  bewilder'd  pagans  of  old  time. 
Beyond  their  own  poor  natures  and  above 
They  look'd :  were  humbly  thankful  for  the  good 
Which  the  warm  sun  solicited — and  earth 
Bestow'd ;  were  gladsome, — and  their  moral  sense 
They  fortified  with  reverence  for  the  gods 
And  they  had  hopes  that  overstepp'd  the  grave. 

"  Now,  shall  our  great  discoverers,"  he  exclaim 'd, 
Raising  his  voice  triumphantly,  "  obtain 
From  sense  and  reason  less  than  these  obtain'd. 
Though  far  misled  ?     Shall  men  for  whom  our  age 
Unbaffled  powers  of  vision  hath  prepared, 
T'  explore  the  world  without  and  world  within, 
Be  joyless  as  the  blind  ?     Ambitious  souls — 
W^hom  earth,  at  this  late  season,  hath  produced 
To  regulate  the  moving  spheres,  and  weigli 
The  planets  in  the  hollow  of  their  hand  ; 
And  they  who  rather  die  than  soar,  whose  pains 
Have  solved  the  elements,  or  analyzed 
The  thinking  principle — shall  they  in  fact 
Prove  a  degraded  race  ?  and  what  avails 
Renown,  if  their  presumption  make  them  such  ? 

0  I  there  is  laughter  at  their  work  in  heaven  ! 
Inquire  of  ancient  wisdom :  go,  demand 

Of  mighty  nature,  if  'twas  ever  meant 
That  we  should  pry  far  off  yet  be  unraised  ; 
That  we  should  pore,  and  dwindle  as  we  pore. 
Viewing  ail  objects  unremittingly 
In  disconnexion  dead  and  spiritless  ; 
And  still  dividing,  and  dividing  still, 
Break  down  all  grandeur,  still  unsatisfied 
With  the  perverse  attempt,  while  littleness 
May  yet  become  more  little  ;  waging  thus 
An  impious  warfare  with  the  very  life 
Of  our  own  souls  !     And  if  indeed  there  be 
An  all-pervading  spirit,  upon  whom 
Our  dark  foundations  rest,  could  he  design 
That  this  magnificent  effect  of  power, 
The  earth  we  tread,  the  sky  that  we  behold 
By  day,  and  all  the  pomp  which  night  reveals, 
That  these — and  that  superior  mystery, 
Our  vital  frame,  so  fearfully  devised, 
And  the  dread  soul  within  it — should  exist 
Only  to  be  examined,  ponder'd,  search'd. 
Probed,  vex'd,  and  criticised  ?     Accuse  me  not 
Of  arrogance,  unknown  wanderer  as  I  am, 
If,  having  walk'd  with  nature  threescore  years, 
And  offer'd,  far  as  frailty  would  allow, 
My  heart  a  daily  sacrifice  to  truth, 

1  now  afllrm  of  nature  and  of  truth, 
Whom  I  have  served,  that  their  divinity 
Revolts,  offended  at  the  ways  of  men 
Sway'd  by  such  motives,  to  such  end  employ'd ; 
Philosophers,  who,  though  the  human  soul 

Be  of  a  thousand  faculties  composed. 


And  twice  ten  thousand  interests,  do  yet  prize 
This  soul,  and  the  transcendent  universe, 
No  more  than  as  a  mirror  that  reflects 
To  proud  self-love  her  own  intelligence  ; 
That  one,  poor,  infinite  object,  in  the  abjss 
Of  infinite  being,  twinkling  restlessly  ! 

"  Nor  higher  place  can  be  assign'd  to  him 
And  his  compeers — the  laughing  sage  of  Francft 
Crown'd  was  he,  if  my  memory  do  not  err. 
With  laurel  planted  upon  hoary  hairs. 
In  sign  of  conquest  by  his  wit  achieved. 
And  benefits  his  wisdom  had  conferr'd. 
His  tottering  body  was  with  wreaths  of  flowers 
Opprest,  far  less  becoming  ornaments 
Than  spring  oft  twines  about  a  mouldering  tree 
Yet  so  it  pleased  a  fond,  a  vain  old  man. 
And  a  most  frivolous  people.     Ilim  I  mean 
Who  penn'd,  to  ridicule  confiding  faith. 
This  sorry  legend  ;  which  by  chance  we  found 
Piled  in  a  nook,  through  malice,  as  might  seem, 
Among  more  innocent  rubbish."     Speaking  thus> 
With  a  brief  notice  when,  and  how,  and  where, 
We  had  espied  the  book,  he  drew  it  forth  ; 
And  courteously,  as  if  the  act  removed, 
At  once,  all  traces  from  the  good  man's  heart 
Of  unbenign  aversion  or  contempt. 
Restored  it  to  its  owner.    "  Gentle  friend," 
Herewitli  he  grasp'd  the  solitary's  hand, 
"  You  have  known  better  lights  and  guides  thaa 

these — 
Ah  I  let  not  aught  amiss  within  dispose 
A  noble  mind  to  practise  on  herself. 
And  tempt  opinion  to  support  the  wrongs 
Of  passion  :  whatsoe'er  be  felt  or  fear'd. 
From  higher  judgment  seats  make  no  appeal 
To  lower:  can  you  question  that  the  soul 
Inherits  an  allegiance,  not  by  choice 
To  be  cast  off,  upon  an  oath  proposed 
By  each  new  upstart  notion  ?     In  the  ports 
Of  levity  no  refuge  can  be  found. 
No  shelter,  for  a  spirit  in  distress. 
He,  who  by  wilful  disesteem  of  life. 
And  proud  insensibility  to  hope. 
Affronts  the  eye  of  solitude,  shall  learn 
That  her  mild  nature  can  be  terrible  ; 
That  neither  she  nor  silence  lack  the  power 
T'  avenge  their  own  insulted  majesty. 
0  blest  seclusion  !  when  the  mind  admits 
The  law  of  duty  ;  and  can  therefore  move 
Through  each  vicissitude  of  loss  and  gain, 
Link'd  in  entire  complacence  with  her  choice  ; 
When  youth's  presumptuousness  is  mellow'd  down 
And  manhood's  vain  anxiety  dismiss'd  ; 
When  wisdom  shows  her  seasonable  fruit. 
Upon  the  boughs  of  sheltering  leisure  hung 
In  sober  plenty  ;  when  the  spirit  stoops 
To  drink  with  gratitude  the  crystal  stream 
Of  unreproved  enjoyment ;  and  is  pleased 
To  muse, — and  be  saluted  by  the  air 
Of  meek  repentance,  wafting  wall-flower  scents 
From  out  the  crumbling  ruins  of  fall'n  pride 
And  chambers  of  transgression  now  forlorn. 
O,  calm,  contented  days,  and  peaceful  nights 
Who,  when  such  good  can  be  obtain'd,  would  strive 
To  reconcile  his  manhood  to  a  couch 
Soft,  as  may  seem,  but,  under  that  disguise 


THE    EXOURSlOxN. 


44S 


StufTd  with  the  thorny  substance  ol  tlie  past, 
For  fix'd  annoyance  ;  and  full  oft  beset 
With  floating  dreams,  disconsolate  and  black, 
The  vapory  phantoms  of  futurity  ? 

"  Within  the  soul  a  faculty  abides, 
That  with  interpositions,  which  would  hide 
And  darken,  so  can  deal,  that  they  become 
Contingencies  of  pomp  ;  and  serve  t'  exait 
Her  native  brightness.     As  the  ample  moon, 
In  the  deep  stillness  of  a  summer  even 
Rising  behind  a  thick  and  lofty  grove, 
BuRns  like  an  unconsuming  nre  of  light, 
In  the  green  trees ;  and,  kindling  on  all  sides 
Their  leafy  umbrage,  turns  the  dusky  veil 
Into  a  substance  glorious  as  her  own. 
Yea,  with  her  own  incorporated,  by  power 
Capacious  and  serene  ;  like  power  abides 
la  man's  celestial  spirit ;  virtue  thus 
Sets  forth  and  magnifies  herself ;  thus  feeds 
A  calm,  a  beautiful,  and  silent  fire. 
From  the  encumbrances  of  mortal  life, 
From  error,  disappointment, — nay,  from  guilt : 
And  sometimes,  so  relenting  justice  wills, 
From  palpable  oppressions  of  despair." 

The  solitary  by  these  words  was  touch'd 
With  manifest  emotion,  and  exclaim'd, 
"  But  how  begin  ?  and  whence  ?     The  mind  is  free  ; 
Resolve,  the  haughty  moralist  would  say, 
This  single  act  is  all  that  we  demand. 
Alas  I  such  wisdom  bids  a  creature  fly 
Whose  very  sorrow  is,  that  time  hath  shorn 
His  natural  wings  !     To  friendship  let  him  turn 
For  succour ;  but  perhaps  he  sits  alone 
On  stormy  waters,  in  a  little  boat 
That  holds  but  him,  and  can  contain  no  more  I 
Religion  tells  of  amity  sublime 
Which  no  condition  can  preclude :  of  one 
Who  sees  all  suffering,  comprehends  all  wants. 
All  weakness  fathoms,  can  supply  all  needs  ; 
But  is  that  bounty  absolute  ?     His  gifts. 
Are  they  not  still,  in  some  degree,  rewards 
For  acts  of  service  ?    Can  his  love  extend 
To  hearts  that  own  not  him  ?     Will  showers  of 

grace. 
When  in  the  sky  no  promise  may  be  seen. 
Fall  to  refresh  a  parch'd  and  wither'd  land  ? 
Or  shall  the  groaning  spirit  cast  her  load 
At  the  Redeemer's  feet  ?" 

In  rueful  tone. 
With  some  impatience  in  his  mien  he  spake ; 
Back  to  my  mind  rush'd  all  that  had  been  urged 
To  calm  the  sufferer  when  his  story  closed ; 
I  look'd  for  counsel  as  unbending  now  ; 
But  a  discriminating  sympathy 
Stoop 'd  to  this  apt  reply — 

"As  men  from  men 
Do,  in  the  constitution  of  their  souls, 
Differ,  by  mystery  not  to  be  explain'd; 
And  as  we  fall  by  various  ways,  and  sink 
One  deeper  than  another,  self-condemn'd. 
Through  manifold  degrees  of  guilt  and  shame, 
So  manifold  and  various  are  the  ways 
Of  restoration,  fashion'd  to  the  steps 
Of  all  infirmity,  and  tending  all 
To  the  same  point, — attainable  by  all ; 
Peace  in  ourselves,  and  union  with  our  God. 
Vol.  III.— 29 


For  you,  assuredly,  a  hopeful  road 

Lies  open  :  we  have  heard  from  you  a  voice 

At  every  moment  soften'd  in  its  course 

By  tenderness  of  heart ;  have  seen  your  eye, 

Even  like  an  altar  lit  by  fire  from  heaven, 

Kindle  before  us.     Your  discourse  this  day. 

That,  like  the  fabled  lethe,  wish'd  to  flow 

In  creeping  sadness,  through  oblivious  shades 

Of  death  and  night,  has  caught  at  every  turn 

The  colours  of  the  sun.     Access  for  you 

Is  yet  preserved  to  principles  of  truth. 

Which  the  imaginative  will  upholds 

In  seats  of  wisdom,  not  to  be  approach'd 

B}'  the  inferior  faculty  that  moulds, 

With  her  minute  and  speculative  pains, 

Opinion,  ever  changing  !     I  have  seeft 

A  curious  child,  who  dwelt  upon  a  tract 

Of  inland  ground,  applying  to  his  ear 

The  convolutions  of  a  smooth-lipp'd  shell ; 

To  which,  in  silence  hush'd,  his  very  soul 

Listen'd  intensely;  and  his  countenance  soon 

Brighten'd  with  joy  ;  for  murmurings  from  within 

Were  heard, — sonorous  cadences  !  whereby 

To  his  bt  \tf,  the  monitor  express'd 

Mysterious  union  with  its  native  sea. 

E'en  such  a  shell  the  universe  itself 

Is  to  the- ear  of  faith  :  and  there  are  times, 

I  doubt  not,  when  to  you  it  doth  impart 

Authentic  tidings  of  invisible  things  ; 

Of  ebb  and  flow,  and  ever  during  power; 

And  central  peace,  subsisting  at  the  heart 

Of  endless  agitation.     Here  you  stand. 

Adore,  and  worship,  when  you  know  it  not; 

Pious  beyond  the  intention  of  your  tliought; 

Devout  above  the  meaning  of  your  will. 

Yes,  you  have  felt,  and  may  not  cease  to  feel. 

Th'  estate  of  man  would  be  indeed  forlorn 

If  false  conclusions  of  the  reasoning  power 

Made  the  eye  blind,  and  closed  the  passages 

Through  which  the  ear  converses  with  the  heart 

Has  not  the  soul,  the  being  of  your  life. 

Received  a  shock  of  awful  consciousness. 

In  some  calm  season,  when  these  lofty  rocks 

At  night's  approach  bring  down  the  unclouded  skj 

To  rest  upon  their  circumambient  walls ; 

A  temple  framing  of  diipensions  vast, 

And  yet  not  too  enormous  for  the  sound 

Of  human  anthems, — choral  song,  or  burst 

Sublime  of  instrumental  harmony 

To  glorify  th'  Eternal !     What  if  these 

Did  never  break  the  stillness  that  prevails 

Here,  if  the  solemn  nightingale  be  mute. 

And  the  soft  woodlark  here  did  never  chant 

Her  vespers,  natwre  fails  not  to  provide 

Impulse  and  utterance.     The  whispering  air 

Sends  inspiration  from  the  shadowy  heights. 

And  blind  recesses  of  the  cavern 'd  rocks ; 

The  little  hills,  and  waters  numberless, 

Inaudible  by  daylight,  blend  their  notes 

With  the  loud  streams  :  and  often,  at  the  houi 

When  issue  forth  the  first  pale  stars,  is  heard. 

Within  the  circuit  of  this  fabric  huge. 

One  voice — the  solitary  raven,  flying 

Athwart  the  concave  of  the  dark-blue  dome, 

Unseen,  perchance  above  all  power  of  sight— 

An  iron  knell !  with  echoes  from  afar 


450 


WORDSWORTH. 


Faint — and  still  fainter — as  the  cry,  with  which 
The  wanderer  accompanies  her  flight 
Through  the  calm  region,  fades  upon  the  ear, 
Diminishing  by  distance  till  it  seem'd 
T'  expire,  yet  from  th'  abyss  is  caught  again. 
And  yet  again  recover 'd. 

"  But  descending 
From  these  imaginative  heights,  that  yield 
Far-stretching  views  into  eternity. 
Acknowledge  that  in  nature's  humbler  power 
Your  cherish'd  sullenness  is  forced  to  bend 
E'en  here,  where  her  amenities  are  sown 
With  sparing  hand.     Then  trust  yourself  abroad 
To  range  her  blooming  bowers,  and  spacious  fields, 
Where  on  the  labours  of  the  happy  throng 
She  smiles,  including  in  her  wide  embrace 
City,  and  town,  and  tower, — and  sea  with  ships 
Sprinkled ;  be  our  companion  while  we  track 
Her  rivers  populous  with  gliding  life  ; 
While,  free  as  air,  o'er  printless  sands  we  march, 
Or  pierce  the  gloom  of  her  majestic  woods ; 
Roaming,  or  resting  under  grateful  shade 
In  peace  and  meditative  cheerfulness  ; 
Where  living  things,  and  things  inanimate. 
Do  speak,  at  heaven's  command,  to  eye  and  ear, 
And  speak  to  social  reason's  inner  sense. 
With  inarticulate  language. 

"  For  the  man. 
Who,  in  this  spirit,  communes  with  the  forms 
Of  nature,  who  with  understanding  heart 
Doth  know  and  love  such  objects  as  excite 
No  morbid  passions,  no  disquietude. 
No  vengeance,  and  no  hatred,  needs  must  feel 
The  joy  of  that  pure  principle  of  love 
So  deeply,  that,  unsatisfied  with  aught 
Less  pure  and  exquisite,  he  cannot  choose 
But  seek  for  objects  of  a  kindred  love 
In  fellow  natures  and  a  kindred  joy. 
Accordingly  he  by  degrees  perceives 
His  feelings  of  aversion  soften'd  down ; 
A  holy  tenderness  pervade  his  frame. 
His  sanity  of  reason  not  impair'd. 
Say  rather,  all  his  thoughts  now  flowing  clear, 
From  a  clear  fountain  flowing,  he  looks  round 
And  seeks  for  good  ;  and  finds  the  good  he  seeks  ; 
Vntil  abhorrence  and  contempt  are  things 
He  only  knows  by  name  ;  and,  if  he  hear. 
From  other  mouths,  the  language  which  they  speak, 
He  is  compassionate  ;  and  has  no  thought. 
No  feeling,  which  can  overcome  his  love. 

"  And  further ;  by  contemplating  these  forms 
In  the  relations  which  they  bear  to  man. 
He  shall  discern,  how,  through  the  various  means 
Which  silently  they  yield,  are  multiplied 
The  spiritual  presences  of  absent  things. 
Trust  me,  that  for  the  instructed,  time  will  come 
When  they  shall  meet  no  object  but  may  teach 
Some  acceptable  lesson  to  their  minds 
Of  human  suffering,  or  of  human  joy. 
So  shall  they  learn,  while  all  things  speak  of  man. 
Their  duties  from  all  forms ;  and  general  laws. 
And  local  accidents,  shall  tend  alike 
To  rouse,  to  urge ;  and,  with  the  will,  confer 
Th'  ability  to  spread  the  blessings  wide 
Of  true  philanthropy.     The  light  of  love 
Not  failing,  perseverance  from  their  steps 


Departing  not,  for  them  shall  be  confirm'd 

The  glorious  habit  by  which  sense  is  made 

Subservient  still  to  moral  purposes, 

Auxiliar  to  divine.     That  change  shall  clothe 

The  naked  spirit,  ceasing  to  deplore 

The  burden  of  existence.     Science  then 

Shall  be  a  precious  visitant ;  and  then, 

And  only  then,  be  worthy  of  her  name. 

For  then  her  heart  shall  kindle  ;  her  dull  eye. 

Dull  and  inanimate,  no  more  shall  hang 

Chain'd  to  its  object  in  brute  slavery ; 

But  taught  with  patient  interest  to  watch 

The  processes  of  things,  and  serve  the  cause 

Of  order  and  distinctness,  not  for  this 

Shall  I  forget  that  its  most  noble  use. 

Its  most  illustrious  province,  must  be  found 

In  furnishing  clear  guidance,  a  support 

Not  treacherous  to  the  mind's  excursive  power. 

So  build  we  up  the  being  that  we  are  ; 

Thus  deeply  drinking  in  the  soul  of  things, 

We  shall  be  wise  perforce  ;  and  while  inspired 

By  choice,  and  conscious  that  the  will  is  free. 

Unswerving  shall  we  move,  as  if  impell'd 

By  strict  necessity,  along  the  path 

Of  order  and  of  good.     Whate'er  we  see, 

Whate'er  we  feel,  by  agency  direct 

Or  indirect,  shall  tend  to  feed  and  nurse 

Our  faculties,  shall  fix  in  calmer  seats 

Of  moral  strength,  and  raise  to  loftier  heights 

Of  love  divine,  our  intellectual  soul." 

Here  closed  the  sage  that  eloquent  harangue, 
Pour'd  forth  with  fervour  in  continuous  stream; 
Such  as,  remote,  'mid  savage  wilderness, 
An  Indian  chief  discharges  from  his  breast 
Into  the  hearing  of  assembled  tribes. 
In  open  circle  seated  round,  and  hush'd 
As  the  unbreathing  air,  when  not  a  leaf 
Stirs  in  the  mighty  woods.     So  did  he  speak : 
The  words  he  utter'd  shall  not  pass  away ; 
For  they  sank  into  me — the  bounteous  gift 
Of  one  whom  time  and  nature  had  made  wiso 
Gracing  his  language  with  authority 
Which  hostile  spirits  silently  allow ; 
Of  one  accustom''d  to  desires  that  feed 
On  fruitage  gather'd  from  the  tree  of  life ; 
To  hopes  on  knowledge  and  experience  built ; 
Of  one  in  whom  persuasion  and  belief 
Had  ripen'd  into  faith,  and  faith  become 
A  passionate  intuition  ;  whence  the  soul, 
Though  bound  to  earth  by  ties  of  pity  and  love. 
From  all  injurious  servitude  was  free. 

The  sun,  before  his  place  of  rest  were  reach'd, 
Had  yet  to  travel  far,  but  unto  us. 
To  us  who  stood  low  in  that  hollow  dell. 
He  had  become  invisible, — a  pomp 
Leaving  behind  of  yellow  radiance  spread 
Upon  the  mountain  sides,  in  contrast  bold 
With  ample  shadows,  seemingly,  no  less 
Than  those  resplendent  lights,  his  rich  bequest, 
A  dispensation  of  his  evening  power. 
Adown  the  path  that  from  the  glen  had  led 
The  funeral  train,  the  shepherd  and  his  mate 
Were  seen  descending  ;  forth  to  greet  them  ran 
Our  little  page  ;  the  rustic  pair  approach  ; 
And  in  the  matron's  aspect  may  be  read 
A  plain  assurance  that  the  words  which  told 


THE    EXCURSION. 


451 


How  that  neglected  pensioner  was  sent 

Before  his  time  into  a  quiet  grave, 

Had  done  to  her  humanity  no  wrong: 

But  we  are  kindly  welcomed — promptly  served 

With  ostentatious  zeal.     Along  the  floor 

Of  the  small  cottage  in  the  lonely  dell 

A  grateful  couch  was  spread  for  our  repose  ; 

Where,  in  the  guise  of  mountaineers,  we  slept, 

Stretch'd  upon  fragrant  heath,  and  lull'd  by  sound 

Of  far-off  torrents  charming  the  still  night, 

And  to  tired  limbs  and  over-busy  thoughts 

Inviting  sleep  and  soft  forgetfulness. 


BOOK  V. 
THE  PASTOR. 

ARGUMENT. 

Farewell  to  the  valley.  Reflections.  Sight  of  a  laree 
and  populous  vale.  Solitary  consents  to  go  forward. 
Vale  described.  Th«  pastor's  dwelling,  and  some 
account  of  him.  The  churchyard.  Ciiurch  and  monu- 
ments. The  solitary  musing,  and  where.  Roused. 
In  the  churchyard  the  solitary  communicates  the 
thoughts  which  had  recently  passed  through  his  mind. 
Lofty  tone  of  the  wanderer's  discourse  of  yesterday 
adverted  to.  Rite  of  baptism,  and  the  professions 
accompanying  it,  contrasted  with  the  real  state  of 
human  life.  Inconsistency  of  the  best  men.  Acknow- 
ledgment that  practice  falls  far  below  the  injunctions 
of  duty  as  existing  in  the  mind.  General  complaint  of 
a  falling  off  in  the  value  of  life  after  the  time  of  youth. 
Outward  appearances  of  content  and  happiness  in 
degree  illusive.  Pastor  approaches.  Appeal  made  to 
him.  His  answer.  Wanderer  in  sympathy  with  him. 
Suggestion  that  the  least  ambitious  inquirers  may  be 
most  free  from  error.  The  pastor  is  desired  to  give 
some  portraits  of  the  living  or  dead  from  his  own  ob- 
servation of  life  among  these  mountains.  And  for 
what  purpose.  Pastor  consents.  Mountain  cottage. 
Excellent  qualities  of  its  inhabitants.  Solitary  ex- 
presses his  pleasure ;  but  denies  the  praise  of  virtue 
to  worth  of  this  kind.  Feelings  of  the  priest  before 
he  enters  upon  his  account  of  persons  interred  in  the 
churchyard.  Graves  of  unbaptized  infants.  What 
sensations  they  excite.  Funeral  and  sepulchral  ob- 
servances, whence.  Ecclesiastical  establishments, 
whence  derived.  Profession  of  belief  in  the  doctrine 
of  immortality. 

Farewell,  deep  valley,  with  thy  one  rude  house, 

And  its  small  lot  of  life-supporting  iields, 

And  guardian  rocks  !     Farewell,  attractive  seat ! 

To  the  still  influx  of  the  morning  light 

Open,  and  day's  pure  cheerfulness,  but  veil'd 

From  human  observation,  as  if  yet 

Primeval  forests  wrapp'd  thee  round  with  dark 

Impenetrable  shade  ;  once  more  farewell, 

Majestic  circuit,  beautiful  abyss, 

By  nature  destined  from  the  birth  of  things 

For  quietness  profound  ! 

Upon  the  side 
Of  that  brown  slope,  the  outlet  of  the  vale, 
Lingering  behind  my  comrades,  thus  I  breathed 
A  parting  tribute  to  a  spot  that  seem'd 
Like  the  fix'd  centre  of  a  troubled  world. 
And  now,  pursuing  leisurely  my  way. 
How  vain,  thought  I,  it  is  by  change  of  place 
To  seek  that  comfort  which  the  mind  denies  ; 
Yet  trial  and  temptation  oft  are  shunn'd 
Wisely  ;  and  by  such  tenure  do  we  hold 


Frail  life's  possessions,  that  even  they  whose  fate 
Yields  no  peculiar  reason  of  complaint, 
Might,  by  the  promise  that  is  here,  be  won 
To  steal  from  active  duties,  and  embrace 
Obscurity,  and  calm  forgetfulness. 
Knowledge,  methinks  in  these  disorder'd  times. 
Should  be  allovv'd  a  privilege  to  have 
Her  anchorites,  like  piety  of  old  ; 
Men,  who,  from  faction  sacred,  and  unstaiu'd 
By  war,  might,  if  so  minded,  turn  aside 
Uncensured,  and  subsist,  a  scatter'd  few 
Living  to  God  and  nature,  and  content 
With  that  communion.     Consecrated  be 
The  spots  where  such  abide  !     But  happier  still 
The  man,  whom,  furthermore,  a  hope  attends 
That  meditation  and  research  may  guide 
His  privacy  to  principles  and  powers 
Discover'd  or  invented  :  or  set  forth. 
Through  his  acquaintance  with  the  wt.j  t>  of  truth. 
In  lucid  order  ;  so  that,  when  his  course 
Is  run,  some  faithful  eulogist  may  say. 
He  sought  not  praise,  and  praise  did  overlook 
His  unobtrusive  merit ;  but  his  life, 
Sweet  to  himself,  was  exercised  in  good 
That  shall  survive  his  name  and  memory. 
Acknowledgments  of  gratitude  sincere 
Accompanied  these  musings:  fervent  thanks 
For  my  own  peaceful  lot  and  happy  choice  ; 
A  choice  that  from  the  passions  of  the  world 
Withdrew,  and  fix'd  me  in  a  still  retreat, 
Shelter'd,  but  not  to  social  duties  lost, 
Secluded,  but  not  buried  ;  and  with  song 
Cheering  my  days,  and  with  industrious  thought, 
W^ith  ever-welcome  company  of  books. 
By  virtuous  friendship's  soul-sustaining  aid, 
And  with  the  blessings  of  domestic  love. 
Thus  occupied  in  mind  I  paced  along. 
Following  the  rugged  road,  by  sledge  or  whee 
Worn  in  the  moorland,  till  I  overtook 
My  two  associates,  in  the  morning  sunshine 
Halting  together  on  a  rocky  knoll. 
From  which  the  road  descended  rapidly 
To  the  green  meadows  of  another  vale. 

Here  did  our  pensive  host  put  forth  his  hand 
In  sign  of  farewell.    "  Nay,"  the  old  man  said, 
"  The  fragrant  air  its  coolness  still  retains  ; 
The  herds  and  flocks  are  yet  abroad  to  crop 
The  dewy  grass ;  you  cannot  leave  us  now. 
We  must  not  part  at  this  inviting  hour." 
He  yielded,  though  reluctant ;  for  his  mind 
Instinctively  disposed  him  to  retire 
To  his  own  covert ;  as  a  billow,  heaved 
Upon  the  beach,  rolls  back  into  the  sea, 
So  we  descend  ;  and  winding  round  a  rock 
Attain  a  point  that  show'd  the  valley — stretcn'd 
In  length  before  us  ;  and,  not  distant  far. 
Upon  a  rising  ground  a  gray  church  tc  vcr, 
Whose  battlements  were  screen'd  by  tufted  trees 
And,  towards  a  crystal  mere,  that  lay  beyond 
Among  steep  hills  and  woods  embosora'd,  flow'd 
A  copious  stream  with  boldly  winding  course  ; 
Here  traceable,  the'-e  hidden — there  again 
To  sight  restored,  and  glittering  in  the  sun. 
On  the  stream's  bank,  and  every  where,  appear'd 
Fair  dwellings,  single,  or  in  social  knots  ; 
Some  scatter'd  o'er  the  level,  others  perch'd 


452 


WORDSWORTH. 


On  the  hill  sides,  a  cheerful  quiet  scene, 
Now  in  its  morning  purity  array'd. 

"  As,  'mid  some  happy  valley  of  the  Alps," 
Said  I,  "  once  happy,  ere  tyrannic  power 
Wantonly  breaking  in  upon  the  Swiss, 
Destroy'd  their  unoffending  commonwealth, 
A  popular  equality  reigns  here. 
Save  for  one  house  of  state  beneath  whose  roof 
A  rural  lord  might  dwell."    "  No  feudal  pomp,' 
Replied  our  friend,  a  chronicler  who  stood 
Where'er  he  moved  upon  familiar  ground, 
"  Nor  feudal  power  is  there  ;  but  there  abides. 
In  his  allotted  home,  a  genuine  priest, 
The  shepherd  of  his  flock  ;  or,  as  a  king 
Is  styled,  when  most  affectionately  praised. 
The  father  of  his  people.     Such  is  he  ; 
And  rich  and  poor,  and  young  and  old,  rejoice 
Under  his  spiritual  sway.     He  hath  vouchsafed 
To  me  some  portion  of  a  kind  regard  ; 
And  something  also  of  his  inner  mind 
Hath  he  imparted — but  I  speak  of  him 
As  he  is  known  to  all.     The  calm  delights 
Of  unambitious  piety  he  chose. 
And  learning's  solid  dignity ;  though  born 
Of  knightly  race,  nor  wanting  powerful  friends. 
Hither,  in  prime  of  manhood,  he  withdrew 
From  academic  bowers.     He  loved  the  spot. 
Who  does  not  love  his  native  soil  ?  he  prized 
The  ancient  rural  character,  composed 
Of  simple  manners,  feelings  unsuppress'd 
And  undisguised,  and  strong  and  serious  thought;. 
A  character  reflected  in  himself. 
With  such  embellishment  as  well  beseems 
His  rank  and  sacred  function.     This  deep  vale 
Winds  far  in  reaches  hidden  from  our  eyes, 
And  one  a  turreted  manorial  hall 
Adorns,  in  which  the  good  man's  ancestors 
Have  dwelt  through  ages,  patrons  of  this  cure. 
To  them,  and  to  his  own  judicious  pains, 
The  vicar's  dwelling,  and  the  whole  domain, 
Owes  that  presiding  aspect  which  might  well 
Attract  your  notice  ;  statelier  than  could  else 
Have  been   bestow'd,  through  course  of  common 

chance. 
On  an  unwealthy  mountain  benefice.'' 

This  said,  oft  halting  we  pursued  our  way; 
Nor  reach'd  the  village  churchyard  till  the  sun. 
Travelling  at  steadier  pace  than  ours,  had  risen 
Above  the  summits  of  the  highest  hills, 
And  round  our  path  darted  oppressive  beams. 

As  chanced,  the  portals  of  the  sacred  pile 
totuod  open,  and  we  enter'd.     On  my  frame. 
At  such  transition  from  the  fervid  air, 
A  grateful  coolness  fell,  that  seem'd  to  strike 
The  heart,  in  concert  with  that  temperate  awe 
And  natural  reverence,  which  the  place  inspired. 
Not  raised  in  nice  proportions  was  the  pile, 
But  large  and  massy ;  for  duration  built ; 
With  pillars  crowded,  and  the  roof  upheld 
By  naked  rafters  intricately  cross'd. 
Like  leafless  underboughs,  'mid  some  thick  grove. 
Ail  wither'd  by  the  depth  of  shade  above. 
Admonitory  texts  inscribed  the  walls. 
Each,  in  its  ornamental  scroll,  enclosed. 
Each  also  crown'd  with  winged  heads,  a  pair 
Of  rudely  painted  cherubim.    The  floor 


Of  nave  and  aisle,  in  unpretending  guise, 

Was  occupied  by  oaken  benches,  ranged 

In  seemly  rows  ;  the  chancel  only  show'd 

Some  inoffensive  marks  of  earthly  state 

And  vain  distinction.     A  capacious  pew 

Of  sculptured  oak  stood  here,  with  drapery  lined ; 

And  marble  monuments  were  here  display'd 

Thronging  the  walls  ;  and  on  the  floor  beneath 

Sepulchral  stones  appear 'd,  with  emblems  gr«vtn 

And  foot-worn  epitaphs,  and  some  with  smalV 

And  shining  effigies  of  brass  inlaid. 

The  tribute  by  these  various  records  claim'd. 

Without  reluctance  did  we  pay  ;  and  read 

The  ordinary  chronicle  of  birth. 

Office,  alliance,  and  promotion,  all 

Ending  in  dust ;  of  upright  magistrates, 

Grave  doctors  strenuous  for  the  mother  church 

And  uncorrupted  senators,  alike 

To  king  and  people  true.     A  brazen  plate. 

Not  easily  decipher'd,  told  of  one 

Whose  course  of  earthly  honour  was  begun 

In  quality  of  page  among  the  train 

Of  the  eighth  Henry,  when  he  cross'd  the  seas 

His  royal  state  to  show,  and  prove  his  strength 

la  tournament,  upon  the  fields  of  France. 

Another  tablet  register'd  the  death. 

And  praised  the  gallant  bearing,  of  a  knight 

Tried  in  the  sea  fights  of  the  second  Charles. 

Near  this  brave  knight  his  father  lay  entomb'd  ; 

And,  to  the  silent  language  giving  voice, 

I  read,  how  in  his  manhood's  earlier  day 

He,  'mid  th'  afflictions  of  intestine  war 

And  rightful  government  subverted,  found 

One  only  solace  ;  that  he  had  espoused 

A  virtuous  lady  tenderly  beloved 

For  her  benign  perfections  ;  and  yet  more 

Endear'd  to  him,  for  this,  that  in  her  state 

Of  wedlock  richly  crown'd  with  Heaven's  regard, 

She  with  a  numerous  issue  fill'd  his  house, 

Who  throve,  like  plants,  uninjured  by  the  storm 

That  laid  their  country  waste.     No  need  to  speak 

Of  less  particular  notices  assign'd 

To  youth  or  maiden  gone  before  their  time. 

And  matrons  and  unvvedded  sisters  old  ; 

Whose  charity  and  goodness  were  rehearsed 

In  modest  panegyric.     "  These  dim  lines. 

What  would  they  tell  ?"  said  I  j  but  from  the  tasi 

Of  puzzling  out  that  faded  narrative, 

With  whispers  soft  my  venerable  friend 

Call'd  me ;  and,  looking  down  the  darksome  aisle 

I  saw  the  tenant  of  the  lonely  vale 

Standing  apart ;  with  curved  arm  reclined 

On  the  baptismal  font ;  his  pallid  face 

Upturn 'd,  as  if  his  mind  were  wrapt,  or  lost 

In  some  abstraction  ;  gracefully  he  stood. 

The  semblance  bearing  of  a  sculptured  form 

That  leans  upon  a  monumental  urn 

In  peace,  from  morn  to  night,  from  year  to  year. 

Him  from  that  posture  did  the  sexton  rouse ; 
Who  enter'd,  humming  carelessly  a  tune, 
Continuation  haply  of  the  notes 
That  had  beguiled  the  work  from  which  he  came. 
With  spade  and  mattock  o'er  his  shoulder  hung, 
To  be  deposited,  for  future  need. 
In  their  appointed  place.     The  pale  recluse 
Withdrew  ;  and  straight  we  follow'd,  to  a  spot 


THE    EXCURSION. 


46S 


Where  sun  and  shade  were  intermix'd  ;  for  there 

A  broad  oak,  stretching  forth  its  leaf}-  arms 

From  an  adjoining  pasture,  overhung 

Small  space  of  that  green  churchyard  with  a  light 

And  pleasant  awning.     On  the  moss-grown  wall 

My  ancient  friend  and  I  together  took 

Our  seats  ;  and  thus  the  solitary  spake, 

Standing  before  us.     "  Did  you  note  the  mien 

Of  that  self-solaced,  easj'-hearted  churl, 

Death's  hireling,  who  scoops  out  his  neighbour's 

grave. 
Or  wraps  an  old  acquaintance  up  in  clay, 
As  unconcern'd  as  when  he  plants  a  tree  ? 
I  was  abruptly  summon'd  by  his  voice 
From  some  affecting  images  and  thoughts, 
And  from  the  company  of  serious  words. 
Much,  yesterday,  was  said  in  glowing  phrase 
Of  our  sublime  dependencies,  and  hopes 
For  future  states  of  being  ;  and  the  wings 
Of  speculation,  joyfully  outspread, 
Hover'd  above  our  destiny  on  earth ; 
But  stoop,  and  place  the  prospect  of  the  soul 
In  sober  contrast  with  reality. 
And  man's  substantial  life.     If  this  mute  earth 
Of  what  it  holds  could  speak,  and  every  grave 
Were  as  a  volume,  shut,  3-et  capable 
Of  yielding  its  contents  to  eye  and  ear, 
We  should  recoil,  stricken  with  sorrow  and  shame 
To  see  disclosed,  by  such  dread  proof,  how  ill 
That  which  is  done  accords  with  what  is  known 
To  reason,  and  by  conscience  is  enjoin'd  -, 
How  idly,  how  perverselj',  life's  whole  course, 
To  this  conclusion,  deviates  from  the  line. 
Or  of  the  end  stops  short,  proposed  to  all 
At  her  aspiring  outset.     Mark  the  babe 
Not  long  accustom'd  to  this  breathing  world ; 
One  that  hath  barely  learn'd  to  shape  a  smile  ; 
Though  yet  irrational  of  soul  to  grasp 
With  tiny  fingers,  to  let  fall  a  tear  ; 
And,  as  the  heavy  cloud  of  sleep  dissolves. 
To  stretch  his  limbs,  bemocking,  as  might  seem, 
Th'  outward  functions  of  intelligent  man  ; 
A  grave  proficient  in  amusive  feats 
Of  puppetry,  that  from  the  lap  declare 
His  expectations,  and  announce  his  claims 
To  that  inheritance  which  millions  rue 
That  they  were  ever  born  to  !     In  due  time 
A  day  of  solemn  ceremonial  comes  ; 
When  they,  who  for  this  minor  hold  in  trust 
Rights  that  transcend  the  humblest  heritage 
Of  mere  humanity,  present  their  charge. 
For  this  occasion  daintily  adorn'd. 
At  the  baptismal  font.     And  when  the  pure 
And  consecrating  element  hath  cleansed 
Th'  original  stain,  the  child  is  there  received 
Into  the  second  ark,  Christ's  church,  with  trust 
That  he,  from  wrath  redeem'd,  therein  shall  float 
Over  the  billows  of  this  troublesome  world 
To  the  fair  land  of  everlasting  life. 
Corrupt  affections,  covetous  desires, 
Are  all  renounced ;  high  as  the  thought  of  man 
Can  carry  virtue,  virtue  is  profess'd  ; 
A  dedication  made,  a  promise  given 
For  due  provision  to  control  and  guide. 
And  unremitting  progress  to  ensure 
In  holiness  and  truth." 


"  You  cannot  blame," 
Here  interposing  fervently  I  said, 
"  Rites  which  attest  that  man  by  nature  lies 
Bedded  for  good  and  evil  in  a  gulf 
Fearfully  low  ;  nor  will  your  judgment  scom 
Those  services,  whereby  attempt  is  made 
To  lift  the  creature  toward  that  eminence 
On  which,  now  fall'n,  ere  while  in  majesty 
He  stood ;  or  if  not  so,  whose  top  serene 
At  least  he  feels  'tis  given  him  to  descry ; 
Not  without  aspirations,  evermore 
Returning,  and  injunctions  from  within 
Doubt  to  cast  off  and  weariness;  in  trust 
That  what  the  soul  perceives,  if  glfv  lost, 
May  be,  through  pains  and  persever.r.^  hope, 
Recover'd  ;  or,  if  Hitherto  unknown. 
Lies  within  reach,  and  one  day  shall  be  gaiu'd." 

"  I  blame  them  not,"  he  calmly  answer'd,  «no| 
The  outward  ritual  and  establish'd  forms 
With  which  communities  of  men  invest 
These  inward  feelings,  and  th'  aspiring  vows 
To  which  the  lips  give  public  utterance, 
Are  both  a  natural  process  ;  and  by  me 
Shall  pass  uncensured  ;  though  the  issue  prove, 
Bringing  from  age  to  age  its  own  reproach, 
Incongruous,  impotent,  and  blank.     But,  oh  ! 
If  to  be  weak  is  to  be  wretched — miserable. 
As  the  lost  angel  by  a  human  voice 
Hath  mournfully  pronounced,  then,  in  my  mind, 
Far  better  not  to  move  at  all  than  move 
By  impulse  sent  from  such  illusive  power. 
That  finds  and  cannot  fasten  down  ;  that  grasps 
And  is  rejoiced,  and  loses  while  it  grasps  ; 
That  tempts,  imboldens — doth  a  while  sustain, 
And  then  betrays  ;  accuses  and  inflicts 
Remorseless  punishment ;  and  so  retreads 
Th'  inevitable  circle  :  better  far 
Than  this,  to  graze  the  herb  in  thoughtless  peace. 
By  foresight  or  remembrance,  undisturbed  ! 

"  Philosophy  !  and  thou  more  vaunted  name, 
Religion  !  with  thy  statelier  retinue. 
Faith,  hope,  and  charity — from  the  visible  world 
Choose  for  your  emblems  whatsoe'er  ye  find 
Of  safest  guidance  and  of  firmest  trust, — 
The  torch,  the  star,  the  anchor;  nor  except 
The  cross  itself,  at  whose  unconscious  feet 
The  generations  of  mankind  have  knelt 
Ruefully  seized,  and  shedding  bitter  tears, 
And  through  that  conflict  seeking  rest — of  you 
High  titled  powers,  am  I  constrain'd  to  ask. 
Here  standing,  with  th'  unvoyageable  sky 
In  faint  reflection  of  infinitude 
Stretch'd  overhead,  and  at  my  pensive  feet 
A  subterraneous  magazme  of  bones. 
In  whose  dark  vaults  my  own  shall  soon  be  laid. 
Where  are  your  triumphs  ?  your  dominion  where  P 
And  in  what  age  admitted  and  confirm'd  ? 
Not  for  a  happy  land  do  I  inquire. 
Island  or  grove,  that  hides  a  blessed  few 
Who,  with  obedience  willing  and  sincere, 
To  your  serene  authorities  conform  ; 
But  whom,  1  ask,  of  individual  souls, 
Have  ye  withdrawn  from  passion's  crooked  ways. 
Inspired,  and  thoroughly  fortified  ?     If  the  heart 
Could  be  inspected  to  its  inmost  folds 
By  f.ght  undazzled  with  the  glare  of  praise. 


454 


WORDSWORTH. 


Who  shall  be  named — in  the  resplendent  line 
Of  sages,  martyrs,  confessors — the  man 
Whom  the  best  might  of  conscience,  truth  and  hope. 
For  one  day's  little  compass  has  preserved 
From  painful  and  discreditable  shocks 
Of  contradiction,  from  some  vague  desire 
Culpably  cherish'd,  or  corrupt  relapse 
To  some  unsanction 'd  fear  ?" 

"  If  this  be  so, 
And  man,"  said  I,  "  be  in  his  noblest  shape 
Thus  pitiably  infirm  ;  then,  He  who  made, 
And  who  shall  judge  the  creature,  will  forgive. 
Yet,  in  its  general  tenor,  your  complaint 
Is  all  too  true  ;  and  surely  not  misplaced  : 
For,  from    this    pregnant  spot    of   ground,  such 

thoughts 
Rise  to  the  notice  of  a  serious  mind 
By  natural  exhalation.     With  the  dead 
In  their  repose,  the  living  in  their  mirth, 
Who  can  reflect,  unmoved,  upon  the  round 
Of  smooth  and  solemnized  complacencies, 
By  which,  on  Christian  lands,  from  age  to  age 
Profession  mocks  performance.     Earth'  is  sick, 
And  heaven  is  weary,  of  the  hollow  words 
Which  states  and  kingdoms  utter  v/hen  they  talk 
Of  truth  and  justice.     Turn  to  private  life 
And  social  neighbourhood  ;  look  we  to  ourselves  ; 
A  light  of  duty  shines  on  every  day 
For  all ;  and  yet  how  few  are  warm'd  or  cheer 'd  ! 
How  few  who  mingle  with  their  fellow  men 
And  still  remain  self-govern'd,  and  apart. 
Like  this  our  honour'd  friend :  and  thence  acquire 
Right  to  expect  his  vigorous  decline. 
That  promises  to  th'  end  a  blest  old  age  !" 

"  Yet,"  with  a  smile  of  triumph  thus  exclaim'd 
The  solitary,  "  in  the  life  of  man. 
If  to  the  poetry  of  common  speech 
Faith  may  be  given,  we  see  as  in  a  glass 
A  true  reflection  of  the  circling  year, 
With  all  its  seasons.     Grant  that  spring  is  there, 
In  spite  of  many  a  rough,  untoward  blast, 
Hopeful  and  promising  with  buds  and  flowers  ; 
Yet  where  is  glowing  summer's  long  rich  day, 
That  ought  to  follow  faithfully  express'd  ? 
And  mellow  autumn,  charged  with  bounteous  fruit. 
Where  is  she  imaged  ?  in  what  favour'd  clime 
Her  lavish  pomp,  and  ripe  magnificence  ? 
Yet,  while  the  better  part  is  miss'd,  the  worse 
In  man's  autumnal  season  is  set  forth 
With  a  resemblance  not  to  be  denied. 
And  that  contents  him  ;  bowers  that  hear  no  more 
The  voice  of  gladness,  less  and  less  supply 
Of  outward  sunshine  and  internal  warmth  ; 
And,  with  this  change,  sharp  air  and  falling  leaves, 
Foretelling  total  winter,  blank  and  cold. 
"  How  gay  the  habitations  that  bedeck 
This  fertile  valley  !     Not  a  house  but  seems 
To  give  assurance  of  content  within  ; 
Imbosom'd  happiness,  and  placid  love ; 
As  if  the  sunshine  of  the  day  were  met 
With  answering  brightness  in  the  hearts  of  all 
Who  walk  this  favour'd    ground.      But    chance 

regards. 
And  notice  forced  upon  incurious  ears  5 
These,  if  these  only,  acting  in  despite 
Of  the  encomiums  by  my  friend  pronounced 


On  humble  life,  forbid  the  judging  mind 

To  trust  the  smiling  aspect  of  this  fair 

And  noiseless  commonwealth.     The  simple  race 

Of  mountaineers  (by  nature's  self  removed 

From  foul  temptations,  and  by  constant  care 

Of  a  good  shepherd  tended  as  themselves 

Do  tend  their  flocks)  partake  man's  general  lot 

With  little  mitigation.     They  escape. 

Perchance,  guilt's  heavier  woes ;  and  do  not  feel 

The  tedium  of  fantastic  idleness  ; 

Yet  life,  as  with  the  multitude,  with  them, 

Is  fashion'd  like  an  ill-constructed  tale  ; 

That  on  the  outset  wastes  its  gay  desires. 

Its  fair  adventures,  its  enlivening  hopes. 

And  pleasant  interests — for  the  sequel  leaving 

Old  things  repeated  with  diminish'd  grace  j 

And  all  the  labour'd  novelties  at  best 

Imperfect  substitutes,  whose  use  and  power 

Evince  the  want  and  weakness  whence  they  sprinn-" 

While  in  this  serious  mood  we  held  discourse, 
The  reverend  pastor  toward  the  churchyard  gat* 
Approach'd ;  and,  with  a  mild,  respectful  air 
Of  native  cordiality,  our  friend 
Advanced  to  greet  him.     With  a  gracious  mien 
Was  he  received,  and  mutual  joy  prevail'd. 
Awhile  they  stood  in  conference,  and  I  guess 
That  he,  who  now  upon  the  mossy  wall 
Sate  by  my  side,  had  vanish'd,  if  a  wish 
Could  have  transferr'd  him  to  his  lonely  house 
Within  the  circuit  of  those  guardian  rocks. 
For  me,  I  look'd  upon  the  pair,  well  pleased 
Nature  had  framed  them  both,  and  both  were  maik'd 
By  circumstance,  with  intermixture  fine 
Of  contrast  and  resemblance.     To  an  oak 
Hardy  and  grand,  a  weather-beaten  oak, 
Fresh  in  the  strength  and  majesty  of  age, 
One  might  be  liken'd  :  flourishing  appear'd. 
Though  somewhat  past  the  fulness  of  his  prime. 
The  other — like  a  stately  sycamore. 
That  spreads,  in  gentler  pomp,  its  honey'd  shade. 

A  general  greeting  was  exchanged :  and  soon 
The  pastor  learn'd  that  his  approach  had  given 
A  welcome  interruption  to  discourse 
Grave,  and  in  truth  too  often  sad.    "  Is  man 
A  child  of  hope  ?     Do  generations  press 
On  generations,  v/ithout  progress  made  ? 
Halts  the  individual,  ere  his  hairs  be  gray, 
Perforce  ?    Are  we  a  creature  in  whom  good 
Preponderates,  or  evil  ?    Doth  the  will 
Acknowledge  reason's  law  ?     A  living  power 
Is  virtue,  or  no  better  than  a  name. 
Fleeting  as  health,  or  beauty,  and  unsound  ? 
So  that  the  only  substance  which  remains, 
(For  thus  the  tenor  of  complaint  hath  run,) 
Among  so  many  shadows,  are  the  pains 
And  penalties  of  miserable  life, 
Doom'd  to  decay,  and  then  expire  in  dust  I 
Our  cogitations  this  way  have  been  drawn. 
These  are  the  points,"  the  wanderer  said,  "on 

which 
Our  inquest  turns.     Accord,  good  sir  !  the  light 
Of  your  experience  to  dispel  this  gloom  : 
By  your  persuasive  w»dom  shall  the  heart 
That  frets,  or  languishes,  be  still'd  and  cheer'd." 

"  Our  nature,"  said  the  priest,  in  mild  reply, 
"  Angels  may  weigh  and  fathom  :  they  perceive. 


THE    EXCURSION. 


455 


With  undistemper'd  and  unclouded  spirit, 

The  object  as  it  is  ;  but,  for  ourselves, 

That  speculative  height  we  may  not  reacli. 

The  good  and  evil  are  our  own  ;  and  we 

Are  that  which  we  would  contemplate  from  far. 

Knowledge,  for  us,  is  difficult  to  gain — 

Is  difficult  to  gain,  and  hard  to  keep — 

As  virtue's  self;  like  virtue  is  beset 

With  snares  ;  tried,  tempted,  subject  to  decay. 

Love,  admiration,  fear,  desire,  and  hate, 

Blind  were  we  without  these  :  through  these  alone 

Are  capable  to  notice  or  discern. 

Or  to  record  ;  we  judge,  but  cannot  be 

Indifferent  judges.     'Spite  of  proudest  boast, 

Reason,  best  reason,  is  t'  imperfect  man 

An  effort  onl}',  and  a  noble  aim  ; 

A  crown,  an  attribute  of  sovereign  power, 

Still  to  be  courted — never  to  be  won  ! 

Look  forth,  or  each  man  dive  into  himself; 

What  sees  he  but  a  creature  too  perturb'd. 

That  is  transported  to  excess  ;  that  yearns. 

Regrets,  or  trembles,  wrongly,  or  too  much  ; 

Hopes  rashly,  in  disgust  as  rash  recoils  ; 

Battens  on  spleen,  or  moulders  in  despair  r 

Thus  truth  is  miss'd,  and  comprehension  fails  ; 

And  darkness  and  delusion  round  our  path 

Spread,  from  disease,  whose  subtile  injury  lurks 

Within  the  very  faculty  of  sight. 

"  Yet  for  the  general  purposes  of  faith 
In  providence,- for  solace  and  support, 
We  may  not  doubt  that  who  can  best  subject 
The  will  to  reason's  law,  and  strictliest  live 
And  act  in  that  obedience,  he  shall  gain 
The  clearest  apprehension  of  those  truths, 
Which  unassisted  reason's  utmost  power 
Is  too  infirm  to  reach.     But — waiving  this, 
And  our  regards  confining  within  bounds 
Of  less  exalted  consciousness — through  which 
The  very  multitude  are  free  to  range — 
We  safely  may  affirm  that  human  life 
Is  either  fair  and  tempting,  a  soft  scene 
Grateful  to  sight,  refreshing  to  the  soul, 
Or  a  forbidding  tract  of  cheerless  view ; 
E'en  as  the  same  is  look'd  at  or  approach'd. 
Thus,  when  in  changeful  April  snow  has  fall'n, 
And  fields  are  white,  if  from  the  sullen  north 
Your  walk  conduct  you  hither,  ere  the  sun 
Hath  gain'd  his  noontide  height,  this  churchyard, 

fill'd 
With  mounds  transversely  Ij'ing  side  by  side 
From  east  to  west,  before  you  will  appear 
An  unillumined,  blank,  and  dreary  plain. 
With  more  than  wintry  cheerlessness  and  gloom 
Saddening  the  heart.    Go  forward,  and  look  back. 
Look,  from  the  quarter  whence  the  Lord  of  light. 
Of  life,  of  love,  and  gladness  doth  dispense 
His  beams  ;  which,  unexcluded  in  their  fall. 
Upon  the  southern  side  of  every  grave 
Have  gently  exercised  a  melting  power, 
Then  will  a  vernal  prospect  greet  your  eye, 
All  fresh  and  beautiful,  and  green  and  bright, 
Hopeful  and  cheerful :  vanish 'd  is  the  snow, 
Vahish'd  or  hidden  ;  and  the  whole  domain. 
To  some  too  lightly  minded  might  appear 
A  meadow  carpet  for  the  dancing  hours. 
This  contrast,  not  unsuitable  to  life. 


Is  to  that  other  state  more  apposite. 
Death  and  its  twofold  aspect ;  wintry — one. 
Cold,  sullen,  blank,  from  hope  and  joy  shut  out ; 
The  other,  which  the  ray  divine  hath  touch'd. 
Replete  with  vivid  promise,  bright  as  spring." 

"  We  see,  then,  as  we  feel,"  the  wanderer  thus 
With  a  complacent  animation  spake, 
"  And  in  j^our  judgment,  sir !  the  mind's  repose 
On  evidence  is  not  to  be  ensured 
By  act  of  naked  reason.    Moral  truth 
Is  no  mechanic  structure,  built  by  rule  ; 
And  which,  once  built,  retains  a  steadfast  shape 
And  undisturb'd  proportions  ;  but  a  thing 
Subject,  you  deem,  to  vital  accidents  ; 
And,  like  the  water-lily,  lives  and  thrives. 
Whose  root  is  fix'd  in  stable  earth,  whose  head 
Floats  on  the  tossing  waves.     With  joy  sinceie 
I  re-salute  these  sentiments  confiim'd 
By  your  authority.     But  how  acquire 
The  inward  principle  that  gives  effect 
To  outward  argument :  the  passive  will 
Meek  to  admit ;  the  active  energy. 
Strong  and  unbounded  to  embrace,  and  finr 
To  keep  and  cherish  ?     How  shall  man  umte 
With  self-forgetting  tenderness  of  heart 
An  earth  despising  dignity  of  soul  ? 
Wise  in  that  union,  and  without  it  blind  !" 

"  The  way,"  said  I,  "  to  court,  if  not  obtain 
Th'  ingenuous  mind,  apt  to  be  set  aright, 
This,  in  the  lonely  dell  discoursing,  you 
Declared  at  large  ;  and  by  what  exercise 
From  visible  nature  or  the  inner  self 
Power  may  be  train'd,  and  renovation  brought 
To  those  who  need  the  gift.     But,  after  all, 
Is  aught  so  certain  as  that  man  is  doom'd 
To  breathe  beneath  a  vault  of  ignorance  ? 
The  natural  roof  of  that  dark  house  in  which 
His  soul  is  pent !     How  little  can  be  known— 
This  is  the  wise  man's  sigh  :  how  far  we  err— 
This  is  the  good  man's  not  unfrequent  pang ! 
And  they  perhaps  err  least,  the  lowly  class 
Whom  a  benign  necessity  compels 
To  follow  reason's  least  ambitious  course: 
Such  do  I  meav^  who,  unperplex'd  by  doubt, 
And  uninciled  by  a  wish  to  look 
Into  high  objects  farther  than  they  may. 
Pace  to  and  fro,  from  morn  till  eventide. 
The  narrow  avenue  of  daily  toil 
For  daily  bread." 

"  Yes,"  buoyantly  exclaim'd 
The  pale  recluse — "  praise  to  the  sturdy  plough, 
And  patient  spade,  and  shepherd's  simple  crook, 
And  ponderous  loom — resounding  while  it  holds 
Body  and  mind  in  one  captivity  ; 
And  let  the  light  mechanic  tool  be  hail'd 
With  honour ;  which,  encasing  by  the  power 
Of  long  companionship,  the  artist's  hand. 
Cuts  oft' that  hand,  with  all  its  world  of  nerves, 
From  a  too  busy  commerce  with  the  heart  J 
Inglorious  implements  of  craft  and  toil. 
Both  ye  that  shape  and  build,  and  ye  that  force. 
By  slow  solicitation,  earth  to  jield 
Her  annual  bounty,  sparingly  dealt  forth 
With  wise  reluctance,  you  would  I  extol. 
Not  for  gross  good  alone  which  ye  produce. 
But  for  th'  impertinent  and  ceaseless  strife 


456 


WORDSWORTH. 


Of  proofs  and  reasons  ye  preclude — in  those 
Who  to  your  dull  society  are  born, 
And  with  their  humble  birthright  rest  content. 
Would  I  had  ne'er  renounced  it  I" 

A  slight  flush 
Of  moral  anger  previously  had  tinged 
The  old  man's  cheek  ;  but,  at  this  closing  turn 
Of  self-reproach,  it  pass'd  away.     Said  he, 
"  That  which  we  feel  we  utter  ;  as  we  think 
So  have  we  argued  ;  reaping  for  our  pains 
No  visible  recompense.     For  our  relief 
You,"  to  the  pastor  turning  thus  he  spake, 
"  Have  kindly  interposed.    May  I  entreat 
Your  further  help  ?     The  mine  of  real  life 
Dig  for  us  ;  and  present  us,  in  the  shape 
Of  virgin  ore,  that  gold  which  we,  by  pains 
Fruitless  as  those  of  aiiry  alchymists. 
Seek  from  the  torturing  crucible.     There  lies 
Around  us  a  domain  where  you  have  long 
Watch'(^both  the  outward  course  and  inner  heart ; 
Give  us,  for  our  abstractions,  solid  facts  ; 
For  our  disputes,  plain  pictures.     Say  what  man 
He  is  who  cultivates  yon  hanging  field  ; 
What  qualities  of  mind  she  bears,  who  comes, 
For  morn  and  evening  service,  with  her  pail. 
To  that  green  pasture  ;  place  before  our  sight 
The.  family  who  dwell  within  yon  house 
Fenced  round  with  glittering  laurel ;  or  in  that     . 
Below,  from  which  the  curling  smoke  ascends. 
Or  rather,  as  we  stand  on  holy  earth. 
And  have  the  dead  around  us,  take  from  them 
Your  irjstances  ;  for  they  are  both  best  known. 
And  by  frail  man  most  equitably  judged. 
Epitomise  the  life  ;  pronounce,  you  can. 
Authentic  epitaphs  on  some  of  these 
Who,  from  their  lowly  mansions  hither  brought. 
Beneath  this  turf  lie  mouldering  at  our  feet. 
So,  by  your  records,  may  our  doubts  be  solved  ; 
And  so,  not  searching  higher,  we  may  learn 
To  prize  the  breath  we  share  with  human  kind  ; 
And  look  upon  the  dust  of  man  with  awe." 

The  priest  replied.    "  An  office  you  impose 
For  which  peculiar  requisites  are  mine  ; 
Yet  much,  I  feel,  is  wanting — else  the  task 
Would  be  most  grateful.     True  indeed  it  is 
That  they  whom  death  has  hidden  from  our  sight 
Are  worthiest  of  the  mind's  regard  ;  with  these 
The  future  cannot  contradict  the  past : 
Mortality's  last  exercise  and  proof 
Is  undergone  ;  the  transit  made  that  shows 
The  very  soul,  reveal'd  as  she  departs. 
Yet,  on  your  first  suggestion,  will  I  give. 
Ere  we  descend  into  these  silent  vaults. 
One  picture  from  the  living. — 

"  You  behold, 
High  on  the  breast  of  yon  dark  mountain — dark 
With  stony  barrenness,  a  shining  speck 
Bright  as  a  sunbeam  sleeping  till  a  shower 
Brush  it  away,  or  cloud  pass  over  it ; 
And  such  it  might  be  deem'd — a  sleeping  sunbeam  ; 
But  'tis  a  plot  of  cultivated  ground. 
Cut  off,  an  island  in  the  dusky  waste  ; 
And  that  attractive  brightness  is  its  own. 
The  lofty  site,  by  nature  framed  to  tempt 
Amid  a  wilderness  of  rocks  and  stones 
The  tiller's  hand,  a  hermit  might  have  chosen. 


For  opportunity  presented,  thence 
Far  forth  to  send  his  wandering  eye  o'er  land 
And  ocean,  and  look  down  upon  the  works. 
The  habitations,  and  the  ways  of  men. 
Himself  unseen  !     But  no  tradition  tells 
That  ever  hermit  dipp'd  his  maple  dish 
In  the  sweet  spring  that  lurks  'mid  yon  green  fields  j 
And  no  such  visionary  views  belong 
To  those  who  occupy  and  till  the  ground. 
And  on  the  bosom  of  the  mountain  dwell — 
A  wedded  pair  in  childless  solitude. 
A  house  of  stones  collected  on  the  spot, 
By  rude  hands  built,  with  rocky  knolls  in  front, 
Back'd  also  by  a  iedge  of  rock,  whose  crest 
Of  birch  trees  waves  upon  the  chimney  top  j 
A  rough  abode — in  colour,  shape,  and  size. 
Such  as  in  unsafe  times  of  border  war 
Might  have  beer  -^vish'd  for  and  contrived,  t'  elude 
The  eye  of  roving  plunderer — for  their  need 
Suffices  and  unshaken  bears  the  assault 
Of  their  most  dreaded  foe,  the  strong  south-west 
In  anger  blowing  from  the  distant  sea. 
Alone  within  her  solitary  hut ; 
Ther^,  or  within  the  compass  of  her  fields. 
At  any  moment  may  the  dame  be  found 
True  as  the  stock-dove  to  her  shallow  nest 
And  to  the  grove  that  holds  it.     She  beguiles 
By  intermingled  work  of  house  and  field 
The  summer's  day,  and  winter's  ;  with  success    • 
Not  equal,  but  sufficient  to  maintain. 
E'en  at  the  worst,  a  smooth  stream  of  content, 
Until  the  expected  hour  at  which  her  mate 
From  the  far-distant  quarry's  vault  returns ; 
And  by  his  converse  crowns  a  silent  day 
With  evening  cheerfulness.    In  powers  of  mind. 
In  scale  of  culture,  few  among  my  flock 
Elold  lower  rank  than  this  sequester'd  pair ; 
But  humbleness  of  heart  descends  from  heaven  ; 
And  that  best  gift  of  heaven  hath  fall'n  on  them  ; 
Abundant  recompense  for  every  want. 
Stoop  from  your  height,  ye  proud,  and  copy  these  ! 
Who,  in  their  noiseless  dwelling  place,  can  hear 
The  voice  of  wisdom  whispering  Scripture  texts 
For  the  mind's  government,  or  temper's  peace  ; 
And  recommending,  for  their  mutual  need, 
Forgiveness,  patience,  hope,  and  charity  !" 
"  Much  was  I  pleased,"  the  gray-hair'd  wanderer 

said, 
"  When  to  those  shining  fields  our  notice  first 
You  turn'd  ;  and  yet  more  pleased  have  from  youi 

lips 
Gather'd  this  fair  report  of  them  who  dwell 
In  that  retirement ;  whither,  by  such  course 
Of  '^vil  hap  and  good  as  oft  awaits 
A  lone  wayfaring  man,  I  once  was  brought. 
Dark  on  my  road  th'  autumnal  evening  fell 
While  I  was  traversing  yon  mountain  pass. 
And  night  succeeded  with  unusual  gloom  : 
So  that  my  feet  and  hands  at  length  became 
Guides  better  than  mine  eyes  ;  until  a  light 
High  in  the  gloom  appear'd,  too  high,  methought^ 
For  human  habitation  ;  but  I  long'd 
To  reach  it,  destitute  of  other  hope. 
I  look'd  with  steadiness  as  sailors  look 
On  the  north  star,  or  watch-tower's  distant  lamp. 
And  saw  the  light — now  fix'd — and  shifting  now   • 


THE    EXCURSION. 


457 


Not  like  a  dancing  nieteor,  but  in  line 

Of  never- varying  motion,  to  and  fro  : 

It  is  no  night-fire  of  the  naked  hills, 

Thought  I,  some  friendly  covert  must  be  near. 

With  this  persuasion  thitherward  my  steps 

I  turn,  and  reach  at  last  the  guiding  light ; 

Joy  to  myself!  but  to  the  heart  of  her 

Who  there  was  standing  on  the  open  hill, 

(The  same  kmd  matron  whom  your  tongue  hath 

praised,) 
Alarm  and  dissappointment !     The  alarm 
Ceased,  when  she  learn'd  through  what  mishap  I 

came. 
And  by  what  help  had  gain'd  those  distant  fields. 
Drawn  from  her  cottage,  on  that  open  height. 
Bearing  a  lantern  in  her  hand  she  stood, 
Or  paced  the  ground,  to  guide  her  husband  home, 
By  that  unwearied  signal,  kenn'd  afar ; 
An  anxious  duty  !  which  the  lofty  site. 
Traversed  but  by  a  few  irreguiar  paths. 
Imposes,  whensoe'er  untoward  chance  . 

Detains  him  after  his  accustom'd  hour 
Till  night  lies  black  upon  the  ground.    '  But  come, 
Come,'  said  the  matron, '  to  our  poor  abode  ; 
Those  dark  rocks  hide  it!'     Entering,  I  beheld 
A  blazing  fire,  beside  a  cleanly  hearth 
Sate  down  ;  and  to  her  office,  with  leave  ask'd. 
The  dame  return'd.     Or  ere  that  glowing  pile 
Of  mountain  turf  required  the  builder's  hand 
Its  wasted  splendour  to  repair,  the  door 
Open'd,  and  she  re-enter'd  with  glad  looks, 
Her  helpmate  following.     Hospitable  fare, 
Frank  conversation,  made  the  evening's  treat; 
fseed  a  bewilder'd  traveller  wush  for  more  ? 
B  it  more  was  given ;  I  studied  as  we  sate 
By  the  bright  fire,  the  good  man's  face ;  composed 
Gi  fea'.ures  elegant ;  an  open,  brow 
Of  undisturb'd  humanity  ;  a  cheek 
Suflfused  with  something  of  a  feminine  hue  ; 
Eyes  beaming  courtesy  and  mild  regard  ; 
But,  in  the  quicker  turns  of  the  discourse, 
Expression  slowly  varying,  that  evinced 
A  tardy  apprehension.     From  a  fount 
Lost,  thought  I,  in  th'  obscurities  of  time, 
But  honour'd  once,  these  features  and  that  mien 
May  have  descended,  though  I  see  them  here, 
In  such  a  man,  so  gentle  and  subdued. 
Withal  so  graceful  in  his  gentleness, 
A  race  illust.ious  for  heroic  deeds, 
Humbled,  but  not  degraded,  may  expire. 
This  pleasing;  fancy  (cherish'd  and  upheld 
By  sundry  recollections  of  such  fall 
From  high  to  low,  ascent  from  low  to  high, 
As  books  record,  and  e'en  the  careless  mind 
Cannot  but  notice  among  men  and  things) 
Went  with  me  to  the  place  of  my  repose. 

"  Roused  by  the  crowing  cock  at  dawn  of  day, 
I  yet  had  risen  too  late  to  interchange 
A  morning  salutation  with  my  host. 
Gone  forth  already  to  the  far-off  seat 
Of   his    dav's   work.      <  Three  dark    mid-winter 

months 
Pass,'  said  the  matron, '  and  I  never  see. 
Save  when  the  Sabbath  brings  its  kind  release. 
My  helpmate's  face  by  light  of  day.     He  quits 
His  door  in  darkness,  nor  till  dusk  returns. 


And,  through  Heaven's  blessing,  thus  we  gain  th 

bread 
For  which  we  pray  ;  and  for  the  wants  provide 
Of  sickness,  accident,  and  helpless  age. 
Companions  have  I  many  ;  many  friends. 
Dependants,  comfortors — my  wheel,  my  fire, 
All  day  the  house-clock  ticking  in  mine  ear. 
The  cackling  hen,  the  tender  chicken  brood, 
And  the  wild  birds  that  gather  round  my  porch. 
This  honest  sheep-dog's  countenance  I  read: 
With  him  can  talk  ;  nor  blush  to  waste  a  word 
On  creatures  less  intelligent  and  shrewd. 
And  if  the  blustering  wind  that  drives  the  clouds 
Care  not  for  me,  he  lingers  round  my  door. 
And  makes  me  pastime  w^hen  our  tempers  suit  j 
But,  above  all,  my  thoughts  are  my  support. 
The  matron  ended — nor  could     'orbear 
To  exclaim, '  O  hapjy  !  yielding  to  the  law 
Of  these  privations,  richer  in  the  main  ! 
While  thankless  thousands  are  opprest  and  clogg'd 
By  ease  and  leisure,  by  the  very  wealth 
And  pride  of  opportunity  made  poor  ; 
While  tens  of  thousands  falter  in  their  path. 
And  sink,  through  utter  want  of  cheering  light ; 
For  you  the  hours  of  labour  do  not  flag  : 
For  you  each  evening  hath  its  shining  star, 
And  every  Sabbath  day  its  golden  sun.'  " 
"  Yes  !"  said  the  solitary  with  a  smile 
That  seem'd  to  break  from  an  expanding  heart, 
"  The  un  tutor 'd  bird  may  found,  and  so  construct 
And  with  such  soft  materials  line  her  nest, 
Fix'd  in  the  centre  of  a  prickly  brake, 
That  the  thorns  wound  her  not :  they  only  guard. 
Powers  not  unjustly  liken'd  to  those  gifts 
Of  happy  instinct  which  the  woodland  bird 
Shares  with  her  species,  nature's  grace  sometimes 
Upon  the  indivj^dual  doth  confer, 
Among  her  higher  creatures  born  and  train'd 
To  use  of  reason.     And,  I  own,  that  tired 
Of  th'  ostentatious  world — a  swelling  stage 
With  empty  actions  and  vain  passions  stuft"'d. 
And  from  the  private  struggles  of  mankind 
Hoping  for  less  than  I  could  wish  to  hope. 
Far  les-3  than  once  I  trusted  and  believed — 
I  loved  to  hear  of  those,  who,  not  contending. 
Nor  summon'd  to  contend  for  virtue's  prize. 
Miss  not  the  humbler  good  at  which  they  aim  ; 
Blest  with  a  kindly  faculty  to  blunt 
The  edge  of  adverse  circumstance,  and  turn 
Into  their  contraries  the  petty  plagues 
And  hinderances  with  which  they  stand  beset. 
In  early  youth,  among  my  native  hills, 
I  knew  a  Scottish  peasant  who  possess'd 
A  few  small  crofts  of  stone-encumber'd  ground ; 
Masses  cri  every  shape  and  size,  that  lay 
Scatter'd  about  under  the  mouldering  walls 
Of  a  rough  precipice  ;  and  some,  apart, 
In  quarters  unobnoxious  to  such  chance, 
As  if  the  moon  had  shower'd  them  down  in  spite ; 
But  he  repined  not.     Though  the  plough  was  scared 
By  these  obstructions, '  round  the  shady  stones 
A  fertilizing  moisture,'  said  the  swain, 
'  Gathers,  and  is  preserved ;  and  feeding  dews 
And  damps,  through  all  the  droughty  summer  daj. 
From  out  their  substance  issuing  maintain 
Her\iage  that  never  fails  :  no  grass  springs  up 


458 


WORDSWORTH. 


So  green,  so  fresh,  so  plentiful,  as  mine  !' 
But  thinly  sown  these  natures  ;  rare,  at  least. 
The  mutual  aptitude  of  seed  and  soil 
That  yields  such  kindly  product.     He,  whose  bed 
Perhaps  yon  loose  sods  cover,  the  poor  pensioner 
Brought  yesterday  from  our  sequester'd  dell 
Here  to  lie  down  in  lasting  quiet — he, 
If  living  now,  could  otherwise  report 
Of  rustic  loneliness;  that  gray-hair'd  orphan- 
So  call  him,  for  humanity  to  him 
No  parent  was — feelingly  could  have  told. 
In  life,  in  death,  what  solitude  can  breed 
Of  selfishness,  and  cruelty,  and  vice  ; 
Or,  if  it  breed  not,  hath  not  power  to  cure. 
But  your  compliance,  sir,  with  our  request 
My  words  too  long  have  hinder'd." 

Undeterr'd, 
Perhaps  incited  rather,  by  these  shocks. 
In  no  ungracious  opposition,  given 
To  the  confiding  spirit  of  his  own 
Experienced  faith,  the  reverend  pastor  said. 
Around  him  looking,  "  Where  shall  I  begin  ? 
Who  shall  be  first  selected  from  my  flock, 
Gather'd  together  in  their  peaceful  fold  ?" 
He  paused,  and  having  lifted  up  his  eyes 
To  the  pure  heaven,  he  cast  them  down  again 
Upon  the  earth  beneath  his  feet ;  and  spake. 
"  To  a  mysteriously-consorted  pair 
This  place  is  consecrate ;  to  death  and  life, 
And  to  the  best  affections  that  proceed 
From  their  conjunction  ; — consecrate  to  faith 
In  him  who  bled  for  man  upon  the  cross  5 
Hallow'd  to  revelation  ;  and  no  less 
To  reason's  mandates:  and  the  hopes  divine 
Of  pure  imagination  ; — above  all. 
To  charity,  and  love,  that  have  provided 
Within  these  precincts,  a  capacious  bed 
And  receptacle,  open  to  the  good 
And  evil,  to  the  just  and  the  unjust ; 
In  which  they  find  an  equal  resting-place : 
E'en  as  the  multitude  of  kindred  brooks 
And  streams,  whose  murmur  fills  this  hollow  vale. 
Whether  their  course  be  turbulent  or  smooth, 
Their  waters  clear  or  sullied,  all  are  lost 
Within  the  bosom  of  yon  crystal  lake, 
And  end  their  journey  in  the  same  repose  ! 

«  And  blest  are  they  who  sleep ;  and  we  that 

knoWj 
While  in  a  spot  like  this  we  breathe  and  walk. 
That  all  beneath  'o.s  by  the  wings  are  cover'd 
Of  motherly  humanity,  outspread 
And  gathering  all  within  their  tender  shade, 
Though  loath  and  slow  to  come !     A  battle  field, 
In  stillness  left  when  slaughter  is  no  more. 
With  this  compared,  is  a  strange  spectacle  ! 
A  rueful  sight  the  wild  shore  strewn  with  wrecks, 
And  trod  by  people  in  afflicted  quest 
Of  friends  and  kindred,  whom  the  angry  sea 
Restores   not  to  their  prayer !     Ah  !  who  would 

think 
That  all  the  scatter'd  subjects  which  compose 
Earth's  melancholy  vision  through  the  space 
Of  all  her  climes  ;  these  wretched,  these  depraved, 
To  virtue  lost,  insensible  of  peace, 
From  the  delights  of  charity  cut  off. 
To  pity  dead,  th'  oppressor  and  th'  opprest ; 


Tyrants  who  utter  the  destroying  word. 

And  slaves  who  will  consent  to  be  destroy'd— - 

Were  of  one  species  with  the  shelter'd  few. 

Who,  with  a  dutiful  and  tender  hand. 

Did  lodge,  in  an  appropriated  spot. 

This  file  of  infants  ;  some  that  never  breathed 

The  vital  air ;  and  others,  who,  allow'd 

That  privilege,  did  yet  expire  too  soon, 

Or  with  too  brief  a  warning,  to  admit 

Administration  of  the  holy  rite 

That  lovingl}^  consigns  the  babe  to  th'  arms 

Of  Jesus,  and  his  everlasting  care. 

These  that  in  trembling  hope  are  laid  apart ; 

And  the  besprinkled  nursling,  unrequired 

Till  he  begins  to  smile  upon  the  breast 

That  feeds  him  ;  and  the  tottering  little  one 

Taken  from  air  and  sunshine  when  the  rose 

Of  infancy  iiM    blooms  upon  his  cheek  ; 

The   thinking,  thoughtless    schoolboy:    the   bold 

youth 
Of  soul  impetuous,  and  .he  bashful  maid 
Smitten  while  all  the  promises  of  life 
Are  opening  round  her:  those  of  middle  age, 
Cast  down  while  confident  in  strength  they  stand, 
Like  pillars  fix'd  more  firmly,  as  might  seem, 
And  more  secure,  by  very  weight  of  all 
That,  for  support,  rests  on  them  ;  the  decay'd 
And  burdensome :  and  lastly,  that  poor  few 
VV^hose  light  of  reason  is  with  age  extinct ; 
The  hopeful  and  the  hopeless,  first  and  last. 
The  earliest  summon'd  and  the  longest  spared  •• 
Are  here  deposited,  with  tribute  paid 
Various,  but  unto  each  some  tribute  paid  ; 
As  if,  amid  these  peaceful  hills  and  groves. 
Society  were  touch'd  with  kind  concern  : 
And  gentle  '  Nature  grieved,  that  one  should  die  j 
Or,  if  the  change  demanded  no  regret. 
Observed  the  liberating  stroke — and  bless'd. 
And  whence  that  tribute  ?  wherefore  these  regards  ? 
Not  from  the  naked  heart  alone  of  man, 
(Though  claiming  high  distinction  upon  earth 
As  the  sole  spring  and  fountain-head  of  tears. 
His  own  peculiar  utterance  for  distress 
Or  gladness.)     No,"  the  philosophic  priest 
Continued,  "  'tis  not  in  the  vital  seat 
Of  feeling  to  produce  them,  without  aid 
From  the  pure  soul,  the  soul  sublime  and  pure 
With  her  two  faculties  of  eye  and  car. 
The  one  by  which  a  creature,  whom  his  sins 
Have  render'd  prone,  can  upward  look  to  heaven , 
The  other  that  empowers  him  to  perceive 
The  voice  of  deity,  on  height  and  plain, 
Whispering  those   truths  in   stillness,  which  the 

Word, 
To  the  four  quarters  of  the  winds,  proclaims. 
Not  without  such  assistance  could  the  use 
Of  these  benign  observances  prevail. 
Thus  are  they  born,  thus  foster'd  and  maintain*d; 
And  by  the  care  prospective  01  our  wise 
Forefathers,  who,  to  guard  against  the  shocks, 
The  fluctuation  and  decay  of  things, 
Imbodied  and  establish'd  these  high  truths 
In  solemn  institutions  ;  men  convinced 
That  life  is  love  and  immortality. 
The  being  one,  and  one  the  element. 
There  lies  the  channel,  and  original  bed 


THE    EXCURSION. 


459 


From  the  beginning,  hollow'd  out  and  scoop'd 
For  man's  affections  ;  else  betray'd  and  lost. 
And  swallow'd  up  'mid  deserts  infinite  ! 
This  is  the  genuine  course,  the  aim,  and  end 
Of  prescient  reason  ;  all  conclusions  else 
Are  abject,  vain,  presumptuous,  and  perverse, 
The  faith  partaking  of  those  holy  times. 
Life,  I  repeat,  is  energy  of  love 
Divine  or  human  ;  exercised  in  pain. 
In  strife,  and  tribulation  ;  and  ordain'd, 
If  so  approved  and  sanctified,  to  pass. 
Through  shades  and  silent  rest,  to  endless  joy.' 


BOOK   VI. 
THE  CHURCHYARD  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

ARGUMENT. 

Jet's  address  to  the  state  and  church  of  England.  The 
pastor  not  inferior  to  the  ancient  worthies  of  the  church. 
He  begins  his  narratives  with  an  instance  of  unrequited 
(ove.  Anguish  of  mind  subdued,  and  how.  The  lonely 
miner,  an  instance  of  perseverance,  which  leads  by 
contrast  to  an  example  of  abused  talents,  irresolution, 
and  weakness.  Solitary,  applying  this  covertly  to  his 
own  case,  asks  for  an  instance  of  some  stranger,  whose 
dispositions  may  have  led  him  to  end  his  days  here. 
Pastor,  in  answer,  gives  an  account  of  the  harmonizing 
influence  of  solitude  upon  two  men  of  opposite  princi- 
ples, who  had  encountered  agitations  in  public  life. 
The  rule  by  which  peace  may  be  obtained  expressed, 
and  where.  Solitary  hints  at  an  overpowering  fatality. 
Answer  of  the  pastor.  What  subjects  he  will  exclude 
from  his  narratives.  Conversation  upon  this.  Instance 
of  an  unamiable  character,  a  female,  and  why  given. 
Contrasted  with  this,  a  meek  sufferer,  from  unguarded 
and  betrayed  love.  Instance  of  heavier  guilt,  and  its 
consequences  to  tlie  offender,  '  With  this  instance  of  a 
marriage  contract  broken  is  contrasted  one  of  a  wi- 
dov/er,  evidencing  his  faithful  affection  towards  his 
deceased  wife  by  his  care  of  their  female  children. 

Hail  to  the  crown  by  freedom  shaped,  to  gird 
An  English  sovereign's  brow  !  and  to  the  throne 
Whereon  he  sits  !     Whose  deep  foundations  lie 
In  veneration  and  the  people's  love  ; 
Whose  steps  are  equity,  whose  seat  is  law. 
Hail  to  the  state  of  England  !     And  conjoin 
With  this  a  salutation  as  devout. 
Made  to  the  spiritual  fabric  of  her  church : 
Founded  in  truth ;  by  blood  of  martyrdom 
Cemented  ;  by  the  hands  of  wisdom  rear'd 
In  beauty  of  holiness,  with  order'd  pomp. 
Decent,  and  unreproved.    The  voice,  that  greets 
The  majesty  of  both,  shall  pray  for  both ; 
That,  mutually  protected  and  sustain'd. 
They  may  endure  long  as  the  sea  surrounds 
This  favour'd  land,  or  sunshine  warms  her  soil. 
And  0,  ye  swelling  hills,  and  spacious  plains  ! 
Besprent  from  shore  to  shore  with  steeple-towers, 
And  spires  whose  "  silent  finger  points  to  heaven  ;" 
Nor  wanting,  at  wide  intervals,  the  bulk 
Of  ancient  minster,  lifted  above  the  cloud 
Of  the  dense  air,  which  town  or  city  breeds 
To  intercept  the  sun's  glad  beams, — maj'-  ne'er 
That  true  succession  fail  of  English  hearts. 
Who,  with  ancestral  feeling  can  perceive 
What  in  those  holy  structures  ye  possess 
Df  ornamental  interest  and  the  charm 


Of  pious  sentiment  diffused  afar, 

And  human  charity,  and  social  love. 

Thus  never  shall  th'  indignities  of  time 

Approach  their  reverend  graces,  unopposed ; 

Nor  shall  the  elements  be  free  to  hurt 

Their  fair  proportions  ;  nor  the  blinder  rage 

Of  bigot  zeal  madly  to  overturn  ; 

And,  if  the  desolating  hand  of  war 

Spare  them,  they  shall  continue  to  bestow— 

Upon  the  throng'd  abodes  of  busy  men 

(Depraved,  and  ever  prone  to  fill  their  minds 

Exclusively  with  transitory  things) 

An  air  and  mien  of  dignified  pursuit ; 

Of  sweet  civility — on  rustic  wilds. 

The  poet,  fostering  for  his  native  land 

Such  hope,  entreats  that  servants  may  abound 

Of  those  pure  altars  worthy  ;  ministers 

Detach'd  from  pleasure,  to  the  love  of  gain 

Superior,  insusceptible  of  pride, 

And  by  ambitious  longings  undisturb'd ; 

Men,  whose  delight  is  where  their  duty  leads 

Or  fixes  them  ;  whose  least  distinguish'd  day 

Shines  with  some  portion  of  that  heavenly  lustre 

Which  makes  the  Sabbath  lovely  in  the  sight 

Of  blessed  angels,  pitying  human  cares. 

And,  as  on  earth  it  is  the  doom  of  truth 

To  be  perpetually  attack'd  by  foes 

Open  or  covert,  be  that  priesthood  still. 

For  her  defence,  replenish'd  with  a  band 

Of  strenuous  champions,  in  scholastic  arts 

Thoroughly  disciplined  ;  nor  (if  in  course 

Of  the  revolving  world's  disturbances 

Cause  should  recur,  which  righteous  heaven  avert 

To  meet  such  trial)  from  their  spiritual  sire 

Degenerate;  who,  constrain 'd  to  wield  the  sword 

Of  disputation,  shrunk  not,  though  assail'd 

With  hostile  din,  and  combating  in  sight 

Of  angry  umpires,  partial  and  unjust ; 

And  did,  thereafter,  bathe  their  hands  in  fire. 

So  to  declare  the  conscience  satisfied  : 

Nor  for  their  bodies  would  accept  release  ; 

But,  blessing  God  and  praising  him,  bequeathed 

W^ith  their  last  breath,  from  out  the  smould'^«i| 

flame. 
The  faith  which  they  by  diligence  had  earn'd 
Or,  through  illuminating  grace,  received. 
For  their  dear  countrymen,  and  all  mankind. 
0  high  example,  constancy  divine  ! 

E'en  such  a  man  (inheriting  the  zeal 
And  from  the. sanctity  of  elder  times 
Not  deviating, — a  priest,  the  like  of  whom. 
If  multiplied,  and  in  their  stations  set, 
Would  o'er  the  bosom  of  a  joyful  land 
Spread  true  religion,  and  her  genuine  fruits) 
Before  me  stood  that  day ;  on  holy  ground 
Fraught  with  the  relics  of  mortality. 
Exalting  tender  themes,  by  just  degrees 
To  lofty  raised ;  and  to  the  highest,  last ; 
The  head  and  mighty  paramount  of  truths  ; 
Immortal  life,  in  never-fading  worlds. 
For  mortal  creatures,  conquer'd  and  secured. 

That  basis  laid,  those  principles  of  faith 
Announced,  as  a  preparatory  act 
Of  reverence  to  the  spirit  of  the  place  ; 
The  pastor  cast  his  eyes  upon  the  ground. 
Not,  as  before,  like  one  oppress'd  with  awe. 


460 


WORDSWORTH. 


But  with  a  mild  and  social  cheerfulness, 
Then  to  the  solitary  turn'd,  and  spake. 

"  At  morn  or  eve,  in  your  retired  domain, 
Perchance  you  not  unfrequently  have  mark'd 
A  visiter — in  quest  of  herbs  and  flowers  ; 
Too  delicate  employ,  as  would  appear 
For  one,  who,  though  of  drooping  mien,  had  yet 
From  nature's  kindliness  received  a  frame 
Robust  as  ever  rural  labour  bred." 

The  solitary  answer'd :  "  Such  a  form 
Full  well  I  recollect.     We  often  cross'd 
Esch  other's  path ;  but,  as  th'  intruder  seem'd 
Fondly  to  prize  the  silence  which  he  kept, 
And  I  as  willingly  did  cherish  mine, 
We  met,  and  pass'd,  like  shadows.     I  have  heard, 
From  ray  good  host  that  he  was  crazed  in  brain 
By  unrequited  love  ;  and  scaled  the  rocks. 
Dived  into  caves,  and  pierced  the  matted  woods 
In  hope  to  find  some  virtuous  herb  of  power 
To  cure  his  malady  !" 

The  vicar  smiled, 
"Alas  !  before  to-morrow's  sun  goes  down 
His  habitation  will  be  here :  for  him 
That  open  grave  is  destined." 

"  Died  he  then 
Of  pain  and  grief?"  the  solitary  ask'd, 
"  Believe  it  not — oh  !  never  could  that  be  !" 

"  He  loved,"  the  vicar  answer'd,  "  deeply  loved, 
Loved  fondly,  truly,  fervently  ;  and  dared 
At  length  to  tell  his  love,  but  sued  in  vain ; 
Rejected — yea  repell'd — and,  if  with  scorn 
Upon  the  haughty  maiden's  brow,  'tis  but 
A  high-prized  plume  which  female  beauty  wears 
In  wantonness  of  conquest,  or  puts  on 
To  cheat  the  world,  or  from  herself  to  hide 
Humiliation,  when  no  longer  free. 
That  he  could  brook,  and  glory  in  ; — but  when 
The  tidings  came  that  she  whom  he  had  woo'd 
Was  wedded  to  another,  \nd  his  heart 
Was  forced  to  rend  away  its  only  hope, 
Then,  pity  could  have  scarcely  found  on  earth 
An  object  worthier  of  regard  than  he. 
In  the  transition  of  that  bitter  hour  ! 
Lost  was  she,  lost ;  nor  could  the  sufferer  say 
That  in  the  act  of  preference  he  had  been 
Unjustly  dealt  with  ;  but  the  maid  was  gone  I 
Had  vanish'd  from  his  prospects  and  desires ; 
Not  by  translation  to  the  heavenly  choir 
Who  have  put  off  their  mortal  spoils — ah  no  J 
She  lives  another  s  wishes  to  complete, — 

Joy  be  their  lot,  and  happiness,'  he  cried, 
'  His  lot  and  hers  as  misery  is  mine  !' 

"  Such  was  that  strong  concussion  ;  but  the  man. 
Who  trembled,  trunk  and  limbs,  like  some  huge  oak 
By  a  fierce  tempest  shaken,  soon  resumed 
The  steadfast  quiet  natural  to  a  mind 
Of  composition  gentle  and  sedate, 
And  in  its  movements  circumspect  and  slow. 
To  books,  and  to  the  long  forsaken  desk. 
O'er  which  enchain'd  by  science  he  had  loved 
To  bend,  he  stoutly  readdress'd  himself, 
Resolved  to  quell  his  pain,  and  search  for  truth 
With  keener  appetite  (if  that  might  be) 
And  closer  industry.     Of  what  ensued 
Within  the  heart  no  outward  sign  appear'd 
Till  a  betraying  sickliness  was  seen 


To  tinge  his  cheek  ;  and  through  his  frame  it  crept 

With  slow  mutation  unconcealaltle ; 

Such  universal  change  as  autumn  makes 

In  the  fair  body  of  a  leafy  grove 

Discolour'd,  then  divested.     'Tis  alTirra'd 

By  poets  skill'd  in  nature's  secret  ways 

That  love  will  not  submit  to  be  controll'd 

By  mastery:  and  the  good  man  lack'd  not  friends 

Who  strove  t'  instil  this  truth  into  his  mind, 

A  mind  in  all'heart  mysteries  unversed. 

'  Go  to  the  hills,'  said  one, '  remit  a  while 

This  baneful  diligence  :  at  early  morn 

Court  the  fresh  air,  explore  the  heaths  and  woods  ; 

And,  leaving  it  to  others  to  foretell,  i 

By  calculations  sage,  the  ebb  and  flow 

Of  tides,  and  when  the  moon  will  be  eclipsed, 

Do  you,  for  your  own  benefit,  construct 

A  calendar  of  flowers,  pluck'd  as  they  blow 

Where  health  abides,  and  cheerfulness,  and  peace.* 

The  attempt  was  made  ;  'tis  needless  to  report 

How  hopelessly  :  but  innocence  is  strong. 

An  an  entire  simplicity  of  mind, 

A  thing  most  sacred  in  the  ey^  of  heaven, 

That  opens,  for  such  sufferers,  relief 

Within  their  souls,  a  fount  of  grace  divine  ; 

And  doth  commend  their  weakness  and  disease 

To  nature's  care,  assisted  in  her  office 

By  all  the  elements  that  round  her  wait 

To  generate,  to  preserve,  and  to  restore  ; 

And  by  her  beautiful  array  of  forms 

Shedding  sweet  influence  from  above,  or  pure 

Delight  exhaling  from  the  ground  they  tread." 

"  Impute  it  not  to  impatience,  if,"  exclaim'd 
The  wanderer,  "  I  infer  that  he  was  heal'd 
By  perseverance  in  the  course  prescribed." 

"  You  do  not  err :  the  powers,  that  had  been  lost 
By  slow  degrees,  were  gradually  regain'd  ; 
The  fluttering  nerves  composed ;  the  beating  heart 
In  rest  establish'd  ;  and  the  jarring  thoughts 
To  harmony  restored.     But  yon  dark  mould 
Will  cover  him,  in  the  fulness  of  his  strength — 
Hastily  smitten,  by  a  fever's  force ; 
Yet  not  with  stroke  so  sudden  as  refused 
Time  to  look  back  with  tenderness  on  her 
Whom  he  had  loved  in  passion, — and  to  send 
Some  farewell  words — with  one,  but  one,  request, 
That,  from  his  dying  hand,  she  would  accept 
Of  his  possessions  that  which  most  he  prized  ; 
A  book,  upon  whose  leaves  some  chosen  plants 
By  his  own  hand  disposed  with  nicest  care. 
In  undecaying  beauty  were  preserved  ; 
Mute  register,  to  him,  of  time  and  place, 
And  various  fluctuations  in  the  breast ; 
To  her,  a  monument  of  faithful  love 
Conquer'd,  and  in  tranquillity  retain'd  ! 

"  Close  to  his  destined  habitation,  lies 
One  who  achieved  a  humbler  victory. 
Though  marvellous  in  its  kind.     A  place  there  J£ 
High  in  these  m.ountains,  that  allured  a  band 
Of  keen  adventurers  to  unite  their  pains 
In  search  of  precious  ore :  who  tried,  were  joil'd- 
And  all  desisted,  all,  save  him  alone. 
He,  taking  counsel  of  his  own  clear  thoughts. 
And  trusting  only  to  his  own  weak  hands. 
Urged  unremittingly  the  stubborn  work, 
Unsecondcd,  uncountcnanced  j  then,  as  time 


THE    EXCURSION. 


461 


Pass'd  on,  while  still  his  lonely  efforts  found 

No  recompense,  derided  ;  and  at  length. 

By  many  pitied  ;  as  insane  of  mind  ; 

By  others  dreaded  as  the  luckless  fhrall 

Of  subterranean  spirits  feeding  hope 

By  various  mockery  of  sight  and  sound  ; 

Hope  after  hope,  encouraged  and  destroy'd. 

But  when  the  lord  of  seasons  had  matured 

The  fruits  of  earth  through  space  of  twice  ten  years 

The  mountain's  entrails  ofFer'd  to  his  view 

And  trembling  grasp  the  long  deterr'd  reward. 

Not  with  more  transport  did  Columbus  greet 

A  world,  his  rich  discovery  !  but  our  swain, 

A  very  hero  till  his  point  was  gain'd, 

Proved  all  unable  to  support  the  weight 

Of  prosperous  fortune.     On  the  fields  he  look'd 

With  an  unsettled  liberty  of  thought, 

Of  schemes  and  wishes  ;  in  the  daylight  walk'd 

Giddy  and  restless  ;  ever  and  anon 

Quaff'd  in  his  gratitude  immoderate  cups 

And  truly  might  be  said  to  die  of  joy  ! 

He  vanish'd  ;  but  conspicuous  to  this  day 

The  path  remains  that  link'd  his  cottage  door 

To  the  mine's  mouth  ;  a  long,  and  slanting  track, 

Upon  the  rugged  mountain's  stony  side. 

Worn  by  his  daily  visits  to  and  from 

The  darksome  centre  of  a  constant  hope. 

This  vestige,  neither  force  of  beating  rain, 

Nor  the  vicissitudes  of  frost  and  thaw 

Shall  cause  to  fade,  till  ages  pass  away  ; 

And  it  is  named,  in  memory  of  the  event, 

The  Path  of  Perseverance." 

"  Thou  from  whom 
Man  has  his  strength,"  exclaim'd  the  wanderer, 

«0! 
Do  Thou  direct  it  I — to  the  virtuous  grant 
The  penetrative  eye  which  can  perceive 
In  this  blind  world  the  guiding  vein  of  hope, 
That  like  this  labourer,  such  may  dig  their  way 
'  Unshaken,  unseduced,  unterrilied  ;' 
Grant  to  the  wise  his  firmness  of  resolve  I" 

"  That  prayer  were   not  superfluous,"  said  the 
priest, 
*  Amid  the  noblest  relics,  proudest  dust. 
That  Westminster,  for  Britain's  glory,  holds 
Within  the  bosom  of  her  awful  pile. 
Ambitiously  collected.     Yet  the  sigh. 
Which  wafts  that  prayer  to  heaven,  is  due  to  all. 
Wherever  laid,  who  living  fell  below 
Their  virtue's  humbler  mark;  a  sigh  oi pain 
If  to  the  opposite  extreme  they  sank. 
How  would  you  pity  her  who  yonder  rests  ; 
Him,  farther  off;  the  pair,  who  here  are  laid  ; 
But,  above  alf,  that  mixture  of  earth's  mould 
Whom  sight  of  this  green  hillock  to  my  mind 
Recalls  !    He  lived  not  till  his  locks  were  nipp'd 
By  seasonable  frost  of  age  ;  nor  died 
Before  his  temples,  prematurely  forced 
To  mix  the  manly  brown  with  silver  gray, 
<Jave  obvious  instance  of  the  sad  effect 
Produced,  when  thoughtless  folly  hath  usurp'd 
The  natural  crown  that  sage  expeiience  wears. 
Gay,  volatile,  ingenious,  quick  to  learn. 
And  prompt  to  exhibit  all  that  he  possess'd 
Or  could  perform  !  a  zealous  actor — hired 
Into  the  troop  of  mirth,  a  soldier — sworn 


Into  the  lists  of  giddy  enterprise — 

Such  was  he  ;  yet,  as  if  within  his  frame 

Two  several  souls  alternately  had  lodged. 

Two  sets  of  manners  could  the  youth  put  on  ; 

And,  fraught  with  antics  as  the  Indian  bird 

That  writhes  and  chatters  in  her  wiry  cage  ; 

Was  graceful,  when  it  picased  him,  smooth  and  still 

As  the  mute  swan  that  floats  adown  the  stream. 

Or,  on  the  waters  of  the  unruffled  lake, 

Anchors  her  placid  beauty.     Not  a  leaf, 

That  flutters  on  the  bough,  more  light  than  He ; 

And  not  a  flower,  that  droops  in  the  green  shade. 

More  winningly  reserved  .'    If  ye  inquire 

How  such  consummate  elegance  was  bre^ 

Amid  these  wilds,  this  answer  may  suffice, 

'Twas  nature's  \\*ill ;  who  sometimes  undertakes, 

For  the  reproof  of  human  vanity. 

Art  to  outstrip  in  her  peculiar  walk. 

Hence,  for  this  favourite,  lavishly  endow'd 

With  personal  gifts,  and  bright  instinctive  wit, 

While  both,  embellishing  each  other,  stood 

Yet  farther  recommended  by  the  charm 

Of  fine  demeanour,  and  by  dance  and  song. 

And  skill  in  letters,  every  fancy  shaped 

Fair  expectations  ;  nor,  when  to  the  world's 

Capacious  field  forth  went  the  adventurer  there 

Were  he  and  his  attainments  over  look'd. 

Or  scantily  rewarded  ;  but  all  hopes, 

Cheiish'd  for  him,  he  suflfer'd  to  depart. 

Like  blighted  buds  ;  or  clouds  that  mimick'd  land 

Before  the  sailor's  eye  ;  or  diamqnd  drops 

That  sparkling  deck'd  the  morning  grass  ;  or  augh 

That  was  attractive — and  hath  ceased  to  be  ! 

Yet  when  this  prodigal  return'd,  the  rites 

Of  joyful  greeting  were  on  him  bestow'd, 

Who,  by  humiliation  undeterr'd, 

Sought  for  his  weariness  a  place  of  rest 

Within   his  father's  gates.     Whence  came  he.'— 

clothed 
In  tatter'd  garb,  from  hovels  where  abides 
Necessity,  the  stationary  host 
Of  vagrant  poverty  ;  from  rifted  barns 
Where  no  one  dwells  but  the  wide  staring  owl 
And  the  owl's  prey  ;  from  these  bare  haunts,  ta 

which 
He  had  descended  from  the  proud  saloon. 
He  came,  the  ghost  of  beauty  and  of  health. 
The  wreck  of  gayety  I  but  soon  revived 
In  strength,  in  power  refitted,  he  renew'd 
His  suit  to  fortune ;  and  she  smiled  again 
Upon  a  fickle  ingrate.     Thrice  he  rose. 
Thrice  Sank  as  willingly.     For  he,  whose  nerves 
Were  used  to  thrill  with  pleasure,  while  his  voice 
Softly  accompanied  the  tuneful  harp, 
By  the  nice  finger  of  fair  ladies,  touch'd 
In  glittering  halls,  was  able  to  derive 
No  less  enjoyment  from  an  abject  choice. 
Who  happier  for  the  moment — who  more  blithe 
Than  this  fall'n  spirit  ?  in  those  dreary  holds 
His  talents  lending  to  exalt  the  freaks 
Of  merry-making  beggars, — now,  provoked 
To  laughter  multiplied  in  louder  peals 
By  his  malicious  wit ;  then,  all  enchain'd 
With  mute  astonishment,  themselves  to  see 
In  their  own  arts  outdone,  their  fame  eclipsed, 
As  by  the  very  presence  of  the  fiend 


462 


WORDSWORTH. 


Who  dictates  and  inspires  illusive  feats, 
For  knavish  purposes  !    The  city,  too, 
(With  shame  I  speak  it.)  to  her  guilty  bowers 
Allured  him,  sunk  so  low  in  self-respect 
As  there  to  linger,  there  to  eat  his  bread, 
Hired  minstrel  of  voluptuous  blandishment ; 
Charming  the  air  with  skill  of  hand  or  voice. 
Listen  who  would,  be  wrought  upon  who  might. 
Sincerely  wretched  hearts,  or  falsely  gay. 
Such  the  too  frequent  tenor  of  his  boast 
In  ears  that  rehsh'd  the  report ; — but  all 
Was  from  hi?  parents  happily  conceal'd ; 
Who  saw  enough  for  blame  and  pitying  love. 
They  also  were  permitted  to  receive 
His  last,  repentant  breath,  and  closed  his  eyes, 
No  more  to  open  on  that  irksome  Vorld 
Where  he  had  long  existed  in  the  state 
Of  a  3'oung  fowl  beneath  one  mother  hatch'd 
Though  from  another  sprung — of  different  kind : 
Where  he  had  lived,  and  could  not  cease  to  live 
Distracted  in  propensity ;  content 
With  neither  element  of  good  or  ill ; 
And  yet  in  both  rejoicing ;  man  unblest  j 
Of  contradictions  infinite  the  slave. 
Till  his  deliverance,  when  mercy  made  him 
One  with  himself,  and  one  with  them  who  sleep." 
"  'Tis  strange,"  observed  the  solitary,  "  strange 
It  seems,  and  scarcely  less  than  pitiful. 
That  in  a  land  where  charity  provides 
For  all  that  can  no  longer  feed  themselves, 
A  man  like  this  should  choose  to  bring  his  shame 
To  the  parental  door  ;  and  with  his  sighs 
Infect  the  air  which  he  had  freely  breathed 
In  happy  infancy.     He  could  not  pine. 
Through  lack  of  converse,  no,  he  must  have  found 
Abundant  exercise  for  thought  and  speech, 
In  his  dividual  being,  self-review'd. 
Self-catechized,  self-punish'd.     Some  there  are 
Who,  drawing  near  their  final  home,  and  much 
And  daily  longing  that  the  same  were  reach'd. 
Would  rather  shun  than  seek  the  fellowship 
Of  kindred  mould.    Such  haply  here  are  laid  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  the  priest,  "  the  genius  of  our  hills. 
Who  seems,  by  these  stupendous  barriers  cast 
Round  his  domain,  desirous  not  alone 
To  keep  his  own,  but  also  to  exclude 
All  other  progeny,  doth  sometimes  lure, 
E'en  by  this  studied  depth  of  privacy, 
The  unhappy  alien  hoping  to  obtain 
Concealment,  or  seduced  by  wish  to  find. 
In  place  from  outward  molestation  free. 
Helps  to  internal  ease.     Of  many  such 
Could  I  discourse  ;  but  as  their  stay  was  brief. 
So  their  departure  only  left  behind 
Fancies,  and  loose  conjectures.    Other  trace 
Survives,  for  worthy  mention,  of  a  pair 
Who,  from  the  pressure  of  their  several  fates. 
Meeting  as  strangers,  in  a  petty  town 
Whose  blue  roofs  ornament  a  distant  reach 
Of  this  far  winding  vale,  remain 'd  as  friends 
True  to  their  choice  ;  and  gave  their  bones  in  trust 
To  this  loved  cemetery,  here  to  lodge 
With  unescutcheon'd  privacy  interr'd 
Far  from  the  family  vault.    A  chieftain  one 
By  right  of  birth  ;  within  whose  spotless  breast 
The  fire  of  ancient  Caledonia  burn'd. 


He,  with  the  foremost  whose  impatience  hail'd 
The  Stuart,  landing  to  resume,  by  force 
Of  arras,  the  crown  which  bigotry  had  lost. 
Aroused  his  clan  ;  and,  fighting  at  their  head. 
With  his  brave  sword  endeavour'd  to  prevent 
Culloden's  fatal  overthrow.     Escaped 
From  that  disastrous  rout,  to  foreign  shores 
He  fled  ;  and  when  the  lenient  hand  of  time 
Those  troubles  had  appeased,  he  sought  and  gain'»V 
For  his  obscured  condition,  an  obscure 
Retreat,  within  this  nook  of  English  ground. 
The  other,  born  in  Britain's  southern  tract. 
Had  fix'd  his  milder  loyalty,  and  placed 
His  gentler  sentiments  of  love  and  hate. 
There,  where  they  placed  them  who  in  conscience 

prized 
The  new  succession,  as  a  line  of  kings 
Whose  oath  had  virtue  to  protect  the  land 
Against  the  dire  assaults  of  papacy 
And  arbitrary  rule.    But  launch  thy  bark 
On  the  distemper'd  flood  of  public  life, 
And  cause  for  most  rare  triumph  will  be  thine, 
If,  spite  of  keenest  eye  and  steadiest  hand. 
The  stream,  that  bears  thee  forward,  prove  not,  soon 
Or  late,  a  perilous  master.     He,  who  oft. 
Under  the  battlements  and  stately  trees 
That  round  his  mansion  cast  a  sober  gloom. 
Had  moralized  on  this,  and  other  truths 
Of  kindred  import,  pleased  and  satisfied. 
Was  forced  to  vent  his  wisdom  with  a  sigh 
Heaved  from  the  heart  in  fortune's  bitterness. 
When  he  had  crush'd  a  plentiful  estate 
By  ruinous  contest,  to  obtain  a  seat 
In  Britain's  senate.     Fruitless  was  the  attempt* 
And  while  the  uproar  of  that  desperate  strife 
Continued  yet  to  vibrate  on  his  ear. 
The  vanquish'd  whig,  beneath  a  borrowed  name, 
(For  the  mere  sound  and  echo  of  his  own 
Haunted  him  with  sensations  of  disgust 
That  he  was  glad  to  lose,)  slunk  from  the  world 
To  the  deep  shade  of  these  untravell'd  wilds ; 
In  which  the  Scottish  laird  had  long  possess'd 
An  undisturb'd  abode.     Here,  then,  they  met. 
Two  doughty  champions  ;  flaming  Jacobite 
And  sullen  Hanoverian  !    You  might  think 
That  losses  and  vexations,  less  severe 
Than  those  which  they  had  severally  sustain'd. 
Would  have  inclined  each  to  abate  his  zeal 
For  his  ungrateful  cause ;  no, — I  have  heard 
My  reverend  father  tell  that,  'mid  the  calm 
Of  that  small  town  encountering  thus,  they  fill'd, 
Daily,  its  bowling-green  with  harmless  strife ; 
Plagued  with  uncharitable  thoughts  the  church  j 
And  vex'd  the  market-place.     But  in*the  breasts 
Of  these  opponents  gradually  was  wrought. 
With- little  change  of  general  sentiment. 
Such  change  towards  each  other,  that  their  days 
By  choice  were  spent  in  constant  fellowship ; 
And  if,  at  times,  they  fretted  with  the  yoke. 
Those  very  bickerings  made  them  love  it  more. 

"  A  favourite  boundary  to  their  lengthen 'd  walk* 
This  churchyard  was.     And,  whether  they  had  come 
Treading  their  path  in  sympathy  and  link'd 
In  social  converse,  or  by  some  short  space 
Discreetly  parted  to  preserve  the  peace. 
One  spirit  seldom  fail'd  t'  extend  its  sway 


THE   EXCURSION. 


463 


Over  both  minds,  when  they  awhile  had  mark'd 
The  visible  quiet  of  this  holy  ground, 
And  breathed  its  soothing  air ;  the  spirit  of  hope 
And  saintly  magnanimity  ;  that,  spurning 
The  field  of  selfish  difference,  and  dispute, 
And  every  care  which  transitory  things, 
Earth,  and  the  kingdoms  of  the  earth,  create, 
Doth,  by  a  rapture  of  forgetfulness, 
Preclude  forgiveness,  from  the  praise  debarr'd. 
Which  else  the  Christian  virtue  might  have  claim'd. 
There  live  who  yet  remember  here  to  have  seen 
Their  courtly  figures, — seated  on  the  stump 
Of  an  old  yew,  their  favourite  resting  place. 
But,  as  the  remnant  of  the  long-lived  tree 
Was  disappearing  by  a  swift  decay. 
They,  with  joint  care,  determined  to  erect, 
Upon  its  site,  a  dial,  that  might  stand 
For  public  use  preserved,  and  thus  survive 
As  their  own  private  monument ;  for  this 
Was  the  particular  spot,  in  which  they  wish'd 
(And  Heaven  was  pleased  t'  accomplish  the  desire) 
That,  undivided,  their  remains  should  lie. 
So,  where  the  moulder'd  tree  had  stood,  was  raised 
Yon  structure,  framing,  with  th'  ascent  of  steps 
That  to  the  decorated  pillar  lead, 
A  work  of  art  more  sumptuous  than  might  seem 
To  suit  this  place  ;  yet  built  in  no  proud  scorn 
Of  rustic  homeliness  :  they  only  aim'd 
To  ensure  for  it  respectful  guardianship. 
Around  the  margin  of  the  plate,  whereon 
The  shadow  falls  to  note  the  stealthy  hours. 
Winds  an  inscriptive  legend."     At  these  words 
Thither  we  turn'd,  and  gather'd,  as  we  read. 
The  appropriate  sense,  in  Latin  numbers  couch'd. 
Time  flies  ;  it  is  his  melancholy  task 
To  bring,  and  bear  away,  delusive  hopes. 
And  reproduce  the  troubles  he  destroys. 
But,  while  his  blindness  thus  is  occupied. 
Discerning  mortal  !  do  thou  serve  the  will 
Of  timers  eternal  master,  and  that  peace 
Which  the  world  wants,  shall  be  for  thee  confirmed." 
"  Smooth  verse,  inspired  by  no  unletter'd  muse," 
Exclaim'd  the  skeptic,  "  and  the  strain  of  thought 
Accords  with  nature's  language  ;  the  soft  voice 
Of  yon  white  torrent  falling  down  the  rocks 
Speaks,  less  distinctly,  to  the  same  effect. 
If,  then,  their  blended  influence  be  not  lost 
Upon  our  hearts,  not  wholly  lost,  I  grant. 
E'en  upon  mine,  the  more  are  we  required 
To  feel  for  those  among  our  fellow  men. 
Who,  offering  no  obeisance  to  the  world, 
Are  yet  made  desperate  by  '  too  quick  a  sense 
Of  constant  infelicity,' — cut  off 
From  peace  like  exiles  on  some  barren  rock. 
Their  life's  appointed  prison  ;  not  more  free 
Than  sentinels,  between  two  armies,  set, 
With  nothing  better,  in  the  chill  night  air. 
Than  their  own  thoughts  to  comfort  them.    Say  why 
That  ancient  story  of  Prometheus  chain'd  ? 
The  vulture — the  inexhaustible  repast 
Drawn  from  his  vitals  ?    Say  what  meant  the  woes 
By  Tantalus  entail'd  upon  his  race, 
And  the  dark  sorrows  of  the  line  of  Thebes  ? 
Fictions  in  form,  but  in  their  substance  truths, 
Tremendous  truths  !  familiar  to  the  men 
Of  long  past  times,  nor  obsolete  in  ours. 


Exchange  the  shepherd's  frock  of  native  gray 
For  robes  with  regal  purple  tinged  ;  convert 
The  crook  into  a  sceptre  : — give  the  pomp 
Of  circumstance,  and  here  the  tragic  muse 
Shall  find  apt  subjects  for  her  highest  art. 
Amid  the  groves,  beneath  the  shadowy  hills, 
The  generations  are  prepared  ;  the  pangs, 
The  internal  pangs  are  ready  ;  the  dread  strife 
Of  poor  humanity's  afflicted  will 
Struggling  in  vain  with  ruthless  destiny." 

"  Though,"  said  the  priest  in  answer,  «  these  t}« 
terms 
Which  a  divine  philosophy  rejects, 
We,  whose  establish'd  and  unfailing  trust 
Is  in  controlling  providence,  admit 
That,  through  all  stations,  human  life  abounds 
With  mysteries  : — for,  if  laith  were  left  untried. 
How  could  the  might,  that  lurks  within  her,  then 
Be  shown  ?  her  glorious  excellence — that  ranks 
Among  the  first  of  powers  and  virtues — proved  ? 
Our  system  is  not  fashion'd  to  preclude 
That  sympathy  which  you  for  others  ask  ; 
And  I  could  tell,  not  travelling  for  my  theme 
Beyond  these  humble  graves,  of  grievous  crimes 
And  strange  disasters  :  but  I  pass  them  by. 
Loath  to  disturb  what  heaven  rjath  hush'din  peace 
Still  less,  far  less,  am  I  inclined  to  treat 
Of  man  degraded  in  his  Maker's  sight 
By  the  deformities  of  brutish  vice  : 
For,  in  such  portraits,  though  a  vulgar  face 
And  a  course  outside  of  repulsive  life 
And  unaffecting  manners  might  at  once 
Be  recognised  by  all — "    "  Ah  !  do  not  think," 
The  wanderer  somewhat  eagerly  exclaim'd, 
"  Wish  could  be  ours  that  you,  for  such  poor  gain, 
(Gain  shall  I  call  it  ? — gain  of  what  ? — for  whom  .'; 
Should  breathe  a  word  tending  to  violate 
Your  own  pure  spirit.     Not  a  step  we  look  or 
In  slight  of  that  forbearance  and  reserve 
Which  common  human-heartedness  inspires, 
And  mortal  ignorance  and  frailty  claim. 
Upon  this  sacred  ground,  if  nowhere  else.'* 

"  True,"  said  the  solitary,  "  be  it  far 
From  us  to  infringe  the  laws  of  charity. 
Let  judgment  here  in  mercy  be  pronounced} 
This,  self-respecting  nature  prompts,  and  thii 
Wisdom  enjoins  ;  but,  if  the  thing  we  seek 
Be  genuine  knowledge,  bear  we  then  in  mind 
How,  from  his  lofty  throne,  the  sun  can  fling 
Colours  as  bright  on  exhalations  bred 
By  weedy  pool  or  pestilential  swamp. 
As  by  the  rivulet  sparkling  where  it  runs, 
Or  the  pellucid  lake." 

«  Small  risk,"  said  I, 
"  Of  such  illusion  do  we  here  incur  ; 
Temptation  here  is  none  to  exceed  the  truth 
No  evidence  appears  that  they  who  rest 
Within  this  ground,  were  covetous  of  praise, 
Or  of  remembrance  even,  deserved  or  not. 
Green  is  the  churchyard,  beautiful  and  green^ 
Ridge  rising  gently  by  the  side  of  ridge, 
A  heaving  surface — almost  wholly  free 
From  interruption  of  sepulchral  stones. 
And  mantled  o'er  with  aboriginal  turf 
And  everlasting  flowers.     These  dalesmen  trust 
The  lingering  gleam  of  their  departed  lives 


464 


WORDSWORTH. 


To  oral  records  and  the  silent  heart ; 

Depository  faithful,  and  more  kind 

Than  fondest  epitaphs :  for,  if  that  fail, 

What  boots  the  sculptured  tomb  ?   and  who  can 

blame. 
Who  rather  would  not  envy,  men  that  feel 
This  mutual  confidence  ;  if,  from  such  source. 
The  practice  flow, — if  thence,  or  from  a  deep 
And  general  humility  in  death  ? 
Nor  should  I  much  condemn  it,  if  it  spring 
From  disregard  of  time's  destructive  power, 
As  only  capable  to  prey  on  things 
Of  earth  and  human  nature's  mortal  part. 
Yet — in  less  simple  districts,  where  we  see 
Stone  lift  its  forehead  emulous  of  stone 
In  courting  notice,  and  the  ground  all  paved 
With  commendations  of  departed  worth  ; 
Reading,  where'er  we  turn,  of  innocent  lives, 
Of  each  domestic  charity  fulfill'd. 
And  sufferings  meekly  borne — I,  for  my  part, 
Though  with  the  silence  pleased  that  here  prevails. 
Among  those  fair  recitals  also  range. 
Soothed  by  the  natural  spirit  which  they  breathe. 
And  in  the  centre  of  a  world  whose  soil 
Is  rank  with  all  unkindness,  compass'd  round 
With  such  memorials,  I  have  sometimes  felt. 
It  was  no  momentary  happiness 
To  have  one  enclosure  where  the  voice  that  speaks 
In  envy  or  detraction  is  not  heard  ; 
Which  malice  may  not  enter  ;  where  the  traces 
Of  evil  inclinations  are  unknown  ; 
Where  love  and  pity  tenderly  unite 
With  resignation ;  and  no  jarring  tone 
Intrudes  the  peaceful  concert  to  disturb 
Of  amity  and  gratitude." 

«  Thus  sanction'd," 
The  pastor  said,  "  I  willingly  confine 
My  narratives  to  subjects  that  excite 
Feelings  with  these  accordant ;  love,  esteem, 
And  admiration  lifting  up  a  veil, 
A  sunbeam  introducing  among  hearts 
Retired  and  covert ;  so  that  ye  shall  have 
Clear  images  before  your  gladden 'd  eyes 
Of  nature's  unambitious  underwood. 
And  flowers  that  prosper  in  the  shade.     And  when 
I  speak  of  such  among  my  flock  as  swerved 
Or  fell,  those  only  will  I  single  out 
Upon  whose  lapse,  or  error,  something  more 
Than  brotherly  forgiveness  may  attend  ; 
To  such  will  we  restrict  our  notice — else 
Better  my  tongue  were  mute.    And  yet  there  are, 
I  feel,  good  reasons  why  we  should  not  leave 
Wholly  untraced  a  more  forbidding  way, 
For  strength  to  persevere  and  to  support. 
And  energy  to  conquer  and  repel ; — 
These  elements  of  virtue,  that  declare 
The  native  grandeur  of  the  human  soul, 
Are  ofttimes  not  unprofitably  shown 
In  the  perverseness  of  a  selfish  course : 
Truth  every  day  exemplified,  no  less 
In  the  gray  cottage  by  the  murmuring  stream 
That  in  fantastic  conqueror's  roving  camp. 
Or  'mid  the  factious  senate,  unappall'd 
While  merciless  proscription  ebbs  and  flows. 
There,"  said  the  vicar,  pointing  as  he  spake, 
*  A  woman  rests  in  peace ;  surpass'd  by  few 


In  power  of  mind,  and  eloquent  discourse. 
Tall  was  her  stature  ;  her  complexion  dark 
And  saturnine  ;  her  head  not  raised  to  hold 
Converse  with  heaven,  nor  yet  deprest  towards  earth 
But  in  projection  carried,  as  she  walk'd 
For  ever  musing.     Sunken  were  her  eyes  ; 
Wrinkled  and  furrow'd  with  habitual  thought 
Was  her  broad  forehead  ;  like  the  brow  of  one 
Whose  visual  nerve  shrinks  from  a  painful  glare 
Of  overpowering  light.     While  yet  a  child. 
She,  'mid  the  humble  flowerets  of  the  vale, 
Tower'd  like  the  imperial  thistle,  not  unfurnish'd 
With  its  appropriate  grace,  yet  rather  seeking 
Te  be  admired,  than  coveted  and  loved. 
E'en  at  that  age  she  ruled,  a  sovereign  queen 
Over  her  comrades  ;  else  iheir  simple  sports, 
Wanting  all  relish  for  her  strenuous  mind. 
Had  cross'd  her,  only  to  be  shunn'd  with  scorn. 
0  I  pang  of  sorrowful  regret  for  those 
Whom,  in  their  youth,  sweet  study  has  enthrall'd. 
That  they  have  lived  for  harsher  servitude, 
Whether  in  soul,  in  body,  or  estate  ! 
Such  doom  was  her's  ;  yet  nothing  could  subdue 
Her  keen  desire  of  knowledge,  nor  efface 
Those  brighter  images — by  books  imprest 
Upon  her  memory,  faithfully  as  stars  , 

That  occupy  their  places — and,  though  oft 
Hidden  by  clouds,  and  oft  bedimm'd  by  haze, 
Are  not  to  be  extinguish'd,  nor  impair'd. 

"  Two  passions,  both  degenerate,  for  they  both 
Began  in  honour,  gradually  obtain'd 
Rule  over  her,  and  vex'd  her  daily  life  ; 
An  unrelenting  avaricious  thrift; 
And  a  strange  thraldom  of  maternal  love, 
That  held  her  spirit  in  its  own  despite. 
Bound — by  vexation,  and  regret,  and  scorn, 
Constrain'd  forgiveness,  and  relenting  vows. 
And  tears,  in  pride  suppress 'd,  in  shame  conceal  d— 
To  a  poor  dissolute  son,  her  only  child. 
H6r  wedded  days  had  open'd  with  mishap. 
Whence  dire  dependence.     What  could  she  perform 
To  shake  the  burden  off  ?    Ah  !  there  was  felt. 
Indignantly  the  weakness  of  her  sex. 
She  mused — resolved,  adhered  to  her  resolve  ; 
The  hand  grew  slack  in  almsgivmg,  the  heart 
Closed  by  degrees  to  charity ;  heaven's  blessing 
Not  seeking  from  that  source,  she  placed  her  trust 
In  ceaseless  pains  and  parsimonious  care, 
Which  got,  and  sternly  hoarded  each  day's  gain. 

"  Thus  all  was  re-establish'd,  and  a  pile 
Constructed,  that  sufl!iced  for  every  end 
Save  the  contentment  of  the  builder's  mind  j 
A  mind  by  nature  indisposed  to  aught 
So  placid,  so  inactive,  as  content ; 
A  mind  intolerant  of  lasting  peace, 
And  cherishing  the  pang  which  it  deplored. 
Dread  life  of  conflict !  which  I  oft  compared 
To  th'  agitation  of  a  brook  that  runs 
Down  rocky  mountains — buried  now  and  lost 
In  silent  pools,  now  in  strong  eddies  chain'd,   • 
But  never  to  be  charm 'd  to  gentleness ; 
Its  best  attainment  fits  of  such  repose 
As  timid  eyes  might  shrink  from  fathoming. 

"  A  sudden  illness  seized  her  in  the  strength 
Of  life's  autumnal  season.     Shall  I  tell 
How  on  her  bed  of  death  the  matroD  lay. 


THE    EXCURSION. 


465 


To  providence  submissive,  so  she  thought ; 

But  fretted,  vex'd,  and  wrought  upon — almost 

To  anger,  by  the  malady  that  griped 

Her  prostrate  frame  with  unrelaxing  power. 

As  the  fierce  eagle  fastens  on  the  lamb  ? 

She  pray'd,   she   moan'd — her    husband's     sister 

watch 'd 
Het  dreary  pillow,  waited  on  her  needs ; 
And  yet  the  very  sound  of  that  kind  foot 
Was  anguish  to  her  ears  !    « And  must  she  rule,' 
This  was  the  dying  woman  heard  to  say 
In  bitterness, '  and  must  she  rule  and  reign, 
Sole  mistress  of  this  house,  when  I  am  gone  ? 
Sit  by  my  fire — possess  what  I  possess'd — 
Tend  what  I  tended — calling  it  her  own  !' 
Enough  ; — I  fear,  too  much.     One  vernal  evening. 
While  she  was  yet  in  prime  of  health  and  strength 
I  well  remember,  while  I  pass'd  her  door, 
Musing  with  loitering  step,  and  upward  eye 
Turn'd  towards  the  planet  Jupiter  that  hung 
Above  the  centre  of  the  vale,  a  voice 
Roused  me,  her  voice  ;  it  said, '  that  glorious  star 
In  its  untroubled  element  will  shine 
As  now  it  shines,  when  we  are  laid  in  earth 
And  safe  from  all  our  sorrows.'     She  is  safe, 
And  her  uncharitable  acts,  I  trust. 
And  harsh  unkindnesses,  are  all  forgiven ; 
Though,  in  this  vale  remember 'd  with  deep  awe  !" 


The  vicar  paused  ;  and  toward  a  seat  advanced, 
A  long  stone  seat,  fix'd  in  the  churchyard  wall ; 
Part  shaded  by  cool  sycamore,  and  part 
Offering  a  sunny  resting  place  to  them 
Who  seek  the  house  of  worship,  while  the  bells 
Yet  ring  wkh  all  their  voices,  or  before 
The  last  hath  ceased  its  solitary  knoll. 
Under  the  shade  we  all  sate  down  ;  and  there 
His  oflRce,  uninvited,  he  resumed. 

"  As  on  a  sunny  bank,  a  tender  lamb 
Lurks  in  safe  shelter  from  the  winds  of  March, 
Screen'd  by  its  parent,  so  that  little  mound 
Lies  guarded  by  its  neighbour  ;  the  small  heap 
Speaks  for  itself ; — an  infant  there  doth  rest, 
The  sheltering  hillock  is  the  mother's  grave. 
If  mild  discourse,  and  manners  that  conferr'd 
A  natural  dignity  on  humblest  rank  ! 
If  gladsome  spirits,  and  benignant  looks. 
That  for  a  face  not  beautiful  did  more 
Than  beauty  for  the  fairest  face  can  do  : 
And  if  religious  tenderness  of  heart. 
Grieving  for  sin,  and  penitential  tears 
Shed  when  the  clouds  had  gather'd  and  distain'd 
The  spotless  ether  of  a  maiden  life  ; 
If  these  may  make  a  hallow 'd  spot  of  earth 
More  holy  in  the  sight  of  God  or  man  ; 
Then,  o'er  that  mould,  a  sanctity  shall  brood 
Till  the  stars  sicken  at  the  day  of  doom. 

"  Ah  !  what  a  warning  for  a  thoughtless  man, 
Could  field  or  grove,  could  any  spot  of  earth. 
Show  to  his  eye  an  image  of  the  pangs 
Which  it  hath  witness'd  ;  render  back  an  echo 
Of  the  sad  steps  by  which  it  hath  been  trod  ! 
There  by  her  innocent  baby's  precious  grave. 
Yea,  doubtless,  on  the  turf  that  roofs  her  own. 
The  mother  oft  was  seen  to  stand,  or  kneel 
In  the  broad  day,  a  weeping  Magdalene. 
Vol.  III.— 30 


Now  she  is  n^ ;  the  swelling  turf  reports 

Gf"  ttiO  f^65h  shower,  but  of  poor  Ellen's  tears 

Is  silent ;  nor  is  any  vestige  left 

Of  tbe  path  worn  by  mournful  tread  of  her 

Who,  at  her  heart's  light  bidding,  once  had  moved 

In  virgin  fearlessness,  with  step  that  seem'd 

Caught  from  the  pressure  of  elastic  turf 

Upon  the  mountains  gemm'd  with  morning  dew. 

In  the  prime  hour  of  sweetest  scents  and  airs. 

Serious  and  thoughtful  was  her  mind;  and  yet, 

By  reconcilement  exquisite  and  rare, 

The  form,  port,  motions  of  this  cottage  girl 

Were  such  as  might  have  quicken'd  and  inspired 

A  Titian's  hand,  addrest  to  picture  forth 

Oread  or  Dryad  glancing  through  the  shade 

What  time  the  hunter's  earliest  horn  is  heard 

Startling  the  golden  hills.     A  wide  spread  elm 

Stands  in  our  valley,  named  the  Joyful  Tree  ; 

From  dateless  usage  which  our  peasants  hold 

Of  giving  welcome  to  the  first  of  May 

By  dances  round  its  trunk.     And  if  the  sky 

Permit,  like  honours,  dance  and  song,  are  paid 

To  the  Twelfth  Night,  beneath  the  frosty  stars 

Or  the  clear  moon.     The  queen  of  these  gay  sports^ 

If  not  in  beauty  yet  in  sprightly  air, 

Was  hapless  Ellen.     No  one  touch'd  the  ground 

So  deftly,  and  the  nicest  maiden's  locks 

Less  gracefully  were  braided  ;  but  this  praise, 

Methinks,  would  better  suit  another  place. 

"  She  loved,  and  fondly  deem'd  herself  beloved. 
The  road  is  dim,  the  current  unperccived. 
The  weakness'  painful  and  most  pitiful. 
By  which  a  virtuous  woman,  in  pure  youth, 
May  be  deliver'd  to  distress  and  shame. 
Such  fate  was  hers.     The  last  time  Ellen  danced. 
Among  her  equals,  round  the  Joyful  Tree, 
She  bore  a  secret  burden  ;  and  full  soon 
Was  left  to  tremble  for  a  breaking  vow, — 
Then,  to  bewail  a  sternly-broken  vow. 
Alone,  within  her  widow'd  mother's  house. 
It  was  the  season  sweet,  of  budding  leaves. 
Of  days  advancing  toward  their  utmost  length, 
And  small  birds  singing  to  their  happy  mates. 
Wild  is  the  music  of  the  autumnal  wind 
Among  the  faded  woods  ;  but  these  blithe  note« 
Strike  the  deserted  to  the  heart ; — I  speak 
Of  what  I  know,  and  what  we  feel  within. 
Beside  the  cottage  in  which  Ellen  dwelt 
Stands  a  tall  ash  tree  ;  to  whose  topmost  twig 
A  thrush  resorts,  and  annually  chants, 
At  morn  and  evening  from  that  naked  perch. 
While  all  the  undergrove  is  thick  with  leaves, 
A  time-beguiling  ditty,  for  delight 
Of  his  fond  partner,  silent  in  the  nest. 
'  Ah,  why,'  said  Ellen,  sighing  to  herself, 
«  Why  do  not  words,  and  kiss,  and  solemn  pledge  { 
And  nature  that  is  kind  in  woman's  breast, 
And  reason  that  in  man  is  wise  and  good. 
And  fear  of  Him  who  is  a  righteous  judge, 
Why  do  not  these  prevail  for  human  life, 
To  keep  two  hearts  together,  that  began 
Their  spring-time  with  one  love,  and  that  have  neci 
Of  mutual  pity  and  forgiveness,  sweet 
To  grant,  or  be  received  ;  while  that  poor  blrd- 
0  come  and  hear  him  !  thou  who  hast  to  me 
Been  faithless,  hear  him,  though  a  lowly  creaturt 


466 


WORDSWORTH. 


One  of  God's  simple  children  that  yet  know  not 
The  universal  Parent,  how  he  singt? 
As  if  he  wish'd  the  firmament  of  heaven 
Should  listen,  and  give  back  to  him  the  voice 
Of  his  triumphant  constancy  and  love  ; 
The  proclamation  that  he  makes,  how  far 
His  darkness  doth  transcend  our  fickle  light  I' 

"  Such  was  the  tender  passage,  not  by  me 
Repeated  without  loss  of  simple  phrase. 
Which  I  perused,  even  as  the  words  had  been 
Committed  by  forsaken  Ellen's  hand 
To  the  blank  margin  of  a  valentine, 
Bedropp'd  with  tears.     'Twill  please  you  to  be  told 
That,  studiously  withdrawing  from  the  eye 
Of  all  companionship,  the  sufferer  yet 
In  lonely  reading  found  a  meek  resource  ; 
How  thankful  for  the  warmth  of  summer  days. 
When  she  could  slip  into  the  cottage  barn, 
And  find  a  secret  oratory  there  ; 
Or,  in  the  garden,  under  friendly  veil 
Of  their  long  twilight,  pore  upon  her  book 
By  the  last  lingering  help  of  open  sky, 
Till  the  dark  night  dismiss'd  her  to  her  bed  ! 
Thus  did  a  waking  fancy  sometimes  lose 
Th'  unconquerable  pang  of  despised  love. 
"  A  kindlier  passion  open'd  on  her  soul 
When  that  poor  child  was  born.     Upon  its  face 
She  look'd  as  on  a  pure  and  spotless  gift 
Of  unexpected  promise,  where  a  grief 
Or  dread  was  all  that  had  been  thought  of— joy 
Far  livelier  than  bcwilder'd  traveller  feels 
Amid  a  perilous  waste,  that  all  night  long 
Hath  harass'd  him — toiling  through  fearful  storm, 
When  he  beholds  the  first  pale  speck  serene 
Of  dayspring,  in  the  gloomy  east  reveal'd. 
And  greets  it  with  thanksgiving.    '  Till  this  hour,' 
Thus,  in  her  mother's  hearing  Ellen  spake, 
'  There  was  a  stony  region  in  my  heart ; 
But  He,  at  whose  command  the  parched  rock 
Was  smitten,  and  pour'd  forth  a  quenching  stream, 
Hath  soften 'd  that  obduracy,  and  made 
Unlook'd  for  gladness  in  the  desert  place. 
To  save  the  perishing  ;  and,  henceforth,  I  look 
Upon  the  light  with  cheerfulness,  for  thee, 
My  infant  I  and  for  that  good  mother  dear, 
Who  bore  me, — and  hath  pray'd  for  me  in  vain  ; — 
Yet  not  in  vain,  it  shall  not  be  in  vain.' 
She  spake,  nor  was  th'  assurance  unfulfill'd. 
And  if  heartrending  thoughts  would  oft  return. 
They  stay'd  not  long.     The  blameless  infant  grew ; 
The  child  whom  Ellen  and  her  mother  loved 
They  soon  were  proud  of ;  tended  it  and  nursed, 
A  soothing  comforter,  although  forlorn  ; 
Like  a  poor  singing  bird  from  distant  lands  ; 
Or  a  choice  shrub,  which  he,  who  passes  by 
With  vacant  mind,  not  seldom  may  observe 
Fair  flowering  in  a  thinly  peopled  house, 
W^hose  window,  somewhat  sadly,  it  adorns. 
Through  four  months'  space  the  infant  drew  its 

food 
From  the  maternal  breast ;  then  scruples  rose  ; 
Thoughts,  which  the  rich  are  free  from,  came  and 

cross'd 
The  sweet  affection.     She  no  more  could  bear 
By  her  offence  to  lay  a  twofold  weight 
On  a  kind  parent  willing  to  forget 


Their  slender  means  ;  so,  to  that  parent's  care 
Trusting  her  child,  she  left  their  common  home 
And  with  contented  spirit  undertook 
A  foster-mother's  office. 

'Tis,  perchance. 
Unknown  to  you  that  in  these  simple  vales 
The  natural  feeling  of  equality 
Is  by  domestic  service  unimpair'd  ; 
Yet,  though  such  service  be,  with  us,  removed    ^ 
From  sense  of  degradation,  not  the  less 
Th'  ungentle  mind  can  easily  find  means 
T'  impose  severe  restraints  and  laws  unjust, 
Which  hapless  Ellen  now  was  doom'd  to  feel ; 
For  (blinded  by  an  over-anxious  dread 
Of  such  excitement  and  divided  thought 
As  with  her  office  would  but  ill  accord) 
The  pair,  whose  infant  she  was  bound  to  nurse, 
Forbad  her  all  communion  with  her  own  ; 
Week  after  week,  the  mandate  they  enforced. 
So  near  !  yet  not  allow'd,  upon  that  sight 
To  fix  her  eyes — alas  !  'twas  hard  to  bear ! 
But  worse  affliction  must  be  borne — far  worse  ; 
For  'tis  Heaven's  will — that,  after  a  disease 
Begun  and  ended  within  three  days'  space, 
Her  child  should  die ;  as  Ellen  now  exclaim'd, 
Her  own — deserted  child  !    Once,  only  once. 
She  saw  it  in  that  mortal  malady  ; 
And,  on  the  burial  day,  could  scarcely  gain 
Permission  to  attend  its  obsequies. 
She  reach'd  the  house — last  of  the  funeral  tiain  j 
And  some  one,  as  she  enter'd,  having  chanced 
To  urge  unthinkingly  their  prompt  departure, 
'  Na^','  said  she,  with  commanding  look,  a  spirit 
Of  anger  never  seen  in  her  before, 
'  Nay,  ye  must  wait  my  time  !'  and  do\Mii  she  sate 
And  by  the  unclosed  coffm  kept  her  seat 
Weeping  and  looking,  looking  on  and  weeping, 
Upon  the  last  sweet  slumber  of  her  child. 
Until  at  length  her  soul  was  satisfied. 

"  You  see  the  infant's  grave  ;  and  to  this  spot. 
The  mother,  oft  as  she  was  sent  abroad. 
And  whatsoe'er  the  errand,  urged  her  steps: 
Hither  she  came  ;  here  stood,  and  sometimes  knelt 
In  the  broad  day — a  rueful  Magdalene  I 
So  call  her  ;  for  not  only  she  bewail 'd 
A  mother's  loss,  but  mourn'd  in  bitterness 
Her  own  transgression,  penitent  sincere 
As  ever  raised  to  heaven  a  streaming  eye. 
At  length  the  parents  of  the  foster  child, 
Noting  that  in  despite  of  their  commands 
She  still  renew'd  and  could  not  but  renew 
Those  visitations,  ceased  to  send  her  forth  ; 
Or,  to  the  garden's  narrow  bounds,  confined. 
I  fail'd  not  to  remind  them  that  they  err'd  ; 
For  holy  nature  might  not  thus  be  cross'd, 
Thus   wrong'd   in   woman's    breast:    in    vain    J 

pleaded — 
But  the  green  stalk  of  Ellen's  life  was  snapp'd. 
And  the  flower  droop'd ;  as  every  eye  could  Pee, 
It  hung  its  head  in  mortal  languishment. 
Aided  by  this  appearance,  I  at  length 
Prevail'd  ;  and  from  those  bonds  released,  she  went 
Home  to  her  mother's  house.     The  youth  was  fled 
The  ra$h  betrayer  could  not  face  the  shame 
Or  sorrow  which  his  senseless  guilt  had  caused  ; 
And  little  would  his  presence,  or  proof  given 


THE    EXCURSION. 


467 


Of  a  relenting  soul,  have  no^^avail'd  ; 

For,  like  a  shadow,  he  -^yas  pass'd  away 

From  Ellen's  thoughts  ;  had  peiish'd  to  her  mind 

For  all  concerns  of  fear,  or  hope,  or  love, 

Save  only  those  which  to  their  common  shame, 

And  to  his  moral  being  appertain'd: 

Hope  from    that    quarter  would,  I   know,  have 

brought 
A  heavenly'comfort :   there  she  recognised 
An  unrelaxing  bond,  a  mutual  need : 
There,  and,  as  seem'd,  there  only.     She  had  built, 
Her  fond  maternal  heart  had  built,  a  nest 
In  blindness  all  too  near  the  river's  edge  ; 
That  work  a  summer  flood  with  hasty  swell 
Had  swept  away ;  and  now  her  spirit  long'd 
For  its  last  flight  to  heaven's  security. 
The  bodily  frame  was  wasted  day  by  day ; 
Meanwhile,  relinquishing  all  other  cares, 
Her  mind  she  strictly  tutor'd  to  find  peace 
And  pleasure  in  endurance.     Much  she  thought, 
And  much  she  read  ;  and  brooded  feelingly 
Upon  her  own  unworthiness.     To  me, 
As  to  a  spiritual  comforter  and  friend, 
Her  heart  she  open'd ;  and  no  pains  were  spared 
To  mitigate,  as  gently  as  I  could. 
The  sting  of  self-reproach,  with  healing  words. 
Meek  saint !  through  patience  glorified  on  earth  ! 
In  whom,  as  by  her  lonely  hearth  she  sate. 
The  ghastly  face  of  cold  decay  put  on 
A  sun-like  beauty,  and  appear'd  divine  ! 
May  I  not  mention — that,  within  those  walls, 
In  due  observance  of  her  pious  wish. 
The  congregation  join'd  w^ith  me  in  prayer 
For  her  soul's  good  ?    Nor  was  that  office  vain. 
Much  did  she  suffer :  but,  if  any  friend. 
Beholding  her  condition,  at  the  sight 
Gave  way  to  words  of  pity  or  complaint. 
She  still'd  them  with  a  prompt  reproof,  and  said, 

He  who  afflicts  me  knows  what  I  can  bear ; 
And,  when  I  fail,  and  can  endure  no  more. 
Will  mercifully  take  me  to  himself.' 
So,  through  the  cloud  of  death,  her  spirit  pass'd 
Into  that  pure  and  unknown  world  of  love 
Where  injury  cannot  come : — and  here  is  laid 
The  mortal  body  by  her  infant's  side." 

The  vicar  ceased  ;  and   downcast  looks  made 
known 
That  each  had  listen'd  with  his  inmost  heart. 
For  me,  th'  emotion  scarcely  was  less  strong 
Or  less  benign  than  that  which  I  had  felt 
When,  seated  near  my  venerable  friend. 
Beneath  those  shady  elms,  from  him  I  heard 
The  story  that  retraced  the  slow  decline 
Of  Margaret  sinking  on  the  lonely  heath. 
With  the  neglected  house  to  which  she  clung. 
I  noted  that  the  solitary's  cheek 
Confess'd  the  power  of  nature.     Pleased  though  sad. 
More  pleased  than  sad,  the  gray-hair'd  wanderer 

sate; 
Thanks  to  his  puie  imaginative  soul 
Capacious  and  serene,  his  blameless  life. 
His  knowledge,  wisdom,  love  of  truth,  and  love 
Of  human  kind  !    He  was  it  who  first  broke 
The  pensive  silence,  saying,  "  Blest  are  they 
Whose  sorrow  rather  is  to  suffer  wrong 
Than  to  do  wrong,  although  themselves  have  err'd. 


This  tale  gives  proof  that  Heaven  most  gently  deals 
With  such\  in  their  affliction.     Ellen's  fate, 
Her  tender  spirit,  and  her  contrite  heart. 
Call  to  my  mind  dark  hints  which  I  have  heard 
Of  one  who  died  within  this  vale,  by  doom 
Heavier,  as  his  offence  was  heavier  far. 
Where,  sir,  I  pray  you,  where  are  luid  the  bones 
Of  Wilfred  Armathwaite  ?"     The  vicar  answer'd, 
"  In  that  green  nook,  close  by  the  churchyard  wallj 
Beneath  yon  hawthorn,  planted  by  myself 
In  memory  and  for  warning,  and  in  sign 
Of  sweetness  where  dire  anguish  had  been  known, 
Of  reconcilement  after  deep  offence,  , 
There  doth  he  rest.     No  theme  his  fate  supplies 
For  the  smooth  glozings  of  th'  indulgent  world ; 
Nor  need  the  windings  of  his  devious  course 
Be  here  rc.;aced  ;  enough  that,  by  mishap 
Apd  venial  error,  robb'd  of  competence. 
And  her  obsequious  shadow,  peace  of  mind. 
He  craved  a  substitute  in  troubled  joy  ; 
Against  his  conscience  rose  in  arms,  and,  braving 
Divine  displeasure,  broke  the  marriage  vow. 
That  which  he  had  been  weak  enough  to  do 
Was  misery  in  remembrance  ;  he  was  stung, 
Stun£by  his  inward  thoughts,  and  by  the  smiles 
Of  wife  and  children  stung  to  agony. 
Wretched  at  home,  he  gain'd  no  peace  abroad ; 
Ranged  through  the  mountains,  slept  upon  the  earth, 
Ask'd  comfort  of  the  open  air,  and  found 
No  quiet  in  the  darkness  of  the  night. 
No  pleasure  in  the  beauty  of  the  day. 
His  flock  he  slighted :  his  paternal  fields 
Became  a  clog  to  him,  whose  spirit  wish'd 
To  fly,  but  whither  !    And  this  gracious  church. 
That  wears  a  look  so  full  of  peace  and  hope 
And  love,  benignant  mother  of  the  vale. 
How  fair  amid  her  brood  of  cottages  ! 
She  was  to  him  a  sickness  and  reproach. 
Much  to  the  last  remain'd  unknown  :  but  this 
Is  sure,  that  through  remorse  and  grief  he  died ; 
Though  pitied  among  men,  absolved  by  God, 
He  could  not  find  forgiveness  in  himself; 
Nor  could  endure  the  weight  of  his  own  shame. 
"  Here  rests  a  mother.     But  from  her  I  turn. 
And  from  her  grave.     Behold — ^upon  that  ridge, 
That,  stretching  boldly  from  the  mountain  side, 
Carries  into  the  centre  of  the  vale 
Its  rocks  and  woods — the  cottage  where  she  dwell 
And  where  yet  dwells  her  faithful  partner,  left 
(Full  eight  years  past)  the  solitary  prop 
Of  many  helpless  children.     I  begin 
With  words  that  might  be  prelude  to  a  tale 
Of  sorrow  and  dejection  ;  but  I  feel 
No  sadness,  when  I  think  of  what  mine  eyes 
See  daily  in  that  happy  family. 
Bright  garland  form  they  for  the  pensive  brow 
Of  their  undrooping  father's  widowhood. 
Those  six  fair  daughters,  budding  yet — not  one 
Not  one  of  all  the  band,  a  full-blown  flower  ! 
Deprest,  and  desolate  of  soul,  as  once 
That  father  was,  and  fill'd  with  anxious  fear. 
Now,  by  experience  taught,  he  stands  assured, 
That  God,  who  takes  away,  yet  takes  not  half 
Of  what  he  seems  to  take  ;  or  gives  it  back, 
Not  to  our  prayer,  but  far  beyond  our  prayer; 
He  gives  it — the  boon  produce  of  a  soil 


468 


WORDSWORTH. 


Which  our  endeavours  have  refused  to  till, 

And  hope  hath  never  water'd.     The  abode. 

Whose  grateful  owner  can  attest  these  truths, 

E'en  were  the  object  nearer  to  our  sight, 

Would  seem  in  no  distinction  to  surpass 

The  rudest  habitations.     Ye  might  think 

That  it  had  sprung  self-raised  from  earth,  or  grown 

Out  of  the  living  rock,  to  be  adorn'd 

By  nature  only ;  but,  if  thither  led, 

Ye  would  discover,  then,  a  studious  work 

Of  many  fancies,  prompting  many  hands. 

"Brought  from  the  woods,  the  honeysuckle  twines 

Around  the  porch,  and  seems,  in  that  trim  place, 

A  plant  no  longer  wild  :  the  cultured  rose 

There  blossoms,  strong  in  health,  and  will  be  soon 

Roof  high  ;  the  wild  pink  crowns  the  garden  wall. 

And  with  the  flowers  are  intermingled  stones 

Sparry  and  bright,  rough  scatterings  of  the  hills. 

These  ornaments,  that  fade  not  with  the  year, 

A  hardy  girl  continues  to  provide  ; 

Who,  mounting  fearlessly  the  rocky  heights 

Her  father's  prompt  attendant,  does  for  him 

All  that  a  boy  could  do,  but  with  delight 

More  keen,  and  prouder  daring :  yet  hath  she 

Within  the  garden,  like  the  rest,  a  bed 

For  her  own  flowers  and  favourite  herbs — a  space. 

By  sacred  charter,  holden  for  her  use. 

These,  and  whatever  else  the  garden  bears 

Of  fruit  or  flower,  permission  ask'd  or  not, 

I  freely  gather ;  and  my  leisure  draws 

A  not  unfrequent  pastime  from  the  sight 

Of  the  bees  murmuring  round  their  shelter'd  hives 

In  that  enclosure ;  while  the  mountain  rill. 

That  sparkling  thrids  the  rocks,  attunes  his  voice 

To  the  pure  course  of  human  life,  which  there 

Flows  on  in  solitude.    But,  when  the  gloom 

Of  night  is  falling  round  my  steps,  then  most 

This  dwelling  charms  me :  often  I  stop  short, 

(Who  could  refrain  ?)  and  feea  by  stealth  my  sight 

With  prospect  of  the  company  within. 

Laid  open  through  the  blazing  window.     There 

I  see  the  eldest  daughter  at  her  wheel 

Spinning  amain,  as  if  to  overtake 

The  never-halting  time ;  or,  in  her  turn. 

Teaching  some  novice  of  the  sisterhood 

That  skill  in  this  or  other  household  work. 

Which,  from  her  father's  honour'd  hand,  herself 

While  she  was  yet  a  little  one,  had  learn 'd. 

Mild  man  !  he  is  not  gay,  but  they  are  gay ; 

And  the  whole  house  seems  fill'd  with  gayety. 

Thrice  happy,  then,  the  mother  may  be  deem'd. 

The  wife,  from  whose  consolatory  grave 

I  turn'd,  that  ye  in  mind  might  witness  where 

And  how,  her  spirit  yet  survives  on  earth." 


BOOK  VII. 
THE  CHURCHYARD  AMONG  THE  MOUNTAINS. 

CONTINUED. 
ARGUMENT. 

impression  of  these  narratives  upon  the  author's  mind. 
Pastor  invited  to  give  account  of  certain  graves  that  lie 
apart.  Clergyman  and  his  family.  Fortunate  influence 
of  change  of  situation,  Activil/  in  extreme  old  age. 
Another  clergyman,  a  character  <  f  resolute  virtue.    La- 


mentations over  misdirected  applause.  Instance  of  leac 
exalted  excellence  in  a  deaf  man.  Elevated  charactel 
of  a  blind  man.  Reflection  wpon  blindness.  Inierrjpt. 
ed  by  a  peasant  who  passes;  his  animal  cheerfulness 
and  careless  vivacity.  He  occasions  a  digression  on 
the  fall  of  beautiful  and  interesting  trees.  A  female 
infant's  grave.  Joy  at  her  birth.  Sorrow  at  her  depart* 
ure.  A  youthful  peasant ;  his  patriotic  enthusiasm,  di». 
tinguished  qualities,  and  untimely  death.  Exultation 
of  the  wanderer,  as  a  patriot,  in  this  picture.  Solitary 
how  effected.  Monument  of  a  knight.  Traditions 
concerning  him.  Peroration  of  the  wanderer  on  the 
transitoriness  of  things,  and  the  revolutions  of  aociety 
Hints  at  his  own  past  calling.    Thanks  the  pastor. 

While  thus  from  theaie  to  theme  the  historian 

pass'd. 
The  words  he  utter'd,  and  the  jcene  that  lay 
Before  our  eyes,  awaken'd  in  my  mind 
Vivid  remembrance  of  those  long-past  hours, 
When,  in  the  hollow  of  some  shadowy  vale, 
(What  time  the  splendour  of  the  setting  sun 
Lay  beautiful  on  Snovvdon's  sovereign  brow. 
On  Cader  Idris,  or  huge  Penmanmaur,) 
A  wandering  youth,  I  listen'd  with  delight 
To  pastoral  melody  or  warlike  air, 
Drawn  from  the  chords  of  th'  ancient  British  harp 
By  some  accomplished  master,  while  he  sate 
Amid  the  quiet  of  the  green  recess. 
And  there  did  inexhaustibly  dispense 
An  interchange  of  soft  or  solemn  tunes. 
Tender  or  blithe ;  now,  as  the  varying  mood 
Of  his  own  spirit  urged, — now,  as  a  voice 
From  youth  or  maiden,  or  some  honour'd  chief 
Of  his  compatriot  villagers  (that  hung 
Around  him,  drinking  in  the  impassion'd  notes 
Of  the  time-hallow 'd  minstrelsy)  required 
For  their  heart's  ease  or  pleasure.   Strains  of  powej 
Were  they,  to  seize  and  occupy  the  sense ; 
But  to  a  higher  mark  than  song  can  reach 
Rose  this  pure  eloquence.     And,  when  the  stream 
Which  overflow'd  the  soul  was  pass'd  away, 
A  consciousness  remain'd  that  it  had  left 
Deposited  upon  the  silent  shore 
Of  memory,  images  and  precious  thoughts. 
That  shall  not  die,  and  cannot  be  destroy'd. 

"  These  grassy  heaps  lie  amicably  close," 
Said  I,  "  like  surges  heaving  in  the  wind 
Upon  the  surface  of  a  mountain  pool ; 
Whence  comes  it  then,  that  yonder  we  behold 
Five  graves,  and  only  five,  that  rise  together 
Unsociably  sequester'd,  and  encroaching 
On  the  smooth  playground  of  the  village  school .?" 

The  vicar  answered  :  "  No  disdainful  pride 
In  them  who  rest  beneath,  nor  any  course 
Of  strange  or  tragic  accident,  hath  help'd 
To  place  those  hillocks  in  that  lonely  guise. 
Once  more  look  forth,  and  follow  with  your  sight 
The  length  of  road  that  from  yon  mountain's  base 
Through  bare  enclosures  stretches,  till  its  line 
Is  lost  within  a  little  tuft  of  trees  ; 
Then  reappearing  in  a  moment,  quits 
The  cultured  fields,  and  up  the  heathy  waste. 
Mounts,  ais  you  see,  in  mazes  serpentine. 
Towards  an  easy  outlet  of  the  vale. 
That  little  shady  spot,  that  sylvan  tuft. 
By  which  the  road  is  hidden,  also  hides 
A  cottage  from  our  view, — though  I  discern 


THE    EXCURSION. 


469 


'Ye  scarcely  can)  amid  its  sheltering  trees 
The  smokeless  chimney-top.     All  unembower'd 
And  naked  stood  that  lonely  parsonage 
(For  such  in  truth  it  is,  and  appertains 
To  a  small  chapel  in  the  vale  beyond) 
When  hither  came  its  last  inhabitant. 

"  Rough  and  forbidding  were  the  choicest  roads 
By  which  our  northern  wilds  could  then  be  cross'd ; 
And  into  most  of  these  secluded  vales 
Was  no  access  for  wain,  heavy  or  light. 
So,  at  his  dwelling-place  the  priest  arrived, 
With  store  of  household  goods,  in  panniers  slung, 
On  sturdy  horses  graced  with  jingling  bells, 
And  on  the  back  of  more  ignoble  beast ; 
That,  with  likej^urden  of  effects  most  prized 
Or  easiest  carried,  closed  the  motley  train. 
Young  was  I  then,  a  schoolboy  of  eight  years  ; 
But  still,  methinks,  I  see  them  as  tliey  pass'd 
In  order,  drawing  toward  their  wish'd-for  home. 
Rock'd  by  the  motion  of  a  trusty  ass. 
Two  ruddy  children  hung,  a  well-poised  freight, 
Each  in  his  basket  nodding  drowsily ; 
Their  bonnets,  I  remember,  wreathed  with  flowers, 
Which  told  it  was  the  pleasant  montli  of  June  ; 
And,  close  behind,  the  comely  matron  rode, 
A  woman  of  soft  speech  and  gracious  smile. 
And  with  a  lady's  mien.     From  far  they  came, 
E'en  from  Northumbrian  hills  ;  yet  theirs  had  been 
A  merry  journey,  rich  in  pastime,  cheer'd 
By  music,  prank,  and  laughter-stirring  jest ; 
And  freak  put  on,  and  arch  word  dropp'd,  to  swell 
The  cloud  of  fancy  and  uncouth  surmise 
That  gather'd  round  the  slowly-moving  train. 
Whence  do  they  come  ?  and  with  what  errand 

charged  ? 
Belong  they  to  the  fortune-telling  tribe 
Who  pitch  their  tents  beneath  the  green-wood  tree  ? 
Or  are  they  strollers,  furnish'd  to  enact 
Fair  Rosamond,  and  the  Children  of  the  Wood, 
And,  by  that  whisker 'd  tabby's  aid,  set  forth 
The  lucky  venture  of  sage  Whittington, 
When  the  next  village  hears  the  sho\v  announced 
By  blast  of  trumpet  ?'    Plenteous  was  the  growth 
Of  such  conjectures,  overheard,  or  seen 
On  many  a  staring  countenance  portray'd 
Of  boor  or  burgher,  as  they  march'd  along. 
And  more  than  once  their  steadiness  of  face 
Was  put  to  proof,  and  exercise  supplied 
To  their  inventive  humour,  by  stern  looks, 
And  questions  in  authoritative  tone, 
From  some  staid  guardian  of  the  public  peace, 
Checking  the  sober  steed  on  which  he  rode. 
In  his  suspicious  wisdom :  oftener  still, 
By  notice  indirect,  or  blunt  demand 
From  traveller  halting  in  his  own  despite, 
A  simple  curiosity  to  ease ; 
Of  which  adventures,  that  beguiled  and  cheer'd 
Their  grave  migration,  the  good  pair  would  tell, 
With  undiminish'd  glee,  in  hoary  age. 

«  A  priest  he  was  by  function ;  but  his  course 
From  his  youth  up,  and  high  as  manhood's  noon, 
(The  hour  of  life  to  which  he  then  was  brought,) 
Had  been  irregular,  I  might  say,  wild ; 
By  books  unsteadied,  by  his  pastoral  care 
Too  little  check'd.     An  active,  ardent  mind  ; 
A  fancy  pregnant  with  resource  and  scheme 


To  cheat  the  sadness  of  a  rainy  da}-^ ; 

Hands  apt  for  all  ingenious  arts  and  games ; 

A  generous  spirit,  and  a  body  strong 

To  cope  with  stoutest  champions  of  the  bowl ; 

Had  earn'd  for  him  sure  welcome,  and  the  rights 

Of  a  prized  visitant,  in  the  jolly  hall 

Of  country  squire  ;  or  at  the  statelier  board 

Of  duke  or  earl,  from  scenes  of  courtly  pomp 

Withdrawn,  to  while  away  the  summer  hours 

In  condescension  among  rural  guests. 

"  With  these  high  comrades  he  had  revell'd  long, 
Frolick'd  industriously,  a  simple  clerk. 
By  hopes  of  conwng  patronage  beguiled 
Till  the  heart  sicken'd.     So  each  loftier  aim 
Abandoning,  and  all  his  showy  friends. 
For  a  life's  stay,  though  slender  yet  assured, 
He  turn'd  to  this  secluded  chapelry 
That  had  been  offered  to  his  doubtiu   t  hoice 
By  an  unthought-of  patron.     Bleak  a:,d  bare 
They  found  the  cottage,  their  allotted  home  ; 
Naked  without,  and  rude  within  ;  a  spot 
With  which  the  scantily  provided  cure 
Not  long  had  been  endowed  :  and  far  remote 
The  chapel  stood,  divided  from  that  house 
By  an  unpeopled  tract  of  mountain  waste. 
Yet  cause  was  none,  whate'er  regret  might  hang 
On  his  own  mind,  to  quarrel  with  the  choice 
Or  the  necessity  that  fix'd  him  here  : 
Apart  from  old  temptations,  and  constrain'd 
To  punctual  labour  in  his  sacred  charge. 
See  him  a  constant  preacher  to  the  poor  ! 
And  visiting,  though  not  with  saintly  zeal. 
Yet  when  need  was,  with  no  reluctant  will. 
The  sick  in  body,  or  distrest  in  mind ; 
And,  by  his  salutary  change,  compell'd 
To  rise  from  timely  sleep,  and  meet  the  day 
With  no  engagement,  in  his  thoughts,  more  proud 
Or  splendid  than  his  garden  could  afford. 
His  fields,  or  mountains  by  the  heath-cock  ranged. 
Or  the  wild  brooks ;  from  which  he  now  return'd 
Contented  to  partake  the  quiet  meal 
Of  his  own  board,  where  sate  his  gentle  mate 
And  three  fair  children,  plentifully  fed 
Though  simply,  from  their  little  household  farm; 
With  acceptable  treat  of  fish  or  fowl 
By  nature  yielded  to  his  practised  hand- 
To  help  the  small  but  certain  comings-in 
Of  that  spare  benefice.     Yet  not  the  less 
Theirs  was  a  hospitable  board,  and  theirs 
A  charitable  door.     So  days  and  years 
Pass'd  on  ;  the  inside  of  that  rugged  house 
Was  trimm'd  and  brighten'd  by  the  matron's  care, 
And  gradually  enrich'd  with  things  of  price, 
Which  might  be  lack'd  for  use  or  ornament. 
What  though  no  soft  and  costly  sofa  there 
Insidiously  stretch'd  out  its  lazy  length, 
And  no  vain  mirror  glitter'd  on  the  walls, 
Yet  were  the  windows  of  the  low  abode 
By  shutters  weather-fended,  which  at  once 
Repell'd  the  storm  and  deaden'd  its  loud  roar. 
There  snow-white  curtains  hung  in  decent  folds ; 
Tough  moss,  and  long-endiiring  mountain  plants, 
That  creep  along  the  ground  with  sinuous  trail. 
Were  nicely  braided,  and  composed  a  work 
Like  Indian  mats,  that  with  appropriate  grace 
Lay  at  the  threshold  and  the  inner  doors  ; 


470 


WORDSWORTH. 


And  a  fair  carpet,  woven  of  homespun  wool. 
But  tinctured  daintily  with  florid  hues, 
For  seemliness  and  warmth,  on  festal  days, 
Cover'd  the  smooth  blue  slabs  of  mountain  stone 
With  which  the  parlour  floor,  in  simplest  guise 
Of  pastoral  homesteads,  had  been  long  inlaid. 
These   pleasing  works  the  housewife's  skill  pro- 
duced : 
Meanwhile  the  unsedentary  master's  hand 
Was  busier  with  his  task — to  rid,  to  plant, 
To  rear  for  food,  for  shelter,  and  delight ; 
A  thriving  covert !    And  when  wishes,  form'd 
In  youth,  and  sanction 'd  bj'  the  riper  mind. 
Restored  me  to  m}-  native  valley,  here 
To  end  my  days ;  well  pleased  was  I  to  see 
The  once  bare  cottage,  on  the  mountain  side, 
Screen'd  from  assault  of  every  bitter  blast ; 
While  the  dark  shadows  of  the  summer  leaves 
Danced  in  the  breeze,  upon  its  mossy  roof. 
Time,  which  had  thus  afforded  willing  help 
To  beautify  with  nature's  fairest  growth 
This  rustic  tenement,  had  gently  shed. 
Upon  its  master's  frame,  a  wintry  grace ; 
The  comeliness  of  unenfeebled  age. 
But  how  could  I  say,  gently  ?  for  he  still 
Retain'd  a  flashing  eye,  a  burning  palm, 
A  stirring  foot,  a  head  which  beat  at  nights 
Upon  its  pillow  with  a  thousand  schemes. 
Few  likings  had  he  dropp'd,  few  pleasures  lost ; 
Generous  and  charitable,  prompt  to  serve  ; 
And  still  his  harsher  passions  kept  their  hold, 
Anger  and  indignation  :  still  he  loved 
The  sound  of  titled  names,  and  talk'd  in  glee 
Of  long  past  banquetings  with  high-born  friends  : 
Then,  from  those  lulling  fits  of  vain  delight 
Uproused  by  recollected  injury,  rail'd 
At  their  false  ways  disdainfully, — and  oft 
In  bitterness,  and  with  a  threatening  eye 
Of  fire,  incensed  beneath  its  hoary  brow. 
These  transports,  with  staid  looks  of  pure  good  will 
And  with  soft  smile,  his  consort  would  reprove. 
She  far  behind  him  in  the  race  of  years. 
Yet  keeping  her  first  mildness,  was  advanced 
Far  nearer,  in  the  habit  of  her  soul. 
To  that  still  region  whither  all  are  bound. 
Him  might  we  liken  to  the  setting  sun 
As  seen  not  seldom  on  some  gusty  day. 
Struggling  and  bold,  and  shining  from  the  west 
With  an  inconstant  and  unmellow'd  light ; 
She  was  a  soft  attendant  cloud,  that  hung 
As  if  with  wish  to  veil  the  restless  orb  ; 
From  which  it  did  itself  imbibe  a  ray 
Of  pleasing  lustre.     But  no  more  of  this ; 
I  better  love  to  sprinkle  on  the  sod 
That  now  divides  the  pair,  or  rather  say 
That  still  unites  them,  praises,  like  heaven's  dew, 
Without  reserve  descending  upon  both. 
«'  Our  very  first  in  eminence  of  years 
This  old  man  stood,  the  patriarch  of  the  vale  ! 
And,  to  his  unmolested  mansion,  death 
Had  never  come,  through  space  of  forty  years  ; 
Sparing  Dotli  old  and  young  in  that  abode. 
Suddenly  then  they  disappear'd  :  not  twice 
Had  summer  scorch'd  the  fields :  not  twice  had  fall'n 
On  those  high  peaks,  the  first  autumnal  snow, 
Before  the  greedy  visiting  was  closed. 


And  the  lone  privileged  house  left  empty — swept 
As  by  a  plague :  yet  no  rapacious  plague 
Had  been  among  them  ;  all  was  gentle  death. 
One  after  one,  with  intervals  of  peace. 
A  happy  consummation  I  an  accord 
Sweet,  perfect — to  be  wish'd  for  !  save  that  here 
Was  something  which  to  mortal  sense  might  sound 
Like  harshness, — that  the  old  gray-headed  sire. 
The  oldest,  he  was  taken  last, — survived 
When  the  meek  partner  of  his  age,  his  son. 
His  daughter,  and  that  late  and  high-prized  gilt. 
His  little  smiling  grandchild,  were  no  more. 

"  '  All  gone,  all  vanish'd  !  he  deprived  and  bare 
How  will  he  face  the  remnant  of  his  life  ? 
What  will  become  of  him  i"  we  said,  and  mused 


eet 


In  sad  conjectures — '  Shall  we  meet  him  now 
Haunting  with  rod  and  line  the  craggy  brooks  ? 
Or  shall  we  overhear  him,  as  we  pass. 
Striving  to  entertain  the  lonely  hours 
With  music  ?'(for  he  had  not  ceased  to  touch 
The  harp  or  viol  which  himself  had  framed. 
For  their  sweet  purposes,  with  perfect  skill.) 
*  What  titles  will  he  keep  ?  will  he  remain 
Musician,  gardener,  builder,  mechanist, 
A  planter,  and  a  rearer  from  the  seed  ? 
A  man  of  hope  and  forward  looking  mind 
E'en  to  the  last ."    Such  was  he,  unsubdued. 
But  Heaven  was  gracious  :  yet  a  little  while. 
And  this  survivor,  with  his  cheerful  throng 
Of  open  schemes,  and  all  his  inward  hoard 
Of  unsunn'd  griefs,  too  many  and  too  keen, 
Was  overcome  by  unexpected  sleep. 
In  one  West  moment.     Like  a  shadow  thrown 
Softly  and  lightly  from  a  passing  cloud. 
Death  fell  upon  him,  while  reclined  he  lay 
For  noontide  solace  on  the  summer  grass. 
The  warm  lap  of  his  mother  earth  :  and  so. 
Their  lenient  term  of  separation  past. 
That  family  (whose  graves  you  there  behold) 
By  yet  a  higher  privilege  once  more 
Were  gather'd  to  each  other." 

Calm  of  mind 
And  silence  waited  on  these  closing  words  ; 
Until  the  wanderer  (whether  moved  by  fear 
Lest  in  those  passages  of  life  were  some 
That  might  have  touch'd  the  sick  heart  of  his  friend 
Too  nearly,  or  intent  to  reinforce 
His  own  firm  spirit  in  degree  deprest 
By  tender  sorrow  for  our  mortal  state) 
Thus  silence  broke :  "  Behold  a  thoughtless  man 
From  vice  and  premature  decay  preserved 
By  useful  habits,  to  a  fitter  soil 
Transplanted  ere  too  late.     The  hermit,  lodged 
In  the  untrodden  desert,  tells  his  beads. 
With  each  repeating  its  allotted  prayer. 
And  thus  divides  and  thus  relieves  the  time ; 
Smooth  task,  with  his  compared,  whose  mind  could 

string. 
Not  scantily,  bright  minutes  on  the  thread 
A  keen  domestic  anguish, — and  beguile 
Of  solitude,  unchosen,  unprofess'd  ; 
Till  gentlest  death  released  him.     Far  from  us 
Be  the  desire — too  curiously  to  ask 
How  much  of  this  is  but  the  blind  result 
Of  cordial  spirits  and  vital  temperament. 
And  what  to  higher  powers  is  justly  due. 


THE    EXCURSION. 


47  ^j 


But  you,  sir,  know  that  in  a  neighbouring  vale 

A  priest  abides  before  whose  life  such  doubts 

Fall  to  the  ground :  whose  gifts  of  nature  lie 

Retired  from  notice,  lost  in  attributes 

Of  reason,  honourably  eifaced  by  debts 

Which  her  poor  treasure  house  is  content  to  owe, 

And  conquest  over  her  dominion  gain'd. 

To  which  her  frowardness  must  needs  submit. 

In  this  one  man  is  shown  a  temperance — proof 

Against  all  trials  ;  industry  severe 

And  constant  as  the  motion  of  the  day  ; 

Stern  self-denial  round  him  spread,  with  shade 

That  might  be  deem'd  forbidding,  did  not  there 

All  generous  feelings  flourish  and  rejoice  ; 

Forbearance,  charity  in  deed  and  thought, 

And  resolution  competent  to  take 

Out  of  the  bosom  of  simplicity 

All  that  her  holy  customs  recommend. 

And  the  best  ages  of  the  world  prescribe. 

Preaching,  administering,  in  every  work 

Of  his  sublime  vocation,  in  the  walks 

Of  worldly  intercourse  'twixt  man  and  man, 

And  in  his  humble  dwelling,  he  appears 

A  labourer,  with  moral  virtue  girt, 

With  spiritual  graces,  like  a  glory,  crown'd." 

"  Doubt  can  be  none,"  the  pastor  said,  "  for  wfiom 
This  portraiture  is  sketch'd.     The  great,  the  good. 
The  well  beloved,  the  fortunate,  the  wise, 
These  titles  emperors  and  chiefs  have  borne. 
Honour  assumed  or  given  :  and  him,  the  Wonderful^ 
Our  simple  shepherds,  speaking  from  the  heart. 
Deservedly  have  styled.     From  his  abode 
In  a  dependent  chapelry,  that  lies 
Behind  yon  hill,  a  poor  and  rugged  wild,  , 
Which  in  his  soul  he  lovingly  embraced, — 
And,  having  once  espoused,  would  never  quit ; 
Hither,  ere  long,  that  lowly,  great,  good  man 
Will  be  convey'd.    An  unelaborate  stone 
May  cover  him  ;  and  by  its  help,  perchance, 
A  century  shall  hear  his  name  pronounced, 
With  images  attendant  on  the  sound : 
Then,  shall  the  slowly  gathering  twilight  close 
In  utter  night;  and  of  his  course  remain 
No  cognizable  vestiges,  no  more 
Than  of  this  breath,  which  shapes  itself  in  words 
To  speak  of  him,  and  instantly  dissolves* 
Noise  is  there  not  enough  in  doleful  war, 
But  that  the  heaven-born  poet  must  stand  forth. 
And  lend  the  echoes  of  his  sacred  shell. 
To  multiply  and  aggravate  the  din  ? 
Pangs^re  mere  not  enough  in  hopeless  love— 
And,  in  requited  passion,  all  too  much 
Of  turbulence,  anxiety,  and  fear — 
But  that  the  minstrel  of  the  rural  shade 
Must  tune  his  pipe,  insiduously  to  nurse 
The  perturbation  in  the  suffering  breast. 
And  propagate  its  kind,  far  as  he  may  ? 
Ah  who  (and  with  such  rapture  as  befits 
The  hallow'd  theme)  will  rise  and  celebrate 
The  good  man's  deeds  and  purposes;  retrace 
His  struggles,  his  discomfiture  deplore. 
His  triumphs  hail,  and  glorify  his  end  ? 
That  virtue,  like  the  fumes  and  vapory  clouds 
Through  fancy's  heat  redounding  in  the  brain, 
And  like  the  soft  infections  of  the  heart. 
By  charm  of  measured  words  may  spread  o'er  field, 


Hamlet,  and  town  ;  and  piety  survive 
Upon  the  lips  of  men  in  hall  or  bower  ; 
Not  for  reproof,  but  high  and  warm  delight. 
And  grave  encouragement,  by  song  inspired. 
Vain  thought !  but  wnerefore  murmur  or  repine  ? 
The  memory  of  the  just  survives  in  heaven  ; 
And,  without  sorrow,  will  this  ground  receive 
That  venerable  clay.     Meanwhile  the  best 
Of  what  it  holds  confines  us  to  degrees 
In  excellence  less  diflScult  to  reach. 
And  milder  worth  :  nor  need  we  travel  far 
From  those  to  whom  our  last  regards  were  paid. 
For  such  example. 

Almost  at  the  root 
Of  that  tall  pine,  the  shadow  of  whose  bare 
And  slender  stem,  while  here  I  sit  at  eve. 
Oft  stretches  towards  me,  like  a  long  straight  path 
Traced  faintly  in  the  greensward  ;  there,  beneath 
A  plain  blue  stone,  a  gentle  dalesman  lies. 
From  whom,  in  early  childhood,  was  withdrawn 
The  precious  gift  of  hearing.     He  grew  up 
From  year  to  3-ear  in  loneliness  of  soul ; 
And  this  deep  mountain  valley  was  to  him 
Soundless,  with  all  its  streams.     The  bird  of  dawn 
Did  never  rouse  this  cottager  from  sleep 
With  startling  summons  :  not  for  his  delight 
The  vernal  cuckoo  shouted  ;  not  for  him 
Murmur'd  the  labouring  bee.     When  stormy  winds 
Were  working  the  broad  bosom  of  the  lake 
Into  a  thousand  thousand  sparkling  waves, 
Rocking  the  trees,  or  driving  cloud  on  cloud 
Along  the  sharp  edge  of  yon  lofty  crags. 
The  agitated  scene  before  his  eye 
Was  silent  as  a  picture :  evermore 
Were  all  things  silent,  wheresoe'er  he  moved. 
Yet,  by  the  solace  of  his  own  pure  thoughts 
Upheld,  he  duteously  pursued  the  round 
Of  rural  labours  ;  the  steep  mountain  side 
Ascended  with  his  staff  and  faithful  dog  ; 
The  plough  he  guided,  and  the  scythe  he  sway'd; 
And  the  ripe  corn  before  his  sickle  fell 
Among  the  jocund  reapers.     For  himself. 
All  watchful  and  industrious  as  he  was. 
He  wrought  not;  neither  field  nor  flock  he  own'd: 
No  wish  for  wealth  had  place  within  his  mind; 
Nor  husband's  love,  nor  father's  hope  or  care. 
Though  born  a  younger  brother,  need  was  none 
That  from  the  floor  of  his  paternal  home 
He  should  depart,  to  plant  himself  anew. 
And  when,  mature  in  manhood,  he  beheld 
His  parents  laid  in  earth,  no  loss  ensued 
Of  rights  to  him  ;  but  he  remain'd  well  pleased. 
By  the  pure  bond  of  independent  love 
An  innrvite  of  a  second  family. 
The  fellow  labourer  and  friend  of  him 
To  whom  the  small  inheritance  had  fall'n. 
Nor  deem  that  his  mild  presence  was  a  weignt 
That  press'd  upon  his  brother's  house,  for  books 
Were  ready  comrades  whom  he  could  not  tire,— 
Of  whose  society  the  blameless  man 
Was  never  satiate.     Their  familiar  voice. 
E'en  to  old  age,  with  unabated  charm 
Beguiled  his  leisure  hours  i  refresh'd  his  thought!  } 
Beyond  its  natural  elevation  raised 
His  introverted  spirit :  and  bestow'd 
Upon  his  life  an  outward  dignity 


472 


WORDSWORTH. 


Which  all  acknowledged.     The  dark  winter  night, 

The  stormy  day,  had  each  its  own  resource  ; 

Song  of  the  muses,  sage  historic  tale. 

Science  severe,  or  word  of  holy  writ 

Announcing  immortality  and  joy 

To  the  assembled  spirits  of  the  just, 

From  imperfection  and  decay  secure. 

Thus  soothed  at  home,  thus  busy  in  the  field, 

To  no  perverse  suspicion  he  gave  way, 

No  languor,  peevishness,  nor  vain  complaint : 

And  they  who  were  about  him  did  not  fail 

In  reverence,  or  in  courtesy ;  they  prized 

His  gentle  manners ;  and  his  peaceful  smiles, 

The  gleams  of  his  slow-varying  countenance. 

Were  met  with  answering  sympathy  and  love. 

"  At  length,  when  sixty  years  and  five  were  told, 
A  slow  disease  insensibly  consumed 
The  powers  of  nature  ;  and  a  few  short  steps 
Of  friends  and  kindred  bore  him  from  his  home 
(Yon  cottage  shaded  by  the  woody  crags) 
To  the  profounder  stillness  of  the  grave. 
Nor  was  his  funeral  denied  the  grace 
Of  many  tears,  virtuous  and  thoughtful  grief; 
Heart  sorrow  rendered  sweet  by  gratitude. 
And  now  that  monumental  stone  preserves 
His  name,  and  unambitiously  relates 
How  long,  and  by  what  kindly  outward  aids. 
And  in  what  pure  contentedness  of  mind. 
The  sad  privation  was  by  him  endured. 
And  yon  tail  pine  tree,  whose  composing  sound 
Was  wasted  on  the  good  man's  living  ear. 
Hath  now  its  own  peculiar  sanctity ; 
And,  at  the  touch  of  every  wandering  breeze, 
Murmurs,  not  idly,  o'er  his  peaceful  grave. 

"  Soul-cheering  light,  most  bountiful  of  things  ! 
Guide  of  our  way,  mysterious  comforter  ! 
Whose  sacred  influence,  spread  through  earth  and 

heaven. 
We  all  too  thanklessly  participate. 
Thy  gifts  were  utterly  withheld  from  him 
Whose  place  of  rest  is  near  yon  ivied  porch. 
Yet,  of  the  wild  brooks  ask  if  he  complained ; 
Ask  of  the  channell'd  rivers  if  they  held 
A  safer,  easier,  more  determined  course. 
What  terror  doth  it  strike  into  the  mind 
To  think  of  one  who  cannot  see,  advancing 
Toward  some  precipice's  airy  brink  ! 
But,  timely  warn'd,  he  would  have  stay'd  his  steps. 
Protected,  say  enlighten'd,  by  his  ear. 
And  on  the  very  edge  of  vacancy 
Not  more  endanger'd  than  a  man  whose  eye 
Beholds  the  gulf  beneath.     No  floweret  blooms 
Throughout  the  lofty  range  of  these  rough  hills. 
Or  in  the  woods,  that  could  from  him  conceal 
Its  birthplace ;  none  whose  figure  did  not  live 
Upon  his  touch.     The  bowels  of  the  earth 
Enrich'd  with  knowledge  his  industrious  mind; 
The  ocean  paid  him  tribute  from  the  stores 
Lodged  in  her  bosom  ;  and,  by  science  led. 
His  genius  mounted  to  the  plains  of  heaven. 
Methinks  I  see  him ;  how  his  eyeballs  roll'd 
Beneath  his  ample  brow,  in  darkness  pair'd. 
But  each  instinct  with  spirit ;  and  the  frame 
Of  the  whole  countenance  alive  with  thought. 
Fancy,  and  understanding ;  while  the  voice 
Discoursed  of  natural  or  moral  truth 


With  eloquence,  and  such  authentic  power. 
That,  in  his  presence,  humbler  Knowledge  stood 
Abash'd,  and  tender  pity  overawed." 

"  A  noble,  and,  to  unreflecting  minds, 
A  marvellous  spectacle,"  the  wanderer  said, 
"  Beings  like  these  present !     But  proof  abounds 
Upon  the  earth  that  faculties  which  seem 
Extinguish'd,  do  not,  therefore,  cease  to  be. 
And  to  the  mind  among  her  powers  of  sense 
This  transfer  is  permitted,  not  alone 
That  the  bereft  their  recompense  may  win, 
But  for  remoter  purposes  of  love 
And  charity ;  nor  last  nor  least  for  this. 
That  to  th'  imagination  may  be  given 
A  type  and  shadow  of  an  awful  truth ; 
How,  likewise,  under  sufferance  divine. 
Darkness  is  banish'd  from  the  realms  of  death. 
By  man's  imperishable  spirit  quell'd. 
Unto  the  men  who  see  not  as  we  see. 
Futurity  was  thought,  in  ancient  times. 
To  be  laid  open,  and  they  prophesied. 
And  know  we  not  that  from  the  blind  have  flow'd 
The  highest,  holiest  raptures  of  the  lyre  ; 
And  wisdom  married  to  immortal  verse  ?" 

Among  the  humbler  worthies,  at  our  feet 
Living  insensible  to  human  praise. 
Love,  or  regret,  whose  lineaments  would  next 
Have  been  portray'd,  I  guess  not ;  but  it  chanced 
That,  near  the  quiet  churchyard  where  we  sate, 
A  team  of  horses,  with  a  ponderous  freight 
Pressing  behind,  adown  a  rugged  slope. 
Whose  sharp  descent  confounded  their  array 
Came  at  that  moment,  ringing  noisily. 
"Here,"  said   the  pastor,  "do  we   muse,  an4 
mourn 
The  waste  of  death :  and  lo !  the  giant  oak 
Stretch'd  on  his  bier,  that  massy  timber  wain  ; 
Nor  fail  to  note  the  man  who  guides  the  team.  ' 

He  was  a  peasant  of  the  lowest  class : 
Gray  locks  profusely  round  his  temples  hung 
In  clustering  curls,  like  ivy,  which  the  bite 
Of  winter  cannot  thin  ;  the  fresh  air  lodged 
Within  his  cheek,  as  light  within  a  cloud ; 
And  he  returned  our  greeting  with  a  smile. 
When  he  had  pass'd,  the  solitary  spake : 
"  A  man  he  seems  of  cheerful  yesterdays 
And  confident  to-morrows  ;  with  a  face 
Not  worldly-minded,  for  it  bears  too  much 
Of  nature's  impress-— gayety  and  health, 
Freedom  and  hope  ;  but  keen  withal,  and  shrewd. 
His  gestures  note  ;  and  hark  !  his  tones  of  vqice 
Are  all  vivacious  as  his  mien  and  looks." 

The  pastor  answered :  "  You  have  read  him  well 
Year  after  year  is  added  to  his  store 
With  silent  increase  ;  summers,  winters — past. 
Past  or  to  come  ;  yea,  boldly  might  I  say, 
Ten  summers  and  ten  winters  of  a  space 
That  lies  beyond  life's  ordinary  bounds. 
Upon  his  sprightly  vigour  cannot  fix 
The  obligation  of  an  anxious  mind, 
A  pride  in  having,  or  a  fear  to  lose  ; 
Possess'd  like  outskirts  of  some  large  domain, 
By  any  one  more  thought  of  than  by  him 
Who  holds  the  land  in  fee,  its  careless  lord  ! 
Yet  is  the  creature  rational,  endow'd 
With  foresight;  hears,  too,  every  Sabbpth-dav 


THE   EXCURSION. 


47S 


The  C.Nristian  promise  with  attentive  ear ; 

Nor  will,  I  trust,  the  Majesty  of  heaven 

Reject  the  incense  offered  up  by  him. 

Though  of  the  kind  which  beasts  and  birds  present 

In  grove  or  pasture — cheerfulness  of  soul, 

From  trepidation  and  repining  free. 

How  many  scrupulous  worshippers  fall  down 

Upon  their  knees,  and  daily  homage  pay 

Less  worthy,  less  religious  even,  than  his  ! 

"  This  qualified  respect,  the  old  man's  due, 
Is  paid  without  reluctance  ;  but  in  truth" 
(Said  the  good  vicar  with  a  fond  half-smile) 
"  I  feel  at  times  a  motion  of  despite 
Towards  one,  whose  bold  contrivances  and  skill. 
As  you  have  seen,  bear  such  conspicuous  part 
In  works  of  havoc  ;  taking  from  these  vales, 
One  after  one,  their  proudest  ornaments. 
Full  oft  his  doings  leave  me  to  deplore 
Tall  ash  tree,  sown  by  winds,  by  vapours  nursed. 
In  the  dry  crannies  of  the  pendant  rocks ; 
Light  birch,  aloft  upon  the  horizon's  edge, 
A  veil  of  glory  for  th'  ascending  moon  ; 
And  oak  whose  roots  by  noontide  dew  were  damp'd. 
And  on  whose  forehead  inaccessible 
The  raven  lodged  in  safety.     Many  a  ship 
Launch'd  into  Morecamb  Bay,  to  him  hath  owed 
Her  strong  knee-timbers,  and  the  mast  that  bears 
The  loftiest  of  her  pendants.     He,  from  park 
Or  forest,  fetch'd  the  enormous  axletree 
That  whirls  (how  slow  itself! )  ten  thousand  spindles: 
And  the  vast  engine  labouring  in  the  mine. 
Content  with  meaner  prowess,  must  have  lack'd 
The  trunk  and  body  of  its  marvellous  strength. 
If  his  undaunted  enterprise  had  fail'd 
Among  the  mountain  coves. 

Yon  household  fir, 
A  guardian  planted  to  fence  off  the  blast. 
But  towering  high  the  roof  above,  as  if 
Its  humble  destination  were  forgot ; 
That  sycamore,  which  annually  holds 
Within  its  shade,  as  in  a  stately  tent 
On  all  sides  open  to  the  fanning  breeze, 
A  grave  assemblage,  seated  while  the}^  shear 
The  fleece-encumber'd  flock  ;  the  joyful  elm, 
Around  whose  trunk  the  maidens  dance  in  Maj- ; 
And  the   lord's  oak, — would  plead  their  several 

rights 
In  vain,  if  he  virere  master  of  their  fate  : 
His  sentence  to  the  axe  would  doom  them  all. 
But,  green  in  age  and  lusty  as  he  is. 
And  promising  to  keep  his  hold  on  earth 
Less,  as  might  seem,  in  rivalship  with  men 
Than  with  the  forest's  more  enduring  growth, 
His  own  appointed  hour  will  come  at  last; 
And,  like  the  haughty  spoilers  of  the  world. 
This  keen  destroyer  in  his  turn  must  fall. 

"  Now  from  the  living  pass  we  once  again  ; 
From   age,"  the  priest  continued,  "  turn  your 

thoughts ; 
From  age,  that  often  unlamented  drops. 
And  mark  that  daisied  hillock,  three  spans  long ! 
Seven  lusty  sons  sate  daily  round  the  board 
Of  Gold-rill  side  ;  and,  when  the  hope  had  ceased 
Of  other  progeny,  a  daughter  then 
Was  given,  the  crowning  bounty  of  the  whole ; 
A.nd  so  acknowledged  with  a  tremulous  joy 


Felt  to  the  centre  of  that  heavenly  calm 
With  which  by  nature  every  mother's  soul 
Is  stricken,  in  the  moment  when  her  throes 
Are  ended,  and  her  ears  have  heard  the  cry 
Which  tells  her  that  a  living  child  is  born. 
And  she  lies  conscious,  in  a  blissful  rest. 
That  the  dread  storm  is  weather'd  by  them  both. 

"The  father — him  at  this  unlook'd-for  gift 
A  bolder  transport  seizes.     From  the  side 
Of  his  bright  hearth,  and  from  his  open  door. 
Day  afte^-  day  the  gladness  is  diffused 
To  all  that  come,  and  almost  all  that  pass ; 
Invited,  summon'd,  to  partake  the  cheer 
Spread  on  the  never-empty  board,  and  drink 
Health  and  gccd  wis;^s  to  his  new-born  girl. 
From  cups  replenish'd  by  his  joyous  hand. 
Those  seven  fair  brothers  variously  were  moved 
Each  by  the  thoughts  best  suited  to  his  years 
But  most  of  all  and  with  most  thankful  mind 
The  hoary  grandsire  felt  himself  enrich'd  ; 
A  happiness  that  ebb'd  not,  but  remain'd 
To  fill  the  total  measure  of  the  soul ! 
From  the  low  tenement,  his  own  abode, 
Whither,  as  to  a  little  private  cell. 
He  had  withdrawn  from  bustle,  care,  and  noise, 
To  spend  the  Sabbath  of  old  age  in  peace. 
Once  every  day  he  duteously  repair'd 
To  rock  the  cradle  of  the  slumbering  babe : 
For  in  that  female  infant's  name  he  heard 
The  silent  name  of  his  departed  wife  ; 
Heart-stirring  music  !  hourly  heard  that  name ; 
Full  blest  he  was, '  Another  Margaret  Green,' 
Oft  did  he  say, '  was  come  to  Gold-rill  side.' 
Oh  !  pang  unthought  of,  as  the  precious  boon 
Itself  had  been  unlook'd  for ;  oh  !  dire  stroke 
Of  desolating  anguish  for  them  all  ! 
Just  as  the  child  could  totter  on  the  floor. 
And,  by  some  friendly  finger's  help  upstay-d. 
Range  round  the  garden  walk,  while  she  perchaaci 
Was  catching  at  some  novelty  of  spring. 
Ground-flower,  or  glossy  insect  from  its  cell 
Drawn  by  the  sunshine — at  that  hopeful  season 
The  winds  of  March,  smiting  insidiously, 
Raised  in  the  tender  passage  of  the  throat 
Viewless  obstruction  ;  whence,  all  unforewarn'd, 
The  household  lost  their  pride  and  soul's  delight. 
But  time  hath  power  to  soften  all  regrets. 
And  prayer  and  thought  can  bring  to  worst  distress 
Due  resignation.     Therefore,  though  some  tears 
Fail  not  to  spring  from  either  parent's  eye 
Oft  as  the}'-  hear  of  sorrow  like  their  own, 
Yet  this  departed  little  one,  too  long 
The  innocent  troubler  of  their  quiet,  sleeps 
In  what  may  now  be  call'd  a  peaceful  grave. 

"  On  a  bright  day,  the  brightest  of  the  year, 
These  mountains  echo'd  with  an  unknown  sound 
A  volley,  thrice  repeated  o'er  the  corse 
Let  down  into  the  hollow  of  that  grave. 
Whose  shelving  sides  are  red  with  naked  mould. 
Ye  rains  of  April,  duly  wet  this  earth  ! 
Spare,  burning  sun  of  midsummer^  these  sods. 
That  they  may  knit  together,  and  therewith 
Our  thoughts  unite  in  kindred  quietness  ! 
Nor  so  the  valley  shall  forget  her  loss. 
Dear  youth,  by  young  and  old  alike  beloved, 
To  me  as  precious  as  my  own  !    Green  herbs 


474 


WORDSWORTH. 


May  creep  (I  wish  that  they  would  softly  creep; 

Over  thy  last  abode,  and  we  may  pass 

Reminded  less  imperiously  of  thee  ; 

The  ridge  itself  may  sink  into  the  breast 

Of  earth,  the  great  abyss,  and  be  no  more ; 

Yet  shall  not  thy  remembrance  leave  our  hearts, 

Thy  image  disappear ! 

"  The  mountain  ash 
No  eye  can  overlook,  when  'mid  a  grove 
Of  yet  unfaded  trees  she  lifts  her  head, 
Deck'd  with  autumnal  berries,  that  outshipe 
Spring's  richest  blossoms ;  and  ye  may  have  mark'd. 
By  a  brook  side  or  solitary  tarn. 
How  she  her  station  doth  adorn  ;  the  pool 
Glows  at  her  feet,  and  all  the  gloomy  rocks 
Are  brighten'd  round  her.     In  his  native  vale 
Such  and  so  glorious  did  this  youth  appear  ; 
A  sight  that  kindled  pleasure  in  all  hearts 
By  his  ingenuous  beauty,  by  the  gleam 
Of  his  fair  eyes,  by  his  capacious  brow, 
By  all  the  graces  with  which  nature's  hand 
Had  lavishly  array'd  him.     As  old  bards 
Tell  in  their  idle  songs  of  wandering  gods. 
Pan  or  Apollo,  veil'd  in  human  form  ; 
Yet,  like  the  sweet-breath'd  violet  of  the  shade, 
Discover'd  in  their  own  despite  to  sense 
Of  mortals,  (if  such  fables  without  blame 
May  find  chance  mention  on  this  sacred  ground,) 
So,  through  a  simple  rustic  garb's  disguise. 
And  through  th'  impediment  of  rural  cares, 
In  him  reveal'd  a  scholar's  genius  shone  ; 
And  so,  not  wholly  hidden  from  men's  sight, 
In  him  the  spirit  of  a  hero  walk'd 
Our  unpretending  valley.     How  the  coit 
Whizz'd  from  the  stripling's  arm  !     If  touched  by 

him, 
Th'  inglorious  football  mounted  to  the  pitch 
Of  the  lark's  flight,  or  shaped  a  rainbow  curve. 
Aloft,  in  prospect  of  the  shouting  field  I 
The  indefatigable  fox  had  learn 'd 
To  dread  his  perseverance  in  the  chase. 
With  admiration  would  he  lift  his  eyes 
To  the  wide-ruling  eagle,  and  his  hand 
Was  loath  to  assault  the  majesty  he  loved ; 
Else  had  the  strongest  fastnesses  proved  weak 
To  guard  the  royal  brood.     The  sailing  glead. 
The  wheeling  swallow,  and  the  darting  snipe, 
The  sportive  sea-gull  dancing-  with  the  waves. 
And  cautious  water-fowl  from  distant  climes, 
Fix'd  at  their  seat,  the  centre  of  the  mere, 
Were  subject  to  young  Oswald's  steady  aim. 

"From  Gallia's  coast  a  tyrant  hurl'd  his  threats  ; 
Our  country  mark'd  the  preparation  vast 
Of  hostile  forces  ;  and  she  call'd,  with  voice 
That  fiU'd  her  plains,  that  reach'd  her  utmost  shores. 
And  in  remotest  vales  was  heard, — To  arms  ! 
Then,  for  the  first  time,  here  you  might  have  seen 
The  shepherd's  gray  to  martial  scarlet  changed. 
That  flash'd  uncouthly  through  the  woods  and  fields. 
Ten  hardy  striplings,  all  in  bright  attire. 
And  graced  with  shining  weapons,  weekly  march'd 
From  this  lone  valley,  to  a  central  spot. 
Where,  in  assemblage  with  the  flower  and  choice 
Of  the  surrounding  district,  they  might  learn 
The  rudiments  of  war ;  ten — hardy,  strong, 
And  valiant  j  but  young  Oswald,  like  a  chief, 


And  yet  a  modest  comrade,  led  them  forth 
From  their  shy  solitude,  to  face  the  world 
With  a  gay  confidence  and  seemly  pride ; 
Measuring  the  soil  beneath  their  happy  feet. 
Like  youths  released  from  labour,  and  yet  bound 
To  most  laborious  service,  though  to  them 
A  festival  of  unencumber'd  ease  ; 
The  inner  spirit  keeping  holyday. 
Like  vernal  ground  to  sabbath  sunshine  left. 

"  Oft  have  I  mark'd  him  at  some  leisure  hour, 
Stretch'd  on  the  grass  or  seated  in  the  shade 
Among  his  fellows,  while  an  ample  map 
Before  their  eyes  lay  carefully  outspread. 
From  which  the  gallant  teacher  would  discourse. 
Now  pointing  this  way  and  now  that.   '  Here  flows. 
Thus  would  he  say, '  t;  jc  Rhine,  that  famous  stream 
Eastward,  the  Danube  toward  this  inland  sea, 
A  mightier  river,  winds  from  realm  to  realm. 
And,  like  a  serpent,  shows  his  glittering  back 
Bespotted  with  innumerable  isles  : 
Here  reigns  the  Russian,  there  the  Turk ;  observe 
His  capital  city  ."     Thence,  along  a  tract 
Of  livelier  interest  to  his  hopes  and  fears 
His  finger  moved,  distinguishing  the  spots 
Where  wide-spread  conflict  then  most  fiercely  raged} 
Nor  left  unstigmatized  those  fatal  fields 
On  which  the  sons  of  mighty  Germany 
Were  taught  a  base  submission.    '  Here  behold 
A  nobler  race,  the  Switzei-s,  and  their  land ; 
Vales  deeper  far  than  these  of  ours,  huge  woods 
And  mountains  white  with  everlasting  snow  !' 
And,  surely,  he,  that  spake  with  kindling  brow, 
Was  a  true  patriot,  hopeful  as  the  best 
Of  that  young  peasantry,  who,  in  our  days. 
Have  fought  and  perish'd  for  Helvetia's  rights,— 
Ah,  not  in  vain  ! — or  those  who,  in  old  time, 
For  work  of  happier  issue  to  the  side 
Of  Tell  came  trooping  from  a  thousand  huts, 
When  he  had  risen  alone  !     No  braver  youth 
Descended  from  Judean  heights,  to  march 
With  righteous  Joshua ;  or  appear'd  in  arms 
When  grove  was  fell'd,  and  altar  was  cast  down, 
And  Gideon  blew  the  trumpet,  soul-inflamed. 
And  strong  in  hatred  of  idolatry." 

This  spoken,  from  his  seat  the  pastor  rose. 
And  moved  towards  the  grave.     Instinctively 
His  steps  we  follow 'd  ;  and  my  voice  exclaim 'd, 
"  Power  to  th'  oppressors  of  the  world  is  given, 
A  might  of  which  they  dream  not.    0  !  the  curse, 
To  be  th'  awakener  of  divinest  thoughts. 
Father  and  Founder  of  exalted  deeds. 
And  to  whole  nations  bound  in  servile  straits 
The  liberal  donor  of  capacities 
More  than  heroic  !  this  to  be,  nor  yet 
Have  sense  of  one  connatural  wish,  nor  yet 
Deserve  the  least  return  of  human  thanks ; 
Winning  no  recompense  but  deadly  hate 
With  pity  mix'd,  astonishment  with  scorn  I' 

When  these  involuntary  words  had  ceased. 
The  pastor  said,  *'  So  Providence  is  served  ; 
The  forked  weapon  of  the  skies  can  send 
Illumination  into  deep,  dark  holds, 
Which  the  mild  sunbeam  hath  not  power  to  pierte. 
Why  do  ye  quake,  inthnidated  thrones  ? 
For,  not  unconscious  of  the  mighty  debt 
Which  to  outrageous  wrong  the  suflerer  owes, 


THE    EXCURSION. 


475 


Europe,  through  all  her  habitable  seats, 

Is  thirsting  for  their  overthrow,  who  still 

Exist,  as  pagan  temples  stood  of  old, 

By  very  horror  of  their  impious  rites 

Preserved  ;  are  suffer'd  to  extend  their  pride, 

Like  cedars  on  the  top  of  Lebanon 

Darkening  the  sun.     But  less  impatient  thoughts. 

And  love  '  all  hoping  and  expecting  all,' 

This  hallow'd  grave  demands,  where  rests  in  peace 

A  humble  champion  of  the  better  cause  ; 

A  peasant  youth,  so  call  him,  for  he  ask'd 

No  higher  name  ;  in  whom  our  country  show'd, 

As  in  a  favourite  son,  most  beautiful. 

In  spite  of  vice,  and  misery,  and  disease, 

Spread  with  the  spreading  of  her  wealthy  arts, 

England,  the  ancient  and  the  free,  appear'd 

In  him  to  stand  before  my  swimming  eyes. 

Unconquerably  virtuous  and  secure. 

No  more  of  this,  lest  I  offend  his  dust : 

Short  was  his  life,  and  a  brief  tale  remains. 

"  One  summer's  day — a  day  of  annual  pomp 
And  solemn  chase — from  morn  to  sultry  noon 
His  steps  had  follow 'd,  fleetest  of  the  fleet, 
The  red  deer,  driven  along  its  native  heights 
With  cry  of  hound  and  horn  ;  and,  from  that  toil 
Return'd  with  sinews  weaken'd  and  relax'd, 
This  generous  youth,  too  negligent  of  self, 
Plunged — 'mid  a  gay  and  busy  throng  convened 
To  wash  the  fleeces  of  his  father's  flock — 
Into  the  chilling  flood. 

"  Convulsions  dire 
Seized  him  that  selfsame  night ;    and  through  the 

space 
Of  twelve  ensuing  days  his  frame  was  wrench'd, 
Till  nature  rested  from  her  work  in  death. 
To  him,  thus  snatch 'd  away,  his  comrades  paid 
A  soldier's  honours.     At  his  funeral  hour 
Bright  was  the  sun,  the  sky  a  cloudless  blue ; 
A  golden  lustre  slept  upon  the  hills  ; 
And  if  by  chance  a  stranger,  wandering  there. 
From  some  commanding  eminence  had  look'd 
Down  on  this  spot,  well  pleased  would  he  have  seen 
A  glittering  spectacle  ;  but  every  face 
Was  pallid ;  seldom  hath  that  eye  been  moist 
With  tears,  that  wept  not  then  ;  nor  were  the  few 
Who  from  their  dwellings  came  not  forth  to  join 
In  this  sad  service,  less  disturb'd  than  we. 
They  started  at  the  tributary  peal 
Of  instantaneous  thunder,  which  announced 
Through  the  still  air  the  closing  of  the  grave ; 
And  distant  mountains  echo'd  with  a  sound 
Of  lamentation  never  heard  before  !" 

The  pastor  ceased.    My  venerable  friend 
Victoriously  upraised  his  clear  bright  eye ; 
And,  when  that  eulogy  was  ended,  stood 
Enrapt,  as  if  his  inward  sense  perceived 
The  prolongation  of  some  still  response. 
Sent  by  the  ancient  soul  of  this  wide  land. 
The  spirit  of  its  mountains  and  its  seas, 
Its  cities,  temples,  fields,  its  awful  power. 
Its  rights  and  virtues — by  that  Deity 
Descending,  and  supporting  his  pure  heart 
With  patriotic  confidence  and  joy. 
And,  at  the  last  of  those  memorial  words. 
The  pining  solitary  turn'd  aside, 
\Vhether  through  manly  instinct  to  conceal 


Tender  emotions  spreading  from  the  heart 

To  his  worn  cheek  ;  or  with  uneasy  shame 

For  those  cold  humours  of  habitual  spleen, 

That  fondly  seeking  in  dispraise  of  man 

Solace  and  self-excuse,  had  sometimes  urgp^ 

To  self-abuse  a  not  ineloquent  tongue. 

Right  toward  the  sacred  edifice  his  steps 

Had  been  directed  ;  and  we  saw  him  now 

Intent  upon  a  monumental  stone, 

Whose  uncouth  form  was  grafted  on  the  wall, 

Or  rather  seem'd  to  have  grown  into  the  side 

Of  the  rude  pile  ;  as  ofttimes  trunks  of  trees. 

Where  nature  works  in  wild  and  craggy  spots. 

Are  seen  incorporate  with  the  living  rock, 

To  endure  for  aye.     The  vicar,  taking  note 

Of  his  employment,  with  a  courteous  smile 

Exclaim'd,  "  The  sagest  antiquarian's  eye 

That  task  would  foil ;"  then,  letting  fall  his  voice 

While  he  advanced,  thus  spake :  "  Tradition  tells 

That,  in  Eliza's  golden  days,  a  knight 

Came  on  a  war-horse  sumptuously  attired, 

And  fix'd  his  home  in  this  sequester'd  vale. 

'Tis  left  untold  if  here  he  first  drew  breath, 

Or  as  a  stranger  reach'd  this  deep  recess, 

Unknowing  and  unknown.     A  pleasing  thought 

I  sometimes  entertain,  that,  haply  bound 

To  Scotland's  court  in  service  of  his  queen. 

Or  sent  on  mission  to  some  northern  chief 

Of  England's  realm,  this  vale  he  might  have  seen, 

With  transient  observation  ;  and  thence  caught 

An  image  fair,  which  brightening  in  his  soul 

When  joy  of  war  and  pride  of  chivalry 

Languish'd  beneath  accumulated  years. 

Had  power  to  draw  him  from  the  world,  resolved 

To  make  that  paradise  his  chosen  home 

To  which  his  peaceful  fancy  oft  had  turn'd. 

Vague  thoughts  are  these;  but,  if  belief  may  :est 

Upon  unwritten  story  fondly  traced 

From  sire  to  son,  in  this  obscure  retreat 

The  knight  arrived,  with  pomp  of  spear  and  shield 

And  borne  upon  a  charger  cover'd  o'er 

With  gilded  housings.     And  the  lofty  steed. 

His  sole  companion,  and  his  faithful  friend. 

Whom  he,  in  gratitude,  let  loose  to  range 

In  fertile  pastures,  was  beheld  with  eyes 

Of  admiration,  and  delightful  awe, 

By  those  untravell'd  dalesmen.     With  less  pnde, 

Yet  free  from  touch  of  envious  discontent. 

They  saw  a  mansion  at  his  bidding  rise. 

Like  a  bright  star  amid  the  lowly  band 

Of  their  rude  homesteads.    Here  the  warrior  dwelt . 

And,  in  that  mansion,  children  of  his  own. 

Or  kindred,  gather'd  round  him.     As  a  tree 

That  falls  and  disappears,  the  house  is  gone  5 

And,  through  improvidence  or  want  of  love 

For  ancient  worth  and  honourable  tilings. 

The  spear  and  shield  are  vanish'd,  which  the  kri^W 

Hung  in  his  rustic  hall.     One  ivied  arch 

Myself  have  seen,  a  gateway,  last  rema'ns 

Of  that  foundation  in  domestic  care 

Raised  by  his  hands.     And  now  no  trace  is  left 

Of  the  mild-hearted  champion,  save  this  stone, 

Faithless  memorial !  and  his  family  name 

Borne  by  yon  clustering  cottages,  that  sprang 

From  out  the  ruins  of  his  stately  lodge: 

These,  and  the  name  and  title  at  full  length — 


476 


WORDSWORTH. 


Sir  Alfred  Irthing,  with  appropriate  words 
Accompanied,  still  extant,  in  a  wreath 
Or  posy,  girding  round  the  several  fronts 
Of  three  clear-sounding  and  harmonious  bells 
That  in  the  steeple  hang,  his  pious  gift." 

"  So  fails,  so  languishes,  grows  dim,  and  dies," 
The  gray-hair'd  wanderer  pensively  exclaim'd, 
"  All  that  this  world  is  proud  of.  From  their  spheres 
The  stars  of  human  glory  are  cast  down  ; 
Perish  the  roses  and  the  flowers  of  kings,* 
Princes,  and  emperors,  and  the  crowns  and  palms 
Of  all  the  mighty,  wither'd  and  consumed  ! 
Nor  is  power  given  to  lowliest  innocence 
Long  to  protect  her  own.     The  man  himself 
Departs  ;  and  soon  is  spent  the  line  of  those 
Who,  in  the  bodily  image,  in  the  mind, 
In  heart  or  soul,  in  station  or  pursuit, 
Did  most  resemble  him.     Degrees  and  ranks. 
Fraternities  and  orders — heaping  high 
New  wealth  upon  the  burden  of  the  old,  * 

And  placing  trust  in  privilege  confirm'd 
And  reconfirm'd — are  scofPd  at  with  a  smile 
Of  greedy  foretaste,  from  the  secret  stand 
Of  desolation,  aim'd  :  to  slow  decline 
These  yield,  and  these  to  sudden  overthrow ; 
Their  virtue,  service,  happiness,  and  state 
Expire  ;  and  nature's  pleasant  robe  of  green, 
Humanity's  appointed  shroud,  inwraps 
Their  monuments  and  their  memory.     The  vast 

frame 
Of  social  nature  changes  evermore 
Her  organs  and  her  members  with  decay 
Restless,  and  restless  generation,  powers 
And  functions  dying  and  produced  at  need ; 
And  by  this  law  the  mighty  whole  subsists  : 
With  an  ascent  and  progress  in  the  main- 
Yet,  0  !  how  disproportion'd  to  the  hopes 
And  expectations  of  self-flattering  minds  ! 
The  courteous  knight  whose  bones  are  he:!:e  interr'd. 
Lived  m  an  age  conspicuous  as  our  own 
For  strife  and  ferment  in  the  minds  of  men ; 
Whence  alteration,  in  the  forms  of  things, 
Various  and  vast.     A  memorable  age  ! 
Which  did  to  him  assign  a  pensive  lot — 
To  linger  'mid  the  last  of  those  bright  clouds, 
That,  on  the  steady  breeze  of  honour,  sail'd 
In  long  procession,  calm  and  beautiful. 
He  who  had  seen  his  own  bright  order  f?,de, 
And  its  devotion  gradually  decline, 
(While  war,  relinquishing  the  lance  and  shield, 
Her  temper  changed,  and  bow'd  to  other  lav/s,) 
Had  also  witnessed,  in  his  morn  of  life. 
That  violent  commotion  which  o'erthrew, 
In  town,  and  city,  and  sequester'd  pjen. 
Altar,  and  cross,  and  church  of  solemn  roof. 
And  old  religious  house — pile  after  pile ; 
And  shook  the  tenants  out  into  the  fields, 

♦  The  "  transit  gloria  mundi"  is  finely  expressed  in 
the  introduction  to  the  foundation  charters  of  some  of  the 
ancient  abbeys.  Some  express!  jns  here  used  are  taken 
from  that  of  the  abbey  of  St.  Mary's  Furnces,  the  transla- 
tion of  which  is  as  follows : 

"  Considering  every  day  the  uncertain'-y  of  life,  that  the 
roses  and  flowers  of  kings,  emperors,  and  dukes,  and  the 
crowns  and  palms  of  all  the  great  wither  and  decay;  and 
that  all  things,  with  an  uninterrupted  course,  tend  to  dis- 
lolution  and  death :  I  therefore,"  &c. 


Like  wild  beasts  without  home  I     Their  hour  wa» 

come ; 
But  why  no  softening  thought  of  gratitude, 
No  just  rememTirance,  scruple,  or  wise  doubt .' 
Benevolence  is  mild ;  nor  borrows  help. 
Save  at  worst  need,  from  bold  impetuous  force, 
Fitliest  allied  to  anger  and  revenge. 
But  human  kind  rejoices  in  the  might 
Of  mutability,  and  airy  hopes. 
Dancing  around  her,  hinder  and  disturb 
Those  meditations  of  the  soul  that  feed 
The  retrospective  virtues.     Festive  songs 
Break  from  the  madden'd  nations  at  the  sight 
Of  sudden  overthrow ;  and  cold  neglect 
Is  the  sure  consequence  of  slow  decay. 
Even,"   said  the   wanderer,  "as   that   courteous 

knight, 
Bound  by  his  vow  to  labour  for  redress 
Of  all  who  suffer  wrong,  and  to  enact 
By  sword  and  lance  the  law  of  gentleness, 
(If  I  may  venture  of  myself  to  speak. 
Trusting  that  not  incongruously  I  blend 
Low  things  with  lofty,)  I  too  shall  be  doom'd 
To  outlive  the  kindly  use  and  fair  esteem 
Of  the  poor  calling  which  my  youth  embraced 
With  no  unworthy  prospect.     But  enough  ; 
Thoughts  crowd  upon  me,  and  'twere  seemlier  now 
To  stop,  and  yield  our  gracious  teacher  thanks 
For  the  pathetic  records  which  his  voice 
Hath  here  delivered ;  words  of  heartfelt  truth. 
Tending  to  patience  when  affliction  strikes ; 
To  hope  and  love  ;  to  confident  repose 
In  God ;  and  reverence  for  the  dust  of  man." 


BOOK  VIIL 
THE  PARSONAGE. 

ARGUMENT. 

Pastor's  apprehensions  that  he  might  have  detained  his 
auditors  too  long.  Invitation  to  his  house.  Solitary 
disinclined  to  comply,  rallies  the  wanderer;  and  some- 
what playfully  draws  a  comparison  between  his  itine- 
rant profession  and  that  of  the  knight-errant;  which 
leads  to  wanderer's  giving  an  account  of  changes  in  the 
country  from  the  manufacturing  spirit.  Favourable 
effects.  The  other  side  of  the  picture,  and  chiefly  as  it 
has  affected  the  humbler  classes.  Wanderer  asserts 
the  hollo  wness  of  all  national  grandeur  if  unsupported 
by  moral  wortli;  gives  instances.  Physical  science 
unable  to  support  itself.  Lamentations  over  an  excess 
of  manufacturing  industry  among  the  humbler  classes 
of  society.  Picture  of  a  child  employed  in  a  cotton- 
mill.  Ignorance  and  degradation  of  children  among 
the  agricultural  population  reviewed.  Conversation 
broken  off  by  a  renewed  invitation  from  the  pastor. 
Path  leading  to  his  house.  Its  appearance  described. 
His  daughter.  His  wife.  His  sou  (a  boy)  enters  with 
his  companion.  Their  happy  appearance.  The  wan- 
derer,  how  affected  by  the  sight  of  them. 

The  pensive  skeptic  of  the  lonely  vale 
To  those  acknowledgments  subscribed  his  own. 
With  a  sedate  compliance,  which  the  priest 
Fail'd  not  to  notice,  inly  pleased,  and  said, 
"  If  ye,  by  whom  invited  I  commenced 
These  narratives  of  calm  and  humble  life. 
Be  satisfied,  'tis  well ;  the  end  is  gain'd  ; 
And  in  return  for  sympathy  bestow'd 


THE    EXCURSION. 


477 


And  patient  listening,  thanks  accept  from  me. 
Life,  death,  eternity  !  momentous  themes 
Are  they,  and  might  demand  a  seraph's  tongue. 
Were  they  not  equal  to  their  own  support ; 
And  therefore  no  incompetence  of  mine  • 

Could  do  them  wrong.     The  universal  forms 
Of  human  nature,  in  a  spot  like  this, 
Present  themselves  at  once  to  all  men's  view : 
Ye  wish'd  for  act  and  circumstance,  that  make 
The  individual  known  and  understood : 
And  such  as  my  best  judgment  could  select 
From  what  the  place  afforded  have  been  given  ; 
Though  apprehensions  cross'd  me  that  my  zeal 
To  his  might  well  be  liken'd,  who  unlocks 
A  cabinet  with  gems  or  pictures  stored, 
And  draws  them  forth — soliciting  regard 
To  this,  and  this,  as  worthier  than  the  last, 
Till  the  spectator  who  a  while  was  pleased 
More  than  the  exhibiter  himself,  becomes 
Weary  and  faint,  and  longs  to  be  released. 
But  let  us  hence  I  my  dwelling  is  in  sight, 
And  there — " 

At  this  the  solitary  shrunk 
With  backward  will :  but,  wanting  not  address 
That  inward  motion  to  disguise,  he  said 
To  his  compatriot,  smiling  as  he  spake  ; 
"  The  peaceable  remains  of  this  good  knight 
Would  be  disturbed,  I  fear,  with  wrathful  scorn, 
If  consciousness  could  reach  him  where  he  lies 
That  one,  albeit  of  these  degenerate  times. 
Deploring  changes  past,  or  dreading  change 
Foreseen,  had  dared  to  couple,  e'en  in  thought, 
The  fine  vocation  of  the  sword  and  lance 
With  the  gross  aims  and  body-bending  toil 
Of  a  poor  brotherhood  who  walk  the  earth 
Pitied,  and  where  they  are  not  known,  despised. 
Yet,  by  the  good  knight's  leave,  the  two  estates 
Are  traced  with  some  resemblance.     Errant  those. 
Exiles  and  wanderers — and  the  like  are  these  ; 
Wlio  with  their  burden,  traverse  hill  and  dale. 
Carrying  relief  for  nature's  simple  wants. 
What  though  no  higher  recompense  they  seek 
Than  honest  maintenance,  by  irksome  toil 
Full  oft  procured,  yet  such  may  claim  respect. 
Among  th'  intelligent,  for  what  this  course 
Enables  them  to  be,  and  to  perform. 
Their  tardy  steps  give  leisure  to  observe, 
W^hile  solitude  permits  the  mind  to  feel; 
Instructs  and  prompts  her  to  supply  defects 
By  the  division  of  her  inward  self, 
For  grateful  converse  ;  and  to  these  poor  men 
As  I  have  heard  you  boast  with  honest  pride) 
Nature  is  bountiful,  where'er  they  go  ; 
Kind  nature's  various  wealth  is  all  their  own. 
Versed  in  the  characters  of  men  :  and  bound. 
By  ties  of  daily  interest,  to  maintain 
Conciliatory  manners  and  smooth  speech  ; 
Such  have  been,  and  still  are  in  their  degree, 
Examples  efficacious  to  refine 
Rude  intercourse :  apt  agents  to  expel. 
By  importation  of  unlook'd-for  arts. 
Barbarian  torpor,  and  blind  prejudice; 
Raising,  through  just  gradation,  savage  life 
To  rustic,  and  the  rustic  to  urbane. 
Within  their  nvoving  magazines  is  lodged 
Power  that  comes  forth  to  quicken  and  exalt 


Affections  seated  in  the  mother's  breast, 
And  in  the  lover's  fancy  ;  and  to  feed 
The  sober  sympathies  of  long-tried  friends. 
By  these  itinerants,  as  experienced  men. 
Counsel  is  given ;  contention  they  appease 
With  gentle  language  ;  in  remotest  wilds. 
Tears  wipe  away,  and  pleasant  tidings  bring  j 
Could  the  proud  quest  of  chivalry  do  more  ?" 
"  Happy,"  rejoined  the  wanderer,  "  they  who 
gain 
A  panegyric  from  your  generous  tongue  ! 
But,  if  to  these  wayfarers  once  pertained 
Aught  of  romantic  interest,  'tis  gone  ; 
Their  purer  service,  in  this  realm  at  least. 
Is  past  for  ever.     An  inventive  age 
Has  wrought,  if  not  with  speed  of  magic,  yet 
To  most  strange  issues.     I  have  lived  to  mark 
A  new  and  unforeseen  creation  rise 
From  out  the  labours  of  a  peaceful  land, 
tVielding  her  potent  enginery  to  frame 
And  to  produce,  with  appetite  as  keen 
As  that  of  war,  which  rests  not  night  or  day, 
Industrious  to  destroy  !     With  fruitless  pains 
Might  one  like  me  now  visit  many  a  tract 
Which,  in  his  youth,  he  trod,  and  trod  again, 
A  lone  pedestrian  with  a  scanty  freight, 
Wish'd  for,  or  welcome,  wheresoe'er  he  came. 
Among  the  tenantry  of  Thorpe  and  Ville  ; 
Or  straggling  burgh,  of  ancient  charter  proud, 
And  dignified  by  battlements  and  towers 
Of  some  stern  castle,  mouldering  on  the  brow 
Of  a  green  hill  or  bank  of  rugged  stream. 
The  footpath  faintly  mark'd,  the  horse-track  wilrf 
And  formidable  length  of  plashy  lane, 
(Prized  avenues  ere  others  had  been  shaped 
Or  easier  links  connecting  place  with  place) 
Have  vanished, — s wallow 'd  up  by  stately  roads 
Easy  and  bold,  that  penetrate  the  gloom 
Of  Britain's  farthest  glens.     The  earth  has  lent 
Her  waters,  air  her  breezes  ;*  and  the  sail 
Of  traffic  glides  with  ceaseless  interchange, 
Glistening  along  the  low  and  woody  dale. 
Or  on  the  naked  mountain's  lofty  side. 
Meanwhile,  at  social  industry's  command. 
How  quick,  how  vast  an  increase  I  From  the  genu 
Of  some  poor  hamlet,  rapidly  produced 
Here  a  huge  town,  continuous  and  compact. 
Hiding  the  face  of  earth  for  leagues — and  there, 
Where  not  a  habitation  stood  before. 
Abodes  of  men  irregularly  mass'd 
Like    trees    in   forest, — spread  through    spacious 

tracts 
O'er  which  the  smoke  of  unremitting  fires 
Hangs  permanent,  and  plentiful  as  wreaths 
Of  vapour  glittering  in  the  morning  sun. 
And  Avheresoe'er  the  traveller  turns  his  steps. 
He  sees  the  barren  wilderness  erased. 


♦  In  treating  this  subject,  it  was  impossible  not  to  re- 
collect, with  gratitude,  the  pleasing  picture,  which,  in  his 
poem  of  the  Fleece,  the  excellent  and  amiable  Dyer  has 
given  of  the  influences  of  manufacturing  industry  upon 
the  face  of  this  island.  He  wrote  at  a  time  wtien  machi- 
nery was  first  beginning  to  be  introduced,  and  his  bene- 
volent heart  prompted  him  to  augur  from  it  nothing  tout 
good.  Truth  has  compelled  me  to  dwell  upon  the  bane- 
ful effects  arising  out  of  an  iU-rcgulatpd  and  excessive 
application  of  powers  so  admii'able  in  themselves. 


478 


WORDSWORTH. 


Or  disappearing ;  triumph  that  proclaims 
How  much  the  mild  directress  of  the  plough 
Owes  to  alliance  with  these  new-born  arts  ! 
Hence  is  the  wide  sea  peopled, — hence  the  shores 
Of  Britain  are  resorted  to  by  ships 
Freighted  from  every  climate  of  the  world 
With  the  world's  choicest  produce.  Hence  that  sum 
Of  keels  that  rest  within  her  crowded  ports. 
Or  ride  at  anchor  in  her  sounds  and  bays  ; 
\    That  animating  spectacle  of  sails 

Which,  through  her  inland  regions,  to  and  fro 
Pass  with  the  respirations  of  the  tide, 
Perpetual,  multitudinous  !     Finally, 
Hence  a  dread  arm  of  floating  power,  a  voice 
Of  thunder  daunting  those  who  would  approach 
With  hostile  purposes,  the  blessed  isle, 
Truth's  consecrated  residence,  the  seat 
Impregnable  of  liberty  and  peace. 

"  And  yet,  O  happy  pastor  of  a  flock 
Faithfully  watch'd,  and,  by  that  loving  care 
And  Heaven's   good  providence,  preserved  from 

taint ! 
With  you  I  grieve,  when  on  the  darker  side 
Of  this  great  change  I  look  ;  and  there  behold 
Such  outrage  done  to  nature  as  compels 
Th'  indignant  power  to  justify  herself; 
Yea,  to  avenge  her  violated  rights, 
For  England's   bane.      When   soothing  darkness 

spreads 
O'er  hill  and  vale,"  the  wanderer  thus  express'd 
His  recollections,  "  and  the  punctual  stars, 
W^hile  all  things  else  are  gathering  to  their  homes. 
Advance,  and  in  the  firmament  of  heaven 
Glitter — but  undisturbing,  undisturb'd  ; 
As  if  their  silent  company  were  charged 
With  peaceful  admonitions  for  the  heart 
Of  all  beholding  man,  earth's  thoughtful  lord ; 
Then,  in  full  many  a  region,  once  like  this 
Th'  assured  domain  of  calm  simplicity 
And  pensive  quiet,  an  unnatural  light 
Prepared  for  never-resting  labour's  eyes. 
Breaks  from  a  many-window'd  fabric  huge  ; 
And  at  the  appointed  hour  a  bell  is  heard. 
Of  harsher  import  than  the  curfew-knoll 
That  spake  the  Norman  conqueror's  stern  bcnesl — 
A  local  summons  to  unceasing  toil  ! 
Disgorged  are  now  the  ministers  of  day : 
And,  as  they  issue  from  th'  illumined  pile, 
A  fresh  band  meets  them,  at  the  crowded  door. 
And  in  the  courts — and  where  the  rumbling  stream, 
That  turns  the  multitude  of  dizzy  wheels. 
Glares,  like  a  troubled  spirit,  in  its  bed 
Among  the  rocks  below.    Men,  maidens,  youths. 
Mother  and  little  children,  boys  and  girls. 
Enter,  and  each  the  wonted  task  resumes 
Within  this  temple,  where  is  ofFer'd  up 
To  gain — the  master  idol  of  the  realm — 
Perpetual  sacrifice.     E'en  thus  of  old 
Our  ancestors  within  the  still  domain 
Of  vast  cathedral  or  conventual  church, 
Their  vigils  kept :  where  tapers  day  and  night 
On  the  dim  altar  burn'd  continually. 
In  token  that  the  house  was  evermore 
Watching  to  God.     Religious  men  were  they  ; 
Nor  would  their  reason,  tutor 'd  to  aspire 
^bove  this  transitory  world,  allow 


That  there  should  pass  a  moment  of  the  year. 
When  in  their  land  th'  Almighty's  service  ceased. 

"  Triumph  who  will  in  these  profaner  rites 
W^hich  we,  a  generation  self-extoll'd, 
A»  zealously  perform  !  I  cannot  share 
His  proud  complacency  ;  yet  I  exult. 
Casting  reserve  away,  exult  to  see 
An  intellectual  mastery  exercised 
O'er  the  blind  elements  ;  a  purpose  given 
A  perseverance  fed  ;  almost  a  soul 
Imparted — to  brute  matter.     I  rejoice, 
Measuring  the  force  of  those  gigantic  powers. 
That  by  the  thinking  mind  have  been  compell'd 
To  serve  the  will  of  feeble-bodied  man. 
For  with  the  sense  of  admiration  blends 
The  animating  hope  that  time  may  come 
When  strengthen'd,  yet  not  dazzled,  by  the  might 
Of  this  dominion  over  nature  gain'd. 
Men  of  all  lands  shall  exercise  the  same 
In  due  proportion  to  their  country'''  need  ; 
Learning,  though  late,  that  all  true  ^lory  rests, 
All  praise,  all  safety,  and  all  happiness. 
Upon  the  moral  law.     Egyptian  Thebes, 
Tyre  by  the  margin  of  the  sounding  waves. 
Palmyra,  central  in  the  desert,  fell ; 
And  the  arts  died  by  which  they  had  been  raised. 
Call  Archimedes  from  his  buried  tomb 
Upon  the  plain  of  vanish'd  Syracuse, 
And  feelingly  the  sage  shall  make  report 
How  insecure,  how  baseless  in  itself, 
Is  the  philosophy,  whose  sway  depends 
On  mere  material  instruments  ;  how  weak 
Those  arts,  and  high  inventions,  if  unpropp'd 
By  virtue.     He  with  sighs  of  pensive  grief. 
Amid  his  calm  abstractions,  would  admit 
That  not  the  slender  privilege  is  theirs 
To  save  themselves  from  blank  finrgetfulness  I" 

W^hen  from  the  wanderer's  lips  these  words  haj 
fall'n, 
I  said,  "  And,  did  in  truth  these  vaunted  arts 
Possess  such  privilege,  how  could  we  escape 
Regret  and  painful  sadness,  who  revere. 
And  would  preserve  as  things  above  all  price, 
The  old  domestic  morals  of  the  land, 
Her  simple  manners,  and  the  stable  worth 
That  dignified  and  cheer'd  a  low  estate  ? 
0  !  where  is  now  the  character  of  peace. 
Sobriety,  and  order,  and  chaste  love. 
And  honest  dealing,  and  untainted  speech, 
And  pure  good-will,  and  hospitable  cheer ; 
That  made  the  very  thought  of  country  life 
A  thought  of  refuge,  for  a  mind  detain 'd 
Reluctantly  amid  the  bustling  crowd  ? 
Where  now  the  beauty  of  the  Sabbath  kept 
With  conscientious  reverence,  as  a  day 
By  the  almighty  Lawgiver  pronounced 
Holy  and  blest  ?  and  where  the  winning  grace 
Of  all  the  lighter  ornaments  attach'd 
To  time  and  season,  as  the  year  roU'd  round  ?" 

"  Fled !"    was  the   wanderer's    passionate   r© 
sponse, 
"  Fled  utterly  !  or  only  to  be  traced 
In  a  few  fortunate  retreats  like  this; 
Which  I  behold  with  trembling,  when  I  thmx 
What  lamentable  change,  a  year— a  month- 
May  bring  ;  that  brook  converting  as  it   uns 


THE    EXCURSION. 


479 


Into  an  instrument  of  deadly  bane 

For  those,  who,  yet  untempted  to  forsake 

The  simple  occupations  of  their  sires, 

Drink  the  pure  water  of  its  innocent  stream 

With  lip  almost  as  pure.     Domestic  bliss, 

(Or  call  it  comfort,  by  a  humbler  name,) 

How  art  thou  blighted  lor  the  i  oor  man's  heart ; 

Lo  I  in  such  neighbourhood,  from  morn  to  eve, 

The  habitations  empty  !  or  perchance 

The  mother  left  alone,  no  helping  hand 

To  rock  the  cradle  of  her  peevish  babe  ; 

No  daughters  round  her  busy  at  the  wheel, 

Or  in  desnatch  of  each  day's  little  growth 

Of  household  occupation  ;  no  nice  arts 

Of  needle-work  ;  no  bustle  at  the  fire, 

Where  once  the  dinner  was  prepared  with  pride  ; 

Nothing  to  speed  the  day,  or  cheer  the  mind ; 

Nothing  to  praise,  to  teach,  or  to  command ; 

The  father,  if  perchance  he  still  retain 

His  old  employments,  goes  to  field  or  wood, 

No  longer  led  or  followed  by  the  sons  ; 

Idlers  perchance  they  were,  but  in  his  sight ; 

Breathing  fresh  air,  and  treading  the  green  earth  ; 

rill  their  short  holyday  of  childhood  ceased. 

Ne'er  to  return  !  That  birthright  now  is  lost. 

Economists  will  tell  you  that  the  state 

Thrives  by  the  forfeiture, — unfeeling  tliought. 

And  false  as  monstrous  !     Can  the  mother  thrive 

By  the  destruction  of  her  innocent  sons  ? 

In  whom  a  premature  necessity 

Blocks  out  the  forms  of  nature,  preconsumes 

The  reason,  famishes  the  heart,  shuts  up 

The  infant  being  in  itself,  and  makes 

Its  very  spring  a  season  of  decay  I 

The  lot  is  wretched,  the  condition  sad, 

Whether  a  pining  discontent  survive, 

And  thirst  for  change  ;  or  habit  hath  subdued 

The  soul  deprest,  dejected — even  to  love 

Of  her  dull  tasks,  and  close  captivit.v. 

O,  banish  far  such  wisdom  as  condemns 

A  native  Briton  to  these  inward  chains, 

Fix'd  in  his  soul,  so  early  and  so  deep. 

Without  his  own  consent,  or  knowledge,  fix'd ! 

He  is  a  slave  to  whom  release  comes  not, 

And  cannot  come.     The  boy,  where'er  he  turns, 

Is  still  a  prisoner ;   when  the  wind  is  up 

Among  the  clouds  and  in  the  ancient  woods ; 

Or  when  the  sun  is  shining  in  the  east, 

Quiet  and  calm.     Behold  him,  in  the  school 

Of  his  attainments  ?  no  ;  but  with  the  air 

Fanning  his  temples  under  heaven's  blue  arch. 

His  raiment  whiten'd  o'er  with  cotton  flakes, 

Or  locks  of  wool,  announces  whence  he  comes. 

Creeping  his  gait  and  cowering,  his  lip  pale. 

His  respiration  quick  and  audible  ; 

And  scarcely  could  you  fancy  that  a  gleam 

From  out  those  languid  eyes  could  break,  or  blush 

Mantle  upon  his  cheek.     Is  this  the  form. 

Is  that  the  countenance,  and  such  the  port. 

Of  no  mean  being  ?     One  who  should  be  clothed 

With  dignity  befitting  his  proud  hope  ; 

Who,  in  his  very  childhood,  should  appear 

Sublime,  from  present  purity  and  joy  ? 

The  limbs  increase,  but  liberty  of  mind 

Is  gone  for  ever  ;  this  organic  frame, 

Sc  joyful  in  her  motions,  is  become 


Dull,  to  the  joy  of  her  own  motions  dead  ; 
And  e'en  the  touch,  so  exquisitely  pour'd 
Through  the  whole  bod_v,  with  a  lan-guid  will 
Performs  her  functions  ;  rarely  competent 
T'  impress  a  vivid  feeling  on  the  mind 
Of  what  there  is  delightful  in  the  breeze, 
The  gentle  visitations  of  the  sun, 
=0r  lapse  of  liquid  element,  by  hand, 
Or  foot,  or  lip,  in  summer's  warmth,  perceived. 
Can  hope  look  forward  to  a  manhood  raised 
On  such  foundations  ?" 

«  Hope  is  none  for  him  I" 
The  pale  recluse  indignantly  exclaim'a, 
"  And  tens  of  thousands  suffer  wrong  as  deep. 
Yet  be  it  ask'd,  in  justice  to  our  age. 
If  there  were  not,  before  those  arts  appear'd. 
These  structures  rose,  commingling  old  and  young, 
And  unripe  sex  with  sex,  for  mutual  taint ; 
Then,  if  there  were  not  in  our  far-famed  isle, 
Multitudes,  who  from  infancy  had  breathed 
Air  unimprisoned,  and  had  lived  at  large  ; 
Yet  walk'd  beneath  the  sun,  in  human  shape, 
As  abject,  as  degraded  ?     At  this  day. 
Who  shall  enumerate  the  crazy  huts 
And  tottering  hovels,  whence  do  issue  forth 
A  ragged  offspring,  with  their  own  blanch'd  hair 
Crown'd  like  the  image  of  fantastic  fear  ; 
Or  wearing,  we  might  say,  in  that  white  growth 
An  ill-adjusted  turban ,  for  defence 
Or  fierceness,  wreathed  around   their  sunburnt 

brows, 
By  savage  nature's  unassisted  care. 
Naked,  and  coloured  like  the  soil,  the  feet 
On  which  they  stand  ;  as  if  thereby  they  drew 
Some  nourishment,  as  trees  do  by  their  roots. 
From  earth  the  common  mother  of  us  all. 
Figure  and  mien,  complexion  and  attire. 
Are  leagued  to  strike  dismay,  but  outstretch'd  hand 
And  whining  voice  denote  them  supplicants 
For  the  least  boon  that  pity  can  bestow.  ' 

Such  on  the  breast  of  darksome  heaths  are  found  ; 
And  with  their  parents  dwell  upon  the  skirts 
Of  furze-clad  commons  ;  such  are  born  and  rear'd 
At  the  mine's  mouth,  beneath  impending  rocks. 
Or  in  the  chambers  of  some  natural  cave  ; 
And  where  their  ancestors  erected  huts. 
For  the  convenience  of  unlawful  gain, 
In  forest  purlieus ;  and  the  like  are  bred. 
All  England  through,  where  nooks  and  slips   ot 

ground, 
Purloin'd,  in  times  less  jealous  than  our  own. 
From  the  green  margin  of  the  public  way, 
A  residence  afford  them,  'mid  the  bloom 
And  gayety  of  cultivated  fields. 
Such  (we  will  hope  the  lowest  in  the  scale) 
Do  I  remember  oft-times  to  have  seen 
'Mid  Buxton's  dreary  heights.     Upon  the  watch. 
Till  the  swift  vehicle  approach,  they  stand  ; 
Then,  following  closely  with  the  cloud  of  dust. 
An  uncouth  feat  exhibit,  and  are  gone 
Heels  over  head,  like  tumblers  on  a  stage. 
Up  from  the  ground  they  snatch  the  copper  coin 
And,  on  the  freight  of  merry  passengers 
Fixing  a  steady  eye,  maintain  their  speed ; 
And  spin — and  pant — and  overhead  again. 
Wild  pursuivants  !  until  their  breath  is  lost, 


480 


WORDSWORTH. 


Or  bounty  tires,  and  every  face  that  smiled 

Encouragement,  hath  ceased  to  look  that  way. 

But,  like  the  vagrants  of  the  gipsy  tribe. 

These,  bred  to  little  pleasure  in  themselves. 

Are  profitless  to  others.     Turn  we  then 

To  Britons  born  and  bred  within  the  pale 

Of  civil  polity,  and  early  train 'd 

To  earn,  by  wholesome  labour  in  the  field. 

The  bread  they  eat.     A  sample  should  I  give 

Of  what  this  stock  produces  to  enrich 

The  tender  age  of  life,  ye  would  exclaim, 

*  Is  this  the  whistling  ploughboy  whose  shrill  notes 

Impart  new  gladness  to  the  morning  air  !' 

Forgive  me  if  I  venture  to  suspect 

That  many,  sweet  to  hear  of  in  soft  verse, 

Are  ofno  finer  frame :  his  joints  are  stiff; 

Beneath  a  cumbrous  frock,  that  to  the  knees 

Invests  the  thriving  churl,  his  legs  appear, 

Fellows  to  those  that  lustily  upheld 

The  wooden  stools  for  everlasting  use. 

Whereon  our  fathers  sate.     And  mark  his  brow  ! 

Under  whose  shaggy  canopy  are  set 

Two  eyes,  not  dim,  but  of  a  healthy  stare  ; 

Wide,  sluggish,  blank,  and  ignorant,  and  strange  ; 

Proclaiming  boldly  that  they  never  drew 

A  look  or  motion  of  intelligence 

From  infant  conning  of  the  Christ-cross-row, 

Or  puzzling  through  a  primer,  line  by  line. 

Till  perfect  mastery  crown  the  pains  at  last. 

What  ktiidly  warmth  from  touch  of  fostering  hand. 

What  penetrating  power  of  sun  or  breeze, 

Shall  e'er  dissolve  the  crust  wherein  his  soul 

Sleeps,  like  a  caterpillar  sheath'd  in  ice  ? 

This  torpor  is  no  pitiable  work 

Of  modern  ingenuity  ;  no  town 

Nor  crowded  city  may  be  tax'd  with  aught 

Of  sottish  vice  or  desperate  breach  of  law 

To  which  in  after  years  he  may  be  roused. 

This  boy  the  fields  produce  :  his  spade  and  hoe — 

The  carter's  whip  that  on  his  shoulder  rests 

In  air  high-towering  with  a  boorish  pomp. 

The  sceptre  of  his  sway;  his  country's  name. 

Her  equal  rights,  her  churches  and  her  schools — 

What  have  the}"^  done  for  him  ?  And  let  me  ask, 

For  tens  of  thousands  uninform'd  as  he  ? 

In  brief,  what  liberty  of  mind  is  here  ?" 

This  ardent  sally  pleased  the  mild,  good  man. 
To  whom  the  appeal  couched  in  its  closing  words 
Was  pointedly  address'd  :  and  to  the  thoughts 
That,  in  assent  or  opposition,  rose 
Within  his  mind,  he  seem'd  prepared  to  give 
Prompt  utterance  ;  but,  rising  from  our  seat, 
The  hospitable  vicar  interposed 
With  invitation  urgently  renew 'd. 
We  followed,  taking  as  he  led,  a  path 
Along  a  hedge  of  hollies,  dark  and  tall, 
Whose  flexile  boughs,  descending  with  a  weight 
Of  leafy  spray,  conceal'd  the  stems  and  roots 
That  gave  them  nourishment.     When  frosty  winds 
Howl  from  the  north,  what  kindly  warmth,  me- 

thought, 
Is  here,  how  grateful  this  impervious  screen  ; 
Not  shaped  by  simple  wearing  of  the  foot 
On  rural  business  passing  to  and  fro 
Was  the  commodious  walk  ;  a  careful  hand 
Had  mark'd  the  line,  and  strewn  the  surface  o'er 


With  pure  cerulean  gravel  from  the  heights 

Fetch'd  by  the  neighbouring  brook.  Across  the  val« 

The  stately  fence  accompanied  our  steps  ; 

And  thus  the  pathway,  by  perennial  green 

Guarded  and  graced,  seemed  fashion'd  to  unite. 

As  by  a  beautiful  yet  solemn  chain. 

The  pastor's  mansion  with  the  house  of  prayer. 

Like  image  of  solemnity,  conjoin 'd 
With  feminine  allurement  soft  and  fail, 
The  mansion's  self  display'd  ;  a  reverend  pile 
With  bold  projections  and  recesses  deep; 
Shadowy,  yet  gay  and  lightsome  as  it  stood 
Fronting  the  noontide  sun.     We  paused  t'  admire 
The  pillar'd  porch,  elaborately  emboss'd  ; 
The  low  wide  windows  with  their  mullions  old; 
The  cornice  richly  fretted,  of  grey  stone  ; 
And  that  smooth  slope  from  which  the  dwelling 

rose. 
By  beds  and  banks  Arcadian  of  gay  flowers 
And  flowering  shrubs,  protected  and  adorn'd  ; 
Profusion  bright !  and  every  flower  assuming 
A  more  than  natural  vividness  of  hue. 
From  unaffected  contrast  with  the  gloom 
Of  sober  cypress,  and  the  darker  foil 
Of  yew,  m  which  survived  some  traces,  here 
Not  unbecoming,  of  grotesque  device 
And  uncouth  fancy.     From  behind  thereof 
Rose  the  slim  ash  and  massy  sycamore. 
Blending  their  diverse  foliage  with  the  green 
Of  ivy,  flourishing  and  thick,  that  clasp'd 
The  huge  round  chimneys,  harbour  of  delight 
For  wren  and  redbreast,  where  they  sit  and  sing 
Their  slender  ditties  when  the  trees  are  tare. 
Nor  must  I  leave  untouch'd  (the  picture  else 
Were  incomplete)  a  relique  of  old  times 
Happily  spared,  a  little  gothic  niche 
Of  nicest  workmanship  :  that  once  had  held 
The  sculptured  image  of  some  patron  saint. 
Or  of  the  blessed  virgin,  looking  down 
On  all  who  entered  those  religious  doors. 

But  lo  !  where  from  the  rocky  garden  mount 
Crown'd  by  its  antique  summer  house,  descends. 
Light  as  the  silver  fawn,  a  radiant  giil ; 
For  she  hath  recognised  her  honour'd  friend. 
The  wanderer  ever  welcome  I  A  prompt  kiss 
The  gladsome  child  bestows  at  his  request ; 
And,  up  the  flowery  lawn  as  we  advance. 
Hangs  on  the  old  man  with  a  happy  look. 
And  with  a  pretty,  restless  hand  of  love. 
We  enter,  by  the  lady  of  the  place 
Cordially  greeted.    Graceful  was  her  port : 
A  lofty  stature  undepress'd  by  time. 
Whose  visitation  had  not  wholly  spared 
The  finer  lineaments  of  form  and  face  ; 
To  that  complexion  brought  which  prudence  trusts 

in 
And  wisdom  loves.     But  when  a  stately  ship 
Sails  in  smooth  weather  by  the  placid  coast 
On  homeward  voyage,  what,  if  wind  and  wave. 
And  hardship  undergone  in  various  climes. 
Have  caused  her  to  abate  the  virgin  pride. 
And  that  full  trim  of  inexperienced  hope 
With  which  she  left  her  haven,  not  for  this. 
Should  the  sun  strike  her,  and  the  impartial  breezt 
Play  on  her  streamers,  fails  she  to  assume 
Brightness  and  touching  beauty  of  her  own. 


THE    EXCURSION. 


481 


That  charm  all  eyes.     So  bright,  so  fair,  appear'd 
This  goodly  matron,  shining  in  the  beam^ 
Of , unexpected  pleasure.     Soon  the  board 
Was  spread,  and  we  partook  a  plain  repast. 

Here,  resting  in  cool  shelter,  we  beguiled 
The  midday  hours  with  desultory  talk  ; 
From  trivial  themes  to  general  argument 
Passing,  as  accident  or  fancy  led, 
Or  courtesy  prescribed.     While  question  rose 
And  answer  flow'd,  the  fetters  of  reserve 
Dropping  from  every  mind,  the  solitary 
Resumed  the  manners  of  his  happier  days ; 
And,  in  the  various  conversation,  bore 
A  willing,  nay,  at  times,  a  forward  part: 
Yet  with  the  grace  of  one  who  in  the  world 
Had  learn 'd  the  art  of  pleasing,  and  had  now 
Occasion  given  him  to  display  his  skill. 
Upon  the  steadfast  vantage-ground  of  truth. 
He  gazed  with  admiration  unsuppress'd 
Upon  the  landscape  of  the  sunbright  vale, 
Seen,  from  the  shady  room  in  which  we  sate, 
In  soften 'd  perspective ;  and  more  than  once 
Praised  the  consummate  harmony  serene 
Of  gravity  and  elegance — diffused 
Around  the  mansion  and  its  whole  domain  ; 
Not,  doubtless,  without  help  of  female  taste 
And  female  care.    "A  blessed  lot  is  yours  !" 
The  words  escaped  his  lip  with  a  tender  sigh 
Breathed  over  them ;  but  suddenly  the  door 
Flew  open,  and  a  pair  of  lusty  boys 
Appear'd,  confusion  checking  their  delight. 
Not  brothers  they  in  feature  or  attire. 
But  fond  companions,  so  I  guess'd,  in  field, 
And  by  the  river's  margin,  whence  they  come, 
Anglers  elated  with  unusual  spoil. 
One  bears  a  willow  pannier  on  his  back, 
The  boy  of  plainer  garb,  whose  blush  survives 
More  deeply  tinged.     Twin  might  the  other  be 
To  that  fair  girl  who  from  the  garden  mount 
Bounded — triumphant  entry  this  for  him ! 
Between  his  hands  he  holds  a  smooth  blue  stone, 
On  whose  capacious  surface  see  outspread 
Large  store  of  gleaming  crimson-spotted  trouts ; 
Ranged  side  by  side,  and  lessening  by  degrees 
Up  to  the  dwarf  that  tops  the  pinnacle. 
Upon  the  board  he  lays  the  sky-blue  stone 
With  its  rich  freight: — their  number  he  proclaims; 
Tells  from  what  pool  the  nobio^i  had  been  dragg'd; 
And  where  the  very  monarch  of  the  brook. 
After  long  struggle,  had  escaped  at  last — 
Stealing  alternately  at  them  and  us 
(As  doth  his  comrade  too)  a  look  of  pride; 
And,  verily,  the  silent  creatures  made 
A  splendid  sigflt,  together  thus  exposed ; 
Dead — but  not  sullied  or  deform 'd  by  death, 
That  seem'd  to  pity  what  he  could  not  spare. 

But  0,  the  animation  in  the  mien 
Of  those  two  boys  !  yea,  in  the  very  words 
With  which  the  young  narrator  was  inspired, 
When,  as  our  questions  led,  he  told  at  large 
Of  that  day's  prowess.     Him  might  I  compare. 
His  look,  tones,  gestures,  eager  eloquence, 
To  a  bold  brook  that  splits  for  better  speed, 
And,  at  the  selfsame  moment,  works  its  way 
Through  many  channels,  ever  and  anon 
Parted  and  reunited:  his  compeer 
YoL.  III.--31 


To  the  still  lake,  whose  stillness  is  to  sight 

As  beautiful,  as  grateful  to  the  mind. 

But  to  what  object  shall  the  lovely  girl 

Be  liken'd  i"     She,  whose  countenance  and  air 

Unite  the  graceful  qualities  of  both. 

E'en  as  she  shares  the  pride  and  joy  of  both. 

My  gray-hair'd  friend  was  moved :  his  vivid  eye 
Glisten'd  with  tenderness  ;  his  mind,  I  knew, 
Was  full ;  and  had,  I  doubted  not,  return 'd. 
Upon  this  impulse,  to  the  theme — erewhile 
Abruptly  broken  off.     The  ruddy  boys 
Withdrew,  on  summons,  to  their  well-earn 'd  meal 
And  he,  (to  whom  all  tongues  resign'd  their  right* 
With  willingness,  to  whom  the  general  ear 
Listen'd  with  readier  patience  than  to  strain 
Of  music,  lute  or  harp, — a  long  delight 
That  ceased  not  when  his  voice  had  ceased,)  as  me 
Who  from  truth's  central  point  serenely  views 
The  compass  of  his  argument — began 
Mildly,  and  with  a  clear  and  steady  tone. 


BOOK  IX. 

DISCOURSE  OF  THE  WANDERER,  AND  AN 
EVENING  VISIT  TO  THE  LAKE. 

ARGUMENT. 

Wanderer  asserts  that  an  active  principle  pervades  lh« 
universe.  Its  noblest  seat  the  human  soul.  How  lively 
this  principle  is  in  childhood.  Hence  the  delight  in 
old  age  of  looking  back  upon  childhood.  The  dignity, 
powers,  and  privileges  of  age  asserted.  These  not  to 
be  looked  for  generally  but  under  a  just  government. 
Right  of  a  human  creature  to  be  exempt  from  being 
considered  as  a  mere  instrument.  Vicious  inclinations 
are  best  kept  under  by  giving  good  ones  an  opportunity 
to  show  themselves.  The  condition  of  multitudes  de- 
plored, from  want  of  due  respect  to  this  truth  on  the 
part  of  their  superiors  in  society.  Former  conversation 
recurred  to,  and  the  wanderer's  opinions  set  in  a  clearer 
light.  Genuine  principles  of  equality..  Truth  placed 
within  reach  of  the  humblest.  Happy  state  of  the  two 
boys  again  adverted  to.  Earnest  wish  expressed  for  a 
system  of  national  education  established  universally 
by  government.  Glorious  effects  of  this  foretold.  Wan- 
derer breaks  off.  Walk  to  the  lake.  Embark.  De- 
scription of  scenery  and  amusements.  Grand  spectacle 
from  the  side  of  a  hill.  Address  of  priest  to  the  Supreme 
Being;  in  the  course  of  which  he  contrasts  with  ancient 
barbarism  the  present  appearance  of  the  scene  before 
him.  The  change  ascribed  to  Christianity.  Apostrophe 
to  his  flock,  living  and  dead.  Gratitude  to  the  Al- 
mighty. Return  over  the  lake.  Parting  with  the  soli- 
tary.   Under  what  circumstances. 

"To  every  form  of  being  is  assign'd," 
Thus  calmly  spake  the  venerable  sage, 
"An  active  principle : — howe'er  removed 
From  sense  and  observation,  it  subsists 
In  all  things,  in  all  natures,  in  the  stars 
Of  azure  heaven,  the  unenduring  clouQs, 
In  flower  and  tree,  in  every  pebbly  stone 
That  paves  the  brooks,  the  stationary  rocks. 
The  moving  waters,  and  th'  invisible  air. 
Whate'er  exists  hath  properties  that  spread 
Beyond  itself,  commimicating  good 
A  simple  blessing,  or  with  evil  mix'd; 
Spirit  that  knows  ro  insulated  spot. 
No  chasm,  no  solitude ;  from  link  to  link 
It  circulates,  the  soul  of  all  the  worlds. 


482 


WORDSWORTH. 


This  is  the  freedom  of  the  universe ; 
Unfolded  still  the  more,  more  visible, 
The  more  we  know ;  and  yet  is  reverenced  least, 
And  least  respected,  in  the  human  mind. 
Its  most  apparent  home.     The  food  of  hope 
Is  meditated  action  5  robb'd  of  this 
Her  sole  support,  she  languishes  and  dies. 
We  perish  also ;  for  we  live  by  hope 
And  by  desire ;  we  see  by  the  glad  light, 
And  breathe  the  sweet  air  of  futurity, 
And  so  we  live,  or  else  we  have  no  life. 
To-morrow — nay,  perchance  this  very  hour, — 
(For  every  moment  hath  its  own  to-morrow!) 
Those  blooming  boys,  whose  hearts  are  almost  sick 
With  present  triumph,  will  be  sure  to  find 
A  field  before  them  freshen'd  with  the  dew 
Of  other  expectations ; — in  which  course 
Their  happy  year  spins  round.     The  youth  obeys 
A  like  glad  impulse ;  and  so  moves  the  man 
'Mid  all  his  apprehensions,  cares,  and  fears ; 
Or  so  he  ought  to  move.     Ah !  why  in  age 
Do  we  revert  so  fondly  to  the  walks 
Of  childhood,  but  that  there  the  soul  discerns 
The  dear  memorial  footsteps  unimpair'd 
Of  her  own  native  vigour,  thence  can  hear 
Reverberations,  and  a  choral  song, 
Commingling  with  the  incense  that  ascends 
Undaunted,  toward  the  imperishable  heavens, 
From  her  own  lonely  altar  ?     Do  not  think 
That  good  and  wise  ever  will  be  allow'd, 
Though  strength  decay,  to  breathe  in  such  estate 
As  shall  divide  them  wholly  from  the  stir 
Of  hopeful  nature.     Rightly  is  it  said 
That  man  descends  into  the  vale  of  years  ; 
Yet  have  I  thought  that  we  might  also  speak, 
And  not  presumptuously,  I  trust,  of  age, 
As  of  a  final  eminence,  though  bare 
In  aspect  and  forbidding,  yet  a  point 
On  which  'tis  not  impossible  to  sit 
In  awful  sovereignty — a  place  of  power — 
A  throne,  that  may  be  liken'd  unto  his, 
Who,  in  some  placid  day  of  summer,  looks 
Down  from  a  mountain  top, — say  one  of  those 
High  peaks  that  bound  the  vale  where  now  we  are, 
Faint,  and  diminish'd  to  the  gazing  eye, 
Forest  and  field,  and  hill  and  dale  appear. 
With  all  the  shapes  upon  their  surface  spread : 
But,  while  the  gross  and  visible  frame  of  things 
Relinquishes  its  hold  upon  the  sense. 
Yea  almost  on  the  mind  herse  i ,  and  seems 
All  unsubstantialized,  how  loud  the  voice 
Of  waters,  with  invigorated  peal 
From  the  full  river  in  the  vale  below, 
Ascending  !     For  on  that  superior  height 
Who  sits,  is  disencumber'd  from  the  press 
Of  near  obstructions,  and  is  privileged 
To  breathe  in  solitude  above  the  host 
Of  ever-humming  insects,  'mid  thin  air 
That  suits  not  them.     The  murmur  of  the  leaves, 
Many  and  idle,  visits  not  his  ear; 
This  ne  is  freed  from,  and  from  thousand  notes 
Not  less  unceasing,  not  less  vain  than  these, — 
By  which  the  finer  passages  of  sense 
Are  occupied ;  and  the  soul,  that  would  incline 
To  listen,  is  prevented  or  deterr'd. 
**And  may  it  not  be  hoped,  that,  placed  by  age 


In  like  removal  tranquil  though  severe, 

We  are  not  so  removed  for  utter  loss  ; 

But  for  some  favour,  suited  to  our  need  ? 

What  more  than  that  the  severing  should  confer 

Fresh  power  t'  commune  with  the  invisible  wcrld 

And  hear  the  mighty  stream  of  tendency 

Uttering,  for  elevation  of  our  thought, 

A  clear  sonorous  voice,  inaudible 

To  the  vast  multitude  :  whose  doon:  it  is 

To  run  the  giddy  round  of  vain  delight, 

Or  fret  and  labour  on  the  plain  below. 

"  But,  if  to  such  sublime  ascent  the  hopes 
Of  man  may  rise,  as  to  a  welcome  close 
And  termination  of  his  mortal  course. 
Them  only  can  such  hope  inspire  whose  minds 
Have  not  been  starved  by  absolute  neglect; 
Nor  bodies  crush'd  by  unremitting  toil ; 
To  whom  kind  nature,  therefore,  may  afford 
Proof  of  the  sacred  love  she  bears  for  all ; 
Whose  birthright  reason,  therefore,  may  ensure. 
For  me,  consulting  what  I  feel  within 
In  times  when  most  existence  with  herself 
Is  satisfied,  I  cannot  but  believe, 
That,  far  as  kindly  nature  hath  free  scope 
And  reason's  sway  predominates,  e'en  so  far. 
Country,  society,  and  time  itself. 
That  saps  the  individual's  bodily  frame, 
And  lays  the  generations  low  in  dust. 
Do,  by  the  Almighty  Ruler's  grace,  partake 
Of  one  maternal  spirit,  bringing  forth 
And  cherishing  with  ever-constant  love, 
That  tires  not,  nor  betrays.     Our  life  is  turn'd 
Out  of  her  course,  wherever  man  is  made 
An  offering  or  a  sacrifice,  a  tool 
Or  implement,  a  passive  thing  employ'd 
As  a  brute  mean,  without  acknowledgment 
Of  common  right  or  interest  in  the  end  ; 
Used  or  abused,  as  selfishness  may  prompt. 
Say,  what  can  follow  for  a  rational  soul 
Perverted  thus,  but  weakness  in  all  good. 
And  strength  in  evil  ?     Hence  an  after  call 
For  chastisement,  and  custody,  and  bonds, 
And  oft-times  death,  avenger  of  the  past, 
And  the  sole  guardian  in  whose  hands  we  dare 
Intrust  the  future.     Not  for  these  sad  issues 
Was  man  created  ;  but  t'  obey  the  law 
Of  life,  and  hope,  and  action.     And  'tis  known 
That  when  we  stand  upon  our  native  soil, 
Unelbow'd  by  such  objects  as  oppress 
Our  active  powers,  those  powers  themselves  become 
Strong  to  subvert  our  noxious  qualities : 
They  sweep  distemper  from  the  busy  day, 
And  make  the  chalice  of  the  big  round  year 
Run  o'er  with  gladness  ;  whence  the  being  moves 
In  beauty  through  the  world ;  and  all  who  see 
Bless  him,  rejoicing  in  his  neighbourhood." 

"Then,"  said  the  solitary,  "by  what  force 
Of  language  shall  a  feeling  heart  express 
Her  sorrow  for  that  mixltitude  in  whom 
We  look  for  health  from  seeds  that  have  been  sowi 
In  sickness,  and  for  increase  in  a  power 
That  works  but  by  extinction  ?     On  themselves 
They  cannot  lean,  nor  turn  to  their  own  hearts 
To  know  what  they  must  do :  their  wisdom  i« 
To  look  into  the  eyes  of  others,  thence 
To  be  instructed  what  they  must  avoid : 


THE    EXCURSION. 


483 


Or  rather,  let  us  say,  how  least  observed, 
How  with  most  quiet  and  most  silent  death, 
With  the  least  taint  and  injury  to  the  air 
Th'  oppressor  breathes,  their  human  form  divine 
And  their  immortal  soul  may  waste  away," 

The   sage   rejoin 'd,  "  I   thank  you ;  you  have 

spared 
My  voice  the  utterance  of  a  keen  regret, 
A  wide  compassion  which  with  you  I  share. 
When,  heretofore,  I  placed  before  j'our  sight 
A  little  one,  subjected  to  the  arts 
Of  modern  ingenuity,  and  made 
The  senseless  member  of  a  vast  machine, 
Serving  as  doth  a  spindle  or  a  wheel ; 
Think  not,  that,  pitying  him,  I  could  forget 
The  rustic  boy,  who  walks  the  fields,  untaught 
The  slave  of  ignorance,  and  oft  of  want 
And  miserable  hunger.     Much,  too  much 
Of  this  unhappy  lot,  in  early  youth 
We  both  have  witness'd,  lot  which  I  myself 
Shared,  though  in  mild  and  merciful  degree ; 
Yet  was  the  mind  to  hinderances  exposed. 
Through  which  I  struggled,  not  without  distress 
And  sometimes  injury,  like  a  lamb  enthi-all'd 
'Mid  thorns  and  brambles ;  or  a  bird  that  breaks 
Through  a  strong  net,  and  mounts  upon  the  wind, 
Though  with  her  plumes  impair'd.     If  they,  whose 

souls 
Should  open  while  they  range  the  richer  fields 
Of  merry  England,  are  obstructed  less 
By  indigence,  their  ignorance  is  not  less, 
Nor  less  to  be  deplored.     For  who  can  doubt 
That  tens  of  thousands  at  this  day  exist 
Such  as  the  boy  you  painted,  lineal  heirs 
Of  those  who  once  were  vassals  of  her  soil, 
Following  its  fortunes  like  the  beast  or  trees 
Which  it  sustain'd.     But  no  one  takes  delight 
In  this  oppression  ;  none  are  proud  of  it ; 
It  bears  no  sounding  name,  nor  ever  bore  ; 
A  standing  grievance,  an  indigenous  vice 
Of  every  country  under  heaven.     My  thoughts 
Were  turn'd  to  evils  that  are  new  and  chosen, 
A  bondage  lurking  under  shape  of  good, — 
Arts  in  themselves  beneficent  and  kind. 
But  all  too  fondly  follow'd  and  too  far; 
To  victims,  which  the  merciful  can  see 
Nor  think  that  they  are  victims  ;  turn'd  to  wrongs? 
By  women,  who  have  children  of  their  own. 
Beheld  without  compassion,  yea  with  praise  ! 
I  spake  of  mischief  by  the  wise  diffused 
With  gladness,  thinking  that  the  more  it  spreads 
The  healthier,  the  securer  we  become  ; 
Delusion  which  a  moment  may  destroy  ! 
Lastly,  I  mourn 'd  for  those  whom  I  had  seen 
Corrupted  and  cast  down,  on  favour'd  ground, 
Where  circumstance  and  nature  had  combined 
To  shelter  innocence,  and  cherish  love; 
Who,  but  for  this  intrusion,  would  have  lived, 
Possess'd  of  health,  and  strength,  and  peace  of  mind. 
Thus  would  have  lived,  or  never  have  been  born. 
*'Alas  I  what  differs  more  than  man  from  man  ! 
And  whence   that  difference  ?   whence  but  from 

himself  ? 
For  see  the  universal  race  endow'd 
With  the  same  upright  form  !     The  sun  is  fix'd, 
And  th'  infinite  magnificence  of  heaven, 


Fix'd  within  the  reach  of  every  hurpan  eye ; 

The  sleepless  ocean  murmurs  for  all  ears ; 

The  vernal  field  infuses  fresh  delight 

Into  all  hearts.     Throughout  the  world  of  sense. 

E'en  as  an  object  is  sublime  or  fair, 

That  object  is  laid  open  to  the  view 

Without  reserve  or  veil ;  and  as  a  power 

Is  salutary,  or  an  influence  sweet, 

Are  each  and  all  enabled  to  perceive 

That  power,  that  influence,  by  impartial  law. 

Gifts  nobler  are  vouchsafed  alike  to  all ; 

Reason, — and,  with  that  reason,  smiles  and  tears; 

Imagination,  freedom  in  the  will. 

Conscience  to  guide  and  check  ;  and  death  to  be 

Foretasted,  immortality  presumed. 

Strange,  then,  nor  less  than  monstrous  might  b« 

deem'd 
The  failure,  if  th'  Almighty,  to  this  point 
Liberal  and  undistinguishing,  should  hide 
The  excellence  of  moral  qualities 
From  common  understanding  ;  leaving  truth 
And  virtue  difficult,  abstruse,  and  dark  ; 
Hard  to  be  won,  and  only  by  a  few ; 
Strange,  should  he  deal  herein  with  nice  respecta, 
And  frustrate  all  the  rest !     Believe  it  not: 
The  primal  duties  shine  aloft,  like  stars  ; 
The  charities  that  soothe,  and  heal,  and  bless. 
Are  scatter'd  at  the  feet  of  man,  like  flowers; 
The  generous  inclination,  the  just  rule. 
Kind  wishes,  and  good  actions,  and  pure  thoughts 
No  mystery  is  here ;  no  special  boon 
For  high  and  not  for  low,  for  proudly  graced 
And  not  for  meek  of  heart.     The  smoke  ascendi 
To  heaven  as  lightly  from  the  cottage  hearth 
As  from  the  haughty  palace.     He,  whose  soul 
Ponders  this  true  equality,  may  walk 
The  fields  of  earth  with  gratitude  and  hope ; 
Yet,  in  that  meditation,  will  he  find 
Motive  to  sadder  grief,  as  we  have  found,— 
Lamenting  ancient  virtues  overthrown. 
And  for  th'  injustice  grieving,  that  hath  made 
So  wide  a  difference  betwixt  man  and  man. 

"  But  let  us  rather  turn  our  gladden'd  thoughts 
Upon  the  brighter  scene.     How  blest  the  pair 
Of  blooming  boys  (whom  we  beheld  e'en  now) 
Blest  in  their  several  and  their  common  lot ! 
A  few  short  hours  of  each  returning  day 
The  thriving  prisoners  of  their  village  school: 
And  thence  let  loose,  to  seek  their  pleasant  horaei 
Or  range  the  grassy  lawn  in  vacancy. 
To  breathe  and  to  be  happy,  run  and  shout 
Idle, — ^but  no  delay,  no  harm,  no  loss  : 
For  every  genial  power  of  heaven  and  earth, 
Though  all  the  seasons  of  the  changeful  year, 
Obsequiously  doth  take  upon  herself 
To  labour  for  them  ;  bringing  each  in  turn 
The  tribute  of  enjoyment,  knowledge,  health, 
Beauty,  or  strength  !     Such  privilege  is  theirs 
Granted  alike  in  th'  outset  of  their  course 
To  both  ;  and,  if  that  partnership  must  cease, 
I  grieve  not,"  to  the  pastor  here  he  turn'd, 
'<  Much  as  I  glory  in  that  child  of  yours, 
Repine  not,  for  his  cottage  comrade,  whom 
Belike  no  higher  destiny  awaits 
Than  the  old  hereditary  wish  fulfill'd, 
The  wish  for  liberty  to  live,  content 


484 


WORDSWORTH. 


With  what  Heaven  grants,  and  die,  in  peace  of 

mind, 
Within  the  bosom  of  his  native  vale. 
At  least,  whatever  fate  the  noon  of  life 
Reserves  for  either,  this  is  sure,  that  both 
Have  been  permitted  to  enjoy  the  dawn ; 
Whether  regarded  as  a  jocund  time, 
That  in  itself  may  terminate,  or  lead 
In  course  of  nature  to  a  sober  eve. 
Boi-h  have  been  fairly  dealt  with  ;  looking  back. 
They  will  allow  that  justice  has  in  them 
Been  shown,  alike  to  body  and  to  mind." 

He  paused,  as  if  revolving  in  his  soul 
Some  weighty  matter,  then,  with  fervent  voice 
And  an  impassioned  majesty,  exclaim'd, 
*'  0  for  the  coming  of  that  glorious  time 
When,  prizing  knowledge  as  her  noblest  wealth 
And  best  protection,  this  imperial  realm, 
While  she  exacts  allegiance,  shall  admit 
An  obligation,  on  her  part,  to  teach 
Them  who  are  born  to  serve  her  and  obey  ; 
Binding  herself  by  statute*  to  secure 
For  all  the  children  whom  her  soil  maintains 
The  rudiments  of  letters,  and  inform 
The  mind  with  moral  and  religious  truth, 
Both  understood  and  practised, — so  that  none, 
However  destitute,  be  left  to  droop 
By  timely  culture  unsustain'd,  or  run 
Into  a  wild  disorder  ;  or  be  forced 
To  drudge  through  weary  life  without  the  aid 
Of  intellectual  implements  and  tools  ; 
A  savage  horde  among  the  civilized, 
A  servile  band  among  the  lordly  free  ! 
This  sacred  right,  the  lisping  babe  proclaims 
To  be  inherent  in  him,  by  Heaven's  will, 
For  the  protection  of  his  innocence : 
And  the  rude  boy — who  having  overpast 
The  sinless  ago,  by  conscience  is  enroll'd. 
Yet  mutinously  knits  his  angry  brow. 
And  lifts  his  wilful  hand  on  mischief  bent. 
Or  turns  the  godlike  faculty  of  speech 
To  impious  use — by  process  indirect 
Declares  his  due,  while  he  makes  known  his  need. 
This  sacred  right  is  fruitlessly  announced, 
This  universal  plea  in  vain  address'd, 
To  eyes  and  ears  of  parents  who  themselves 
Did,  if;  the  time  of  their  necessity. 
Urge  it  in  vain  ;  and,  therefore,  like  a  prayer 
That  from  the  humblest  floor  ascends  to  heaven. 
It  mounts  to  reach  the  state's  parental  ear  ; 
Who,  if  indeed  she  own  a  mother's  heart. 
And  be  not  most  unfeelingly  devoid 
Of  gratitude  to  Providence,  will  grant 
Th'  unquestionable  good  ;  which  England,  safe 
From  interference  of  external  force. 
May  grant  at  leisure  ;  without  risk  incurr'd 
That  what  in  wisdom  for  herself  she  doth, 
Others  shall  e'er  be  able  to  undo. 

"  Look  !  and  behold,  from  Calpe's  sunburnt  cliffs 
To  the  flat  margin  of  the  Baltic  sea, 


♦  The  discovery  of  Dr.  Bell  afforda  marvellons  facilities 
for  carrying  this  into  effect ;  and  it  is  impossible  to  over- 
rale  the  benefits  which  might  accrue  to  humanity  from 
the  universal  application  of  this  siinolp  engine  under  an 
enlightened  and  conscientious  government. 


Long-reverenced  titles  cast  away  as  weeds  j 

Laws  overturn 'd ;  and  territory  split. 

Like  fields  of  ice  rent  by  the  polar  wind. 

And  forced  to  join  in  less  obnoxious  shapes. 

Which,  ere  they  gain  consistence,  by  a  gust 

Of  the  same  breath  are  shatter'd  and  destroy'd. 

Meantime  the  sovereignty  of  these  fair  isles 

Remains  entire  and  indivisible  : 

And,  if  that  ignorance  were  removed,  which  lree€l 

Within  the  compass  of  their  several  shores 

Dark  discontent,  or  loud  commotion,  each 

Might  still  preserve  the  beautiful  repose 

Of  heavenly  bodies  shining  in  their  spheres. — 

The  discipline  of  slavery  is  unknown 

Amongst  us, — hence  the  more  do  we  require 

The  discipline  of  virtue  ;  order  else 

Cannot  subsist,  nor  confidence,  nor  peace. 

Thus,  duties  rising  out  of  good  possess'd. 

And  prudent  caution  needful  to  avert 

Impending  evil,  equally  require 

That  the  whole  people  should  be  taught  and  train'd, 

So  shall  licentiousness  and  black  resolve 

Be  rooted  out,  and  virtuous  habits  take 

Their  place  ;  and  genuine  piety  descend. 

Like  an  inheritance,  from  age  to  age. 

"  With  such  foundations  laid,  avaunt  the  fear 
Of  numbers  crowded  on  their  native  soil. 
To  the  prevention  of  all  healthful  growth 
Through  mutual  injury  !     Rather  in  the  law 
Of  increase  and  the  mandate  from  above 
Rejoice  ! — and  ye  have  special  cause  for  joy. 
For  as  the  element  of  air  affords 
An  easy  passage  to  th'  industrious  bees 
Fraught  with  their  burdens  ;  and  a  way  as  smooth 
For  those  ordain'd  to  take  their  sounding  flight 
From  the  throng'd  hive,  and  settle  where  they  lis; 
In  fresh  abodes,  their  labour  to  renew  ; 
So  the  wide  waters,  open  to  the  power. 
The  will,  the  instincts,  and  appointed  needs 
Of  Britain,  do  invite  her  to  cast  off 
Her  swarms,  and  in  succession  send  them  forth  ; 
Bound  to  establish  new  communities 
On  every  shore  whose  aspect  favours  hope 
Or  bold  adventure  ;  promising  to  skill 
And  perseverance  their  deserved  reward. 
Yes,"  he  continued,  kindling  as  he  spake, 
«  Chat:ge  wide,  and  deep,  and  silently  perform'd, 
This  land  shall  witness  ;   and  as  days  roll  on, 
Earth's  universal  frame  shall  feel  th'  effect, 
E'en  till  the  smallest  habitable  rock. 
Beaten  by  lonely  billows,  hear  the  songs 
Of  humanized  society  ;  and  bloom 
With  civil  arts,  that  send  their  fragrance  forth, 
A  grateful  tribute  to  all-ruling  Heaven. 
From  culture,  unexclusively  bestow'd 
On  Albion's  noble  race  in  freedom  born, 
Expect  these  mighty  issues:  from  the  pains 
And  faithful  care  of  unambitious  schools 
Instructing  simple  childhood's  ready  ear: 
Thence  look  for  these  magnificent  results ! 
Vast  the  circumfeuence  of  hope  ;  and  ye 
Are  at  its  centre,  British  lawgivers ; 
Ah  !  sleep  not  there  in   shame  !     Shall  wisdom  i 

voice 
From  out  the  bosom  of  these  troubled  times 
Repeat  the  dictates  of  her  calmer  mind, 


THE    EXCURSION. 


485 


And  shall  the  venerable  halls  ye  fill 
Refuse  to  echo  the  sublime  decree  ? 
Trust  not  to  partial  care  a  general  good  ; 
Transfer  not  to  futurity  a  work 
Of  urgent  need.    Your  country  must  complete 
Her  glorious  destiny.     Begin  e'en  now, 
Now,  when  oppression,  like  th'  Egyptian  plague 
Of  darkness,  stretch'd  o'er  guilty  Europe,  makes 
The  brightness  more  conspicuous  that  invests 
The  happy  island  where  ye  think  and  act ; 
Now,  when  destruction  is  a  prime  pursuit, 
Show  to  the  wretched  nations  for  what  end 
The  powers  of  civil  polity  were  given  !" 
Abruptly  here,  but  with  a  graceful  air. 
The  sage  broke  off.     No  sooner  had  he  ceased 
Than,  looking  forth,  the  gentle  lady  said, 
"  Behold  the  shades  of  afternoon  have  fallen 
Upon  this  flowery  slope  ;   and  see — beyond — 
The  lake,  though  bright,  is  of  a  placid  blue  ; 
As  if  preparing  for  the  peace  of  evening. 
How  temptingly  the  landscape  shines  !     The  air 
Breathes  invitation  ;  easy  is  the  walk 
To  the  lake's  margin,  where  a  boat  lies  moor'd 
Beneath  her  sheltering  tree,"    Upon  this  hint 
We  rose  together  :  all  were  pleased,  but  most 
The  beauteous  girl,  whose  cheek  was  flush'd  with 

joy- 
Light  as  a  sunbeam  glides  along  the  hills 
She  vanished,  eager  to  impart  the  scheme 
To  her  beloved  brother  and  his  shy  compeer. 
Now  was  there  bustle  in  the  vicar's  house 
And  earnest  preparation.    Forth  we  went. 
And  down  the  vale  along  the  streamlet's  edge 
Pursued  our  way,  a  broken  company, 
Mute  or  conversing,  single  or  in  pairs. 
Thus  having  reach'd  a  bridge,  that  overarch'd 
The  hasty  rivulet  where  it  lay  becalm'd 
In  a  deep  pool,  by  happy  chance  we  saw 
A  twofold  image  ;  on  a  grassy  bank 
A  snow-white  ram,  and  in  the  crystal  flood 
Another  and  the  same  !     Most  beautiful. 
On  the  green  turf,  with  his  imperial  front 
Shaggy  and  bold,  and  wreathed  horns  superb, 
The  breathing  creature  stood  ;  as  beautiful, 
Beneath  him,  show'd  his  shadowy  counterpart. 
Each  had  his  glowing  mountains,  each  his  sky. 
And  each  seem'd  centre  of  his  own  fair  world  ; 
Antipodes  unconscious  of  each  other. 
Yet,  in  partition,  with  their  several  spheres. 
Blended  in  perfect  stillness,  to  our  sight  I 
*'Ah  !  what  a  pity  were  it  to  disperse. 
Or  to  disturb,  so  fair  a  spectacle 
And  yet  a  breath  can  do  it !" 

These  few  words 
The  lady  whisper'd,  while  we  stood  and  gazed 
Gather'd  together,  all,  in  still  delight, 
Not  without  awe.     Thence  passing  on,  she  said 
In  like  low  voice  to  my  particular  ear, 
"  I  love  to  hear  that  eloquent  old  man 
Pour  forth  his  meditations,  and  descant 
On  human  life  from  infancy  to  age. 
How  pure  his  spiiit !  in  what  vivid  hues 
His  mind  gives  back  the  various  forms  of  things. 
Caught  in  their  fairest,  happiest  attitude  ! 
While  he  is  speaking,  I  have  power  to  see 
E'en  as  he  sees  :  but  when  his  voice  hath  ceased. 


Then,  with  a  sigh,  sometimes  I  feel,  as  now, 

That  combinations  so  serene  and  bright, 

Like  those  reflected  in  yon  quiet  pool. 

Cannot  be  lasting  in  a  world  like  ours, 

To  great  and  small  disturbances  exposed." 

More  had  she  said,  but  sportive  shouts  were  heard 

Sent  from  the  jocund  hearts  of  those  two  boys, 

Who,  bearing  each  a  basket  on  his  arm, 

Down  the  green  field  came  tripping  after  us.— 

When  we  had  cautiously  embark'd,  the  pair 

Now  for  a  prouder  service  were  addrest. 

But  an  inexorable  law  forbade, 

And  each  resign'd  the  oar  which  he  had  seized. 

Whereat,  with  willing  hand  I  undertook 

The  needful  labour  ;   grateful  task  I — to  me 

Pregnant  with  recollections  of  the  time 

When,  on  thy  bosom,  spacious  Windermere  ! 

A  youth,  I  practised  this  delightful  art ; 

Toss'd  on  the  waves  alone,  or  'mid  a  crew 

Of  joyous  comrades.     Now,  the  reedy  marge 

Clear'd,  with  a  strenuous  arm  I  dipp'd  the  oar. 

Free  from  obstruction,  and  the  boat  advanced 

Through  crystal  water  smoothly  as  a  hawk, 

That,  disentangled  from  the  shady  boughs 

Of  some  thick  wood,  her  place  of  covert,  cleaves 

With  correspondent  wings  th'  abyss  of  air. 

"  Observe,"  the  vicar  said,  "  yon  rocky  isle 

With  birch  trees  fringed  ;  my  hand  shall  guide  the 

helm, 
While  thitherward  we  bend  our  course  ;   or  while 
We  seek  that  other,  on  the  western  shore, — 
Where  the  bare  columns  of  those  lofty  firs, 
Supporting  gracefully  a  massy  dome 
Of  sombre  foliage,  seem  to  imitate 
A  Grecian  temple  rising  from  the  deep." 

"  Turn  where  we  may,"  saiji  I,  "  we  cannot  err 
In  this  delicious  region."    Cultured  slopes, 
Wild  tracts  of  forest  ground,  and  scatter'd  groves, 
And  rnoimtains  bare  or  clothed  with  ancient  woods 
Surrounded  us ;  and.  as  we  held  our  way 
Along  the  level  of  the  glassy  flood, 
.  They  ceased  not  to  surround  us  :  change  of  place. 
From  kindred  features  diversely  combined, 
Producing  change  of  beauty  ever  new. 
Ah  !   that  such  beauty,  varying  in  the  light 
Of  living  nature,  cannot  be  portray'd 
By  words,  nor  by  the  pencil's  silent  skill ; 
But  is  the  property  of  him  alone 
Who  hath  beheld  it,  noted  it  with  care, 
And  in  his  mind  recorded  it  with  love  ! 
Suflice  it,  therefore,  if  the  rural  muse 
Vouchsafe  sweet  influence,  while  her  poet  speaks 
Of  trivial  occupations  well  devised. 
And  unsought  pleasures  springing  up  by  chance  ; 
As  if  some  friendly  genius  had  ordaia'd 
That,  as  the  day  thus  far  had  been  enrich'd 
By  acquisition  of  sincere  delight, 
The  same  should  be  continued  to  its  close. 

One  spirit  animating  old  and  young, 
A  gipsy  fire  we  kindled  on  the  shore 
Of  the  fair  isle  with  birch  trees  fringed ;  and  thert 
Merrily  seated  in  a  ring,  partook 
The  beverage  drawn  from  China's  fragrant  herb,     i 
Launch 'd  from  our  hand,  the  smooth  stone  skimm'd 

the  lake ; 
With  shouts  we  roused  the  echoes  :  stiller  sounds 


486 


WORDSWORTH. 


The  lovely  girl  supplied,  a  simple  song, 

Whose  low  tones  reach'd  not  to  the  distant  rocks 

To  be  repeated  thence,  but  gently  sank 

Into  our  hearts,  and  charm'd  the  peaceful  flood. 

Rapaciously  we  gather'd  flowery  spoils 

From  land  and  water  ;  lilies  of  each  hue — 

Golden  and  white,  that  float  upon  the  waves, 

And  court  the  wind ;  and  leaves  of  that  shy  plant, 

(Her  flowers  were  shed,)  the  lily  of  the  vale. 

That  loves  the  ground,  and  from  the  sun  withholds 

Her  pensive  beauty,  from  the  breeze  her  sweets. 

Such  product  and  such  pastime  did  the  place 
And  season  yield  ;  but,  as  we  re-embarked. 
Leaving,  in  quest  of  other  scenes,  the  shore 
Of  that  wild  spot,  the  solitary  said 
In  a  low  voice,  yet  careless  who  might  hear, 
"  The  fire,  that  burned  so  brightly  to  our  wish, 
Where  is  it  now  ?    Deserted  on  the  beach. 
It  seems  extinct ;  nor  shall  the  fanning  breeze 
Revive  its  ashes.    What  care  we  for  this, 
Whose  ends  are  gain'd  ?     Behold  an  emblem  here 
Of  one  day's  pleasure,  and  all  mortal  joys  I 
And,  in  this  unpremeditated  slight 
Of  that  which  is  no  longer  needed,  see 
The  common  course  of  human  gratitude  I" 

This  plaintive  note  disturb 'd  not  the  repose 
Of  the  still  evening.     Right  across  the  lake 
Our  pinnace  moves:  then,  coasting  creek  and  bay, 
Glades  we  behold,  and  into  thickets  peep. 
Where  couch  the  spotted  deer ;  or  raised  our  eyes 
To  shaggy  steeps  on  which  the  careless  goat 
Browsed  by  the  side  of  dashing  waterfalls. 
Thus  did  the  bark,  meandering  with  the  shore, 
Pursue  her  voyage,  till  a  natural  pier 
Of  jutting  rock  invited  us  to  land. 
Alert  to  follow  as  the  pastor  led. 
We  clomb  a  green  hill's  side ;  and  as  we  clomb, 
The  valley,  opening  out  her  bosom,  gave 
Fair  prospect,  intercepted  less  and  less, 
Of  the  flat  meadows  and  indented  coast 
Of  the  smooth  lake,  in  compass  seen,  far  off. 
And  yet  conspicuous  stood  the  old  church  tower 
In  majesty  presiding  over  fields 
And  habitations,  seemingly  preserved 
From  the  intrusion  of  a  restless  world, 
By  rocks  impassable  and  mountains  huge. 

Soft  heath  this  elevated  spot  supplied. 
And  choice  of  moss-clad  stones,  whereon  we  couch'd 
Qr  sate  reclined — admiring  quietly 
The  general  aspect  of  the  scene  ;  but  each 
Not  seldom  over-anxious  to  make  known 
His  own  discoveries ;  or  to  favourite  points 
Directing  notice,  merely  from  a  wish 
T'  impart  a  joy,  imperfect  while  unshared. 
That  rapturous  moment  ne'er  shall  I  forget. 
When  these  particular  interests  were  effaced 
From  every  mind !     Already  had  the  sun, 
iSinking  with  less  than  ordinary  state, 
Attain'd  his  western  bound ;  but  rays  of  light — 
Now  suddenly  diverging  from  the  orb 
Retired  behind  the  mountain  tops  or  veil'd 
By  the  dense  air — shot  upwards  to  the  crown 
Of  the  blue  firmament — aloft  and  wide: 
And  multitudes  of  little  floating  clouds. 
Ere  we,  who  saw,  of  change  were  conscious,  pierced 
Through  their  ethereal  texture,  had  become 


Vivid  as  fire — clouds  separately  poised. 
Innumerable  multitudes  of  forms 
Scatter'd  through  half  the  circle  of  the  sky ; 
And  giving  back,  and  shedding  each  on  each 
With  prodigal  communion,  the  bright  hues 
Which  from  the  unapparent  fount  of  glory 
They  had  imbibed,  and  ceased  not  to  receive. 
That  which  the  heavens  display'd,  the  liquid  dc«J» 
Repeated  ;  but  with  unity  sublime  ! 

While  from  the  grassy  mountain's  open  side 
We  gazed,  in  silence  hush'd,  with  eyes  intent 
On  the  refulgent  spectacle, — diffused 
Through  earth,  sky,  water,  and  all  visible  space,— 
The  priest  in  holy  transport  thus  exclaim'd : 

"Eternal  Spirit !  universal  God  ! 
Power  inaccessible  to  human  thought. 
Save  by  degrees  and  steps  which  thou  hast  deigned 
To  furnish ;  for  this  effluence  of  thyself, 
To  the  infirmity  of  mortal  sense 
Vouchsafed  ;  this  local  transitory  type 
Of  thy  paternal  splendours,  and  the  pomp 
Of  those  who  fill  thy  courts  in  highest  heaven, 
The  radiant  cherubim  ; — accept  the  thanks 
Which  we,  thy  humble  creatures,  here  convened, 
Presume  to  offer ;  we,  who  from  the  breast 
Of  the  frail  earth,  permitted  to  behold 
The  faint  reflections  only  of  thy  face, 
Are  yet  exalted,  and  in  soul  adore  ! 
Such  as  they  are  who  in  thy  presence  stand 
Unsullied,  incorruptible,  and  drink 
Imperishable  majesty  stream'd  forth 
From  thy  empyreal  throne,  th'  elect  of  earth 
Shall  be — divested  at  th'  appointed  hour 
Of  all  dishonour — cleansed  from  mortal  stain. 
Accomplish,  then,  their  number;  and  concludi 
Time's  weary  course  !     Or  if,  by  thy  decree, 
The  consummation  that  will  come  by  stealth 
Be  3'et  far  distant,  let  thy  word  prevail, 
0  !  let  thy  word  prevail,  to  take  awaj' 
The  sting  of  human  nature.     Spread  the  law, 
As  it  is  written  in  thy  holy  book. 
Throughout  all  lands :  let  every  nation  hear 
The  high  behest,  and  every  heart  obey  ; 
Both  for  the  love  of  purity,  and  hope 
Which  it  affords,  to  such  as  do  thy  will 
And  persevere  in  good,  that  they  shall  rise, 
To  have  a  nearer  view  of  thee,  in  heaven. 
Father  of  good  !  this  prayer  in  bounty  grant, 
In  mercy  grant  it  to  thy  wretched  sons. 
Then,  nor  till  then,  shall  persecution  cease. 
And  cruel  wars  expire.     The  way  is  mark'd, 
The  guide  appointed,  and  the  ransom  paid. 
Alas  !  the  nations,  who  of  yore  received 
These  tidings,  and  in  Christian  temples  meet 
The  sacred  truth  t'  acknowledge,  linger  still  j 
Preferring  bonds  and  darkness  to  a  state 
Of  holy  freedom,  by  redeeming  love 
Proffer'd  to  all,  while  yet  on  earth  detain'd. 

«  So  fare  the  many  ;  and  the  thoughtful  few, 
Who  in  the  anguish  of  their  souls  bewail 
This  dire  perverseness,  cannot  choose  but  ask. 
Shall  it  endure  ?     Shall  enmity  and  strife. 
Falsehood  and  guile,  be  left  to  sow  their  seed 
And  the  kind  never  perish  ?     Is  the  hope 
Fallacious,  or  shall  righteousness  obtain 
A  peaceable  dominion,  wide  as  earth. 


THE    EXCURSION. 


487 


A.nd  ne'er  to  fail  ?     Shall  that  blest  day  arrive 
When  they,  whose  choice  or  lot  it  is  to  dwell 
In  crowded  cities,  without  fear  shall  live 
Studious  of  mutual  benefit ;  and  he. 
Whom   morning  wakes,  among   sweet  dews   and 

flowers 
Of  every  clime,  to  till  the  lonely  field, 
Be  happy  in  himself  ?     The  law  of  faith. 
Working  through  love,  such  conquest  shall  it  gain, 
Such  triumph  over  sin  and  guilt  achieve  ? 
Almighty  Lord,  thy  further  grace  impart ! 
And  with  that  help  the  wonder  shall  be  seen 
Fulfill'd,  the  hope  accomplish'd :  and  thy  praise 
Be  sung  with  transport  and  unceasing  joy. 

"  Once,"  and  with  mild  demeanour,  as  he  spake. 
On  us  the  venerable  pastor  turn'd 
His  beaming  eye  that  had  been  raised  to  heaven, 
*'  Once,  while  the  name,  Jehovah,  was  a  sound 
Within  the  circuit  of  the  seagirt  isle 
Unheard,  the  savage  nations "bow'd  the  head 
To  gods  delighting  in  remorseless  deeds  ; 
Gods  which  themselves  had  fashion'd,  to  promote 
111  purposes,  and  flatter  foul  desires. 
Then,  in  the  bosom  of  yon  mountain  cove, 
To  those  inventions  of  corrupted  man 
Mysterious  rites  were  solemnized:  and  there, 
Amid  impending  rocks  and  gloomy  woods. 
Of  those  terrific  idols,  some  received 
Such  dismal  service,  that  the  loudest  voice 
Of  the  swoln  cataracts  (which  now  are  heard 
Soft  murmuring)  was  too  weak  to  overcome. 
Though  aided    by   wild   winds,    the    groans    and 

shrieks 
or  human  victims,  offer'd  up  t'  appease 
Or  to  propitiate.     And,  if  living  eyes 
Had  visionary  faculties  to  see 
The  thing  that  hath  been  as  the  thing  that  is, 
Aghast  we  might  behold  this  crystal  mere 
Bedimm'd  with  smoke,  in  wreaths  voluminous, 
Flung  from  the  body  of  devouring  fires. 
To  Taranis  erected  on  the  heights 
By  priestly  hands,  for  sacrifice  perform'd 
Exultingly,  in  view  of  open  day 
And  full  assemblage  of  a  barbarous  host ; 
Or  to  Andatc3.  female  power  !  who  gave 
(For  so  they  f!».icied)  glorious"  victory. 
A  few  rude  monuments  of  mountain  stone 
Survive  ;  all  else  is  swept  away.     How  bright 
Th'  appearances  of  things  !      From   such,  how 

changed 
Th'  existing  worship  !  and  with  those  compared, 
The  worshippers  how  innocent  and  blest  I 
So  wide  the  difference4.a  willing  mind. 
At  this  affecting  hour,  might  almost  think 
That  Paradise,  the  lost  abode  of  man, 
Was  raised  again :  and  to  a  happy  few. 
In  its  original  beauty,  here  restored. 
Whence  but  from  Thee,  the  true  and  only  God, 
And  from  the  faith  derived  through  Him  who  bled 
Upon  the  cross,  this  marvellous  advance 
Of  good  from  evil ;  as  if  one  extreme 
Were  left — the  other  gain'd  ? — 0  ye,  who  come 
To  kneel  devoutly  in  yon  leverend  pile, 
Call'd  to  such  office  by  the  peaceful  sound 
Of  Sabbath  bells  ;  and  ye,  who  sleep  in  earth. 
All  cares  forgotten,  round  its  hallow'd  walls  . 


For  you,  in  presence  of  this  little  band 

Gather'd  together  on  ihe  green  hill  side. 

Your  pastor  is  imbolden'd  to  prefer 

Vocal  thanksgivings  to  th'  Eternal  King ; 

Whose  love,  whose  counsel,  whose  commands  have 

made 
Your  very  poorest  rich  in  peace  of  thought 
And  in  good  works  ;  and  him,  who  is  endow'd 
With  scantiest  knowledge,  master  of  all  truth 
Which  the  salvation  of  his  soul  requires. 
Conscious  of  that  abundant  favour  shower'd 
On  you,  the  children  of  my  humble  care. 
And  this  dear  land,  our  country  while  on  earth 
We  sojourn,  have  I  lifted  up  my  soul, 
Joy  giving  voice  to  fervent  gratitude. 
These  barren  rocks,  your  stern  inheritance  ; 
These  fertile  fields,  that  recompense  your  pains ; 
The  shadowy  vale,  the  sunny  mountain  top ; 
Woods  waving  in  the  wind  their  lofty  heads. 
Or  hush'd  ;  the  roaring  waters,  and  the  still ; 
They  see  the  offering  of  my  lifted  hands — 
They  hear  my  lips  present  their  sacrifice— 
They  know  if  I  be  silent,  morn  or  even  : 
For,  though  in  whispers  speaking,  the  full  heart 
Will  find  a  vent ;  and  thought  is  praise  to  Him, 
Audible  praise,  to  Thee,  Omniscient  Mind, 
From  whom  all  gifts  descend,  all  blessings  flow  !** 

This  vesper  service  closed,  without  delay. 
From  that  exalted  station  to  the  plain 
Descending,  we  pursued  our  homeward  course, 
In  mute  composure,  o'er  the  shadowy  lake, 
Beneath  a  faded  sky.     No  trace  remain 'd 
Of  those  celestial  splendours  ;  gray  the  vault, 
Pure,  cloudless  ether ;  and  the  star  of  eve 
Was  wanting ;  but  inferior  lights  appear'd 
Faintly,  too  faint  almost  for  sight ;  and  some 
Above  the  darken'd  hills  stood  boldly  forth 
In  twinkling  lustre,  ere  the  boat  attain 'd 
Her  mooring  place  ;  where  to  the  sheltering  tree 
Our  youthful  voyagers  bound  fast  her  prow, 
With  prompt  yet  careful  hands.     This  done,  xtb 

paced 
The  dewy  fields  ;  but  ere  the  vicar's  door 
Was  reach'd,  the  solitary  check'd  his  steps ; 
Then,  intermingling  thanks,  on  each  bestow'd 
A  farewell  salutation, — and,  the  like 
Receiving,  took  the  slender  path  that  leads 
To  the  one  cottage  in  the  lonely  dell ; 
But  turn'd  not  without  welcome  promise  given, 
That  he  would  share  the  pleasures  and  pursuits 
Of  yet  another  summer's  day,  consumed 
In  wandering  with  us  through  the  valleys  fair, 
And  o'er  the  mountain  wastes.    "Another  sun,** 
Said  he,  "shall  shine  upon  us  ere  we  part, — 
Another  sun,  and  peradventure  more  j 
If  time,  with  free  consent,  is  yours  to  give, — 
And  season  favours." 

To  enfeebled  power, 
From  this  communion  with  uninjured  minds, 
What  renovation  had  been  brought ;  and  what 
Degree  of  healing  to  a  wounded  spirit. 
Dejected,  and  habitually  disposed 
To  seek,  in  degradation  of  the  kind. 
Excuse  and  solace  for  her  own  defects  ; 
How  far  those  erring  notions  were  reform'd  ; 
And  whether  aught,  of  tendency  as  good 


488 


WORDSWORTH. 


And  pure,  from  further  intercourse  ensued ; 
This— (if  delightful  hopes,  as  heretofore, 
Inspire  the  serious  song,  and  gentle  hearts 
Cherish,  and  lofty  minds  approve  the  past) — 
My  future  labours  may  not  leave  untold. 


THE  ARMENIAN  LADY'S   LOVE. 

The  subject  of  the  following  poem  is  from  the  Orlandus  of 
the  author's  friend,  Kenelm  Henry  Digby;  and  the 
liberty  is  taken  of  inscribing  it  to  him  as  an  acknow- 
ledgement, however  unworthy,  of  pleasure  and  instruc- 
tion derived  from  his  numerous  and  valuable  writings, 
illustrative  of  the  piety  and  chivalry  of  the  olden  time. 

You  have  heard  "  a  Spanish  lady 

How  she  wooed  an  English  man  ;"* 

Hear  now  of  a  fair  Armenian, 

Daughter  of  the  proud  soldan  ; 
How  she  loved  a  Christian  slave,  and  told  her  pain 
By  word,  look,  deed,  with  hope  that  he  might  love 
again. 

"  Pluck  that  rose,  it  moves  my  liking," 

Said  she,  lifting  up  her  veil ; 

"  Pluck  it  for  me,  gentle  gardener. 

Ere  it  wither  and  grow  pale." 
"  Princess  fair,  I  till  the  ground,  but  may  not  take 
From  twig  or  bed  an  humbler  flower,  e'en  for  your 
sake." 

"  Grieved  am  I,  submissive  Christian  ! 

To  behold  thy  captive  state  ; 

Women  in  your  land  may  pity 

(May  they  not  ?)  th'  unfortunate." 
"  Yes,  kind  lady  !  otherwise  man  could  not  bear 
Life,  which  to  every  one  that  breathes  is  full  of 
care." 

"  Worse  than  idle  is  compassion. 

If  it  end  in  tears  and  sighs ; 

Thee  from  bondage  would  I  rescue 

And  from  vile  indignities ; 
Nurtured,  as  thy  mien  bespeaks,  in  high  degree, 
Look  up — and  help  a  hand  that  longs  to  set  thee 
free." 

«  Lady,  dread  the  wish,  nor  venture 

In  such  peril  to  engage  ; 

Think  how  it  would  stir  against  you 

Your  most  loving  father's  rage  ; 
Sad  deliverance  would  it  be,  and  yoked  with  shame. 
Should  troubles  overflow  on  her  from  whom  it 
came." 

«  Generous  Frank  !  the  just  in  effort 

Are  of  inward  peace  secure ; 

Hardships  fc.-  the  brave  encounter'd. 

E'en  the  feeblest  may  endure : 
If  Almighty  Grace  through  me  thy  chains  unbind. 
My  father  for  slave's  work  may  seek  a  slave  in 
mind." 

"  Princess,  at  this  burst  of  goodness, 
My  long  frozen  heart  grows  warm  !" 
"  Yet  you  make  all  courage  fruitless. 
Me  to  save  from  chance  of  harm  ; 

♦  See,  in  Percy's  Reliques,  that  fine  old  ballad,  «  The 
Spanish  Lady's  Love ;"  from  which  poem  the  form  of 
•tanza,  as  suitable  to  dialogue,  is  adopted. 


Leading  such  companion,  I  that  gilded  dome, 
Yon  minarets,  would  gladly  leave  for  his  worst 
home." 

"  Feeling  tunes  your  voice,  fair  princess ! 
And  your  brow  is  free  from  scorn. 
Else  these  words  would  come  like  mockerj 
Sharper  than  the  pointed  thorn." 
"  Whence  the  undeserved  mistrust  ?     Too  wide 

apart 
Our  faith  hath  been, — 0,  would  that  eyes  could  aw 
the  heart!"  / 

"  Tempt  me  not,  I  pray ;  my  doom  is 
These  base  implements  to  wield  ; 
Rusty  lance,  I  ne'er  shall  grasp  thee. 
Ne'er  assoil  my  cobwebb'd  shield  ! 
Never  see  my  native  land,  nor  castle  towers, 
Nor  her  who  thinking  of  me  there  counts  widow'd 
hours." 

"  Prisoner !  pardon  youthful  fancies ; 

Wedded  ?    If  you  can,  say  no  ! — 

Blessed  is  and  be  your  consort ; 

Hopes  I  cherished  let  them  go ! 
Handmaid's  privilege  would  leave  my  purpose  free, 
Without  another  link  to  my  felicity." 

«'  Wedded  love  with  loyal  Christians, 

Lady,  is  a  mystery  rare  ; 

Body,  heart,  and  soul  in  union, 

Make  one  being  of  a  pair." 
"  Humble  love  in  me  would  look  for  no  return. 
Soft  as  a  guiding  star  that  cheers,  but  cannot  burn.** 

"  Gracious  Allah !  by  such  title 
Do  I  dare  to  thank  the  God, 
Him,  who  thus  exalts  thy  spirit. 
Flower  of  an  unchristian  sod  ! 
Or  hast  thou  put  off  wings  which  thou  in  heaven 

dost  wear  ? 
What  have  I  seen,  and  heard,  or  dreamt  ?  where 
am  I  ?  where  ?" 

Here  broke  off  the  dangerous  converse : 
Less  impassion'd  words  might  tell 
How  the  pair  escaped  together. 
Tears  not  wanting,  nor  a  knell 
Of  sorrow  in  her  heart  while  through  her  father's 

door, 
And  from  her  narrow  world,  she  pass'd  for  ever- 
more. 

But  affections  higher,  holier, 
Urged  her  steps ;  she  shrunk  from  trust 
In  a  sensual  creed  that  trampled 
Woman's  birthright  into  dust. 
Little  be  the  wonder  then,  the  blame  be  none. 
If  she,  a  timid  maid,  hath  put  such  boldness  on. 

Judge  both  fugitives  with  knowledge : 
In  those  old  romantic  days 
Mighty  were  the  soul's  commandments 
To  support,  restrain,  or  raise. 
Foes  might  hang  upon  their  path,  snakes  rustic 

near, 
But  nothing  from  their  inward  selves  had  they  to 
fear. 

Thought  infirm  ne'er  came  between  them, 
Whether  printing  desert  sands 


THE    SOMNAMBULIST. 


48S 


With  accordant  steps,  or  gathering 
Forest  fruit  with  social  hands  ; 
Or  whispering  like  two  reeds  that  in  the  cold  moon- 
beam 
Bend  with  the  breeze  their  heads,  beside  a  crystal 
stream. 

On  a  friendly  deck  reposing, 

They  at  length  for  Venice  steer ; 

There,  when  they  had  closed  their  voyage, 

One,  who  daily  on  the  pier 
Watch'd  for  tidings  from  the  east,  beheld  his  lord, 
Fell  down  and  clasp'd  his  knees  for  joy,  not  utter- 
ing word. 

Mutual  was  the  sudden  transport ; 
Breathless  questions  follow'd  fast. 
Years  contracting  to  a  moment, 
Each  word  greedier  than  the  last ; 
*Hie  thee  to  the  countess,  friend!   return  with 

speed. 
And  of  this  stranger  speak  by  whom  her  lord  w&s 
freed. 

"  Say  that  I,  who  might  have  languish'd, 
Droop'd,  and  pined  till  life  was  spent, 
Now  before  the  gates  of  Stolberg 
My  deliverer  would  present 
For  a  crowning  recompense,  the  precious  grace 
Of  her  who  in  my  heart  still  holds  her  ancient  place. 

"  Make  it  known  that  my  companion 

Is  of  royal  Eastern  blood. 

Thirsting  after  all  perfection, 

Innocent,  and  meek,  and  good, 
rhough  with  misbelievers  bred;  but  that  dark  night 
Will  Holy  Church  disperse  by  beams  of  gospel 
light." 

Swiftly  went  that  gray-hair'd  servant, 
Soon  return'd  a  trusty  page 
Charged  with  greetings,  benedictions, 
Thanks  and  praises,  each  a  gage 
For  a  sunny  thought  to  cheer  the  stranger's  way. 
Her  virtuous  scruples  to  remove,  her  fears  allay. 

Fancy  (while,  to  banners  floating 

High  on  Stolberg's  castle  walls. 

Deafening  noise  of  welcome  mounted. 

Trumpets,  drums,  and  atabols) 
The  devout  embraces  still,  while  snch  tears  fell 
As  made  a  meeting  seem  most  like  a  dear  farewell. 

Through  a  haze  of  human  nature, 

Glorified  by  heavenly  light, 

Look'd  the  beautiful  deliverer 

On  that  overpowering  sight. 
While  across  her  virgin  cheek  pure  blushes  stray'd, 
For  every  tender  sacrifice  her  heart  had  made. 

On  the  ground  the  weeping  countess 

Knelt,  and  kiss'd  the  stranger's  hand ; 

Act  of  soul-devoted  homage. 

Pledge  of  an  eternal  band: 
Nor  did  aught  of  future  days  that  kiss  belie. 
Which,  with  a  generous  shout,  the  crowd  did  ratify. 

Constant  to  the  fair  Armenian, 
Gentle  pleasures  round  her  moved, 
Like  a  tutelary  spirit 
Reverenced,  like  a  sister  loved. 


j  Christian  meekness  smooth'd  for  all  the  path  of  life. 
Who  loving  most,  should  wiseliest  love,  their  only 
strife. 

Mute  memento  of  that  union 

In  a  Saxon  church  survives, 

Where  a  cross-legg'd  knight  lies  sculptured 

As  between  two  wedded  wives — 
Figures  with  armorial  signs  of  race  and  birth, 
And  the  vain  rank  the  pilgrims  bore  while  yet  on 
earth. 


THE  SOMNAMBULIST. 

List,  ye  who  pass  by  Lyulph*s  tower* 

At  eve ;  how  softly  then 
Doth  Aira  force,  that  torrent  hoarse, 

Speak  from  the  woody  glen  ! 
Fit  music  for  a  solemn  vale  ! 

And  holier  seems  the  ground 
To  him  who  catches  on  the  gale 
The  spirit  of  a  mournful  tale. 

Embodied  Id  the  sound. 

Not  far  from  that  fair  site  whereon 

The  pleasure  house  is  rear'd, 
As  story  says,  in  antique  days, 

A  stern-brow'd  house  appear'd ; 
Foil  to  a  jewel  rich  in  light, 

There  set,  and  guarded  well ; 
Cage  for  a  bird  of  plumage  bright. 
Sweet-voiced,  nor  wishing  for  a  flight 

Beyond  her  native  dell. 

To  win  this  bright  bird  from  her  cage. 

To  make  this  gem  their  own. 
Came  barons  bold,  wifr,  store  of  gold. 

And  knights  of  high  renown  ; 
But  one  she  prized,  and  only  one ; 

Sir  Eglamore  was  he  ; 
Full  happy  season,  when  was  known. 
Ye  dales  and  hills  !  to  you  alone 

Their  mutual  loyalty — 

Known  chiefly,  Aira!  to  thy  glen, 

Thy  brook,  and  bowers  of  holly ; 
Where  passion  caught  what  nature  taught. 

That  all  but  love  is  folly  ; 
Where  fact  with  fancy  stoop'd  to  play. 

Doubt  came  not,  nor  regret ; 
To  trouble  hours  that  wing'd  their  way. 
As  if  through  an  immortal  day 

Whose  sun  could  never  set. 

But  in  old  times  love  dwelt  not  long 

Sequester'd  with  repose ; 
Best  throve  the  fire  of  chaste  desire, 

Fann'd  by  the  breath  of  foes. 
«*A  conquering  lance  is  beauty's  test, 

And  proves  the  lover  true ;" 
So  spake  Sir  Eglamore,  and  press*d 
The  drooping  Emma  to  his  breast, 

And  look'd  a  blind  adieu. 

♦  A  pleasure  house  built  by  the  late  Duke  of  Norfolk 
upon  the  banks  of  UUswaler.  Force  is  the  word  used  in 
the  Lake  District  for  waterfall. 


490 


WORDSWORTH. 


They  parted.     Well  with  him  it  fared 

Through  wide-spread  regions  errant ; 
A  knight  of  proof  in  love's  behoof, 

The  thirst  of  fame  his  warrant : 
And  she  her  happiness  can  build 

On  woman's  quiet  hours; 
Though  faint,  compared  with  spear  and  shield, 
The  solace  beads  and  masses  yield. 

And  needle-work  and  flowers. 

Yet  blest  was  Emma  when  she  heard 

Her  champion's  praise  recounted  ; 
Though  brain  would  swim,  and  eyes  grows  dim, 

And  high  her  blushes  mounted ; 
Or  when  a  bold  heroic  lay 

She  warbled  from  full  heart ; 
Delightful  blossoms  for  the  May 
Of  absence  !  but  they  will  not  stay. 

Born  only  to  depart. 

Hope  wanes  with  her,  while  lustre  fills 

Whatever  path  he  chooses  ; 
As  if  his  orb,  that  owns  no  curb. 

Received  the  light  hers  loses. 
He  comes  not  back ;  an  ampler  space 

Requires  for  nobler  deeds  ; 
He  ranges  on  from  place  to  place. 
Till  of  his  doings  is  no  trace 

But  what  her  fancy  breeds. 

His  fame  may  spread,  but  in  the  past 

Her  spirit  finds  its  centre  ; 
Clear  sight  she  has  of  what  he  was, 

And  that  would  now  content  her. 
"Still  is  he  my  devoted  knight  ?" 

The  tear  in  answer  flows  ; 
Month  falls  on  month  with  heavier  weight ; 
Day  sickens  round  her,  and  the  night 

Is  empty  of  repose. 

In  sleep  S'he  sometimes  walk'd  abroad. 

Deep  sighs  with  quick  words  blending, 
Like  that  pale  queen  whose  hands  are  seen 

With  fancied  spots  contending ; 
But  she  is  innocent  of  blood, — 

The  moon  is  not  more  pure 
That  shines  aloft,  while  through  the  wood 
She  thrids  her  way,  the  sounding  flood 

Her  melancholy  lure ! 

While  'mid  the  fern-brake  sleeps  the  doe, 

A  >1  owls  alone  are  waking. 
In  wnxte  array'd,  glides  on  the  maid. 

The  downward  pathway  taking. 
That  leads  her  to  the  torrent's  side 

And  to  a  holly  bower ; 
By  whom  on  this  still  night  descried  ? 
By  whom  in  that  lone  place  espied  ? 

By  thee.  Sir  Eglamore  ! 

A  wandering  ghost,  so  thinks  the  knight. 

His  coming  step  has  thwarted. 
Beneath  the  boughs  that  heard  their  vows. 

Within  whose  shade  they  parted. 


Hush,  hush,  the  busy  sleeper  see .' 

Perplex'd  her  fingers  seem, 
As  if  they  from  the  holly  tree 
Green  twigs  would  pluck,  as  rapidly 

Flung  from  her  to  the  stream. 

What  means  the  spectre  ?    Why  intent 

To  violate  the  tree. 
Thought  Eglamore,  by  which  I  swore 

Unfading  constancy  ? 
Here  am  I,  and  to-morrow's  sun, 

To  her  I  left,  shall  prove 
That  bliss  is  ne'er  so  surely  won 
As  when  a  circuit  has  been  run 

Of  valour,  truth,  and  love. 

So  from  the  spot  whereon  he  stood. 

He  moved  with  stealthy  pace  ; 
And,  drawing  nigh,  with  his  living  eye. 

He  recognised  the  face  ; 
And  whispers  caught,  and  speeches  small, 

Some  to  the  green-leaved  tree, 
Some  mutter'd  to  the  torrent-fall, — 
"  Roar  on,  and  bring  him  with  thy  call; 

I  heard,  and  so  may  he  I" 

Soul-shatter'd  was  the  knight,  nor  knew 

If  Emma's  ghost  it  were. 
Or  boding  shade,  or  if  the  maid 

Her  very  self  stood  there. 
He  touch'd,  what  follow'd  who  shall,  tell  ? 

The  soft  touch  snapp'd  the  thread 
Of  slumber — shrieking,  back  she  fell. 
And  the  stream  whirl'd  her  down  the  dell 

Along  its  foaming  bed. 

In  plunged  the  knight !  when  vn  firm  grounc 

The  rescued  maiden  lay, 
Her  eyes  grew  bright  with  blissful  light. 

Confusion  pass'd  away; 
She  heard,  ere  to  the  throne  of  grace 

Her  faithful  spirit  flew. 
His  voice ;  beheld  his  speaking  face. 
And,  dying,  from  his  own  embrace. 

She  felt  that  he  was  true. 

So  was  he  reconciled  to  life  ; 

Brief  words  may  speak  the  rest ; 
Within  the  dell  he  built  a  cell, 

And  there  was  sorrow's  guest ; 
In  hermit's  weeds  repose  he  found. 
.  From  vain  temptations  free ; 
Beside  the  torrent  dwelling — bound 
By  one  deep  heart-controlling  sound, 

And  awed  to  piety. 

Wild  stream  of  Aira,  hold  thy  course. 

Nor  fear  memorial  lays. 
Where  clouds  that  spread  in  solemn  shade 

Are  edged  with  golden  rays  ! 
Dear  art  thou  to  the  light  of  heaven. 

Though  minister  of  sorrow  ; 
Sweet  is  thy  voice  at  pensive  ev-n  ; 
A.nd  thou,  in  lover's  hearts  forgiven, 

Shall  take  thy  place  with  Yarrow ! 


\ 


WILLIAM  LISLE  BOWLES. 


William  Lisle  Bowles,  of  an  ancient  family  in 
the  county  of  Wilts,  was  born  in  the  village  of 
King's-Sutton,  Northamptonshire  —  a  parish  of 
which  his  father  was  vicar — on  the  24th  of  Sep- 
tember, 1762.  His  mother  was  the  daughter  of 
Dr.  Richard  Grey,  chaplain  to  Nathaniel  Crew, 
Bishop  of  Durham.  The  poet  received  his  early 
education  at  Winchester  school ;  and  he  rose  to  be 
the  senior  boy.  He  was  entered  at  Trinity  Col- 
lege, Oxford,  where  he  obtained  the  Chancellor's 
prize  for  a  Latin  poem,  and  where,  in  1792,  he  took 
his  degree.  On  quitting  the  university  he  entered 
into  holy  orders,  and  was  appointed  to  a  curacy  in 
Wiltshire ;  soon  afterwards  he  was  preferred  to  a 
living  in  Gloucestershire ;  in  1803  he  became  a 
prebend  of  Salisbury;  and  the  Archbishop  Moore 
presented  him  with  the  rectory  of  Bremhill,  Wilts, 
where  he  has  since  constantly  resided, — only  now 
and  then  visiting  the  metropolis, — enjoying  the 
country  and  its  peculiar  sources  of  profitable  de- 
light ;  performing  with  zeal  and  industry  his  paro- 
chial duties  ;  and  beloved  by  all  who  dwell  within 
or  approach  the  happy  neighbourhood  of  his  resi- 
dence. 

The  Sonnets  of  Bowles  (his  first  publication) 
appeared  in  1793.  They  were  received  with  con- 
siderable applause ;  and  the  writer,  if  he  had  ob- 
tained no  other  reward  for  his  labours,  would  have 
found  ample  recompense  in  the  fact  that  they 
contributed  to  form  the  taste  and  call  forth  the 
genius  of  Coleridge,  whom  they  "  delighted  and 
inspired."  The  author  of  "  Christabel"  speaks  of 
himself  as  having  been  withdrawn  from  several 
perilous  errors  "  by  the  genial  influence  of  a  style 
of  poetry,  so  tender,  and  yet  so  manly, — so  natural 
and  real,  and  yet  so  dignified  and  harmonious,  as 
the  Sonnets  of  Mr.  Bowles."  He  was  not,  how- 
ever, satisfied  with  expressing  in  prose  his  sense 
of  obligation,  but  in  poetry  poured  out  his  gratitude 
to  his  first  master  in  minstrel  lore  : 

"  My  heart  has  thank'd  Ihee,  Bowles,  for  those  soft  strains, 
Wliose  sadness  soothes  me,  like  the  murmuring 
Of  wild  bees  in  the  sunny  showers  of  spring." 

In  1805  he  published  the  "  Spirit  of  Discovery  by 
Sea."  It  is  the  longest  of  his  productions,  and  is 
oy  some  considered  his  best.  The  more  recent  of 
Cis  works  is  the  "  Little  Villagers'  Verse  Book  ;" 

CO  lection  of  hymns  that  will  scarcely  suffer  by 


comparison  with  those  of  Dr.  Watts,  and  which  are 
admirably  calculated  to  answer  the  benevolent  pur- 
pose for  which  they  are  designed. 

Mr.  Bowles  some  years  ago  attracted  considerable 
attention  by  his  controversy  with  Byron  on  the 
subject  of  the  writings  of  Pope.  He  advanced  cer- 
tain opinions  which  went  to  show  that  he  consi- 
dered him  "  no  poet,"  and  that,  according  to  the 
"  invariable  principles"  of  poetry,  the  century  of 
fame  which  had  been  accorded  to  the  *'  Essay  on 
Man"  was  unmerited.  Campbell  opened  the  de- 
fence; and  Byron  stepped  forward  as  a  warm  and 
somewhat  angry  advocate.  A  sort  of  literary  war- 
fare followed;  and  a  host  of  pamphlets  on  both 
sides  were  rapidly  issued.  As  in  all  such  cases, 
the  question  remains  precisely  where  it  did. 
Bowles,  however,  though  he  failed  in  obtaining  a 
victory,  and  made,  we  imagine,  few  converts  to 
his  "  invariable  principles,"  manifested  during  the 
contest  so  much  judgment  and  ability,  that  his 
reputation  as  a  critic  was  considerably  enhanced; 

The  poetry  of  Bowles  has  not  attained  a  high 
'degree  of  popularity.  He  is  appreciated  more  foi 
the  purity  of  his  sentiments  than  for  any  loftiness 
of  thought  or  richness  of  fancy.  He  has  never 
dealt  with  themes  that  "stir  men's  minds;"  but 
has  satisfied  himself  with  inculcating  lessons  of 
sound  morality,  and  has  considered  that  to  lead  the 
heart  to  virtue  is  the  chiefest  duty  of  the  Muse. 
His  style  is,  as  Coleridge  described  it  nearly  fifty 
years  ago,  "  tender  yet  manly ;"  and  he  has  un- 
doubtedly brought  the  accessories  of  harmonious 
versification  and  graceful  language  to  the  aid  of 
"  right  thinking"  and  sound  judgment.  His  poems 
seldom  startle  or  astonish  the  reader :  he  does  not 
labour  to  probe  the  heart,  and  depict  .the  more  vio- 
lent passions  of  human  kind;  but  he  keeps  an 
"  even  tenor,"  and  never  disappoints  or  dissatisfies 
by  attempting  a  higher  flight  than  that  which  he 
may  safely  venture. 

The  main  point  of  his  argument  against  Pope 
will  best  exhibit  his  own  character.  He  considers 
that  from  objects  sublime  or  beautiful  in  them- 
selves, genius  will  produce  more  admirable  crea- 
tions than  it  can  from  those  which  are  compara- 
tively poor  and  insignificant.  The  topics  upon 
which  Mr.  Bowles  has  employed  his  pen  are  such 
only  as  are  naturally  excellent. 

491 


192 


BOWLES 


THE    MISSIONARY. 

Scene. — South  America. 

Characters.— YAL.B1VIX,  commander  of  the  Spanish  ar- 
mies—Lautaro,  his  page,  a  native  of  Chili— Anselmo, 
the  missionary— Indiana,  his  adopted  daughter,  wife  of 
Lautaro— Zauinel,  the  wandering  minstrel. 

/ndta??s.  —  Attacapac,  father  of  Lautaro  —  Olola,  his 
daughter,  sister  of  Lautaro— Caxjpohcan,  chief  of  the 
Indians— Indian  Warbiors. 

The  chief  event  of  the  poem  turns  upon  the  conduct  of 
Lautaro;  but  as  the  Missionary  acts  so  distinguished  a 
part,  and  as  the  whole  of  the  moral  depends  upon  him, 
it  was  thought  better  to  retain  the  title  which  was  ori- 
ginally given  to  the  poem. 

INTRODUCTION. 
When  o'er  th'  Atlantic  wild,  rock'd  by  the  blast. 
Sad  Lusitania's  exiled  sovereign  pass'd, 
Reft  of  her  pomp,  from  her  paternal  throne 
Cast  forth,  and  wandering  to  a  clime  unknown, 
To  seek  a  refuge  on  that  distant  shore, 
That  once  her  country's  legions  dyed  with  gore ; — 
Sudden,  methought,  high-towering  o'er  the  flood, 
Hesperian  world .'  thy  mighty  Genius  stood ; 
Where  spread,  from  cape  to  cape,  from  bay  to  bay, 
Serenely  blue,  the  vast  Pacific  lay ; 
And  the  huge  Cordilleras,  to  the  skies. 
With  all  their  burning  summits*  seem'd  to  rise. 

Then  the  stern  spirit  spoke,  and  to  his  voice 
The  waves  and  woods  replied — "Mountains,  re- 
joice ! 
Thou  solitary  sea,  whose  billows  sweep 
The  margin  of  my  forests,  dark  and  deep, 
Rejoice  !  the  hour  is  come  :  the  mortal  blow, 
That  smote  the  golden  shrines  of  Mexico, 
In  Europe  is  avenged  !  and  thou,  proud  Spain, 
Now  hostile  hosts  insult  thy  own  domain ; 
Now  fate,  vindictive,  rolls,  with  refluent  flood. 
Back  on  thy  shores  the  tide  of  human  blood. 
Think  of  my  murder'd  millions  !  of  the  cries 
That  once  I  heard  from  all  my  kingdoms  rise ; 
Of  famine's  feeble  plaint,  of  slavery's  tear ; 
Think,  too,  if  valour,  freedom,  fame,  be  dear,— 
How  my  Antarctic  sons,t  undaunted,  stood, 
Exacting  groan  for  groan,  and  blood  for  blood ; 
And  shouted,  (may  the  sounds  be  hail'd  by  thee  !) 
Tyrants,  the   virtuous  and  the  brave  are 
free  !" 

Canto  I. 

ARGUMENT. 
One  day  and  part  of  night. 

Valley  in  the  Andes— Old  Indian  warrior— Loss  of  his  son 
and  daughter. 

Beneath  aerial  cliffs  and  glittering  snows. 
The  rush-roof  of  an  aged  warrior  rose, 
Chief  of  the  mountain  tribes :  high  overhead 
The  Andes,  wild  and  desolate,  were  spread. 
Where  cold  Sierras  shot  their  icy  spires, 
A.ndChillan|  trail'd  its  smoke  and  smouldering  fires. 


A  glen  beneath — a  lonely  spot  of  rest — 
Hung,  scarce  discover'd,  like  an  eagle's  .nest. 

Summer  was  in  its  prime:  the  parrot-flocks 
Darken'd  the  passing  sunshine  on  the  rocks; 
The  chrysomel*  and  purple  butterfly ,t 
Amid  the  clear  blue  light,  are  wandering  by ; 
The  humming-bird,  along  the  myrtle  bowers. 
With  twinkling  wing,  is  spinning  o'er  the  flowcTS, 
The  woodpecker  is  heard  with  busy  bill. 
The  mock-bird  sings — and  all  beside  is  still. 
And  look  !  the  cataract  that  bursts  so  high. 
As  not  to  mar  the  deep  tranquillity, 
The  tumult  of  its  dashing  fall  suspends. 
And,  stealing  drop  by  drop,  in  mist  descends ; 
Through   whose  illumined   spray  and   sprinkling 

dews. 
Shine  to  the  adverse  sun  the  broken  rainbow  hues. 

Checkering  with  partial  shade  the  beams  of  noon. 
And  arching  the  gray  rock  with  wild  festoon, 
He7-e,  its  gay  net-work  and  fantastic  twine, 
The  purple  cogul]:  threads  from  pine  to  pine, 
And  oft,  as  the  fresh  airs  of  morning  breathe. 
Dips  its  long  tendrils  in  the  stream  beneath. 
There,  through  the  trunks,  with  moss  and  lichens 

white. 
The  sunshine  darts  its  interrupted  light. 
And,  'mid  the  cedar's  darksome  boughs,  illumes. 
With  instant  touch,  the  Lori's  scarlet  plumes. 

So  smiles  the  scene ; — but  can  its  smiles  impart 
Aught  to  console  yon  mourning  warrior's  heart  ? 
He  heeds  not  now,  when  beautifully  bright, 
The  humming-bird  is  circling  in  his  sight ; 
Nor  e'en,  above  his  head,  when  air  is  still, 
Hoars  the  green  woodpecker's  resounding  bill 
But  gazing  on  the  rocks  and  mountain  wild, 
Rock  after  rock,  in  glittering  masses  piled 
To  the  volcano's  cone,  that  shoots  so  high 
Gray  smoke  whose  column  stains  the  cloudless  sky, 
He  cries,  "  O  !  if  thy  spirit  yet  be  fled 
To  the  pale  kingdoms  of  the  shadowy  dead, — 
In  yonder  tract  of  purest  light  above. 
Dear  long-lost  object  of  a  father's  love. 
Dost  thou  abide  ?  or  like  a  shadow  come. 
Circling  the  scenes  of  thy  remember'd  home, 
And  passing  with  the  breeze  ?  or,  in  the  beam 
Of  evening,  light  the  desert  mountain  stream  ? 
Or  at  deep  midnight  are  thine  accents  heard, 
In  the  sad  notes  of  that  melodious  bird,§ 
Which,  as  we  listen  with  mysterious  dread, 
Brings  tidings  from  our  friends  and  fathers  dead  ? 


♦  Range  of  volcanoes  on  the  summits  of  the  Andes. 
t  The  natives  of  Chili,  who  were  never  subdued. 
t  A  volcano  in  Chili. 


*  The  crysomela  is  a  beautiful  insect,  of  which  the 
young  women  of  Chili  make  necklaces. 

t  The  parrot  butterfly,  peculiar  to  this  part  of  America, 
the  largest  and  most  brilliant  of  its  kind— Papilio  psii- 
tacus. 

X  A  most  beautiful  climbing  plant.  The  vine  is  of  the 
size  of  packthread :  it  climbs  on  the  trees  without  attach- 
ing itself  to  them:  when  it  reaches  the  top,  it  descends 
perpendicularly;  and  as  it  continues  to  grow,  it  extent's 
itself  from  tree  to  tree,  until  it  offers  to  the  eye  a  confused 
tissue,  exhibiting  some  resemblance  to  the  rigging  of  a 
ship.— Mo/ma. 

§  "But  because  I  cannot  describe  all  the  American 
birds,  which  differ  not  a  little  from  ours,  not  only  in  kind; 
but  also  in  variety  of  colour,  as  rose-colour,  red,  violelj 
white,  ash-colour,  purple,  &c.;  I  will  at  length  describe 
ono,  which  the  barbarians  so  observe  and  esteem,  that 


THE    MISSIONARY. 


493 


"Perhaps,  beyond  those  summits,  far  away, 
Thine  eyes  yet  view  the  living  light  of  day  ; 
Sad  in  the  stranger's  land,  thou  mayst  sustain 
A  weary  life  of  servitude  and  pain, 
With  wasted  eye  gaze  on  the  orient  beam, 
And  think  of  these  white  rocks  and  torrent  stream. 
Never  to  hear  the  summer  cocoa  wave, 
Or  weep  upon  thy  father's  distant  grave." 

Ye,  who  have  waked,  and  listen 'd  with  a  tear, 
When  cries  confused,  and  clangours   roll'd  more 

near ; 
With  murmur'd  prayer,  when  mercy  stood  aghast, 
As  war's  black  trump  peal'd  its  terrific  blast. 
And  o'er  the  wither'd  earth  the  armed  giant  pass'd  ! 
Ye,  who  his  track  with  terror  have  pursued, 
When  some  delightful  land,  all  blood-imbrued. 
He  swept ;  where  silent  is  the  champaign  wide, 
That  echoed  to  the  pipe  of  yester-tide. 
Save,  when  far  off,  the  moonlight  hills  prolong 
The  last  deep  echoes  of  his  parting  gong  ; 
Nor  aught  is  seen,  in  the  deserted  spot 
Where  trailed  the  smoke  of  many  a  peaceful  cot, 
Save  livid  corpses  that  unburied  lie. 
And  conflagrations,  reeking  to  the  sky  ; — 
Come  listen,  whilst  the  causes  I  relate 
That  bow'd  the  warrior  to  the  storms  of  fate. 
And  left  these  smiling  scenes  forlorn  and  desolate. 

In  other  days,  when  in  his  manly  pride, 
T;vo  children  for  a  father's  fondness  vied, — 
Oft  they  essay'd,  in  mimic  strife,  to  wield 
His  lance,  or  laughing  peep'd  behind  his  shield. 
Oft  in  the  sun,  or  the  magnolia's  shade. 
Lightsome  of  heart  as  gay  of  look,  they  play'd. 
Brother  and  sister:  she,  along  the  dew. 
Blithe  as  the  squirrel  of  the  forest,  flew  ; 
Blue  rushes  wreath 'd  her  head ;  her  dark  brown 

hair 
Fell,  gently  lifted,  on  her  bosom  bare  ; 
Her  necklace  shone,  of  sparkling  insects  made, 
That  flit,  like  specks  of  fi,re,  from  sun  to  shade  : 
Light  was  her  form  ;  a  clasp  of  silver  braced 
The  azure-dyed  ichella*  round  her  waist ; 


they  will  not  only  not  hurt  them,  but  suffer  them  not  to 
escape  unrevenged  who  do  them  any  wrong.  It  is  of  the 
bigness  of  a  pigeon,  and  of  an  ash  colour.  The  Tououpi- 
nambaliii  hear  her  more  often  in  the  night  than  in  the 
day,  with  a  mournful  voice;  and  believe  that  it  is  sent 
from  their  friends  and  kindred  unto  them,  and  also  de- 
clareih  good  luck;  and  especially,  that  it  encourageth 
and  adinonisheih  them  to  behave  themselves  valiantly  in 
the  wars  against  their  enemies.  Besides,  they  verily 
think,  that  if  they  righily  observe  these  divinations,  it 
shall  come  to  pa»s  that  ihey  should  vanquish  their  ene- 
mies even  in  this  life,  and  after  death  their  souls  should 
fly  beyond  the  mountains  to  their  ancestors,  perpetually 
to  dance  there. 

"  I  chanced  once  to  lodge  in  a  village,  named  Upec  by 
the  Frenchmen:  there,  in  the  night,  I  heard  these  birds, 
not  singing,  but  making  a  lamentable  noise.  I  .saw  the 
barbarians  most  attentive,  and  being  ignorant  of  the  whole 
matter,  reproved  their  folly.  But  when  I  smiled  a  little 
upon  .a  Frenchman  standing  by  me,  a  certain  old  man, 
severely  enough,  restrained  me  with  these  words:  'Hold 
your  peace,  lest  vou  hinder  us  who  attentively  hearken  to 
the  hajTpy  tidings  of  our  ancestors.  For  as  often  as  we 
hear  these  birds,  so  otten  also  are  we  cheered,  and  our 
ptrenglh  receiveth  increase.' "—Ca//c7Jcfc7-'5  Voyage. 

*  The  ichella  is  a  short  cloak,  of  a  greenish  blue  colour, 
of  wool,  fastened  before  with  a  silver  buckle.— 3/o/e«a. 


Her  ankles  rung  with  shells,  as  unconfined, 
She  danced,  and  sung  wild  carols  to  the  wind. 
With  snow-white  teeth,  and  laughter  in  her  eye,— 
So  beautiful  in  youth,  she  bounded  by. 

Yet  kindness  sat  upon  her  aspect  bland, — 
The  tame  alpaca*  stood  and  lick'd  her  hand  ; 
She  brought  him  gather'd  moss,  and  loved  to  deck 
With  flowery  twine  his  tall  and  stately  neck ; 
Whilst  he  with  silent  gratitude  replies, 
And  bends  to  her  caress  his  large  blue  eyes. 

These  children  danced  together  in  the  shade. 
Or  stretch'd  their  hands  to  see  the  rainbow  fade ; 
Or  sat  and  mock'd,  with  imitative  glee. 
The  paroquet,  that  laugh'd  from  tree  to  tree  ; 
Or  through  the  forest's  wildest  solitude, 
From  glen  to  glen,  the  marmozet  pursued; 
And  thought  the  light  of  parting  day  too  short. 
That  call'd  them,  lingering,  from  their  daily  sport. 

In  that  fair  season  of  awakening  life. 
When  dawning  youth  and  childhood  are  at  strife  ; 
When  on  the  verge  of  thought  gay  boyhood  stands 
Tiptoe,  with  glistening  eye  and  outspread  hands  ; 
With  airy  look,  and  form  and  footsteps  light. 
And  glossy  locks,  and  features  berry-bright. 
And  eye  like  the  young  eaglet's,  to  the  ray 
Of  noon,  unblcnching,  as  he  sails  away  ; 
A  brede  of  sea-shells  on  his  bosom  strung, 
A  small  stone  hatchet  o'er  his  shoulders  slung. 
With  slender  lance,  and  feathers,  blue  and  red, 
That,  like  the  heron'sf  crest,  waved  on  his  head,— • 
Buoyant  with  hope,  and  airiness,  and  joy 
Lautaro  was  the  loveliest  Indian  boy: 
Taught  by  his  sire,  e'en  now  he  drew  the  bow 
Or  track'd  the  jaguar  on  the  morning  snow  ; 
Startled  the  condor,  on  the  craggy  height ; 
Then  silent  sat,  and  mark'd  its  upward  flight. 
Lessening  in  ether  to  a  speck  of  white. 

But  when  th'  impassion'd  chieftain  spoke  of  war 
Smote  his  broad  breast,  or  pointed  to  a  scar, — 
Spoke  of  the  strangers  of  the  distant  main. 
And  the  proud  banners  of  insulting  Spain, — 
Of  the  barb'd  horse  and  iron  horseman  spoke. 
And  his  red  gods,  that  wrapt  in  rolling  smoke, 
Roar'd  from  the  guns, — the  boy,  with  still-drawn 

breath. 
Hung  on  the  wondrous  tale,  as  mute  as  death  ; 
Then  raised  his  animated  eyes,  and  cried, 
"  0  let  me  perish  by  my  father's  side  I" 

Once,  when  the  moon,  o'er  Chilian's  cloudless 
height, 
Pour'd,  far  and  wide,  its  softand  mildest  light, 
A  predatory  band  of  mailed  men 
Burst  on  the  stillness  of  the  shelter'd  glen. 
They  shouted  "  death,"  and  shook  their  sabres  high. 
That  shone  terrific  to  the  moonlight  sky  : 
Where'er  they  rode,  the  valley  and  the  hill 
Echoed  the  shrieks  of  death,  till  all  again  was  stilL 
The  warrior,  ere  he  sunk  in  slumber  deep. 
Had  kiss'd  his  son,  joft-breathing  in  his  sleep. 
Where  on  a  llama's  skin  he  lay,  and  said. 
Placing  his  hand,  with  tears,  upon  his  head. 


*  The  alpaca  is  perhaps  the  m(Ji  beautiful,  gentle,  &ncl 
interesting  of  living  animals :  one  was  to  \-e  seen  in  Loa- 
don  in  1S12. 

t  Ardea  cristata. 


494 


BOWLES. 


**  Aerial  nymphs  !*  that  in  the  moonlight  stray, 
0,  gentle  spirits  !  here  a  while  delay ; 
Bless,  as  ye  pass  unseen,  my  sleeping  boy, 
Till  blithe  he  wakes  to  daylight  and  to  joy. 
If  the  Great  Spirit  will,  in  future  days 
O'er  the  fall'n  foe  his  hatchet  he  shall  raise, 
And,  'mid  a  grateful  nation's  high  applause, 
Avenge  his  violated  country's  cause  !" 

Now,  nearer  points  of  spears,  and  many  a  cone 
Of  moving  helmets,  in  the  moonlight  shone, 
As,  clanking  through  the  pass,  the  band  of  blood 
Sprung,  like  hyenas,  from  the  secret  wood. 
They  rush — they  seize  their  unresisting  prey — 
Ruthless  they  tear  the  shrieking  boy  away ; 
But  not  till,  gash'd  by  many  a  sabre  wound. 
The  father  sunk,  expiring,  on  the  ground. 
He  waked,  from  the  dark  trance,  to  life  and  pain, 
But  never  saw  his  darling  child  again. 

Seven  snows  had  fall'n,  and  seven  green  summers 
pass'd, 
Since  here  he  heard  that  son's  loved  accents  last. 
Still  his  beloved  daughter  soothed  his  cares. 
While  time  began  to  strew  with  white  his  hairs 
Oft  as  his  painted  feathers  he  unbound. 
Or  gazed  upon  his  hatchet  on  the  ground, 
Musing  with  deep  despair,  nor  strove  to  speak. 
Light  she   approach 'd,  and  climb 'd   to   reach  his 

cheek. 
Held  with  both  hands  his  forehead,  then  her  head 
Drew  smiling  back,  and  kiss'd  the  tear  he  shed. 

But  late,  to  grief  and  hopeless  love  a  prey. 
She  left  his  side,  and  wander'd  far  away. 
Now  in  this  still  and  shelter'd  glen,  that  smiled 
Beneath  the  crags  of  precipices  wild. 
Wrapt  in  a  stern  yet  sorrowful  repose,  * 

The  warrior  had  forgot  his  country's  woes, — 
Forgot  how  many,  impotent  to  save, 
Shed  their  best  blood  upon  a  father's  grave  ; 
How  many,  torn  from  wife  and  children,  pine 
In  the  dark  caverns  of  the  hopeless  mine, 
Never  to  see  again  the  blessed  morn — 
Slaves  in  the  lovely  land  where  they  were  born  ; 
How  many,  at  sad  sunset,  with  a  tear. 
The  distant  roar  of  sullen  cannons  hear, 
Whilst  evening  seems,  as  dies  the  sound,  to  throw 
A  deadlier  stillness  on  a  nation's  wo  ! 

So  the  dark  warrior,  day  succeeding  day, 
Wore  in  distempcr'd  thought  the  noons  away ; 
And  still,  when  weary  evening  came,  he  sigh'd, 
"  My  son,  my  son  !"  or,  with  emotion,  cried, 
«  When  I  descend  to  the  cold  grave  alone. 
Who  shall  be  there  to  mourn  for  me  ? — Not  one  I"  t 

The  crimson  orb  of  day,  now  westering,  flung 
His  beams,  and  o'er  the  vast  Pacific  hung ; 
When  from  afar  a  shrilling  sound  was  heard. 
And,  hurrying  o'er  the  dews,  a  scout  appear'd. 
The  starting  warrior  knew  the  piercing  tones, 
The  signal  call  of  war,  from  human  bones. — 


"  What  tidings  ?"  with  impatient  look,  he  cried. 
"  Tidings  of  war,"  the  hurrying  scout  replied  ; 
Then  the  sharp  pipe  *  with  shriller  summons  blew 
And  held  the  blood-red  arrow  high  in  view,  t 

CHIEF. 

"  Where  speed  the  foes  ?" 

INDIAN. 

"  Along  the  southern  main, 
"  Have  pass'd  the  vultures  of  accursed  Spain." 

CHIEF. 

"  Ruin  pursue  them  on  the  distant  flood. 

And  be  their  deadly  portion — blood  for  blood  !'* 

INDIAN. 

"  When,  round  and  red,  the  moon  shall  ncx    '.rise 

The  chiefs  attend  the  midnight  sacrifice 

In  Encol's  wood,  where  the  great  wizard  dwells. 

Who  wakes  the  dead  man  with  his  thrilling  spells  j 

Thee,^:  Ulmen  of  the  mountains,  they  command 

To  lift  the  hatchet,  for  thy  native  land  ; 

Whilst  in  dread  circle,  round  the  sere-wood  smoke, 

The  mighty  gods  of  vengeance  they  invoke ; 

And  call  the  spirits  of  their  father's  slain, 

To  nerve  their  lifted  arm,  and  curse  devoted  Spain." 

So  spoke  the  scout  of  war ; — and  o'er  the  dew 

Onward,  along  the  craggy  valley,  flew. 

Then  the  stern  warrior  sung  his  song  of  death— 
And  blew  his  conch,  that  all  the  glens  beneath 
Echoed,  and  rushing  from  the  hollow  wood. 
Soon  at  his  side  three  hundred  warriors  stood. 

WAKRIOR. 

"  Children,  who  for  his  country  dares  to  die  ?" 
Three  hundred  brandish'd  spears   shone    to    th» 

sky. 
"  We  perish,  or  we  leave  our  country  free ; 
Father,  our  blood  for  Chili  and  for  thee  !" 
Their  long  lank  hair  hung  wild:   with  clashing 

sound, 
They  smote  their  shields,  and  stamp'd  upon  the 

ground  ! 
The  eagle,  from  his  unapproach'd  retreat. 
Scared  at  their  cries,  has  left  his  craggy  seat. 
"  Enough !"     the    warrior    cried,    "  retire    to- 
night : — 
Let  the  same  spirit  fire  us  m  the  fight. 
That  the  proud  Spaniard,  'mid  his  guards,  may  know 
How  dire  it  is  to  have  one  race  his  foe, 
One  poor,  brave  race,  to  their  loved  country  true. 
Which  all  his  glittering  hosts  shall  ne'er  subdue  !" 

The  mountain  chief  essay'd  his  club  to  wield, 
And  shook  the  dust  indignant  from  the  shield. 
Then  spoke : — 

"  O  Thou  !  that  with  thy  lingering  lighi 
Dost  warm  the  world,  till  all  is  hush'd  in  night ; 
I  look  upon  thy  parting  beams,  0  sun  ! 
And  say, '  E'en  thus  my  course  is  almost  run.' 


♦  Every  warrior  of  Chili,  according  to  Molina,  has  his 
»ttendanl "  nymph"  or  fairy— the  belief  of  which  is  nearly 
•imilar  to  the  popular  and  poetical  idea  of  those  beings  in 
Europe.— Meulen  ia  the  benevolent  spirit. 

+  1  have  taken  this  line  from  the  conclusion  of  the  cele- 
jrated  speech  of  the  old  North  American  warrior,  Logan. 
'  Who  is  there  to  mourn  for  Logan  ?  not  one !" 


♦  Their  pipes  of  war  are  made  of  the  bones  of  theiJ 
enemies,  who  have  been  sacrificed. 

t  The  way  in  which  the  warriors  are  summoned  it 
something;  like  the  "  running  the  cross"  in  Scolland,which 
is  so  beautifully  described  by  Walter  Scott.  The  scouts 
on  this  occasion  bear  an  arrow  bound  with  red  fillets 

J  Ulmen  is  the  same  as  casique,  or  chief. 


THE    MISSIONARY 


495 


"  When  thou  dost  hide  thy  head,  as  in  the  grave. 
And  sink  to  glorious  rest  beneath  the  wave, 
Dost  thou,  majestic  in  repose,  retire, 
Below  the  deep,  to  unknown  worlds  of  fire  ? 
Yet  though  thou  sinkest,  awful,  in  the  main. 
The  shadowy  moon  comes  forth,  and  all  the  train 
Of  stars,  that  shine  with  soft  and  silent  light. 
Making  so  beautiful  the  brow  of  night. 
Thus,  when  I  sleep  within  the  narrow  bed. 
The  light  of  after-fame  around  shall  spread  ; 
The  sons  of  distant  ocean,  when  they  see 
The  grass-green  heap  beneath  the  mountain  tree. 
And  hear  the  leafy  boughs  at  evening  wave. 
Shall  pause  and  say,  '  There   sleep  in  dust  the 
brave  ." 

"  All  earthly  hopes  my  lonely  heart  have  fled  ! 
Stern  Guecubu,*  augel  of  the  dead, 
Who  laughest  when  the  brave  in  pangs  expire, 
Whose  dwelling  is  beneath  the  central  fire 
Of  yonder  burning  mountain  ;  who  hast  pass'd 
O'er  my  poor  dwelling,  and  with  one  fell  blast 
Scatter'd  my  summer  leaves  that  cluster'd  round. 
And  swept  my  fairest  blossoms  to  the  ground ; 
Angel  of  dire  despair,  O  come  not  nigh, 
Nor  wave  thy  red  wings  o'er  me  where  I  lie ; 
But  thou,  0  mild  and  gentle  spirit,  stand. 
Angel*  of  hope  and  peace,  at  my  right  hand, 
(When  blood-drops   stagnate   on  my   brow)   and 

guide 
My  pathless  voyage  o'er  the  unknown  tide. 
To  scenes  of  endless  joy — to  that  fair  isle, 
Where  bowers  of  bliss  and  soft  savannahs  smile ; 
Where  my  forefathers  oft  the  fight  renew, 
And  Spain's  black  visionary  steeds  pursue ; 
Where,  ceased  the  struggles  of  all  human  pain, 
I  may  behold  thee — thee — my  son,  again." 

He  spoke,  and  whilst  at  evening's   glimmering 
close 
The  distant  mist,  like  the  gray  ocean,  rose. 
With  patriot  sorrows  swelling  at  his  breast. 
He  sunk  upon  a  jaguar's  hide  to  rest. 

'Twas  night.     Remote  on  Caracalla's  bay, 
Valdivia's  army,  hush'd  in  slumber,  lay. 
Around  the  limits  of  the  silent  camp. 
Alone  was  heard  the  steed's  patrolling  tramp 
From  line  to  line,  whilst  the  fix'd  centinel 
Proclaim'd  the  watch  of  midnight — "  All  is  well !" 
Valdivia  dreamt  of  millions  yet  untold, 
Villrica's  gems,  and  El  Dorado's  gold  ! — 
What  different  feelings,  by  the  scene  impress'd. 
Rose,  in  sad  tumult,  o'er  Lautaro's  breast ! 

On  the  broad  ocean,  where  the  moonlight  slept. 
Thoughtful  he  turn'd  his  waking  eyes,  and  wept, 
And  whilst  the  thronging  forms  of  memory  start. 
Thus  holds  communion  with  his  lonely  heart : — 
*  Land  of  my  fathers,  still  I  tread  your  shore. 
And  mourn  the  shade  of  hours  that  are  no  more; 
W^hilst  night-airs,  like  remember'd  voices,  sweep, 
And  murmur  from  the  undulating  deep. 
Was  it  thy  voice,  my  father  ? — thou  art  dead — 
The  green  rush  waves  on  thy  forsaken  bed, 
tVas  it  thy  voice,  my  sister  ? — gentle  maid. 
Thou  too,  perhaps,  in  the  dark  cave  art  laid ; 


♦  They  have  their  evil  and  good  spirits.    Guecubu  is  the 
»vil  spirit  of  the  Chilians. 


Perhaps,  e'en  now  thy  spirit  sees  me  stand 
A  homeless  stranger  in  my  native  land ; 
Perhaps,  e'en  now,  along  the  moonlight  sea. 
It  bends  from  the  blue  cloud,  remembering  me. 

"  Land  of  my  fathers,  yet— 0  yet  forgive. 
That  with  thy  deadly  enemies  I  live. 
The  tenderest  ties  (it  boots  not  to  relate) 
Have  bound  me  to  their  service,  and  their  fate ; 
Yet,  whether  on  Peru's  war-wasted  plain, 
Or  visiting  these  sacred  shores  again, 
Whate'er  the  struggles  of  this  heart  may  be. 
Land  of  my  fathers,  it  shall  beat  for  thee !" 

Canto  II. 

ARGUMENT. 

The  second  day. 

Night— Spirit  of  the  Andes— Valdivia— Lautaro— Mission- 
ary— The  hermitage. 

The  night  was   still,  and  clear — when,  o'er  the 

snows, 
Andes  !  thy  melancholy  spirit  rose, — 
A  shadow  stern  and  sad :    He  stood  alone, 
Upon  the  topmost  mountain's  burning  cone  ; 
And  whilst  his  eyes  shone  dim,  through  surging 

smoke, 
Thus  to  the  spirits  of  the  fire  he  spoke : — 
"  Ye,  who  tread  the  hidden  deeps. 
Where  the  silent  earthquake  sleeps  ; 
Ye,  who  track  the  sulphurous  tide, 
Or  on  hissing  vapours  ride, — 

Spirits,  come  ! 
From  worlds  of  subterraneous  night ; 
From  fiery  realms  of  lurid  light ; 
'   From  the  ore's  unfathom'd  bed  ; 
From  the  lava's  whirlpools  red, — 
Spirits,  come  ! 
On  Chili's  foes  rush  with  vindictive  sway. 
And  sweep  them  from  the  light  of  living  day  ! 
Hark  !  heard  ye  not  the  ravenous  brood  ? 
They  flap  their  wings  ;  they  scream  for  blood:— 
On  Peru's  devoted  shore 
Their  murderous  beaks  are  red  with  gore  : 
Hither,  impatient  for  new  prey, 
Th'  insatiate  vultures  track  their  way  ! 
Rise,  Chili,  rise  !  scatter  the  bands 
That  swept  remote  and  peaceful  lands  ! — 
Let  them  perish  !  Vengeance  cries — 
Let  them  perish  !  Death  replies. 
Spirits,  now  your  caves  forsake  ! — 
Hark  !  ten  thousand  warriors  wake  ! — 
Spirits,  their  high  cause  defend  ! — 
From  your  caves  ascend  !  ascend  !" — 
As  thus  the  vast,  terrific  phantom  spoke. 
The  trembling  mountain  heaved  with  darker  smoke } 
Flashes  of  red  and  angry  light  appear'd. 
And  moans  and  momentary  shrieks  were  heard ; 
The  cavern 'd  deeps  shook  through  their  vast  pro- 
found, 
And  Chimborajo*s  height  roll'd  back  the  sound. 

With  lifted  arm,  and  towering  stature  high, 
And  aspect  frowning  to  the  middle  sky, 
(Its  misty  form  dilated  in  the  wind,) 
The  phantom  stood, — till,  less  and  less  defined. 
Into  thin  air  it  faded  from  the  sight. 
Lost  in  the  ambient  haze  of  slow-returning  light. 


496 


BOWLES. 


Its  feathery-seeming  crown, — its  giant  spear, — 
Its  limbs  of  huge  proportion,  disappear ; 
And  the  bare  mountains,  to  the  dawn,  disclose 
The  same  long  line  of  solitary  snows. 

The  morning  shines, — the  military  train, 
In  warlike  muster  on  the  tented  plain. 
Glitter,  and  cuirasses,  and  helms  of  steel. 
Throw  back    the    sunbeams,  as   the    horsemen 

wheel  : 
Thus,  with  arms  glancing  to  the  eastern  light. 
Pass,  in  review,  proud  steeds  and  cohorts  bright ; 
For  all  the  host,  by  break  of  morrow  gray. 
Wind  back  their  march  to  Penco's  northern  bay. 
Valdivia,  fearful  lest  confederate  foes, 
Ambush'd  and  dark,  his  progress  might  oppose, 
Marshals,  to-day,  the  whole  collected  force, — 
File  and  artillery,  cuirassier  and  horse : 
Himself  yet  lingers  ere  he  joins  the  train. 
That  move,  in  order'd  march,  along  the  plain. 
While  troops,  and  Indian  slaves  beneath  his  eye 
The  labours  of  the  rising  city*  ply : 
Wide  glows  the  general  toil — the  mole  extends, 
The  watch-tower  o'er  the  desert  surge  ascends  ; 
And  battlements,  and  rising  ramparts,  shine 
Above  the  ocean's  blue  and  level  line. 

The  sun  ascended  to  meridian  height, 
And  all  the  northern  bastions  shone  in  light ; 
With  hoarse  acclaim,  the  gong  and  trumpet  rung, — 
The  Moorish  slaves  aloft  their  cymbals  swung, — 
When  the  proud  victor,  in  triumphant  state. 
Rode  forth,  in  arms,  through  the  portcullis  gate. 

With  neck  high  arching,  as  he  smote  the  ground, — 
And  restless  pawing  to  the  trumpets'  sound, — 
With    mantling  mane,  o'er    his  broad   shoulders 

spread,— 
And  nostrils  blowing,  and  dilated  red, — 
The  coal-black  steed,  in  rich  caparison 
Far  trailing  to  the  ground,  went  proudly  on : 
Proudly  he  tramp'd  as  conscious  of  his  charge. 
And  turn'd  around  his  eyeballs,  bright  and  large. 
And  shook  the  frothy  boss,  as  in  disdain ; 
And  toss'd  the  flakes,  indignant,  of  his  mane  ; 
And,  with  high  swelling  veins,  exulting  press'd 
Proudly  against  the  barb,  his  heaving  breast. 

The  fate  of  empires  glowing  in  his  thought,— 
Thus  arm'd,  the  tented  field  Valdivia  sought. 
On  the  left  side  his  poised  shield  he  bore. 
With  quaint  devices  richly  blazon'd  o'er ; 
Above  the  plumes,  upon  his  helmet's  cone, 
Castile's  imperial  crest  illustrious  shone  ; 
Blue  in  the  wind  th'  escutcheon'd  mantle  flow'd. 
O'er  the  chain'd  mail,  which  tinkled  as  he  rode. 
The  barred  visor  raised,  you  might  discern 
Hist  clime-changed  countenance,  though  pale,  yet 

stern. 
And  resolute  as  death,— whilst  in  his  eye 
Sat  proud  assurance,  fame,  and  victory. 

Lautaro,  now  in  manhood's  rising  pride, 
Rode,  with  a  lance,  attendant,  at  his  side. 
In  Spanish  mantle  gracefully  array'^ : 
Upon  his  brow  a  tuft  of  feathers  play'd : 
His  glossy  locks,  with  dark  and  mantling  grace, 
Shaded  the  noonday  sunbeams  on  his  face. 


*  The  city  Baldivia. 

t  He  had  served  in  the  wars  of  Italy. 


Though  pass'd  in  tears  the  dayspring  of  his  youth, 
Valdivia  loved  his  gratitude  and  truth : 
He,  in  Valdivia,  own'd  a  nobler  friend  ; 
Kind  to  protect,  and  mighty  to  defend. 
So,  on  he  rode :  upon  his  youthful  mien 
A  mild  but  sad  intelligence  was  seen: 
Courage  was  on  his  open  brow,  yet  care 
Seem'd,  like  a  wandering  shade,  to  linger  there; 
And  though  his  eye  shone,  as  the  eagle's,  bright, 
It  beam'd  with  humid,  melancholy  light. 

When  now  Valdivia  saw  th'  embattled  line, 
Helmets,  and  swords,  and  shields,  and  matchlock*, 

shine, 
Now  the  long  phalanx  still  and  steady  stand, 
Fix'd  every  eye,  and  motionless  each  hand, — 
Then  slowly  clustering,  into  columns  wheel. 
Each  with  the  red-cross  banners  of  Castile ; — 
While  trumps,  and  drums,  and  cymbals,  to  his  ear. 
Made  music  such  as  soldiers  love  to  hear. 
While  horsemen  check'd  their  steeds, — or,  bending 

low. 
With  levell'd  lances,  o'er  the  saddle-bow. 
Rode  gallantly  at  tilt, — and  thunders  broke, 
Instant  involving  van  and  rear  in  smoke. 
Till  winds  th'  obscuring  volume  roll'd  away, 
And  the  red  file,  stretch'd  out  in  long  array. 
More  radiant  moved  beneath  .the  beams  of  day, 
While  ensigns,  arms,  and  crosses,  glitter'dbright,— • 
"Philip!"*   he    cried,  "  seest    thou   the   glorious 

sight. 
And  dost  thou  deem  the  tribes  of  this  poor  land 
Can  men,  and  arms,  and  steeds,  like  these,  with 
stand  ?" 

"  Forgive  !"  the  youth  replied,  and  check'd  a 
tear, — 
"  The  land  where  my  forefathers  sleep  is  dear  I — 
My  native  land  I  this  spot  of  blessed  earth. 
The  scene  where  I,  and  all  I  love,  had  birth  ! 
What  gratitude,  fidelity  can  give. 
Is  yours,  my  lord  !     You  shielded — bade  me  live. 
When,  in  the  circuit  of  the  world  so  wide 
I  had  but  one,  one  only  friend  beside. 
I  bow'd — resign'd  to  fate  ;  I  kiss'd  the  hand. 
Red  with  the  best  blood  of  my  father's  land  !  f 
But  mighty  as  thou  art,  Valdivia,  know. 
Though  Cortez'  desolating  march  laid  low 
The  shrines  of  rich,  voluptuous  Mexico, — 
With  carcasses,  though  proud  Pizarro  strew 
The  sun's  imperial  temple  in  Peru, — 
Yet  the  rude  dwellers  of  this  land  are  brave. 
And  the  last  spot  they  lose  will  be  their  grave .'" 

A  moment's  crimson  cross'd  Valdivia's  cheek — 
Then  o'er  the  plain  he  spurr'd,  nor  deign 'd  to  speak, 
Waving  the  youth,  at  distance,  to  retire  : 
None  saw  the  eye  that  shot  terrific  fire  : 
As  their  commander  sternly  rode  along. 
Troop  after  troop,  halted  the  martial  throng ; 
And  all  the  pennon'd  trumps  a  louder  blast 
Blew,  as  the  southern  world's  great  victor  pass'd. 

Lautaro  turn'd,  scarce  heeding,  from  the  view. 
And  from  the  noise  of  trumps  and  drums  withdrew 
And  now,  while  troubled  thoughts,his  bosom  swell 
Seeks  the  gray  Missionary's  humble  cell. 


*  Lautaro  had  been  baptized  by  that  name. 
t  Valdivia  had  before  been  in  Chili. 


THE   MISSIONARY. 


497 


Fronting  the  ocean,  but  beyond  the  ken 
Of  public  view,  and  sounds  of  murmuring  men, 
Of  unhewn  roots  composed,  and  gnarled  wood, 
A  small  and  rustic  oratory  stood  : 
Upon  its  roof  of  reeds  appear'd  a  cross. 
The  porch  within  was  lined  with  mantling  moss  ; 
A  crucifix  and  hourglass,  on  each  side — 
One  to  admonish  seem'd  and  one  to  guide ; 
This,  to  impress  how  soon  life's  race  is  o'er ; 
And  that,  to  lift  our  hopes  where  time  shall  be  no 

more. 
O'er   the   rude  porch,  with  wild  and  gadding 

stray, 
The  clustering  copu  weaved  its  trellis  gay : 
Two  mossy  pines,  high  bending,  interwove 
Their  aged  and  fantastic  arms  above. 
In  front,  amid  the  gay  surrounding  flowers, 
A  dial  counted  the  departing  hours. 
On  which  the  sweetest  light  of  summer  shone, — 
A  rude  and  brief  inscription  mark'd  the  stone : — 
"  To  count,  .with  passing  shade,  the  hours, 
I  placed  the  dial  'mid  the  flowers  ; 
That,  one  by  one,  came  forth,  and  died. 
Blooming,  and  withering,  round  its  side. 
Mortal,  let  the  sight  impart 
Its  pensive  moral  to  thy  heart  I" 
Just  heaid  to  trickle  through  a  covert  near, 
And  soothing,  with  perpetual  lapse,  the  ear, 
A.  fount,   like   rain-drops,  filter'd  through  the 

stone, — 
And,  bright  as  amber,  on  the  shallows  shone. 
Intent  his  fairy  pastime  to  pursue, 
And,  gem-like,  hovering  o'er  the  violets  blue, 
The  humming-bird,  here,  its  unceasing  song 
Heedlessly  murmur'd,  all  the  summer  long. 
And  when  the  winter  came,  retired  to  rest, 
And  from  the  myrtles  hung  its  trembling  nest. 
No  sounds  of  a  conflicting  world  were  near ; 
The  noise  of  ocean  faintly  met  the  ear. 
That  seem'd,  as  sunk  to  rest  the  noontide  blast, 
But  dying  sounds  of  passions  that  were  past ; 
Or  closing  anthems,  when,  far  off,  expire 
The  lessening  echoes  of  the  distant  choir. 

Here,  ever}'  human  sorrow  hush'd  to  rest. 
His  pale  hands  meekly  cross'd  upon  his  breast, 
Anselmo  sat:  the  sun,  with  westering  ray. 
Just  touch'd  his  temples  and  hi§  locks  of  gray. 
There  was  no  worldly  feeling  in  his  eye  ; — 
The  world  to  him  "  was  as  a  thing  gone  by." 
Now,  all  his  features  lit,  he  raised  his  look. 
Then  bent  it  thoughtful,  and  unclasp'd  the  book ; 
And  whilst  the  hourglass  shed    *s  silent  sand, 
A  tame  opossum*  lick'd  his  wither'd  hand. 
That  sweetest  light  of  slow  declining  day. 
Which  through  the  trellis  pour'd  its  slanting  ray, 
Resting  a  moment  on  his  few  gray  hairs, 
Seem'd  light  from  heaven  sent  down  to  bless  his 
praj'crs. 
When  the  trump  echoed  to  the  quiet  spot, 
He  thought  upon  the  world,  but  mourn'd  it  not; 
Enough  if  his  meek  wisdom  could  control, 
And  bend  to  mercy,  one  proud  soldier's  soul ; 
Enough,  if  while  these  distant  scenes  he  trod. 
He  led  one  erring  Indian  to  his  God. 


•A  small  and  beautiful  species,  which  is  domesticated 

Vol.  III.— 32 


"  Whence  comes  my  son  ?"  with  kind  compla- 
cent look 
He  ask'd,  and  closed  again  th'  embossed  book. 

"  I  come  to  thee  for  peace  !"  the  youth  replied: 
"  O,  there  is  strife,  and  cruelty,  and  pride, 
In  this  sad  Christian  world ;  my  native  land 
Was  happy,  ere  the  soldier,  with  his  band 
Of  fell  destroyers,  like  a  vulture,  came, 
And  gave  the  peaceful  scenes  to  blood  and  flame. 
When  will  the  turmoil  of  earth's  tempests  cease  ? 
Father,  I  come  to  thee  for  peace — for  peace  !" 

"  Seek  peace,"  the  father  cried, "  with  God  abovei 
In  his  good  time,  all  will  be  peace  and  love. 

"  We  moiyn,  indeed,  that  grief,  and  toil,  and  strife, 
Send  one  deep  murmur  from  the  walks  of  life. 
That  yonder  sun,  when  evening  paints  the  sky. 
Sinks,  beauteous,  on  a  world  of  misery ; 
The  course  of  wide  destruction  to  withstand. 
We  lift  our  feeble  voice — our  trembling  hand ; 
But  still,  bow'd  low,  or  smitten  to  the  dust, 
Father  of  mercy  I  still  in  thee  we  trust ! 
Through  good  or  ill,  in  poverty  or  wealth. 
In  joy  or  wo,  in  sickness  or  in  health, — 
Meek  piety  thy  awful  hand  surveys, 
And  the  faint  murmur  turns  to  prayer  and  praise ! 
We  know — whatever  evils  we  deplore — 
Thou  hast  permitted,  and  we  know  no  more  ! 
Behold,  illustrious  on  the  subject  plain. 
Some  tower'd  city  of  imperial  Spain  I  * 
Hark  !  'twas  the  earthquake  !  clouds  of  dust  alone 
Ascend  from  earth,  where  tower  and  temple  shone. 

"  Such  is  the  conqueror's  dread  path :  the  grave 
Yawns  for  its  millions  where  his  banners  wave  | 
But  shall  vain  man,  whose  life  is  but  a  sigh, 
With  sullen  acquiescence,  gaze  and  die  ? 
Alas,  how  little  of  the  mighty  maze 
Of  providence,  our  mortal  ken  surveys  ! 
Heaven'g  awful  Lord,  pavilion'd  in  the  clouds. 
Looks  through  the  darkness  that  all  nature  shrouds ; 
And,  far  beyond  the  tempest  and  the  night. 
Bids  man  his  course  hold  on  to  scenes  of  endless 
light." 

Canto  III. 

ARGUMENT. 

Evening  and  night  of  the  same  day. 

Anselmo'a  story— Converted  Indians— Confession  of  the 
wandering  minstrel— Night  scene. 

ANSELMO'S    TALE. 
"  Come, — for  the  sun  yet  hangs  above  the  bay, — 
And  whilst  our  time  may  brook  a  brief  delay 
With  other  thoughts, — and,  haply,  with  a  tear. 
An  old  man's  tale  of  sorrow  thou  shalt  hear. 
I  wish'd  not  to  reveal  it — thoughts  that  dwell 
Deep  in  the  lonely  bosom's  inmost  cell 
Unnoticed,  and  unknown — too  painful  wake, 
And  like  a  tempest,  the  dark  spirit  shake. 
When  starting,  from  our  slumberous  apathy, 
We  gaze  upon  the  scenes  of  days  gone  by. 
Yet,  if  a  moment's  irritating  flush 
Darkenst  thy  cheek,  as  thoughts  conflicting  rush, 

♦  No  part  of  the  world  is  so  subject  to  earthquakes  as 
Peru. 

t  Indians  of  Chili  are  of  the  lightest  class,  called  by 
some  "  white  Indians." 


498 


BOWLES. 


When  I  disclose  my  hidden  griefs,  the  tale 
May  more  than  wisdom  or  reproof  prevail. 
0,  may  it  teach  thee,  till  all  trials  cease, 
To  hold  thy  course,  though  sorrowing,  yet  in  peace : 
Still  looking  up  to  Him,  the  soul's  best  stay, 
Who  faith  and  hope  shall  crown,  when  worlds  are 
swept  away  ! 

"  Where  fair  Sevillf;'f5  Morisco  turrets*  gleam 
On  Guadilquiver's  genliy-stealing  stream. 
Whose  silent  waters,  seaward  as  they  glide. 
Reflect  the  wild-rose  thickets  on  its  side. 
My  youth  was  pass'd.     0,  days  for  ever  gone  ! 
How  touch'd  with  heaven's  own  light  your  morn- 
ings shone  ! 

"  E'en  now,  when  lonely  and  forlorn  I  bend, — 
My  weary  journey  hastening  to  its  end, 
A  drooping  exile  on  a  distant  shore, — 
I  mourn  the  hours  of  youth  that  are  no  more. 
The  tender  thought  amid  my  prayers  has  part, 
And  steals,  at  times,  from  heaven  my  aged  heart. 

"  Forgive  the  cause,  O  God  ! — forgive  the  tear. 
That  flows,  e'en  now,  o'er  Leonora's  bier ; 
For,  midst  the  innocent  and  lovely,  none 
More  beautiful  than  Leonora  shone. 

"As  by  her  widow'd  mother's  side  she  knelt, 
A  sad  and  sacred  sympathy  I  felt. 
At  Easter-tide,  when  the  high  mass  was  sung. 
And,  fuming  high,  the  silver  censer  swung, 
When  rich-hued  windows,  from  the  arches'  height, 
Pour'd  o'er  the  shrines  a  soft  and  yellow  light, 
From  aisle  to  aisle,  amid  the  service  clear. 
When  '  Adoremus'  swell'd  upon  the  ear, 
(Such  as  to  heaven  thy  rapt  attention  drew 
First  in  the  Christian  churches  of  Peru) 
She  seem'd,  methought,  some  spirit  of  the  sky, 
Descending  to  that  holy  harmony. 

"  Boots  not  to  say,  when  life  and  hope  were  new, 
How  by  degrees  the  soul's  first  passion  grew : 
I  loved  her,  and  I  won  her  virgin  heart. 
But  fortune  whisper'd,  We,  a  while,  must  part. 

"  The  minster  toll'd  the  middle  hour  of  night, 
When  waked  to  agony  and  wild  affright, 
I  heard  the  words,  words  of  appalling  dread — 
'  The  hol}*^  Inquisition  ." — from  the  bed 
I  started  ;  snatch'd  my  dagger,  and  my  cloak — 
'  Who  dare  accuse  me  ?' — none,  in  answer,  spoke. 
The  demons  seized,  in  silence,  on  their  prey. 
And  tore  me  from  my  dreams  of  bliss  away. 

"  How  frightful  was  their  silence,  and  their  shade. 
In  torch-light,  as  their  victim  they  convey'd, 
By  dark-inscribed  and  massy-window'd  walls, 
Through  the  dim  twilight  of  terrific  halls  ; 
^For  thou  hast  heard  me  speak  of  that  foul  stain 
Of  pure  religion,  and  the  rites  of  Spain)— 
Whilst  the  high  windows  shook  to  night's  cold 

blast, 
And  echoed  to  the  foot-fall  as  we  pass'd  ! 

"  They  left  me,  faint  and  breathless  with  affright, 
In  a  cold  cell,  to  solitude  and  night ; 
0  !  think,  what  horror  through  the  heart  must  thrill 
When  the  last  bolt  was  barr'd,  and  all  at  once  was 
still. 

•'  Nor  day  nor  night  was  here,  but  a  deep  gloom, 
Sadder  than  darkness,  wrapt  the  living  tomb. 


*  Of  Moorish  architecture. 


Some  bread  and  water,  nature  to  sustain, 
Duly  was  brought  when  eve  return'd  again  ; 
And  thus  I  knew,  hoping  it  were  the  last, 
Another  day  of  lingering  life  was  pass'd. 

*'  Five  years  immured  in  the  deep  den  of  night, 
I  never  saw  the  sweet  sun's  blessed  light. 
Once  as  the  grate,  with  sullen  sound,  was  barr'd, 
And  to  the  bolts  the  inmost  cavern  jarr'd, 
Methought  I  heard,  as  clang'd  the  iron  door, 
A  dull  and  hollow  echo  from  the  floor : 
I  stamp'd :  the  vault  and  winding  caves  around 
Return'd  a  long  and  melancholy  sound. 
With  patient  toil,  I  raised  a  massy  stone, 
And  look'd  into  a  depth  of  shade  unknown ; 
The  murky  twilight  of  the  lurid  place 
Served  me,  at  length,  a  secret  way  to  trace. 
I  enter'd,  step  by  step ;  explored  the  road, 
In  darkness,  from  my  desolate  abode ; 
Till,  winding  through  long  passages  of  night, 
I  saw,  at  distance,  a  dim  streak  of  light : — 
It  was  the  sun — the  bright,  the  blessed  beam 
Of  day  !     I  knelt — I  wept — the  glittering  stream 
Roll'd  soft  beneath  me,  as  I  left  the  cave, 
Conceal'd  in  woods  above  the  winding  wave. 

"  I  rested  on  a  verdant  bank  a  while, 
I  saw  around  the  summer  landscape  smile. 
I  gain'd  a  peasant's  hut;  nor  dared  to  leave. 
Till,  with  slow  step,  advanced  the  glimmering  eva 
Remembering  still  affection's  fondest  hours, 
I  turn'd  my  footsteps  to  the  city  towers  ; 
In  pilgrim's  dress,  I  traced  the  streets  unknown : 
No  light  in  Leonora's  lattice  shone. 

"  The  morning  came  ;  the  busy  tumult  swells ; 
KnoUing  to  church,  I  heard  the  minster  bells : 
Involuntary  to  that  scene  I  stray'd, 
Disguised,  where  first  I  saw  my  faithful  maid. 
I  saw  her,  pallid,  at  the  altar  stand. 
And  yield,  half  shrinking,  her  reluctant  hand: 
She  turn'd  her  look — she  saw  my  hollow  eyes, 
And  knew  me, — wasted,  wan,  and  in  disguise; 
She  shriek'd,  and  fell — breathless,  I  left  the  fane 
In  agony — nor  saw  her  form  again  ; 
And  from  that  day,  her  voice,  her  look,  was  given 
Her  name,  her  memory,  to  the  winds  of  heaven. 

"  Far  off"  I  bent  my  melancholy  way, 
Heart-sick  and  faint,  and,  in  this  gown  of  gray, 
From  every  human  eye  my  sorrows  hid. 
Unknown,  amidst  the  tumult  of  Madrid. 
Grief  in  my  heart,  despair  upon  my  look. 
With  no  companion  save  my  beads  and  book, 
My  morsel  with  aflliction's  sons  to  share, 
To  tend  the  sick  and  poor,  my  only  care — 
Forgotten,  thus  I  lived,  till  day  by  day 
Had  worn  nigh  thirteen  years  of  grief  away. 

*'  One  winter's  night,  when  I  had  closed  my  cell 
And  bid  the  labours  of  the  day  farewell. 
An  aged  crone  approach'd,  with  panting  breath- 
She  bade  me  hasten  to  the  house  of  death. 

"  I  cam.e — with  moving  lips  intent  to  pray, 
A  dying  woman  on  a  pallet  lay ; 
Her  lifted  hands  were  wasted  to  the  bone. 
And  ghastly  on  her  look  the  lamp-light  shone  j 
Beside  the  bed  a  pious  daughter  stands 
Silent,  and  weeping,  kisses  her  pale  hands 

"  Feebly  she  spoke,  and  raised  her  languid  hcau 
1 '  Forgive,  forgive  !  they  told  me  he  was  l::ad  ! 


THE    MISSIONARY. 


499 


But  in  the  sunshine  of  that  dreadful  day, 
That  gave  me  to  another's  arms  away, 
I  saw  him — like  a  ghost,  with  deadly  stare ; 
I  saw  his  wasted  eyeballs'  ghastly  glare ; 
I  saw  his  lips — (0  hide  them,  God  of  love  !) 
I  saw  his  livid  lips,  half  muttering,  move, 
To  curse  the  maid,  forgetful  of  her  vow ; 
Perhaps  he  lives  to  curse — to  curse  me  now  !' 

"*He   lives   to  bless!'   1  cried;    and   drawing 
nigh. 
Held  up  the  crucifix :  her  heavy  eye 
She  raised,  and  scarce  pronounced — '  Does  he  yet 

live  ? 
Can  he  his  lost,  his  dying  child  forgive  ? — 
Will  God  forgive — the  Lord  who  bled — will  He  ? 
Ah,  no  !  there  is  no  mercy  left  for  me  !' 

"  Words  were  in  vain,  and  colours  all  too  faint, 
The  awful  moment  of  despair  to  paint. 
She  knew  me — her  exhausted  breath,  with  pain. 
Drawing,  she  press'd  my  hand,  and  spoke  again. 

"'By  a  false  guardian's  cruel  wiles  deceived. 
The  tale  of  fraudful  falsehood  I  believed ; 
And  thought  thee  dead  !   he  gave  the  stern  com- 
mand. 
And  bade  me  take  the  rich  Antonio's  hand. 
I  knelt,  implored,  embraced  my  guardian's  knees — 
Ruthless  inquisitor  I  he  held  the  keys 
Of  the  dark  torture-house.*     Trembling  for  life. 
Yes — I  became  a  sad,  heart-broken — wife  ! 
Yet  curse  me  not !  of  every  human  care 
Already  my  full  heart  has  had  its  share. 
Abandon 'd — left  in  youth  to  -want  and  wo  ! 

0  !  let  these  tears,  that  agonizing  flow. 
Witness  how  deep  e'en  now  my  heart  is  rent : 
Yet  one  is  lovely — one  is  innocent ! 

Protect — protect' — (and  faint  in  death  she  smiled)— 
When  I  am  dead — protect  my  orphan  child  !' 

"  The  dreadful  prison,  that  so  long  detain 'd 
My  wasting  life,  her  dying  words  explain'd. 
The  wretched  priest,  who  wounded  me  by  stealth, 
Barter'd  her  love,  her  innocence,  for  wealth. 

"  I  laid  her  bones  in  earth :  the  chanted  hymn 
Echoed  along  the  hollow  cloister  dim : 

1  heard,  far  off,  the  bell  funereal  toll. 

And,  sorrowing,  said,  '  Now  peace  be   with  her 
soul ." 
Far  o'er  the  western  ocean  I  convey'd, 
And  Indiana  call'd — the  orphan  maid: 
Beneath  my  eye  she  grew — and,  day  by  day, 
Seem'd,  grateful,  every  kindness  to  repay. 

"  Renouncing  Spain,  her  cruelties  and  crimes, 
Amid  untutor'd  tribes,  in  distant  climes, 
*Twas  mine  to  spread  the  light  of  truth,  jr  save 
From  stripes  and  tortxire  the  poor  Indian  s..ave. 
I  saw  thee,  young  and  innocent — alone, 
Cast  on  the  mercies  of  a  race  unknown  ; 
I  saw,  in  dark  adversity's  cold  hour, 
Thy  virtues  blooming,  like  a  winter's  flower ; 
From  chains  and  slavery  I  redeem'd  thy  youth, 
Pour'd  on  thy  sight  the  beams  of  heavenly  truth ; 
By  thy  warm  heart  and  mild  demeanour  won, 
Call'd  thee  my  other  child — rny  age's  son. 


*  Perhaps  it  may  not  be  improper  to  mention,  that  Se- 
nile was  the  first  place  in  Spain  in  which  the  Inquisition 
was  esiaWished  in  1481. 


I  need  not  say  the  sequel — not  unmoved 
Poor  Indiana  heard  thy  tale,  and  loved — 
Some  sympathy  a  kindred  fate  might  claim ; 
Your  years,  your  fortunes,  and  your  friend  the 

same  : 
Both  early  of  a  parent's  care  bereft. 
Both  strangers  in  a  world  of  sadness  left, 
I  mark'd  each  slowly  struggling  thougr.t — I  shed 
A  tear  of  love  paternal  on  each  head, 
And,  while  I  saw  her  timid  eyes  incline, 
Bless'd  the  affection  that  has  made  her  thine ! 

"Hce  let  the  murmurs  of  despondence  cease  i 
There  is  a  God — believe — and  part  in  peace  I" 

Rich  hues  iilumed  the  track  of  parting  day 
As  the  great  sun  sunk  in  the  western  bay, 
And  only  its  last  light  yet  lingering  shone, 
Upon  the  highest  palm  tree's  feathery  cone ; 
When  at  a  distance,  on  the  dewy  plain, 
In  mingled  group  appear'd  an  Indian  train, — 
Men,  women,  children,  round  Anselmo  press, — 
"  Farewell  !'*  they  cried.     He  raised  his  hand  ti 

bless, 
And  said,  "My  children,  may  the  God  above 
Still  lead  you  in  the  paths  of  peace  and  love  : 
To-morrow,  and  we  part ;  when  I  am  gone, 
Raise  on  this  spot  a  cross,  and  place  a  stone. 
That  tribes  unborn  may  some  memorial  have 
(When  I  far  off  am  mouldering  in  the  grave) 
Of  that  poor  messenger,  who  tidings  bore, 
Of  gospel  mercy,  to  your  distant  shore." 

The  crowd  retired — along  the  twilight  gray, 
The  condor  swept  its  solitary  way  ; 
The  fire-flies  shone,  when  to  the  hermit's  cell 
Who  hastens  but  the  minstrel,  Zarinel  ? 
In  foreign  lands,  far  from  his  native  home, 
'Twas  his,  a  gay  romantic  youth  to  roam 
With  a  light  cittern  o'er  his  shoulders  slung, 
Where'er  he  pass'd  he  play'd,  and  loved,  and  sung 
And  thus  accomplish'd,  late  had  join'd  the  train 
Of  gallant  soldiers  on  the  southern  plain. 
"  Father,"  he  cried,  "  uncertain  of  the  fate 
That  may  to-morrow's  toilsome  march  await. 
For  long  will  be  the  road,  I  would  confess 
Some  secret  thoughts  that  on  my  bosom  press  ! 
They  are  of  one  I  left,  an  Indian  maid. 
Whose  trusting  love  my  careless  heart  betray'd. 
Say,  may  I  speak  ?" 

"Say  on,"  the  father  cried; 
"Nor  be  to  penitence  all  hope  denied." 

"  Then  hear,  Anselmo  !     From  a  very  child 
I  loved  all  fancies,  marvellous  and  wild ; 
I  turn'd  from  truth,  to  listen  to  the  lore 
Of  many  an  old  and  fabling  troubadour. 
Thus,  with  impassion 'd  heart  and  wayward  mind, 
To  dreams  and  shapes  of  shadowy  things  resign*d, 
I  left  my  native  vales  and  village  home, 
Wide  o'er  the  world  a  minstrel  boy  to  roam. 

"  I  never  shall  forget  the  day — the  hour,- 
When,  all  my  soul  resign'd  to  fancy's  power. 
First,  from  the  snowy  Pyrenees,  I  cast 
My  labouring  vision  o'er  the  landscape  vast. 
And  saw  beneath  my  feet  long  vapours  float, 
Streams,  mountains,  woods,  and  ocean's  mist  re- 
mote. 
My  mountain  guide,  a  soldier,  poor  and  old, 
Who  tales  of  Cortez  and  Balboa  told, 


500 


BOWLES. 


Won  my  young  ear,  when  pausing  to  survey 
Th'  Atlantic,  white  in  sunshine  far  away. 
He  spoke  of  this  new  world, — rivers  like  seas. 
Mountains,  to  which  the  mighty  Pyrenees 
Were  but  as  sand-hills — ancient  forests  rude. 
In  measureless  extent  of  solitude. 
Stretching  their  wild  and  unknown  world  of  shade  ! 
Full  blithe  he  then  described  the  Indian  maid — 
Graceful  and  agile  as  the  marmozet. 
Whose  eyes  of  radiance  and  whose  locks  of  jet. 
Though  bow'd  by  want  and  age,  he  never  could 
forget. 

"My  ardent  fancy  follow'd  while  he  spoke 
Of  lakes,  savannahs,  or  the  cataract's  smoke. 
Or  some  strange  tale  of  perilous  wandering  told, 
By  waters,  through  remotest  regions  roll'd: 
How  shone  the  woods  with  pomp  of  plumage  gay. 
And  how  the   green  bird  niock'd  and  talk'd  all 
day  ! 

«  Imagination  thus,  in  colours  new. 
This  distant  world  presented  to  my  view  ; 
Young,  and  enchanted  veith  the  fancied  scene, 
I  cross'd  the  toiling  seas  that  roar'd  between. 
And,  with  ideal  images  impress'd, 
Stood  on  tnese  unknown  shores,  a  wondering  guest. 

"  Still  to  romantic  fantasies  resign'd, 
I  left  Callao's  crowded  port  behind, 
And  climb'd  the  mountains,  which  their  shadow 

threw 
Upon  the  lessening  summits  of  Peru. 
Some  sheep,  the  armed  peasants  drove  before, 
That  all  our  food  through  the  wild  passes  bore. 
Had  wander'd  in  the  frost  smoke  of  the  morn, 
Far  from  the  tract — I  blew  the  signal  horn — 
But  echo  only  answer'd.     'Mid  the  snows, 
Wilder'd  and  lost,  I  sav/  the  evening  close. 
The  sun  was  setting  in  the  crimson  west ; 
In  all  the  earth  I  had  no  home  of  rest ; 
The  last  sad  light  upon  the  ice-hills  shone ; 
I  seem'd  forsaken  in  a  world  unknown  ; 
How  did  my  cold  and  sinking  heart  rejoice. 
When  !  hark  !  methought  I  heard  a  human  voice. 
It  might  be  some  wild  Indian's  roving  troop; 
Or  the  dread  echo  of  their  distant  whoop — 
Still  it  was  human,  and  I  seem'd  to  find 
Again  some  commerce  with  remote  mankind. 
The  voice  is  nearer,  rising  through  the  shade — 
Is  it  the  song  of  a  rude  mountain  maid  ? 
And  now  I  heard  the  tread  of  hastening  feet, 
And,  in  the  western  glen,  a  llama  bleat. 
I  listen 'd — all  is  still — but  hark  !  again 
Near  and. more  near  is  heard  the  welcome  strain : 
It  is  a  wild  maid's  carolling,  who  seeks 
Her  wandering  llama  midst  the  snowy  peaks. 
Truant,'  she  cried,  *  thy  lurking  place  is  found.' 
'With  languid  touch  I  waked  the  cittern's  sound. 
And  soon  a  maid,  by  the  pale  light,  I  saw 
Gaze  breathless  with  astonishment  and  awe: 
What  instant  terrors  to  her  fancy  rose  ! 
Ha  !  is  it  not  the  spirit  of  the  snows  ? 
But  when  she  saw  me,  weary,  cold,  and  weak. 
Stretch  forth  my  hand,  (for  now  I  could  not  speak,) 
She  pitied,  raised  me  from  the  snows,  and  led 
My  faltering  footsteps  to  her  father's  shed  ; 
The  llama  follow'd  with  her  tinkling  "bell: 
The  dwelling  rose  within  a  craggy  dell, 


O'erhung  with  icy  summits : — to  be  brief, 
She  was  the  daughter  of  an  aged  chief; 
He,  by  her  gentle  voice  to  pity  won, 
Show'd  mercy,  for  himself  had  lost  a  son. 
The  father  spoke  not : — by  the  pine  wood  blaze. 
The  daughter  stood,  and  turn'd  a  cake  of  maize. 
And  then,  as  sudden  shone  the  light,  I  saw 
Such  features  as  no  artist  hand  might  draw. 
Her  form,  her  face,  her  symmetry,  her  air — 
Father  !  thy  age  must  this  recital  spare — 
She  saved  my  life — and  kindness,  if  not  love. 
Might  sure  in  time  the  coldest  bosom  move. 
Mine  was  not  cold — she  loved  to  hear  me  sing, 
And   sometimes    touch'd  with    playful  hand  tht 

string : 
And  when  I  waked  some  melancholy  strain. 
She  wept,  and  smiled,  and  bade  me  sing  again : 
And  sometimes  on  the  turf  reclined,  I  tried 
Her  erring  hand  along  the  wires  to  guide ; 
Then  chiding,  with  a  kiss,  the  rude  essay, 
Taught  her  some  broken  saraband  to  play  ; 
Whilst  the  loud  parrot,  from  the  neighbouring  tres 
On  laughing  echo  call'd  to  join  our  glee. 

"  I  built  our  hut  of  the  wild-orange  boughs. 
And  pledged — oh !  perjury — eternal  vows  ! 
She  raised  her  eyes  with  tenderness,  and  cried, 
«  Shall  poor  Olola  be  the  white  man's  bride  ? 
Yes  !  we  will  live — live  and  be  happy  here — 
When  thou  art  sad,  I  will  kiss  oflf  the  tear: 
Thou  Shalt  forget  thy  father's  land,  and  see 
A  friend,  a  sister,  and  a  child,  in  me.' 
So  many  a  happy  day  jn  this  deep  glen, 
Far  from  the  noise  of  life,  and  sounds  of  men, 
Was  pass'd  I     Nay  !  father,  the  sad  sequel  hear 
'Twas  now  the  leafy  spring-time  of  the  year — 
Ambition  call'd  me:  True,  I  knew,  to  part, 
Would  break  her  generous  and  her  trusting  heart-* 
True,  I  had  vow'd — but  now  estranged  and  cold, 
She  saw  my  look,  and  shudder'd  to  behold — 
She  would  go  with  me — leave  the  lonely  glade 
Where  she  grew  up,  but  my  stern  voice  forbade. 
She  hid  her  face  and  wept, — '  Go  then  away,' 
(Father,  methinks  e'en  now  I  hear  her  say,) 
'  Go  to  thy  distant  land — forget  this  tear — 
Forget  these  rocks, — forget  I  once  was  dear. 
Fly  to  the  world,  o'er  the  wide  ocean  fly. 
And  leave  me,  unremember'd,  here  to  die  ! 
Yet  to  my  father  should  I  all  relate, 
Death,  instant  death,  would  be  a  traitor's  fate !' 

"  Nor  fear,  nor  pity,  moved  my  stubborn  mind 
I  left  her  sorrows  and  the  scene  behind — 
I  sought  Valdivia  on  the  southern  plain. 
And  jom'd  the  careless  military  train  : — 
0  !  ere  I  sleep,  thus,  lowly  on  my  knee. 
Father,  I  absolution  crave  from  thee." 

Anselmo  spoke  with  look  and  voice  severe, 
"  Yes  !  thoughtless  youth,  my  absolution  hear. 
First,  by  deep  penitence  the  wrong  atone. 
Then  absolution  ask  from  God  alone  ! 
Yet  stay,  and  to  my  warning  voice  attend- 
0,  hear  me  as  a  father,  and  a  friend  ! 
Let  truth  severe  be  wayward  fancy's  guide, 
Let  stern-eyed  conscience  o'er  each  thought  pio 

side — 
The  passions,  that  on  noblest  natures  prey, 
0  !  cast  them,  like  corroding  bonds,  away  I 


THE    MISSIONARY. 


501 


Disdain  to  act  mean  falsehood's  coward  part, 
And  let  religicfn  dignify  thine  art. 

"  If,  by  thy  bed,  thou  seest  at  midnight  stand 
Pale  conscience,  pointing,  with  terrific  hand, 
To  deeds  of  darkness  done,  whilst,  like  a  corse 
To  shake  thy  soul,  uprises  dire  remorse — 
Fly  to  God's  mercy — fly,  ere  yet  too  late — 
Perhaps  one  hour  marks  thy  eternal  fate— 
L^;  the  warm  tear  of  deep  contrition  flow, 
The  heart  obdurate  melt,  like  softening  snow. 
The  lait  vain  follies  of  thy  youth  deplore, 
Then  go — in  secret  weep — and  sin  no  more  !" 

The  stars  innumerous  in  their  watches  shone — 
Anselmo  knelt  before  the  cross  alone. 
Ten  thousand  glowing  orbs  their  pomp  display'd. 
Whilst,  looking  up,  thus  silently  he  pray'd: — 
"0  !  how  oppressive  to  the  aching  sense, 
How  fearful  were  this  vast  magnificence, 
This  prodigality  of  glory,  spread 
From  world  to  world,  above  an  emmet's  head. 
That  toil'd  his  transient  hour  upon  the  shore 
Of  mortal  life,  and  then  was  seen  no  more— 
If  man  beheld,  on  his  terrific  throne, 
A  dark,  cold,  distant  deity,  alone  ! 
Felt  no  relating,  no  endearing  tie. 
That  hope  might  upwards  raise  her  glistening  eye. 
And  think,  with  deep,  unutterable  bliss, 
In  yonder  radiant  realm  my  kingdom  is  ! 

"  More  glorious  than  those  orbs  that  silent  roll. 
Shines  Heaven's  redeeming  mercy  on  the  soul— 
O  !  pure  effulgence  of  unbounded  love  I 
In  thee  I  think — I  feel — I  live — I  move — 
Yet  when — 0  !  thou,  whose  name  is  Love  and  Light, 
When  will  thy  dayspring  on  these  realms  of  night 
Arise  ?   0  !  when  shall  sever'd  nations  raise 
One  hallelujah  of  triumphant  praise  ! 

"Soon  may  thy  kingdom  come,  that  love,  and  peace. 
And  charity,  may  bid  earth's  chidings  cease  ! 
Meantime,  in  life  or  death,  through  good  or  ill. 
Thy  poor  and  feeble  servant,  I  fulfil. 
As  best  I  may,  thy  high  and  holy  will. 
Till,  weary,  on  the  world  my  lids  I  close, 
And  hasten  to  my  long  and  last  repose  I" 

Canto  IV. 

ARGUMENT. 

Assembly  of  Indian  warriors— Caupolican,.  Ongolmo. 
Teucapel— Mountain  chief— Song  of  the  Indian  wizard 
— White  woman  and  child. 

Far  in  the  centre  of  the  deepest  wood, 
Th'  assembled  fathers  of  their  country  stood. 
'Twas  midnight  now :  the  pine-wood  fire  burnt  red. 
And  to  the  leaves  a  shadowy  glimmer  spread  : 
The  struggling  smoke,  or  flame  with  fitful  glance. 
Obscured,  or  show'd,  some  dreadful  countenance ; 
And  every  warrior,  as  his  club  he  rear'd. 
With  larger  shadow,  indistinct,  appear'd  ; 
While  more  terrific,  his  wild  locks  and  mien. 
And  fierce  eye  through  the  quivering  smoke  was 

seen. 
In  sea-wolf's  skin,  here  Mariantu  stood ; 
Snash'd    his   white   teeth,  impatient,  and   cried, 

«  Blood !" 
Hi8  lofty  brow  with  crimson  feathers  bound. 
Here,  brooding  death,  the  huge  Ongolmo  frown 'd  ; 


And,  like  a  giant  of  no  earthly  race,     , 

To  his  broad  shoulders  heaved  his  ponderous  mace. 

With  lifted  hatchet,  as  in  act  to  fell. 

Here  stood  the  young  and  ardent  Teucapel. 

Like  a  lone  cypress,  stately  in  decay. 
When  time  has  worn  its  summer  boughs  away, 
And  hung  its  trunk  with  moss  and  lichens  sere. 
The  mountain  warrior  rested  on  his  spear. 
And  thus,  and  at  this  hour,  a  hundred  chiefs. 
Chosen  avengers  of  their  country's  griefs  ; 
Chiefs  of  the  scatter'd  tribes  who  roam  the  plain 
That  sweeps  from  Andes  to  the  western  main, 
Their  country  gods  around  the  coiling  smoke. 
With  sacrifice  and  silent  prayers,  invoke. 
For  all,  at  first,  were  silent  as  the  dead ; 
The  pine  was  heard  to  whisper  o'er  their  head, 
So  stood  the  stern  assembly  :  but  apart. 
Wrapt  in  the  spirit  of  his  fearful  art, 
Alone,  to  hollow  sounds  "  of  hideous  hum," 
The  wizard-seer  struck  his  prophetic  drum. 

Silent  they  stood — and  watch'd,  with   anxious 
eyes, 
What  phantom  shape  might  from  the  ground  arise: 
No  voices  came — no  spectre  form  appear'd 
A  hollow  sound,  but  not  of  winds,  was  heard 
Among  the  leaves,  and  distant  thunder  low 
Seem'd  like  the  moans  of  an  expiring  foe. 

His  crimson  feathers  quivering  in  the  smoke. 
Then,  with  loud  voice,  first  Mariantu  spoke : — 

"  Hail  we  the  omen  I — Spirits  of  the  slain, 
I  hear  your  voices  I    Mourn,  devoted  Spain  ! 
Pale-visaged  tyrants  !  still,  along  our  coasts. 
Shall  we  despairing  mark  your  iron  hosts  ? 
Spirits  of  our  brave  fathers,  curse  the  race 
Who  thus  your  name,  your  memory  disgrace  I 
No  :  though  yon  mountain's  everlasting  snows 
In  vain  Almagro's*  toilsome  march  oppose ; 
Though  Atacama's  long  and  wasteful  plain 
Be  heap'd  with  blackening  carcasses  in  vain  ; 
Though  still  fresh  hosts  those  snowy  summits  scale. 
And  scare  the  llamas  with  their  glittering  mail ; 
Though  sullen  castles  lour  along  our  shore ; 
Though  our  polluted  soil  be  drench'd  with  gore ; 
Insolent  tyrants  !    We — prepared  to  die, 
Your  arms,  your  horses,  and  your  gods,  defy !" 

He  spoke :  the  warriors  stamp'd  upon  the  ground, 
And  tore  the  feathers  that  their  foreheads  bound. 
"  Insolent  tyrants  I"  burst  the  genera]  cry, 
"  We,  met  for  vengeance  !    We — prepared  to  die  ! 
Your  arras,  your  horses,  and  your  gods,  defy  !" 

Then  Teucapel,  with  warm  emotion,  cried, 
"  This  hatchet  never  yet  in  blood  was  dyed  I 
May  it  be  buried  deep  within  my  heart, 
If  living  from  the  conflict  I  depart. 
Till  loud,  from  shore  to  shore,  is  heard  one  cry, 
'  See  !  in  their  gore  where  the  last  tyrants  lie  ."  " 

The  mountain  warrior.     "  0,  that  I  could  raise 
The  hatchet  too,  as  in  my  better  days, 
When  victor  on  Maypocha's  banks  I  stood  ; 
And  while  th'  indignant  river  roll'd  in  blood. 
And  our  swift  arrows  hiss'd  like  rushing  rain, 
I  cleft  Almagro's  iron  helm  in  twain  ! 


•  The  first  Spaniard  who  visited  Chili.  He  entered  it 
by  the  dreadful  passage  of  the  snows  of  the  Andes;  but 
afterwards  the  passage  was  attempted  through  the  desert 
of  Atacama. 


502 


BOWLES. 


My  strength  is  wellnigh  gone  !  years  mark'd  with 

wo 
Have  o'er  me  pass'd,  and  bow'd  my  spirit  low  ! 
Alas,  I  have  no  son  !    Beloved  boj' ! 
Thy  father's  last,  best  hope  ! — ^his  pride  ! — his  joy  ! 
0,  hadst  thou  lived — sole  object  of  my  prayers  I — 
To  guard  my  waning  life,  and  these  gray  hairs  ! 
How  bravely  hadst  thou  now,  in  manhood's  pride, 
Swung  th'  uplifted  war-club  on  my  side  : 
But  the  Great  Spirit  will'd  not !    Thou  art  gone  ; 
And,  weary,  on  this  earth  I  walk  alone : 
Thankful  if  I  may  yield  my  latest  breath. 
And  bless  my  country,  in  the  pangs  of  death  !" 

With  words  deliberate,  and  uplifted  hand ; 
Mild  to  persuade,  yet  dauntless  to  command  ; 
Raising  his  hatchet  high,  Caupolican 
Survey'd  th'  assembled  chiefs,  and  thus  began  : 

"Friends,  fathers,  brothers  —  dear  and  sacred 
names  ! 
Your  stern  resolve  each  ardent  look  proclaims: 
On  then  to  conquest ;  let  one  hope  inspire  ; 
One  spirit  animate — one  vengeance  fire. 
Who  doubts  the  glorious  issue  ?  to  our  foes 
A  tenfold  strength  and  spirit  we  oppose. 
In  them  no  god  protects  his  mortal  sons, 
Or  speaks,  in  thunder,  from  their  roaring  guns. 
Nor  come  they  children  of  the  radiant  sky  ; 
But,  like  the  wounded  snake,  to  writhe  and  die. 
Then,  rush  resistless  on  their  prostrate  hands ; 
Snatch  the  red  lightning  from  their  feeble  hands. 
And  swear,  to  the  great  spirits,  hovering  near — 
Who  now  this  awful  invocation  hear — 
That  we  will  never  see  our  household  hearth, 
rill,  like  the  dust,  we  sweep  them  from  the  earth. 

"  But  vain  our  strength,  that  idly,  in  the  fight. 
Tumultuous  wastes  its  ineffectual  might, 
'Jnless  to  one  the  hatchet  we  confide : 
Let  one,  our  numbers — one,  our  counsels  guide. 
Ind,  lo  !  for  all  that  in  this  world  is  dear, 
•  raise  this  hatchet,  raise  it  high,  and  swear, 
Nfever  again  to  lay  it  down,  till  we, 
4.nd  all  who  love  this  injured  land,  are  free." 
it  once  the  loud  acclaim  tumultuous  ran  : 
'*  Our  spears,  our  life-blood,  for  Caupolican  ! 
With  thee,  for  all  that  in  this  world  is  dear. 
We  lift  our  hatchets,  lift  them  high,  and  swear. 
Never  again  to  lay  them  down,  till  we. 
And  all  who  love  this  injured  land,  are  free." 

Then  thus  the  chosen  chief:    "  Bring  forth  the 
slave, 
And  let  the  death-dance  recreate  the  brave." 

Two  warriors  led  a  Spanish  captive,  bound 
With  thongs  ;  his  eyes  were  fix'd  upon  the  ground. 
Dark  cypresses  the  mournful  spot  enclose  : 
High  in  the  midst  an  ancient  mound  arose, 
Mark'd,  on  each  side,  with  monumental  stones. 
And  white  beneath,  with  sculls  and  scatter'd  bones. 
Four  poniards,  on  the  mound,  encircling  stood, 
With  points  erect,  dark  with  forgotten  blood. 

Forthwith,  with  louder  voice,  the  chief  commands, 

Bring  forth  the  lots — unbind  the  captive's  hands ; 
Then  north,  towards  his  country,  turn  his  face, 
A.nd  dig  beneath  his  feet  a  narrow  space."* 


*  The  reader  is  referred  lo  Molina  for  a  particular  de- 
scription of  the  war-sacrifice,  which  is  very  striking  and 
poetical. 


Caupolican  uplifts  his  axe,  and  cries, 
"  Gods  of  our  land,  be  yours  this  sacrifice  ! 
Now,  listen,  warriors  !" — and  forthwith  commandl 
To  place  the  billets  in  the  captive's  hands. 
"  Soldier,  cast  in  the  lot !" 

With  looks  aghast, 
The  captive  in  the  trench  a  billet  cast. 

"  Soldier,  declare  who  leads  the  arms  of  Spauj 
Where  Santiago  frowns  upon  the  plain  ?" 


"Villagra!" 

WARKIOB. 

"  Earth  upon  the  billet  heap; 
"  So  may  &   yrant's  heart  be  buried  deep  !" 
The  dark  woods  echoed  to  the  long  acclaim, 
"  Accursed  be  his  nation  and  his  name  !" 

WARRIOR. 

"  Captive,  declare  who  leads  the  Spanish  bands, 
Where  the  proud  fortress  shades  Coquimbo's  sands  ?* 


CAPTIVE. 


Ocampo !" 


WARRIOR. 

*'  Earth  upon  the  billet  heap  j 
"  So  may  a  tyrant's  heart  be  buried  deep  !" 
The  dark  woods  echoed  to  the  long  acclaim, 
"  Accursed  be  his  nation  and  his  name  !" 

WARRIOR. 

«  Cast  in  the  lot." 

Again,  with  looks  aghast, 
The  captive  in  the  trench  a  billet  cast. 
"  Pronounce  his  name  who  here  pollutes  the  plain 
The  leader  of  the  mailed  hosts  of  Spain  ?" 

CAPTIVE. 

«  Valdivia  !" 

At  that  name  a  sudden  crj 
Burst  forth,  and  every  lance  was  lifted  high. 


"  Valdivia  ! Earth  upon  the  billet  heap  ; 

"  So  may  a  tyrant's  heart  be  buried  deep  !" 
The  dark  woods  echoed  to  the  long  acclaim, 
"  Accursed  be  his  nation  and  his  name  !" 

And  now  loud  yells,  and  whoops  of  death,  r« 
sound ; 
The  shuddering  captive  ghastly  gazed  around. 
When  the  huge  war-club  smote  him  to  the  grouni* 
Again  deep  stillness  hush'd  the  listening  crowd. 
While  the  prophetic  wizard  sung  aloud. 

SONG  TO   THE    GOD   OF   WAR. 

By  thy  habitation  dread. 
In  the  valley  of  the  dead. 
Where  no  sun,  nor  day  or  night. 
Breaks  the  red  and  dusky  light ; 
By  the  grisly  troops,  that  ride. 
Of  slaughter'd  Spaniards,  at  thy  side, 
Slaughter'd  by  the  Indian  spear, 
Mighty  Epanaum,t  hear  I 


*  Name  of  the  war  deity. 


THE    MISSIONARY. 


fioa 


«  Hark,  the  battle  .'—Hark,  the  din  ! 
Now  the  deeds  of  death  begin  ! 
The  Spaniards  come,  in  clouds  I  above, 
I  hear  their  hoarse  artillery  move  I 
Spirits  of  our  fathers  slain, 
Haste,  pursue  the  dogs  of  Spain  ! 
The  noise  was  in  the  northern  sky ! 
Haste,  pursue  !    They  fly — they  fly ! 
Now  from  the  cavern's  secret  cell, 
Where  the  direst  phantoms  dwell, 
See  they  rush,*  and,  riding  high, 
Break  the  moonlight  as  they  fly ; 
And,  on  the  shadow'd  plain  beneath, 
Shoot,  unseen,  the  shafts  of  death  ! 
O'er  the  devoted  Spanish  camp, 
Like  a  vapour,  dark  and  damp,  , 

May  they  hover,  till  the  plain 
Is  hid  beneath  the  countless  slain  ; 
And  none,  but  silent  women,  tread 
From  corpse  to  corpse,  to  seek  the  dead  I" 
The  wavering  fire  flash'd  with  expiring  light. 
When  shrill  and  hollow,  through  the  cope  of  night, 
A  distant  shout  was  heard  ;  at  intervals 
Increasing  on  the  listening  ear  it  falls. 

It  ceased ;  when,  bursting  from  the  thickest  wood, 
With  lifted  axe,  two  gloomy  warriors  stood: 
Wan  in  the  midst,  with  dark  and  streaming  hair. 
Blown  by  the  winds  upon  her  bosom  bare, 
A  woman,  faint  from  terror's  wild  alarms. 
And  folding  a  white  infant  in  her  arms, 
Appear'd.     Each  warrior  stoop'd  his  lance  to  gaze 
On  her  pale  looks,  seen  ghastlier  through  the  blaze. 
"  Save!"  she  exclaim'd,with  harrow'd  aspect  wild ; 
"  O,  save  my  innocent — my  helpless  child  I" 
Then  fainting  fell,  as  from  death's  instant  stroke. 
Caupolican,  with  stern  inquiry,  spoke — 
"  Whence  come,  to  interrupt  our  awful  rite. 
At  this  dread  hour,  the  warriors  of  the  night  ?" 
"  From  ocean." 

"  Who  is  she  who  fainting  lies, 
And  now  scarce  lifts  her  supplicating  eyes  ?" 

"  The  Spanish  ship  went  down  :  the  seamen  bore. 
In  a  small  boat,  this  woman  to  the  shore : 
They  fell  beneath  our  hatchets, — and  again. 
We  gave  them  back  to  the  insulted  main.f 
The  child  and  woman — of  a  race  we  hate — 
Warriors,  'tis  yourn,  here,  to  decide  their  fate." 
"  Vengeance  !"  aloud,  fierce  Mariantu  cried : 
**  Vengeance  !  let  vengeance  dire  be  satisfied  ! 
Let  none  of  hated  Spanish  blood  remain, 
Woman,  or  child,  to  violate  our  plain  I" 

Amid  that  dark  and  bloody  scene,  the  child 
f  tretch'd   to   the  mountain  chief  his   hands,  and 

smiled. 
A  starting  tear  of  pity  dimm'd  the  eye 
Of  the  old  warrior,  though  he  knew  not  why. 
«« 0  !  think  upon  your  little  ones  !"  he  cried, 
«  Nor  be  compassion  to  the  weak  denied." 

Caupolican  then  fix'dhis  aspect  mild 
On  the  white  woman  and  her  shrieking  child. 


•  Terrific  imaginary  beings,  called  "Man-animals," 
that  leave  their  caves  by  night,  and  scatter  pestilence  and 
death  as  they  fly.    See  Molina. 

t  "  Render  them  back  upon  the  insulted  ocean."— Co?c- 
ridge. 


Then  firmly  spoke  -. — 

"White  woman,  we  were  free. 
When  first  thy  brethren  of  the  distant  sea 
Came  to  our  shores  !     White  woman,  theirs  the 

guilt ! 
Theirs,  if  the  blood  of  innocence  be  spilt ! 
Yet  blood  we  seek  not,  though  our  arms  oppose 
The  hate  of  foreign  and  remorseless  foes : 
Thou  earnest  here  a  captive — so  abide. 
Till  the  Great  Spirit  shall  our  cause  decide." 
He  spoke  :  the  warriors  of  the  night  obey; 
And,  ere  the  earliest  streak  of  dawning  day. 
They  led  her  from  the  scene  of  blood  away. 

Canto    \ 

ARGUMENT. 

Ocean  cave—Spanish  captive— Wild  Indian  nsaid— '^enius 
of  Andes,  and  spirits. 

'Tis  dawn  : — the  distant  Andes'  rocky  spires, 
One  after  one,  have  caught  the  orient  fires. 
Where  the  dun  condor  shoots  his  upward  flight. 
His  wings  are  touch'd  with  momentary  light. 
Meantime, kencath  the  mountains' glittering^  heads, 
A  boundless  ocean  of  gray  vapour  spreads. 
That  o'er  the  champaign,  stretching  far  below. 
Moves  on,  in  cluster'd  masses,  rising  slow. 
Till  all  the  living  landscape  is  display'd 
In  various  pomp  of  colour,  light,  and  shade. 
Hills,  forests,  rivers,  lakes,  and  level  plain. 
Lessening  in  sunshine  to  the  southern  main. 
The  llama's  fleece  fumes  with  ascending  dew ; 
The  gem-like  humming-birds  their  toils  renew ; 
And  see,  where  yonder  stalks,  in  crimson  pride. 
The  tall  flamingo,  by  the  river's  side. 
Stalks,  in  his  richest  plumage  bright  array'd, 
With  snowy  neck  superb,*  and  legs  of  lengthening 

shade. 
Sad  maid,  for  others  may  the  valleys  ring, 
For  other  ears  the  birds  of  morning  sing, 
For  other  eyes  the  palms  in  beauty  wave, 
Dark  is  thy  prison  in  the  ocean  cave  ! 

Amid  that  winding  cavern's  inmost  shade, 
A  dripping  rill  its  ceaseless  murmur  made: 
Masses  of  dim-discover'd  crags  aloof. 
Hung,  threatening,  from  the  vast  and  vaulted  roof; 
And  through  a  fissure,  in  its  glimmering  height, 
Seen  like  a  star,  appear'd  the  distant  light ; 
Beneath  the  opening,  where  the  sunbeams  shine. 
Far  down,  the  rock  weed  hung  its  slender  twine. 
Here,  pale  and  bound,  the  Spanish  captive  lay. 
Till  morn  on  morn,  in  silence,  pass'd  away ; 
When  once,  as  o'er  her  sleeping  child  she  hung. 
And  sad  her  evening  supplication  sung, — 
Like  a  small  gem,  amidst  the  gloom  of  night, 
A  glow-worm  shot  its  green  and  trembling  light,— 
And,  'mid  the  moss  and  craggy  fragments,  shed 
Faint  lustre,  o'er  her  sleeping  infant's  head ; 
And  hark  !  a  voice — a  woman's  voice — its  sound 
Dies,  in  faint  echoes,  'mid  the  vault  profound — 

"  Let  us  pity  the  poor  white  maid  .'t 

She  has  no  mother  near  ! 

No  friend  to  dry  her  tear ! 


*  The  neck  of  the  flamingo  is  white,  and  its  wings  of 
rich  and  beautiful  crimson. 
t  From  Mungo  Park. 


504 


BOWLES. 


Upon  the  cold  earth  she  is  laid : 

Let  us  pity  the  poor  white  maid  !" 
It  seein'd  the  burden  of  a  song  of  wo  ; 
And  mark,  across  the  gloom  an  Indian  girl  move 

slow — 

Her  nearer  look  is  sorrowful,  yet  mild 

Her  hanging  locks  are  wreath'd  with  rock-weed 

wild 

Gently  she  spoke,  *'  Sad  Christian,  dry  thy  tear — 
Art  thou  afraid  ?  all  are  not  cruel  here. 

0  I  still  more  wretched  may  my  portion  be, 
Stranger,  if  1  could  injure  thine  and  thee  ! 
And,  lo  !  I  brin^r,  from  banks  and  thickets  wild, 
Wood-strawberrifcs,  and  honey  for  thy  child." 

SPANISH   WOMAN. 

"  Whence  ?    Who  art  thou,  who,  in  this  fearful 
place, 
Dost  comfort  speak  to  one  of  Spanish  race  ?" 

INDIAN. 

*'  It  is  an  Indian  maid,  who  chanced  to  hear 
Thy  tale  of  sorrow  as  she  wander'd  near. 

1  loved  a  white  man  once — but  he  is  flown, 
And  now  I  wander  heartless  and  alone. 

I  traced  the  dark  and  winding  way  beneath  ; 
But  well  I  know  to  lead  thee  hence  were  death. 
0,  say  !  what  fortunes  led  thee  o'er  the  wave, 
On  these  sad  shores  to  find,  perhaps,  a  grave  ?" 

SPANISH   WOMAN. 

"  Three  years  have  pass'd  since  a  fond  husband 
left 
Me,  and  this  infant,  of  his  love  bereft ; 
Him  I  have  follow'd — need  I  tell  thee  more. 
Cast  helpless,  friendless,  hopeless,  on  this  shore  ?" 

INDIAN. 

"  0  !  did  he  love  thee  then  ?  let  death  betide, 
Yes,  from  this  cavern  I  will  be  thy  guide. 
Nay,  do  not  shrink  !  from  Caracalla's  bay, 
E'en  now,  the  Spaniards  wind  their  march  this 

way. 
I  heard,  at  night-fall  as  I  paced  the  shore, 
But  yesterday,  their  cannon's  distant  roar. 
Wilt  thou  not  follow  ?    He  will  shield  thy  child, — 
The  Christian's  God, — through  passes  dark  and  wild 
He  will  direct  thy  way  !     Come,  follow  me  ; 
0,  yet  be  loved,  be  happr — and  be  free  ! 
But  I,  an  outcast  on  my  r.3f.lve  plain. 
The  lost  Olola  ne'er  shall  smile  again  !" 
So  guiding  from  the  cave,  when  all  was  still. 
And  silent  pointing  to  the  farthest  hill, 
The  Indian  led,  till,  on  Itata's  side, 
The  Spanish  camp  and  night-fires  they  descried  : 
Then  on  the  stranger's  neck  that  wild  maid  fell. 
And  said,  "  Thy  own  gods  prosper  thee  ! — Fare- 
well !" 

The  owl*  is  hooting  overhead — below, 
On  dusky  wing,  the  vampire-bat  sails  slow. 
Ongolmo  stood  before  the  cave  of  night, 
Where  the  great  wizard  sat: — a  lurid  light 
Was  on  his  face ;  twelve  giant  shadows  frown'd. 
His  mute  and  dreadful  ministers,  around. 


•  The  owl  is  an  object  of  peculiar  dread  to  the  Indians 
rf  Chili. 


Each  eyeball,  as  in  life,  was  seen  to  roll, 
Each  lip  to  move ;  but  not  a  living  soui 
Was  there,  save  bold  Ongolmo  and  the  seer. 
The  warrior  half  advanced  his  lifted  spear. 
Then  spoke — "  Dread  master  of  the  secret  lore ! 
Say,  shall  the  Spaniards  welter  in  their  gore  ?" 
"  Let  these  mute  ministers  the  answer  tell," 
Replied  the  master  of  the  mighty  spell. 
Then  every  giant  shadow,  as  it  stood, 
Lifted  on  high  a  skull  that  dropp'd  with  blood. 
*<  Wizard,  to  what  I  ask  do  thou  reply — 
Say,  shall  I  lire,  and  spurn  them  as  they  die  ?* 
'Twas  silence.    "  Speak  !"  he  cried — no  voice  wai 

there — 
Earth  moan'd,  and  hollow  thunder  shook  the  air, 
'Tis  pass'd — the  phantoms,  with  a  shriek,  are  flown, 
And  the  grim  warrior  stands  in  the  wild  wood  alone. 

St.  Pedro's  church  had  rung  its  midnight  chimes,* 
And  the  gray  friars  were  chanting  at  their  primes, 
When  winds,  as  of  &  rushing  hurricane. 
Shook  the  tall  windows  of  the  tovver'd  fane- 
Sounds,  more  than  earthly,  with  the  storm  arose. 
And  a  dire  troop  are  pass'd  to  Andes'  snows, 
Where  mighty  spirits  in  mysterious  ring 
Their  dread  prophetic  incantations  sing, 
Round  Chilian's  crater  smoke,  whose  lurid  light 
Streams  high  against  the  hollow  cope  of  night. 
Thy  genius,  Andes,  towering  o'er  the  rest. 
Rose  vast,  and  thus  a  spectre  shade  address'd. 
"  Who  comes  so  swift  amid  the  storm  ? 

Ha  !  I  know  thy  bloodless  form, 

I  know  thee,  angel,  who  thou  art, 

By  the  hissing  of  thy  dart ! 

'Tis  Death,  the  king  !  the  rocks  around. 

Hark  !  echo  back  the  fearful  sound — 

'Tis  Death,  the  king !  away,  away — 

The  famish'd  vulture  scents  its  prey — 

Spectre,  hence  !  we  cannot  die — 

Thy  withering  weapons  we  defy ; 

Dire  and  potent  as  thou  art !" 
Then  spoke  the  phantom  of  th'  uplifted  dart,— 
"  Spirits  who  in  darkness  dwell, 

I  heard  far  off  your  secret  spell ! 

Enough,  on  yonder  fatal  shore. 

My  fiends  have  drank  your  children's  gore; 

Lo  !  I  come,  and  doom  to  fate 

The  murderers,  and  the  foe  you  ha*e  ! 

Of  all  who  shook  their  hostile  spears. 

And  mark'd  their  way  through  blood  and  tears, 

(Now  sleeping  still  on  yonder  plain,) 

But  one — one  only  shall  remain, 

Ere  thrice  the  morn  shall  shine  again." 
Then  sung  the  mighty  spirits.    "  Thee,"  they  sing 

Hail  to  thee.  Death  !   All  hail,  to  Death  the  king. 

The  battle  and  the  noise  is  o'er — 

The  penguin  flaps  her  wings  in  gore. 
"  Victor  of  the  southern  world, 

Whose  crimson  banners  were  unfurl'd 

O'er  the  silence  of  the  wave?, — ■ 

O'er  a  land  of  bleeding  slaves  ! 

Stern  soldier,  where  is  now  thy  boast  ? 

Thy  iron  steeds,  thy  mailed  hosts  ? 

Hark  !  hark  !  they  are  his  latest  cries  I 

Spirits,  hence  ! — he  dies !  he  dies  !" 

*  I  trust  this  poetica  licentia  may  be  pardoned. 


THE    MISSIONARY. 


50^ 


Canto  VI. 

ARGUMENT. 

The  city  of  Conception— Casile—Lautaro— Wild  Indian 
maid— Zarinel-^Iissionary. 

The  second  moon  had  now  began  to  wane, 
Since  bold  Valdivia  left  the  southern  plain — 
Goal  of  his  labours,  Pence's  port  and  bay. 
Far  gleaming  to  the  summer  sunset  lay. 

The  way-worn  veteran,  who  had  slowly  pass'd 
Through  trackless  woods,  or  o'er  savannahs  vast. 
With  hope  impatient,  sees  the  city  spires 
Gild  the  horizon,  like  ascending  fires. 

Now  well-known  sounds  salute  him,  as  more  near 
The  citadel  and  battlements  appear ; 
Th'  approaching  trumpets  ring,  at  intervals ; 
The  trumpet  answers  from  the  rampart  walls, 
Where  many  a  maiden  casts  an  anxious  eye, 
Some  long-lost  object  of  her  love  to  'spy. 
Or  watches,  as  the  evening  light  illumes 
The  points  of  lances,  or  the  passing  plumes. 
The  grating  drawbridge  and  the  portal  arch 
Now  echo  to  the  long  battalion's  march  ; 
Whilst  every  eye  some  friend  remember'd  greets. 
Amid  the  gazing  crowd  that  throngs  the  streets. 

As  bending  o'er  his  mule,  amid  the  throng. 
Pensive  and  pale,  Anselmo  rode  along, — 
How  sacred,  'mid  the  noise  of  arms,  appear'd 
His  venerable  mien  and  snowy  beard. 

Whilst  every  heart  a  silent  prayer  bestow'd, 
Slow  to  the  convent's  massy  gate  he  rode — 
Around,  the  brothers,  gratulating,  stand, 
And  ask  for  tidings  of  the  southern  land. 

As  from  the  turret  tolls  the  vesper-bell. 
He  seeks,  a  weary  man,  his  evening  cell. 
No  sounds  of  social  cheer,  no  beds  of  state. 
Nor  gorgeous  canopies  his  coming  wait ; 
But  o'er  a  little  bread,  with  folded  hands. 
Thanking  the  God  that  gave,  a  while  he  stands  ; 
Then,  while  all  thoughts  of  earthly  sorrow  cease. 
Upon  his  pallet  lays  him  down  in  peace. 

The  scene  how  different,  where  the  castle-hall 
Rings  to  the  loud  triumphant  festival  : 
A.  hundred  torches  blaze,  and  flame  aloof, — 
Long  quivering  shadows  streak  the  vaulted  roof, — 
Whilst,  seen  far  off,  th'  illumined  windows  throw 
A  splendour  on  the  shore  and  seas  below. 

Amid  his  captains,  in  imperial  state. 
Beneath  a  crimson  canopy,  elate, 
Valdivia  sits — while,  striking  loud  the  strings. 
The  wandering  minstrel  of  Valentia  sings. 

*  For  Chili  conquer'd,  fill  the  bowl  again  ! 
For  Chili  conquer'd,  raise  th'  heroic  strain  !" 

*  Bard,"  cried  Valdivia,  "  sleep  is  on  thy  lid  ! 
Wake,  minstrel ! — sing  the  war-song  of  the  Cid  !"* 

Lautaro  left  the  hall  of  jubilee 
Unmark'd,  and  wander'd  by  the  moonlight  sea ; 
He  heard  far  off,  in  dissonant  acclaim, 
The  song,  the  shout,  and  his  loved  country's  name. 
As  swell'd  at  times  the  trump's  insulting  sound. 
He  raised  his  eyes  impatient  from  tlie  ground  ; 
Then  smote  his  breast  indignantly,  and  cried, 
"  Chili !  my  country ;  would  that  I  had  died 


♦  Omitted  in  the  poem,  as  too  much  impeding  the  nar- 
rative. 


On  the  sad  night  of  that  eventful  day 

When  on  the  ground  my  murder'd  father  lay  ! 

I  should  not  then,  dejected  and  alone, 

Have  thought  I  heard  his  injured  spirit  groan. 

Ha  !  was  it  not  his  form — his  face— his  hair  . 

Hold,  soldier  !    Stern,  inhuman  soldier,  spare  ! 

Ha !  is  it  not  his  blood  ?    '  Avenge,'  he  cries, 

<  Avenge,  my  son,  these  wounds  ."    He  faints  -h« 

dies. 
Leave  me,  dread  shadow  ]  can  I  then  forget 
My  father's  look — his  voice  ?  he  beckons  yet ! 
Now  on  that  glimmering  rock  I  see  him  stand: 
'Avenge."    he    cries,  and  waves    his   dim-seen 

hand !" 
Thus  mused  the  jouth,  distemper'd  and  forlorn, 
When,  hark  !  the  sound  as  of  a  distant  horn 
Swells  o'er  the  surge:  he  turn'd  his  look  around. 
And  still,  with  many  a  pause,  he  heard  the  sound: 
It  came  from  yonder  rocks  ;  and,  list !  what  strain 
Breaks  on  the  silence  of  the  sleeping  main  ? 
"  I  heard  the  song  of  gladness : 

It  seem'd  but  yesterday. 
But  it  turn'd  my  thoughts  to  madness, 
So  soon  it  died  away  ! 
I  sound  my  sea-shell;  but  in  vain  I  try 
To  bring  back  that  enchanting  harmony ! 
Hark  I  heard  ye  not  the  surges  say, 
0  !  wretched  maid,  what  canst  V  :u  do  ? 
O'er  the  moon-gleaming  ocean,  I'll  wander  away. 
And  paddle  to  Spain  in  my  light  canoe  I" 
The  youth  drew  near,  by  the  strange  accents  led 
Where  in  a  cave,  wild  sea-weeds  round  her  head, 
And  holding  a  large  sea-conch  in  her  hand. 
He  saw,  with  wildering  air,  an  Indian  maiden  stand, 
A  tatter'd  panco*  o'er  her  shoulders  hung 
On  either  side,  her  long  black  locks  were  flung; 
And  now  by  the  moon's  glimmer,  he  espies 
Her  high  cheek  bones,  and  bright,  but  hollow,  eyes 
Lautaro  spoke:  "  0  !  say  what  cruel  wrong 
Weighs   on   thy  heart  ?  maiden,  what  bodes   thy 

song  ?" 
She  answer'd  not,  but  blew  her  shell  again  ; 
Then  thus  renew'd  the  desultory  strain : 
"  Yes,  yes,  we  must  forget  I  the  world  is  wide ; 
My  music  now  shall  be  the  dashing  tide: 
In  the  calm  of  the  deep  I  will  frolic  and  swim 
With  the  breath  of  the  south,  o'er  the  sea-blossonj,t 

skim. 
Now  listen — If  ever  you  meet  with  that  youth, 

0  !  do  not  his  falsehood  reprove. 
Nor  say, — though,  alas,  you  would  say  but  the 
truth— 
His  poor  Olola  died  for  love." 
Lautaro  stretch'd  his  hand — she  said,  "Adieu  !" 
And  o'er  the  glimmering  rocks  like  lightning  flew. 
He  follow'd,  and  still  heard  at  distance  swell 
The  lessening  echoes  of  that  mournful  shell. 
It  ceased  at  once — and  now  he  heard  no  more 
Than  the  sea's  murmur  dying  on  the  shore. 
"Olola  .'— ha  !  his  sister  had  that  name  ! 
0,  horrid  fancies  !  shake  not  thus  his  frame." 


♦  Indian  cloak. 

t  The  "  sea-blossom,"  Holothuria,  known  to  seamen  by 
the  name  of  "  Portuguese  man  of  war,"  is  among  the  mofit 
striking  and  beautiful  objects  in  the  calms  of  the  Southern 
ocean. 


506 


BOWLES. 


All  night  he  wander'd  by  the  desert  main, 
To  catch  the  melancholy  sounds  again. 

No  torches  blaze  in  Pence's  castled  hall 
That  echoed  to  the  midnight  festival. 
The  way-worn  soldiers,  by  their  toils  opprest, 
Had  now  retired  to  silence  and  to  rest. 
The  minstrel  only,  who  the  song  had  sung 
Of  the  brave  Cid,  as  o'er  the  strings  he  hung. 
Upon  the  instrument  had  fall'n  asleep, 
Weary,  and  now  was  hush'd  in  slumbers  deep. 
Tracing  the  scenes  long  past,  in  busy  dreams 
Again  he  wanders  by  his  native  streams ; 
Or  sits,  his  evening  saraband  to  sing 
To  the  clear  Minha's  gentle  murmuring. 

Cold  o'er  the  freckled  clouds  the  morning  broke 
Aslant  ere  from  his  slumbers  he  awoke : 
Still  as  he  sat,  nor  yet  had  left  the  place. 
The  first  weak  light  fell  on  his  pallid  face. 
He  wakes — he  gazes  round — the  dawning  day 
Comes  from  the  deep,  in  garb  of  cloudy  gray. 
The  woods  with  crow  of  early  turkeys  ring, 
The  glancing  birds  beneath  the  castle  sing. 
And  the  sole  sun  his  rising  orb  displays. 
Radiant  and  reddening,  through  the  scatter'd  haze. 

To  recreate  the  languid  sense  a  while, 
When  earth  and  ocean  wore  their  sweetest  smile, 
He  wander'd  to  the  beach :  the  early  air 
Blew  soft,  and  lifted,  as  it  blew,  his  hair ; 
Flush'd  was  his  cheek  ;  his  faded  eye,  yet  bright. 
Shone  with  a  faint,  but  animated  light. 
While  the  soft  morning  ray  seem'd  to  bestow 
On  his  tired  mind  a  transient  kindred  glow. 
Then  the  sad  thought  of  young  Olola  rose. 
And  the  still  glen  beneath  the  mountain  snows. 
"  I  will  return,"  he  cried,  "  and  whisper,  live  ! 
And  say — (0  !  can  I  say  ?)  Forgive  !  forgive  !' 
As  thus,  with  shadow  stretching  o'er  the  sand. 
He  mused  and  wander'd  on  the  winding  strand. 
At  distance,  toss'd  upon  the  fuming  tide, 
A  dark  and  floating  substance  he  espied. 
He  stood,  and  where  the  eddying  surges  beat. 
An  Indian  corpse  was  roll'd  beneath  his  feet : 
The  hollow  wave  retired  with  sullen  sound — 
The  face  of  that  sad  corpse  was  to  the  ground ; 
It  seem'd  a  female,  by  the  slender  form ; 
He  touch'd  the  hand — it  was  no  longer  warm; 
He  turn'd  its   face — 0  !    God,  that  eye,  thouglj 

dim, 
Seem'd  with  its  deadly  glare  as  fix'd  on  him. 
How  sunk  his  shuddering  sense,  how  changed  his 

hue. 
When  poor  Olola  in  that  corpse  he  knew  ! 
Lautaro,  rushing  from  the  rocks,  advanced  ; 
His  keen  eye,  like  a  startled  eagle's,  glanced : 
'Tis  she  ! — he  knew  her  by  a  mark  impress'd 
From  earliest  infancy  beneath  her  breast. 

"  0,  my  poor  sister  !  when  all  hopes  were  past 
Of  meeting,  do  we  meet — thus  meet — at  last  ?" 
Then  full  on  Zarinel,  as  one  amazed, 
With  rising  wrath  and  stern  suspicion  gazed ; 
(For  Zarinel  still  knelt  upon  the  sand. 
And  to  his  forehead  press'd  the  dead  maid's  hand.) 

«  Speak  !  whence  art  thou  ?" 

'  Pale  Zarinel,  his  head 

Uj^aising,  answered, 

"  Peace  is  with  the  dead ! 


Him  dost  thou  seek  who  injured  thine  and  thee  ? 
Here— -strike  the  fell  assassin — I  am  he  !" 

"  Die  !"  he  exclaim'd,  and  with  convulsive  start 
Instant  had  plunged  the  dagger  in  his  heart, 
When  the  meek  father,  "with  his  holy  book, 
And  placid  aspect,  met  his  frenzied  look, — 
He  trembled — struck  his  brow — and,  turning  round. 
Flung  the  uplifted  dagger  to  the  ground. 
Then  murmur'd — «  Father,  Heaven  has  heard  thy 

prayer — 
"  But  O  !  the  sister  of  my  soul — ^lies  there  ! 
The  Christian's  God  has  triumph'd  !   Father,  heap 
Some  earth  upon  her  bones,  whilst  I  go  weep  !" 
Anselmo  with  calm  brow  approach'd  the  place. 
And  hasten'd  with  his  staff  his  faltering  pace: 
"  Ho  !  child  of  guilt  and  wretchedness,"  he  criefl, 
"  Speak  !"— «  Holy  father,"  the  sad  youth  replied, 
"  God  bade  the  seas  th'  accusing  victim  roll 
Dead  at  my  feet,  to  teach  my  shuddering  soul 
Its  guilt:  0  !  father,  holy  father,  pray 
That  Heaven  may  take  the  deep  dire  curse  away.* 

"  0  !  yet,"  Anselmo  cried,  "  live  and  repent, 
For  not  in  vain  was  this  dread  warning  sent — 
The  deep  reproaches  of  thy  soul  I  spare. 
Go  !  seek  Heaven's  peace  by  penitence  and  prayer.'* 

The  youth  arose,  yet  trembling  from  the  shock. 
And  sever'd  from  the  dead  maid's  hair  a  lock — 
This  to  his  heart  with  trembling  hand  he  press'd. 
And  dried  the  salt  sea  moisture  on  his  breast. 

They  laid  her  limbs  within  the  sea-beat  grave. 
And  pray'd,  "  Her  soul,  0  !  blessed  Mary,  save  !" 

Canto  VII. 

ARGUMENT. 

Midnight— Valdivia's   tent— Missionary— March    to   th« 
valley  Arauco— First  sight  of  assembled  Indiana. 

The  watchman  on  the  tower  his  bugle  blew. 
And  swelling  to  the  morn  the  streamers  flew, — 
The  rampart  guns  a  dread  alarum  gave. 
Smoke  roll'd,  and  thunder  echoed  o'er  the  wave ; 
When,  starting  from  his  couch,  Valdivia  cried, 
"  What  tidings  ?"  "  Of  the  tribes  !"  a  scout  replied 
"  E'en  now,  prepared  thy  bulwarks  to  assail. 
Their  gathering  numbers  darken  all  the  vale  !" 
Valdivia  call'd  to  the  attendant  youth, 
"  Philip,"  he  cr.ed, «  belike  thy  words  have  truth  ; 
The  formidable  host,  by  holy  James, 
Might  well  appal  our  priests  and  city  dames 

"  Dost  thou   not  fear  ?— — — Nay — dost  tho  i  nc 
reply  ? 
Now  by  the  rood,  and  all  the  saints  on  high, 
I  hold  it  sin — that  thou  shouldst  lift  thy  hand 
Against  thy  brothers  in  thy  native  land ! 
But,  as  thou  saidst,  those  mighty  enemies 
Me  and  my  feeble  legions  would  despise. 
Yes,  by  our  holy  lady,  thou  shalt  ride. 
Spectator  of  their  prowess,  by  my  side ! 
Come  life,  come  death,  our  battle  shall  display 
Its  ensigns  to  the  earliest  beam  of  day  I 
With  louder  summons  ring  the  rampart  bell. 
And  haste  the  shriving  father  from  his  cell— 
A  soldier's  heart  rejoices  in  alarms : 
And  let  the  trump  at  midnight  sound  to  arms  !'* 

And  now,  obedient  to  the  chief's  commands, 
The  gray-hair'd  priest  before  the  soldier  stands  i 


THE    MISSIONARY. 


507 


«  Father,"  Valdivia  cried,  "  fierce  are  our  foes, — 

The  last  event  of  war  God  only  knows  ; — 

Let  mass  be  sung. — Father,  this  very  night 

I  would  attend  the  high  and  holy  rite. 

■^et  deem  not  that  I  doubt  of  victory. 

Or  place  defeat  or  death  before  mine  eye,— 

It  blenches  not !   But,  whatsoe'er  befall. 

Good  father !  I  would  part  in  peace  with  all. 

So  tell  Lautaro — ^his  ingenuous  mind 

Perhaps  may  grieve,  if  late  I  seem'd  unkind : — • 

Hear  my  heart  speak — though  far  from  virtue's  way 

Ambition's  lure  hath  led  my  steps  astray. 

No  wanton  exercise  of  barbarous  power 

Harrows  my  shrinking  conscience  at  this  hour. 

"  If  hasty  passions  oft  my  spirit  fire. 
They  flash  a  moment,  and  the  next  expire ; 
Lautaro  knows  it. — There  is  somewhat  more — 
I  would  not,  here — here,  on  this  distant  shore 
(Should  they,  the  Indian  multitudes,  prevail. 
And  this  good  sword  and  these  firm  sinews  fail) 
Amid  my  deadly  enemies  be  found, 
Unhostled,*  unabsolved,  upon  the  ground, 
A  dying  man, — thy  look,  thy  reverend  age. 
Might  save  my  poor  remains  from  barbarous  rage ; 
And  thou  mayst  pay  the  last  sad  obsequies. 
O'er  the  heap'd  earth  where  a  brave  soldier  lies : — 

So  God  be  with  thee  !" 

By  the  torches'  light, 
The  slow  procession  moves :  the  solemn  rite 
Is  chanted :  through  the  aisles  and  arches  dim, 
At  intervals,  is  heard  th'  imploring  h3'mn. 
Now  all  is  still,  that  only  you  might  hear — 
(The  tall  and  slender  tapers  burning  clear. 
Whose  light  Anselmo's  pallid  brow  illumes 
Now  glances  on  the  mailed  soldier's  plumes) — 
Hear,  sounding  far,  only  the  iron  tread, 
That  echoed  through  the  cloisters  of  the  dead. 

Dark   clouds   are  wandering  o'er  the  heaven's 
wide  way ; 
Now  from  the  camp,  at  times,  a  horse's  neigh 
Breaks  on  the  ear ;  and  on  the  rampart  heightf 
The  sentinel  proclaims  the  middle  watch  of  night. 
By  the  dim  taper's  solitary  ray, 
Tired,  in  his  tent,  the  sovereign  soldier  lay. 

Meantime,  as  shadowy  dreams  arise,  he  roams 
*Mid  bright  pavilions  and  imperial  domes. 
Where  terraces,  and  battlements,  and  towers. 
Glisten  in  air  o'er  rich  romantic  bowers. 
Sudden  the  visionary  pomp  is  past, — 
The  vacant  court  sounds  to  the  moaning  blast, — 
A  dismal  vault  appears, — where,  with  swoln  eyes. 
As  starting  from  their  orbs,  a  dead  man  lies : 
It  is  Almagro's  corpse  I| — roll  on,  ye  drums, 
Lo  !  where  the  great,  the  proud  Pizarro,  comes  I 
Her  gold,  her  richest  gems,  let  fortune  strew 
Before  the  mighty  conqueror  of  Peru  ! 


•  Shakspeare. 

t  It  may  be  necessary  to  say  here,  that  whenever  the 
Spaniards  founded  a  city,  after  the  immediate  walls  of 
defence,  iheir  first  object  was  lo  build  a  church,  and  to 
have,  with  as  much  pomp  as  possible,  the  ecclesiastical 
•ervices  performed.  Hence  the  cathedrals  founded  by 
them,  in  America,  were  of  transcendent  beauty  and 
magnificence 

tAlmagro,  who  firs-;  penetrated  into  Chili,  was  after- 
wards Piransled. 


Ah  !  turn  and  see — a  dagger  in  his  hand 
With  scowling  brow— see  the  assassin  stand ! 
Pizarro  falls  I* — he  welters  in  his  gore  ! 
Lord  of  the  western  world,  art  thou  no  more  ? 
Valdivia,  hark  ! — it  was  another  groan  ! 
Another  shadow  comes  ! — it  is  thy  own  ! 
Ah,  bind  not  thus  his  arms  I — give,  give  him  breath , 
Wipe  from  his  bleeding  brow  those  damps  of  death, 

Valdivia,  starting,  woke  : — he  is  alone : 
The  taper  in  his  tent  yet  dimly  shone: 
"  Lautaro,  haste  !"  he  cried  ;  "  Lautaro,  save 
Thy  dying  master  ! — Ah  I  is  this  the  brave. 
The  haughty  victor  ? — Hush,  the  dream  is  past ! 
The  ear/y  trumpets  ring  the  second  blast ! 
Arm,  arm  ! — E'en   now,  th'  impatient  charger 

neighs  ! 
Again,  from  tent  to  tent,  the  trumpet  brays  !" 
By  torch-light,  then,  Valdivia  gave  command, 
"  Haste,  let  Del  Oro  take  a  chosen  band. 
With  watchful  caution,  on  his  fleetest  steed, 
A  troop  observaTit  on  the  heights  to  lead  !" 

Now  beautiful,  beneath  the  heaven's  gray  arch, 
Appear'd  the  main  battalion's  moving  march  ; 
The  banner  of  the  cross  was  borne  before. 
And  next,  with  aspect  sad,  and  tresses  hoar, 
The  holy  man  went  thoughtfully,  and  prest 
A  crucifix,  in  silence,  to  his  breast. 
Valdivia,  all  in  plated  steel  array'd. 
Upon  whose  crest  the  morn's  eflfulgence  play'd, 
Majestic  rein'd  his  steed,  and  seem'd  alone. 
Worthy  the  southern  world's  imperiaj  throne. 
His  features  through  the  barred  casque  that  glo\r. 
His  pole-axe,  pendent  from  the  saddle  bow ; 
His  steely  armour,  and  the  glitter  bright 
Of  his  drawn  sabre,  in  the  orient  light, 
Speak  him  not,  now,  for  knightly  tournament 
Array'd,  but  on  emprise  of  prowess  bent. 
And  deeds  of  deadly  strife  :  in  blooming  pride, 
Th'  attendant  youth  rode,  pensive,  by  his  side. 
Their  pennon'd  lances,  waving  in  the  wind. 
Two  hundred  clanking  horsemen  trarap'd  behind, 
In  iron  harness  clad — the  bugles  blew. 
And  high  in  air  the  sanguine  ensigns  flew. 
The  arbalasters  next,  with  cross-bows  slung, 
March'd,  whilst  the  plumed  Moors  their  cymbals 

swung. 
Auxiliar  Indians  here,  a  various  train, 
With  spears  and  bows,  darken'd  the  distant  plain. 
Drums  roll'd,  and  fifes  re-echoed  shrill  and  clear. 
At  intervals,  as  near  and  yet  more  near. 
While  flags  and  intermingled  halberts  shine. 
The  long  battalion  drew  its  passing  line. 
Last  roll'd  the  heavy  guns,  a  sable  tier. 
By  Indians  drawn,  with  match-men  in  the  rear 
And  many  a  straggling  mule  and  sumpter  train 
Closed  the  embattled  order  on  the  plain. 
Till  naught  beneath  the  azure  sky  appears 
But  the  projecting  points  of  scarce-discover'd  spear* 

Slow  up  the  hill,  with  floating  vapours  hoar, 
Or  by  the  blue  lake's  long  retiring  shore. 
Now  seen  distinct,  through  the  disparting  haze. 
The  glittering  file  its  banner'd  length  displays  ; 
Now  winding  from  the  woods,  again  appears 
The  moving  line  of  matchlocks  and  of  spears. 


♦  Pizarro  was  assassinated. 


508 


BOWLES. 


Part  seen,  part  lost :  the  long  illustrious  march 
Circling  the  swamp,  now  draws  its  various  arch ; 
And  seems,  as  on  it  moves,  meandering  slow, 
A  radiant  segment  of  a  living  bow. 

Five  days  the  Spaniards,  trooping  in  array. 
O'er  plains,  and  headlands,  held  their  eastern  way. 
On  the  sixth  early  dawn,  with  shuddering  awe. 
And  horror,  in  the  last  defile  they  saw, 
Ten  pendfint  heads,  from  which  the  gore  still  run, 
All  gask'd  and  grim,  and  blackening  in  the  sun  : 
These  were  the  gallant  troop  that  pass'd  before. 
The  Indians'  vast  encampment  to  explore, — 
Led  by  Del  Oro,  now  with  many  a  wound 
Pierced,  and  a  headless  trunk  upon  the  ground. 
The  horses  startled,  as  they  tramp'd  in  blood  ; 
The  troops  a  moment  half-recoiling  stood. 

But  boots  not  now  to  pause,  or  to  retire  ; 
Valdivia's  eye  flash'd  with  indignant  fire : 
"  Onward  !  brave  comrades,  to  the  pass  !"  he  cried — 
"Onward  !"  th'  impatient  cuirassiers  replied. 

And  now,  up  to  the  hill's  ascending  crest. 
With  animated  look  and  beating  breast. 
He  urged  his  steed — when,  wide  beneath  his  eye, 
He  saw,  in  long  expanse,  Arauco's  valley  lie. 

Far  as  the  labouring  sight  could  stretch  its  glance. 
One  undulating  mass  of  club  and  lance, — 
One  animated  surface  seem'd  to  fill 
The  many  stirring  scene,  from  hill  to  hill : 
To  the  deep  mass  he  pointed  with  his  sword, 
"Banner,  advance  !"  Give  out"  Castile  !"  the  word. 

Instant  the  files  advance — the  trumpets  bray, 
And  now  the  host,  in  terrible  array. 
Ranged  on  the  heights  that  overlook  the  plain. 
Has  halted: — 

But  the  task  were  long  and  vain 
To  say  what  nations,  from  the  seas  that  roar 
Round  Patagonia's  melancholy  shore ; 
From  forests,  brown  with  everlasting  shades  ; 
From  rocks  of  sunshine,  white  with  prone  cascades ; 
From  snowy  summits  where  the  llama  roams, 
Oft  bending  o'er  the  cataract  as  it  foams ; 
From  streams,  whose  bridges*  tremble  from  the 

steep; 
From  lakes,  in  summer's  sweetest  light  asleep ; 
Indians,  of  sullen  brow  and  giant  limb. 
With  clubs  terrific,  and  with  aspects  grim, 
Flock'd  fearless. — 

When  they  saw  the  Spanish  line 
Arranged,  and  front  to  front,  descending  shine, 
Burst — instant  burst,  the  universal  cry — 
(Ten  thousand  spears  uplifted  to  the  sky)— 
"  Tyrants,  we  come  to  conquer  or  to  die  !" 

Grim  Mariantu  led  the  Indian  force 
A-left ;  and,  rushing  to  the  foremost  horse, 
Hurl'd  with  unerring  aim  th'  involving  thong, — 
Then  fearless  sprung  amidst  the  mailed  throng. 

Valdivia  saw  the  horse,  entangled,  reel. 
And  shouting,  as  he  rode,  "  Castile  !  Castile !" 
Led  on  the  charge : — like  a  descending  flood. 
It  swept,  till  every  spur  was  black  with  blood. 
His  force  a-right,  where  Elicura  led, 
A  thousand  spears  went  hissing  overhead, 
And  feather'd  arrows,  of  each  varying  hue, 
In  glancing  arch,  beneath  the  sunbeams  flew. 

*  Rude  hanging  bridges,  constructed  by  the  natives. 


Dire  was  the  strife,  when  ardent  Teucapel 

Advancing,  in  the  front  of  carnage,  fell. 

At  once,  Ongolmo,  Elicura,  rush'd. 

And  swaying  their  huge  clubs  together,  crush'd 

Horseman  and  horse;  then  bathed  their  hands  ia 

gore. 
And  limb  from  limb  the  panting  carcass  tore 
Caupolican,  where  the  main  battle  bleeds, 
Hosts,  and  succeeding  hosts,  undaunted  leads, 
Till,  torn  and  shatter'd  by  the  ceaseless  fire, 
Thousands,with  gnashing  teeth,  and  clenched  spc^ri, 

expire. 
Pierced  by  a  hundred  wounds,  Ongolmo  lies. 
And  grasps  his  club  terrific  as  he  dies. 

With  breathless  expectation,  on  the  height, 
Lautaro  watch'd  the  long  and  dubious  fight : 
Pale  and  resign 'd  the    meek    man   stood,  and 

press'd 
More  close  the  holy  image  to  his  breast. 
Now  nearer  to  the  fight  Lautaro  drew. 
When  on  the  ground  a  warrior  met  his  view, 
Upon  whose  features  memory  seem'd  to  trace 
A  faint  resemblance  of  his  father's  face  ; 
O'er  him  a  horseman,  with  collected  might. 
Raised  his  uplifted  sword,  in  act  to  smite. 
When  the  youth  springing  on,  without  a  word, 
Snatch'd  from  a  soldier's  wearied  grasp  the  sword. 
And  smote  the  horseman  through  the  crest :  a  yell 
Of  triumph  burst,  as  to  the  ground  he  fell. 
Lautaro  shouted,  "  On  !  brave  brothers,  on  ! 
Scatter  them,  like  the  snow  ! — -the  day  is  won  ! 
Lo,  I !  Lautaro, — Attacapac's  son  !" 

The  Indians  turn  :  again  the  battle  bleeds — 
Cleft  are  the  helms,  and  crush 'd  the  struggling  steeds. 
The  bugle  sounds,  and  faint  with  toil  and  heat. 
Some  straggling  horsemen  to  the  hills  retreat. 
"  Stand,  brave  companions  !"  bold  Valdivia  cried, 
And  shook  his  sword,  in  recent  carnage  died. 
"  0  !  droop  not — droop  not  yet — all  is  not  o'er — 
Brave,  faithful  friends,  one  glorious  sally  more  ! — 
Where  is  Lautaro  ?  leaps  his  willing  sword 
Now  to  avenge  his  long-indulgent  lord  ?" 
He  waited  not  for  answer,  but  again 
Spurr'd  to  the  centre  of  the  horrid  plain. 
Clubs,  arrows,  spears,  the  spot  of  death  enclose, 
And  fainter  now  the  Spanish  shouts  arose. 
'Mid  ghastly  heaps  of  many  a  bleeding  corpse, 
Lies  the  caparison'd  and  dying  horse. 
While  still  the  rushing  multitudes  assail, 
Vain  is  the  fiery  tube,  the  twisted  mail ! 
The  Spanish  horsemen  faint:  long  yells  resound 
As  the  dragg'd  ensign  trails  the  gory  ground. 

"  Shout,  for  the  chief  is  seized !" — a  thousand 
cries 
Burst  forth — "  Valdivia  !  for  the  sacrifice  !" 
And  lo,  in  silent  dignity  resign'd. 
The  meek  Anselmo,  led  in  bonds,  behind  ! 
His  hand  upon  his  breast,  young  Zarinel 
Amidst  a  group  of  mangled  Indians  fell : 
The  spear,  that  to  his  heart  a  passoge  found. 
Left  poor  Olola's  hair  within  the  wound. 

Now  all  is  hush'd— save  where,  at  times,  alont 
Deep  midnight  listens  to  a  distant  moan. 
Save  where  the  condors  clamour,  overhead. 
And  strike  with  sounding  beaks  the  helmets  of  the 
dead. 


THE  MISSIONARY 


509 


Canto  VIII. 

ARGUaiENT. 

Indian  festival  for  viciory—Old  warrior  brought  in  wounded 
—Recognises  his  long-lost  son,  and  dies— Discovery- 
Conclusion  with  the  old  warrior's  funeral,  and  prophetic 
oration  by  the  Missionary. 

The  morn  returns,  and  reddening  seems  to  shed 
One  ray  of  glory  on  the  patriot  dead  ! 
Round  the  dark  stone,  the  victor  chiefs  behold  ! 
Still  on  their  locks  the  gouts  of  gore  hang  cold  ! 
There  stands  the  brave  Caupolican,  the  pride 
"^f  Chili,  young  Lautaro  by  his  side  ! 
Near  the  grim  circle,  pendent  from  the  wood, 
Twelve-  hundred  Spanish  heads  are  dropping  blood. 
Shrill  sound  the  pipes  of  death :  in  festive  dance, 
The  Indian  maids  with  myrtle  boughs  advance  ; 
The  tinkling  sea-shells  on  their  ankles  ring, 
As,  hailing  thus  the  victor  youth,  they  sing : — 

SONG   OF   INDIAN   MAIDS. 
1. 

*  0,  shout  for  Lautaro,  the  young  and  the  brave ! 
The  arm  of  whose  strength  was  uplifted  to  save. 
When  the  steeds  of  the  strangers  came  rushing 

amain, 
And  the  ghosts  of  our  fathers  look'd  down  on  the 

slain ! 

2. 

**'Twas  eve,  and  the  noise  of  the  battle  was  o'er. 
Five  thousand  brave  warriors  were  cold  in  their 

gore  : 
When  in  front,  young  Lautaro  invincible  stood. 
And  the  horses  and  iron  men  roll'd  in  their  blood  ! 

3. 

"As  the  snows  of  the  mountain  are  swept  by  the 

blast, 
The  earthquake  of  death  o'er  the  white  men  has 

pass'd ; 
Shout,  Chili,  in  triumph  !  the  battle  is  won, 
And  we  dance  round  the  heads  that  are  black  in 

the  sun  !" 

Laui'»ro,  as  if  wrapt  in  thought  profotmd, 
Oft  turn'd  an  anxious  look  inquiring  round. 
'  He  is  not  here  ! — Say,  does  my  father  live  ?" 
Ere  eager  voices  could  an  answer  give, 
With  faltering  footsteps  and  declining  head, 
And  slowly  by  an  aged  Indian  led, 
Wounded  and  weak  the  mountain  chief  appears : 
•'  Live,  live  I"  Lautaro  cried,  with  bursting  tears. 
And  fell  upon  his  neck,  and  kissmg  press'd, 
With  folding  arms,  his  gray  hairs  to  his  breast. 
**  O,  live  !  I  am  thy  son — thy  long-lost  child  !" 
The  warrior  raised  his  look,  and  faintly  smiled — 
"Chili,  my  country,  is  avenged  !"  he  cried : 
"My  son  !" — then  sunk  upon  a  shield — and  died 

Lautaro  knelt  beside  him,  as  he  bow'd, 
And  kiss'd  his  bleeding  breast,  and  wept  aloud. 
The  sounds  of  sadness  through  the  circle  ran, 
When  thus,  with  lifted  axe,  Caupolican, — 
"  What,  for  our  fathers,  brothers,  children,  slain, 
Caust  thou  repay,  ruthless,  inhuman  Spain  ? — 


Here,  on  the  scene  with  recent  slaughter  red, 
To  soothe  the  spirits  of  the  brave  who  bled. 
Raise  we,  to-day,  the  war-feast  of  the  dead. 
Bring  forth  the  chief  in  bonds  I — Fathers,  to-day. 
Devote  we  to  our  gods  the  noblest  prey." 

Lautaro  turn'd  his  eyes,  and,  gazing  round, 
Beheld  Valdivia,  and  Anselmo,  bound  !  / 

One  stood  in  arms,  as  with  a  stern  despair. 
His  helmet  cleft  in  twain,  his  temples  bare, — 
Where  streaks  of  blood,  that  dropt  upon  his  mail. 
Served  but  to  show  his  face  more  deadly  pale: 
His  eyebrows,  dark  and  resolute,  he  bent. 
And  stood,  composed,  to  wait  the  dire  event. 

Still  on  the  cross  his  looks  Anselmo  cast. 
As  if  all  thought  of  this  vain  world  Avas  pass'd, — 
And  in  a  world  of  light,  without  a  shade, 
E'en  now  his  meek  and  guileless  spirit  stray*d. 
Where  stood  the  Spanish  chief,  a  muttering  sound 
Rose,  and  each  club  was  lifted  from  the  ground  ; 
When,  starting  from  his  father's  corpse,  his  sword 
Waving  before  his  once  triumphant  lord, 
Lautaro  cried,  "  My  breast  shall  meet  the  blow : 
But  save — save  him,  to  whom  my  life  I  owe  !" 

Valdivia  raark'd  hifh  with  unmoved  eye, 
Then  look'd  upon  his  bonds,  nor  deign'd  reply ; 
When  Mariantu, — stealing  with  slow  pace. 
And  lifting  high  his  iron-jagged  mace, — 
Smote  him  to  earth :  a  thousand  voices  rose, 
Mingled   with   shouts   and  yells,  "  So   fall   our 
foes  !" 

Lautaro  gave  to  tears  a  moment's  space, 
As  black  in  death  he  ma-rk'd  Valdivia's  iace, 
Then  cried,  — "  Chiefs,  friends,  and  thou,  CaupoL'- 

can, 
O,  spare  this  innocent  and  holy  man  ! 
He  never  sail'd  rapacious  o'er  the  deep, 
The  gold  of  blood-polluted  lands  to  heap. 
He  never  gave  the  armed  hosts  his  aid — 
But  meekly  to  the  Mighty  Spirit  pray'd. 
That  in  all  lands  the  sounds  of  wo  might  cease. 
And  brothers  of  the  wide  world  dwell  in  peace  !" 
The  victor  youth  saw  generous  sympathy 
Already  steal  to  every  warrior's  eye ; 
Then  thus  again  : — "  0,  if  this  filial  tear 
Bear  witness  my  own  father  was  most  dear  !— 
If  this  uplifted  arm,  this  bleeding  steel 
Speak,  for  my  country  what  I  felt,  and  feel  j 
If,  at  this  hour,  I  meet  her  high  applause. 
While  my  heart  beats  still  ardent  in  her  cause ; — 
Hear,  and  forgive  these  tears  that  grateful  flow 
0  !  hear  how  much  to  this  poor  man  I  owe. 

"  I  was  a  child — when  to  my  sire's  abode. 
In  Chilian's  vale,  the  armed  horsemen  rode : 
Me,  whilst  my  father  cold  and  breathless  lay. 
Far  off  the  crested  soldiers  bore  away, 
And  for  a  captive  sold.    No  friend  was  near, 
To  mark  a  young  and  orphan  stranger's  tear  : 
This  humble  man,  with  kind  parental  care, 
Snatch'd  me  from  slavery — saved  from  dark  de- 
spair ; 
And  as  my  years  increased,  protected,  fed. 
And  breathed  a  father's  blessings  on  my  head. 
A  Spanish  maid  was  with  him :  need  I  speak  ? 
Behold,  affection's  tear  still  wets  my  cheek ! 
Years,  as  thej'  pass'd,  matured  in  ripening  grace 
Her  form  unfolding,  and  her  beauteous  face: 


510 


BOWLES. 


She  heard  my  orphan  tale ;  she  loved  to  hear, 
And  sometimes  for  my  fortunes  dropp'd  a  tear. 

"  Valdivia  saw  me,  now  in  blooming  age, 
And  claim 'd  me  from  the  father  as  his  page  ; 
The  chief  too  cherish'd  me — yea,  saved  my  life, 
When  in  Peru  arose  the  civil  strife. 
Yet  still  remembering  her  I  loved  so  well. 
Oft  I  return 'd  to  the  gray  father's  cell: 
His  voice  instructed  me  ;  recall'd  my  youth 
From  rude  idolatry  to  heavenly  truth  : 
Of  this  hereafter.     He  my  darkling  mind 
Clear'd,  and  from  low  and  sensual  thoughts  refined 
Then  first,  with  feelings  new  irapress'd,  I  strove 
To  hide  the  tear  of  tenderness  and  love  : 
Amid  the  fairest  maidens  of  Peru, 
My  eyes,  my  heart,  one  only  object  knew : 
I  lived  that  object's  love  and  faith  to  share ; 
He  saw,  and  bless'd  us  with  a  father's  prayer. 

"  Here,  at  Valdivia's  last  and  stern  command, 
I  came — a  stranger  in  my  native  land  ! 
Anselmo  (so  him  call — now  most  in  need — 
And  standing  here  in  bonds,  for  whom  I  plead) 
Came,  by  our  chief  so  summon'd,  and  for  aid 
To  the  Great  Spirit  of  the  Christians  pray'd : 
Here  as  a  son  I  loved  him,  but  I  left 
A  wife,  a  child,  of  .my  fond  cares  bereft, 
Never  to  see  again — for  death  awaits 
My  entrance  now  in  Lima's  jealous  gates. 

«  Caupolican,  didst  thou  thy  father  love  ? 
Did  his  last  dying  look  affection  move  ? — 
Pity  this  aged  man  ;  unbend  thy  brow: 
He  was  my  father — is  my  father  now  !" 

Consenting  mercy  marks  each  warrior's  mien. — 
But  who  is  this  ? — what  pallid  form  is  seen  ? 
As  crush'd  already  by  the  fatal  blow, — 
Bound,  and  with  looks  white  as  a  wreath  of  snow, — 
Her  hands  upon  her  breast, — scarce  drawn  her 

breath, — ■ 
A  Spanish  woman  knelt,  expecting  death, 
Whilst,  borne  by  a  dark  warrior  at  her  side, 
An  infant  shrunk  from  the  red  plumes,  and  cried. 

Lautaro  started 

« Injured  maid  of  Spain  ! 
Me !— me !— -0,  take  me  to  thine  arms  again !" 
She  heard  his  voice, — with  rushing  thoughts  op- 

press'd, 
And  one  faint  sigh,  she  sunk  upon  his  breast. 

Caupolican,  with  warm  emotion,  cried, 
"  Live  !  live,  Lau'iTO  !  and  his  beauteous  bride  .' 
Live,  aged  father!" — and  forthwith  commands 
A  warrior  to  unbind  Anselmo's  hands. 
She  raised  her  head  :  his  eyes  first  met  her  view — 
(As  round  Lautaro's  neck  her  arms  she  threw)— 
«*  Ah,  no  !"  she  feebly  spoke  ;  "  it  is  not  true  ! — 
It  is  some  form  of  the  distemper 'd  brain  !" 
Then  hid  her  face  upon  his  breast  again. 

Dark  flashing  eyes,-  terrific,  glared  around : 
Here,  his  brains  scatter'd  by  the  deadly  wound, 
The  Spanish  chief  lay,  on  the  gory  ground. 
With  lowering  brows,  and  mace  yet  dropping 

blood, 
And  clotted  hair,  there  Mariantu  stood. 
Anselmo  mournful,  yet  in  sorrow  mild, 
Stood  opposite  : — "  A  blessing  on  your  child," 
The  woman  said,  as  slow  revived  her  waking  sense, 
"^.nd  then,  with  looks  aghast,  "  0  bear  us  hence  !" 


Now  all  th'  assembled  chiefs,  assenting,  cried, 
"  Live,  live  !    Lautaro  and  his  beauteous  bride  !" 
With  eager  arms,  Lautaro  snatch'd  his  boy. 
And  kiss'd  him  in  an  agony  of  joy ; 
Then  to  Anselmo  gave,  who  strove  to  speak. 
And  felt  the  tear  first  burning  on  his  cheek : 
The  infant  held  his  neck  with  strict  embrace, 
And  kiss'd  his  pale  emaciated  face. 

From  the  dread  scene,  wet  with  Valdivia's  gor« 
His  wan  and  trembling  charge  Lautaro  bore. 
There  was  a  bank,  where  tjept  the  summer  light, 
A  small  stream  whispering  went  in  mazes  bright 
And  stealing  from  the  sea,  the  western  wind 
Waved  the  magnolias  on  the  slope  inclined : 
The  woodpecker,  in  glittering  plumage  green, 
And  echoing  bill,  beneath  the  boughs  was  seen ; 
^And,  arch'd  with  gay  and  pendent  flowers  above 
The  floripondio*  its  rich  trellis  wove. 
Lautaro  bent  with  looks  of  love  and  joy 
O'er  his  yet  trembling  wife  and  beauteous  boy. 

"  0,  by  what  miracle,  beloved  !  say. 
Hast  thou  escaped  the  perils  of  the  way 
From  Lima,  where  our  peaceful  dwelling  stood. 
To  these  terrific  shores,  this  vale  of  blood  ?" 
Waked  by  his  voice,  as  from  the  sleep  of  death. 
Faint  she  replied,  with  slow  recovering  breath, 
"  Who  shall  express,  when  thou,  best  friend  !  wert 

gone. 
How  sunk  my  heart ! — deserted  and  alone 
<  Would  I  were  with  thee  J'  oft  I  sat  and  sigh'd 
When  the  pale  moon  shone  on  the  silent  tide— 
At  length  resolved,  I  sought  thee  o'er  the  seas : 
The  brave  bark  cheerly  went  before  the  breeze 
That  arms  and  soldiers  to  Valdivia -bore. 
From  Lima  bound  to  Chili's  southern  shore 
I  seized  the  fair  occasion — ocean  smiled. 
As  to  the  sire  I  bore  his  lisping  child. 
The  storm  arose :  with  loud  and  sudden  shock, 
The  vessel  sunk,  disparting  on  a  rock. 
Some  mariners,  amidst  the  billows  wild. 
Scarce  saved,  in  one  small  boat,  me  and  my  chiW  i 
What  I  have  borne,  a  captive  since  that  day — 
(Forgive  these  tears) — I  scarce  have  heart  to  say  ! 
None  pitied,  save  one  gentle  Indian  maid — 
A  wild  maid, — of  her  looks  I  was  afraid ; 
Her  long  black  hair  upon  her  shoulders  fell. 
And  in  her  hand  she  bore  a  wreathed  shell." 

Lautaro  for  a  moment  turn'd  aside. 
And,  "  O  !  my  sister  !"  with  faint  voice  he  cried. 
"  Already  free  from  sorrow  and  alarms, 
I  clasp'd  in  thought  a  husband  in  my  arms. 
When  a  dark  warrior,  station'd  on  the  height. 
Who  held  his  solitary  watch  by  night. 
Before  me  stood,  and  lifting  high  his  lance 
Exclaim 'd, '  No  further,  on  thy  life,  advance  !' 
Faint,  wearied,  sinking  to  the  earth  with  dread 
Back  to  the  dismal  cave  my  steps  he  led. 
Duly  at  eve,  within  the  craggy  cleft. 
Some  water,  and  a  cake  of  maize,  were  left: 
The  thirteenth  sun  unseen  went  down  the  sky: 
When  morning  came,  they  brought  me  forth  to  die 
But  hush'd  be  every  sigh,  each  boding  fear. 
Since  all  I  sought  on  earth,  and  all  I  love,  is  here  : 

*  One  of  the  most  beautiful  of  the  beautiful  climbing 
plants  of  South  America. 


THE   MISSIONARY. 


511 


Her  infant  raised  his  hands,  with  glistening  eye, 
To  reach  a  large  and  radiant  butterfly, 
That  flutter'd  near  his  face  ;  with  looks  of  love, 
And  truth  and  tenderness,  Lautaro  strove 
To  calm  her  wounded  heart ;  the  holy  sire. 
His  eyes  faint  lighted  with  a  transient  fire. 
Hung  o'er  them,  and  to  Heaven  his  prayer  addrest, 
While,  with  uplifted  hands,  he  wept  and  blest. 

An  Indian  came,  with  feathers  crown 'd. 
And  knelt  before  Lautaro  on  the  ground. 
•*  What  tidings,  Indian  ?' 


«  When  I  led  thy  sire, 
Whom  late  thou  saw'st  upon  his  shield  expire. 
Son  of  our  ulmen,  didst  thou  mark  no  trace. 
In  these  sad  looks,  of  a  rempmber'd  face  ? 
Dost  thou  remember  Izdabel  ?   Look,  here  ! 
It  is  thy  father's  hatchet  and  his  spear." 

"  Friend  of  my  infant  days,  how  I  rejoice," 
Lautaro  cried,  "  once  more  to  hear  that  voice  ! 
Life  like  a  dream,  since  last  we  met,  has  fled — 
0 !  my  beloved  sister,  thou  art  dead  !" 


'*  I  come  to  guide  thee,  through  untrodden  ways. 
To  the  lone  valley,  where  thy  father's  days 
Were  pass'd  ;  where  every  cave,  and  every  tree, 
From  morn  to  morn,  remember'd  him  of  thee  !" 

Lautaro  cried,  "  Here,  faithful  Indian,  stay ; 
1  have  a  last  sad  duty  yet  to  pay, 
A  little  while  we  part : — Thou  here  remain  :" 
He  spake,  and  pass'd  like  lightnijig  o'er  the  plain. 
"  Ah,  cease,  Castilian  maid  !  thy  vain  alarms  ! 
See  where  he  comes — his  father  in  his  arms  !" 

"  Now  lead,"  he  cried. — The  Indian,  sad  and  still, 
Paced  on  from  wood  to  vale,  from  vale  to  hill ; 
Her  infant  tired,  and  hush'd  a  while  to  rest. 
Smiled,  in  a  dream,  upon  its  mother's  breast ; 
The  pensive  mother  gray  Anselmo  led : 
Behind,  Lautaro  bore  his  father  dead. 

Beneath  the  branching  palms  they  slept  at  night  • 
The  small  birds  waked  them  ere  the  morning 

light. 
Before  their  patli,  in  distant  view,  appear'd 
The  mountain  smoke,  that  its  dark  column  rear'd 
O'er  Andes'  summits,  in  the  pale  blue  skj'-. 
Lifting  their  icy  pinnacles  so  high. 
Four  days  they  onward  held  their  eastern  way : 
On  the  fifth  rising  morn  before  them  lay 
Chilian's  lone  glen,  amid  whose  windings  green 
The  warrior's  loved  and  last  abode  was  seen. 
No  smoke  went  up, — stillness  was  all  around. 
Save  where  the  waters  fell  with  soothing  sound, 
Save  where  the  thenca  sung  so  loud  and  clear. 
And  the  bright  humming-bird  war-  spinning  near. 
Yet  here  all  human  tumults  seem'd  to  cease. 
And  sunshine  rested  on  the  spot  of  peace  ; 
The  myrtles  bloom'd  as  fragrant  and  as  green 
As  if  Lautaro  scarce  had  left  the  scene. 
And  in  his  ear  the  falling  water's  spray 
Seem'd  swelling  with  the  sounds  of  yesterday. 
"  Where  yonder  rock  the  aged  cedars  shade. 
There  shall  my  father's  bones  in  peace  be  laid." 

Beneath  the  cedar's  shade  they  dug  the  ground ; 
Ihe  small  and  sad  communion  gather'd  round. 


Beside  the  grave  stood  aged  Izdabel, 
And  broke  the  spear,  and  cried,  "  Farewell ! — fare- 
well !— " 
Lautaro  hid  his  face,  and  sigh'd  «  Adieu  !" 
As  the  stone  hatchet  in  the  grave  he  threw. 
The  little  child,  that  to  its  mother  clung. 
With  sidelong  looks,  that  on  her  garment  hung. 
Listen 'd,  half-shrinking,  as  with  awe  profound, 
And  dropt  its  flowers,  unconscious,  on  the  ground. 
The  alpaca,  now  grown  old,  and  almost  wild. 
Which  poor  Olola  cherish'd,  when  a  child. 
Came  from  the  mountains,  and  with  earnest  gaze, 
Seem'd  as  remembering  those  departed  days. 
When  his  tall  neck  he  bent,  with  aspect  bland. 
And  lick'd,  in  silence,  the  caressing  hand  ! 

And  now  Anselmo,  his  pale  brow  inclined. 
The  warrior's  relics,  dust  to  dust,  consign'd 
With  Christian  rites,  and  sung,  on  bending  knee, 
"  Eternam  pacem  dona,  Domine." 
Then  rising  up,  he  closed  the  holy  book ; 
And  lifting  in  the  beam  his  lighted  look, 
(The  cross,  with  meekness,  folded  on  his  breast,) 
"Here,  too,"  he  cried,  "  my  bones  in  peace  shall 

rest ! 
Few  years  remain  to  me,  and  never  more 
Shall  I  behold,  O  Spain  !  thy  distant  shore  ! 
Here  lay  my  bones,  that  the  same  tree  may  wave 
O'er  the  poor  Christian's  and  the  Indian's  grave. 
Then  may  it — (when  the  sons  of  future  days 
Shall  hear  our  tale,  and  on  the  hillock  gaze,) 
Then  may  it  teach,  that  charity  should  bind. 
Where'er  they  roam,  the  brothers  of  mankiri€  ! 
The  time  shall  come,  when  wildest  tribes  shall  hear 
Thy  voice,  O  Christ !  and  drop   the   slaughtering 
spear. 
"  Yet,  we  condemn  not  him  who  bravely  stood, 
To  seal  his  country's  freedom  with  his  blood ; 
And  if,  in  after-times,  a  ruthless  band 
Of  fell  invaders  sweep  my  jiative  land. 
May  she,  by  Chili's  stern  example  led. 
Hurl  back  his  thunder  on  th'  assailant's  head ; 
Sustain'd  by  freedom,  strike  th'  avenging  blow, 
And  learn  one  virtue  from  her  ancient  foe  i" 

EPILOGUE. 
These  notes  I  sung  when  strove  indignant  Spain 
To  rend  th'  abhorr'd  invader's  iron  chain  ! 

With  beating  heart,  we  listen'd  from  afar 
To  each  faint  rumour  of  the  various  war  ; 
Now  trembled,  lest  her  fainting  sons  should  yield  { 
Now  follow'd  thee  to  the  ensanguined  field ; 
Thee,  most  heroic  Wellington,  and  cried. 
When  Salamanca's  plain  in  shouts  replied, 
"  All  is  not  lost !    The  scatter'd  eagles  fly — 
All  is  not  lost !    England  and  victory  !" 

Hark  !  the  noise  hurtles  in  the  frozen  north  ! 
France  pours  again  her  banner'd  legions  forth. 
With  trump,  and  plumed  horsemen  !  Whence  that 

cry  ? 
Lo  !  ancient  Moscow  flaming  to  the  sky ! 
Imperial  fugitive  !  back  to  the  gates 
Of  Paris  !  while  despair  the  tale  relates. 
Of  dire  discomfiture,  and  shame,  and  flight, 
And  the  dead,  bleaching  on  the  snows  of  nighi. 

Shout !  for  the  heart  ennobling  transport  fills  ! 
Conquest's  red  banner  floats  along  the  hills 


518 


BOWLES. 


That  gird  the  guilty  city !     Shout  amain, 
For  Europe, — England, — for  deliver'd  Spain  ! 
Shout,  for  a  world  avenged  ! 

The  toil  is  o'er,— 
Enough  wide  earth  hath  reek'd  witli  human  gore — 
At  Waterloo,  amidst  the  countless  dead. 
The  war-fiend  gave  his  last  loud  shriek,  and  fled. 
Thou  stood'st  in  front,  my  country  !  on  that  day 
Of  horrors  ;  thou  more  awful  didst  display 
Thy  long-tried  valour,  when  from  rank  to  rank 
Death  hurrying  strode,  and  that  vast  army  shrank 
Soldiers  of  England,  the  dread  day  is  won  ! 
Soldiers  of  England,  on,  brave  comrades,  on  ! 
Pursue  them  !   Yes,  ye  did  pursue,  till  night 
Hid  the  foul  rout  of  their  disastrous  flight. 

Halt  on  this  hill — your  wasted  strength  repair. 
And  close  your  labours,  to  the  well  known  air. 
Which  e'en  your  children  sing,  "  0  Lord,  arise  !" 
Peals  the  long  line,  "  Scatter  his  enemies  !" 
Back  to  the  scenes  of  home,  the  evening  fire. 
Or  May-day  sunshine  on  the  village  spire, 
The  blissful  thought  by  that  loved  air  is  led. 
Here  heard  amidst  the  dying  and  the  dead.* 

'Twas  when  affliction  with  cold  shadow  hung 
On  half  the  wasted  world,  these  notes  I  sung. 
Thus  pass'd  the  storm,  and  o'er  a  night  of  woes 
More  beautiful  the  morn  of  freedom  rose. 
Now  with  a  sigh,  I  close,  alas  !  the  strain. 
And  mourn  thy  fate,  abused,  insulted  Spain  ! 
W^hen,  for  stern  Valour,  baring  his  bold  breast, 
I  see  wan  Bigotry,  in  monkish  vest,t 
Point,«6cowling,  to  the  dungeon's  gloom,  and  wave 
The  sword  insulting  o'er  the  fallen  brave, 
(The  sword  of  him  who  foreign  hate  withstood. 
Whose  point  yet  drops  with  the  invader's  blood,) 
Then,  where  yon  darkij:  tribunal  shames  the  day, 
Hurl  it  with  curses  and  with  scorn  away  ! 

Turn  from  the  thought :  and  if  one  generous  heart 
In  these  fictitious  scene§  has  borne  a  part. 
For  the  poor  Indian  in  remotest  lands, 
The  sable  slave,  that  lifts  his  bleeding  hands. 
For  wretchedness,  and  ignorance,  and  need, 
O  !  let  the  aged  missionary  plead  ! 

The  tale  is  told — a  tale  of  days  of  yore. 
The  soldier — the  gray  father — are  no  more ; 
And  the  brief  shades,  that  pleased  a  while  the  eye 
Are  faded,  like  the  landscapes  of  the  sky. 

Yet  may  the  moral  still  remain  impress'd 
To  warm  the  patriot,  or  the  pious  breast. 
Where'er  aggression  marches,  may  the  brave 
Rush  unappall'd  their  father's  land  to  save  ! 
Where  sounds  of  glad  salvation  are  gone  out 
Unto  all  lands,  as  with  an  angel's  shout. 
May  holy  zeal  its  energies  employ  ! 
Rocks  of  Saldanna,  break  forth  into  joy  ! 
Isles,  o'er  the  waste  of  desert  ocean  strown. 
Rivers,  that  sweep  through  shades  and  sands  un- 
known. 


*  Alluding  to  a  most  interesting  fact  in  the  history  of 
Vhat  eventful  struggle,  closed  by  the  national  air  of  God 
save  the  King. 

t  Alluding  to  the  unjust  treatment  of  those  brave  men 
who  saved  the  life  and  the  throne  of  a  bigoted  and  un- 
grateful prince. 

t  The  Inquisition. 


Mountains  of  inmost  Afric,  where  no  ray 
Hath  ever  pierced,  from  Beth'lem's  star  of-day, 
Savages,  fierce  with  clubs,  and  shaggy  hair. 
Who  woods  and  thickets  with  the  lion  share, 
Hark  !  the  glad  echoes  of  the  cliffs  repeat, 
"  How  beauteous,  in  the  desert,  are  the  feet 
Of  them,  who  bear,  o'er  wastes  and  trackless  sands 
Tidings  of  mercy  to  remotest  lands  !" 

Patiently  plodding,  the  Moravian  mild 
Sees  stealing  culture  creep  along  the  wild, 
And  twice  ten  thousand  leagues  o'er  ocean's  roar. 
And  far  from  friends  whom  he  may  see  no  more, 
Constructs  the  warmer  hut,  or  delves  the  sod ; 
Cheerful,  as  still  beneath  the  eye  of  God. 
Where,  muttering  spoil,  or  death,  the  Caffre  prowl'd. 
Or  moonlight  wolves,  a  gaunt  assembly,  howl'd. 
No  sounds  are  heard  along  the  champaign  wide. 
But  one  small  chapel  bell,  at  eventide. 
Whilst  notes  unwonted  linger  in  the  air. 
The  songs  of  Sion,  or  the  voice  of  prayer ! 

And  thou,  the  light  of  God's  eternal  word. 
Record,  and  Spirit  of  the  living  Lord, 
Hid  and  unknown  from  half  the  world, — at  length, 
Rise  like  the  sun,  and  go  forth  in  thy  strength  I 
Already  towering  o'er  old  Ganges  stream, 
The  dark  pagoda  brightens  in  thy  beam  : 
And  the  dim  eagles,  on  the  topmost  height 
Of  Jaggernaut,  shine  as  in  morning  light ! 
Beyond  the  snows  of  savage  Labrador 
The  ray  pervades  pale  Greenland's  wintry  shore— 
The  demon  spell,  that  bound  the  slumbering  sense 
Dissolves  before  its  holy  influence, 
As  the  gray  rock  of  ice,  a  shapeless  heap. 
Thaws  in  the  sunshine  of  the  summer  deep. 
Proceed,  auspicious  and  eventful  day  ! 
Banner  of  Christ,  thy  ampler  folds  display  ! 
Let  Atlas  shout  with  Andes,  and  proclaim 
To  earth,  and  sea,  and  skies,  a  Saviour's  name, 
Till  angel  voices  in  the  sound  shall  blend. 
And  one  hosanna  from  all  worlds  ascend ! 


SONG*  OF  THE  CID.f 

The  Cid  is  sitting,  in  martial  state, 

Within  Valentia's  wall ; 
And  chiefs  of  high  renown  attend 

The  knightly  festival. 

Brave  Alvar  Fanez,  and  a  troop 

Of  gallant  men,  were  there ; 
And  there  came  Donna  Ximena, 

His  wife  and  daughters  fair. 

When  the  foot-page  bent  on  his  knee, 
What  tidings  brought  he  then  ? 

"Morocco's  king  is  on  the  seas. 
With  fifty  thousand  men." 

"  Now  God  be  praised  !"  the  Cid  he  cried. 

"  Let  every  hold  be  stored : 
Let  fly  the  holy  gonfalon,:|: 

And  give  '  St.  James,'  the  word." 


♦  Referred  to  in  p.  505. 

t  Compare  with  Southey's  admirable  translation  of  the 
Cid. 
t  Banner  consecrated  by  the  pope. 


THE    MISSIONARY 


618 


And  now,  upon  the  turret  high, 

Was  heard  the  signal  drum ; 
And  loud  the  watchman  blew  his  trump, 

And  cried,  "  They  come  !  they  come !" 

The  Cid  then  raised  his  sword  on  high. 

And  by  God's  mother  swore, 
These  walls,  hard-gotten,  he  would  keep, 

Or  bathe  their  base  in  gore. 

"  My  wife,  ray  daughter,  what,  in  tears ! 

Nay,  hang  not  thus  your  head  ; 
For  you  shall  see  how  well  we  fight ; 

How  soldiers  earn  their  bread. 

"  We  will  go  out  against  the  Moors, 
And  crush  them  in  your  sight ;" 

And  all  the  Christians  shouted  loud, 
«  May  God  defend  the  right !" 

He  took  his  wife  and  daughter's  hand. 

So  resolute  was  he. 
And  led  them  to  the  highest  tower 

That  overlooks  the  sea. 

They  saw  how  vast  a  pagan  power 

Came  sailing  o'er  the  brine  ; 
They  saw,  beneath  the  morning  light. 

The  Moorish  crescents  shine. 

These  ladies  then  grew  deadly  pale, 

As  heart-struck  with  dismay  ; 
And  when  they  heard  the  tambours  beat. 

They  turn'd  their  head  away. 

The  thronged  streamers  glittering  flew, 

The  sun  was  shining  bright, 
"  Now  cheer,"  the  valiant  Cid  he  cried ; 

"This  is  a  glorious  sight !" 

Whilst  thus,  with  shuddering  look  aghast. 

These  fearful  ladies  stood. 
The  Cid  he  raised  his  sword,  and  cried, 

"  All  this  is  for  your  good. 

**  Ere  fifteen  days  are  gone  and  past. 

If  God  assist  the  right, 
Those  tambours  that  now  sound  to  scare, 

Shall  sound  for  your  delight." 

The  Moors  who  press'd  beneath  the  towers 

Now  «  Allah  !  Allah  !"  sung; 
Each  Christian  knight  his  broad-sword  drew, 

And  loud  the  trumpets  rung. 

Then  up,  the  noble  Cid  bespoke 

"  Let  each  brave  warrior  go. 
And  arm  himself,  in  dusk  of  morn, 

Ere  chanticleer  shall  crow ; 

"  And  in  the  loftj'  minster  church. 

On  Santiago  call,— 
That  good  Bishoppe  Hieronj^mo,* 

Shall  there  absolve  you  all. 

**  But  let  us  prudent  counsel  take. 

In  this  eventful  hour : 
For  yon  proud  infidels,  I  ween. 

They  are  a  mighty  power." 

Then  Alvar  Fanez  counsell'd  well, 
"  We  will  deceive  the  foe, 

♦  The  common  phraseology  of  the  old  metrical  mllad. 

Vol.  III.— 33 


And  ambush  with  three  hundred  menj 
Ere  the  first  cock  does  crow  : 

«  And  when  against  the  Moorish  men 

The  Cid  leads  up  his  powers, — 
We,  rushing  from  the  hollow  glen. 

Will  fall  on  them  with  ours." 

This  counsel  pleased  the  chieftain  well: 

He  said,  it  should  be  so  ; 
And  the  good  bishop  should  sing  mass. 

Ere  the  first  cock  did  crow. 

The  day  is  gone,  the  night  is  come ; 

At  cock-crow  all  appear 
In  Pedro's  church  to  shrive  themselves. 

And  holy  mass  to  hear : 

On  Santiago  there  they  call'd. 

To  hear  them  and  to  save ; 
And  that  good  bishop,  at  the  mass. 

Great  absolution  gave. 

"  Fear  not,"  he  cried,  "  when  thousands  jleed 

When  horse  on  man  shall  roll ! 
W^hoever  dies,  I  take  his  sins. 

And  God  shall  save  his  soul. 

"  A  boon  !  a  boon  !"  the  bishop  cried, 

"  I  have  sung  mass  to-day; 
Let  me  be  foremost  in  the  fight. 

And  lead  the  bloody  fray." 

Now  Alvar  Fanez  and  his  men 

Had  gain'd  the  thicket's  shade ; 
And,  with  hush'd  breath  and  anxious  eye, 

Had  there  their  ambush  laid. 

Four  thousand  men,  with  trump,  and  shout, 

Forth  issued  from  the  gate ; 
Where  my  brave  Cid,  in  harness  bright, 

On  Bavieca  sate. 

They  pass'd  the  ambush  on  the  left. 
And  march'd  o'er  dale  and  down. 

Till  soon  they  saw  the  Moorish  camp 
Betwixt  them  and  the  town. 

.My  Cid  then  spurr'd  his  horse,  and  set 

The  battle  in  array. 
The  first  beam  on  his  standard  shone 

Which  Pero  bore  that  day 

When  this  the  Moors  astonied  saw, 

"Allah  !"  began  their  cry: 
The  tambours  beat,  the  cymbals  rung, 

As  they  would  rend  the  sky. 

"  Banner,  advance  !"  my  Cid  cried  then. 

And  raised  aloft  his  sword  ; 
The  whole  host  answer'd  with  a  shout, 

"  St.  Mary,  and  our  Lord !" 

That  good  Bishop,  Hieronymo, 

Bravely  his  battle  bore  ; 
And  cried,  as  he  spurr'd  on  his  resolute  steed, 

"  Hurrah  !  for  the  Campeador !" 

The  Moorish  and  the  Christian  host 

Mingle  their  dying  cries. 
And  many  a  horse  along  the  plain 

Without  his  rider  flies. 


514 


BOWLES. 


Now  Alvar  Fanez,  and  his  men, 
Who  crouch'd  in  thickets  low, 

Leap'd  up,  and,  with  the  lightning  glance, 
Rush'd  on  the  wavering  foe. 

The  Moors,  who  saw  their  pennons  gay 

All  waving  in  the  wind. 
Fled  in  despair,  for  still  they  fear'd 

A  greater  host  behind. 
The  crescent  sinks  ! — "  Pursue !  pursue ! 

Haste — spur  along  the  plain  ! 
See  where  they  fall — see  where  they  lie, 

Never  to  rise  again." 

Of  fifty  thousand  who,  at  morn. 

Came  forth  in  armour  bright, 
Scarce  fifteen  thousand  souls  were  left. 

To  tell  the  tale  at  night. 

My  Cid  then  wiped  his  bloody  brow. 

And  thus  was  heard  to  say, 
"  Well,  Bavieca,*  hast  thou  sped. 

My  noble  horse  !  to-day." 

If  thousands  then  escaped  the  sword. 

Let  none  my  Cid  condemn ; 
For  they  were  swept  into  the  sea, 

And  the  surge  went  over  them. 

There's  many  a  maid  of  Tetuan 

All  day  shall  sit  and  weep  ; 
But  never  see  her  lover's  sail 

Shine  on  the  northern  deep. 

There's  many  a  mother,  with  her  babe, 
Shall  pace  the  sounding  shore, 

And  think  upon  its  father's  smile. 
Whom  she  shall  see  no  more. 

Rock,  hoary  ocean,  mournfully. 

Upon  thy  billowy  bed ; 
For,  dark  and  deep,  thy  surges  sweep 

O'er  thousands  of  the  dead. 


SONNETS  WRITTEN  CHIEFLY  DU- 
RING VARIOUS  JOURNEYS.* 


IN   TWO    PARTS. 


Cantanles,  licet  usque,  minus  via  laedet,  eamus. 

Virgil, 
Still  let  V.B  soothe  our  travel  with  a  strain. 

Warton. 

PART    I. 
SONNET. 

WRITTEN  AT  TYNEMOUTH,  NORTHUMBERLAND,  AFTER 
A   TEMPESTUOUS    VOYAGE. 

An  slow  I  climb  the  clifTs  ascending  side. 
Much  musing  on  the  track  of  terror  past. 
When  o'er  the  dark  wave  rode  the  howling  blast, 

Pleased  I  look  back,  and  view  the  tranquil  tide 


That  laves  the  pebbled  shore :  and  now  the  beam 
Of  evening  smiles  on  the  gray  battlement, 
And  yon  forsaken  tower*  that  time  has  rent : 
The  lifted  oar  far  off  with  silver  gleam 
Is  touch'd,  and  hush'd  is  all  the  billowy  deep  I 
Soothed  by  the  scene,  thus  on  tired  nature's  breas 
A  stillness  slowly  steals,  and  kindred  rest ; 
While  sea-sounds  lull  her,  as  she  sinks  to  sleep, 
Like  melodies  which  mourn  upon  the  lyre. 
Waked  by  the  breeze,  and,  as  they  mourn,  expire 


SONNET. 

AT   BAMBOROUGH   CASTLE.f 

Ye  holy  towers  that  shade  the  wave-worn  steep, 
Long  may  ye  rear  your  aged  brows  sublime, 
Though  hurrying  silent  by,  relentless  time 

Assail  you,  and  the  winter  whirlwind's  sweep  ! 

For  far  from  blazing  grandeur's  crowded  halls. 
Here  Charity  hath  fix'd  her  chosen  seat. 
Oft  listening  tearful  when  the  wild  winds  beat 

With  hollow  bodings  round  yojr  anc^nt  walls; 

And  Pity,  at  the  dark  and  storrrj*  hour 
Of  midnight,  when  the  moon  is  hid  on  high. 

Keeps  her  lone  watch  upon  the  topmost  tower, 
And  turns  her  ear  to  each  expiring  cry ; 

Blest  if  her  aid  some  fainting  wretch  might  save, 

And  snatch  him   cold   and   speechless  from  the 
wave. 


♦  His  favourite  horse. 

t  These  sonnets  were  dedicated  "To  the  Rev.  Newton 
Os?le,  DD.,  Dean  of  Winchester.— Donhead,  Wilts,  Nov. 
1797  " 


SONNET. 

TO   THE   RIVER   WENSBECK.:}: 

While  slowly  wanders  thy  sequcster'd  stream, 
Wensbeck  !  the  mossy-scatter'd  rocks  among. 
In  fancy's  ear  still  making  plaintive  song 

To  the  dark  woods  above,  that  waving  seem 


*  Tynemouth  priory  and  castle,  Northumberland.— The 
remains  of  this  monastery  are  situated  on  a  high  rocky 
point,  on  the  north  side  of  the  entrance  into  the  river 
Tyne,  about  a  mile  and  a  half  below  North-Shields.  Th6 
exalted  rock  on  which  the  monastery  stood  rendered  it 
visible  at  sea  a  long  way  off,  in  every  direction,  whence 
it  presented  itself  as  if  exhorting  the  seamen  in  danger  to 
make  their  vows,  and  promise  masses  and  presents  to  the 
Virgin  Mary  and  St.  Oswin  for  their  deliverance. 

t  This  very  ancient  castle,  with  its  extensive  domains, 
heretofore  the  property  of  the  family  of  Forster,  whose 
heiress  married  Lord  Crewe,  bishop  of  Durham,  is  appro- 
priated by  the  will  of  that  pious  prelate  to  many  benevo- 
lent purposes;  particularly  that  of  ministering  instant 
relief  to  such  shipwrecked  mariners  as  may  happen  to  be 
cast  on  this  dangerous  coast,  for  whose  preservation,  and 
that  of  their  vessels,  every  possible  assistance  is  contrived, 
and  is  at  all  times  ready.  The  whole  estate  is  vested  in 
the  hands  of  trustees,  one  of  whom.  Dr.  Sharp,  archdeacon 
of  Northumberland,  with  an  active  zeal  well  suited  to  the 
nature  of  the  humane  institution,  makes  this  castle  his 
chief  residence,  attending  with  unwearied  diligence  to 
the  proper  application  of  the  charity. 

t  The  Wensbeck  is  a  romantic  and  sequestered  river 
in  Northumberland.  On  its  banks  is  situated  our  Lady's 
Chapel.  "The  remains  of  this  small  chapel,  or  oratory^ 
(says  Grose,)  stand  in  a  shady  solitude,  on  the  north  bank 
of  the  Wensbeck,  about  three-quarters  of  a  mile  west  of 
Boihall,  in  a  spot  admirably  calculated  for  meditation. 
It  was  probably  built  by  one  of  the  Barons  Ogle."    Thi« 


SONNETS. 


615 


To  bend  o'er  some  enchanted  spot ;  removed 
From  life's  vain  coil,  I  listen  to  the  wind, 
And  think  I  hear  meek  sorrow's  plaint,  reclined 
O'er  the  forsaken  tomb  of  one  she  loved  ! 
Fair  scenes  !  ye  lend  a  pleasure,  long  unknown. 
To  him  who  passes  weary  on  his  way — 
The  farewell  tear,  which  now  he  turns  to  pay, 
Shall  thank  you  ; — and  whene'er  of  pleasures  flown 
His  heart  some  long-lost  image  would  renew, 
Delightful  haunts !  he  will  remember  you. 


SONNET. 


ffO   THE    RIVER   TWEED. 


0  Tweed  !  a  stranger,  that  with  wandering  feet 

O'er  hill  and  dale  has  journey'd  many  a  mile 

(If  so  his  weary  thoughts  he  might  beguile,) 
Delighted  turns  thy  beauteous  scenes  to  greet. 
The  waving  branches  that  romantic  bend 

O'er  thy  tall  banks,*  a  soothing  charm  bestow ; 

The  murmurs  of  thy  wandering  wave  below 
Seem  to  his  ear  the  pity  of  a  friend. 
Delightful  stream  !  though  now  along  thy  shore. 

When  spring  returns  in  all  her  wonted  pride, 
The  shepherd's  distant  pipe  is  heard  no  more. 

Yet  here  with  pensive  peace  could  I  abide,t 
Far  from  the  stormy  world's  tumultuous  roar. 

To  muse  upon  thy  banks  at  eventide. 


SONNET. 

Evening,  as  slow  thy  placid  shades  descend, 
Veiling  with  gentlest  hush  the  landscape  still. 
The  lonely  battlement,  and  farthest  hill 

And  wood,  I  think  of  those  that  have  no  friend. 

Who  now,  perhaps,  by  melancholy  led. 

From  the  broad  blaze  of  day,  where  pleasure 

flaunts. 
Retiring,  wander  'mid  thy  lonely  haunts 

Unseen  ;  and  watch  the  tints  that  o'er  thy  bed 

Hang  lovely,  to  their  pensive  fancy's  eye 
Presenting  fairy  vales,  where  the  tired  mind 
Might  rest,  beyond  the  murmurs  of  mankind. 

Nor  hear  the  hourly  moans  of  misery  ! 

Ah  !  beauteous  views,  that  hope's  fair  gleams  the 
while 

Should  smile  like  you,  and  perish  as  they  smile  ! 

river  is  thus  beautifully  characterized  by  Akenside,  who 
was  lx)rn  near  it : 

*'  O  ye  Northumbrian  shades,  which  overlook 
The  rocky  pavement,  and  the  mossy  falls 
Of  solitary  Wensbeck's  limpid  stream! 
How  gladly  I  recall  your  well  known  seats 
Beloved  of  old,  and  that  delightful  lime 
When  all  alone,  for  many  a  summer's  day, 
I  wander'd  through  your  calm  recesses,  led 
In  silence  by  some  powerful  hand  unseen." 
Written  on  passing  the  Tweed  at  Kelso,  where  the 
Bcenery  is  much  more  picturesque  than  it  is  near  Berwick, 
the  more  general  route  of  travellers  into  Scotland.    It  was 
a  beautiful  and'still  autumnal  eve  when  we  passed. 

t  Alluding  to  the  simple  and  affecting  pastoral  strains 
for  which  Scotland  has  .»een  so  long  celebrated.  I  need 
not  mention  Lochaber,  the  braes  of  Ballendine,  Tweed- 
Bide  etc.      , 


SONNET. 

ON   LEAVING   A   VILLAGE   IN   SCOTLAND. 

Clysdale,  as  thy  romantic  vales  I  leave, 
And  bid  farewell  to  each  retiring  hill. 
Where  fond  attention  seems  to  linger  still, 
Tracing  the  broad  bright  landscape  ;  much  I  grieve 
That,  mingled  with  the  toiling  crowd,  no  more 
I  may  return  your  varied  views  to  mark, 
Of  rocks  amid  the  sunshine  towering  dark. 
Of  rivers  winding  wild,*  and  mountains  hoar, 
Or  castle  gleaming  on  the  distant  steep  I — 
For  this  a  look  back  on  thy  hills  I  cast, 
And  many  a  soften'd  image  of  the  past 
Pleased  I  combine,  and  bid  remembrance  keep, 
To  soothe  me  with  fair  views  and  fancies  rude, 
When  I  pursue  my  path  in  solitude. 


SONNET. 

TO   THE   RIVER   ITCHIN,   NEAR   WINTON. 

lTCHiN,t  when  I  behold  thy  banks  again. 
Thy  crumbling  margin,  and  thy  silver  breast, 
On  which  the  selfsame  tints  still  seem'd  to  rest, 

Why  feels  my  heart  the  shivering  sense  of  pain  .•• 

Is  it — that  many  a  summer's  day  has  past 
Since,  in  life's  morn,  I  caroll'd  on  thy  side  ? 
Is  it — that  oft,  since  then,  my  heart  has  sigh'd 

As  youth,  and  hope's  delusive  gleams,  flew  fast  ? 
Is  it — that  those,  who  circled  on  thy  shore. 
Companions  of  my  youth,  now  meet  no  more  ? 

Whate'er  the  cause,  upon  thy  banks  I  bend. 
Sorrowing,  yet  feel  such  solace  at  my  heart. 

As  at  the  meeting  of  some  long-lost  friend, 

From  whom,  in  happier  hours,  we  wept  to  part.:}; 


SONNET. 

0  POVERTY  !  though  from  thy  haggard  eye, 
Thy  cheerless  mien,  of  every  charm  bereft. 
Thy  brow  that  hope's  last  traces  long  have  left, 

Vain  fortune's  feeble  sons  with  terror  fly; 

1  love  thy  solitary  haunts  to  seek : — 

For  pity,  reckless  of  her  own  distress  ; 

And  patience,  in  the  pall  of  wretchedness. 
That  turns  to  the  bleak  storm  her  faded  cheek ; 
And  piety,  that  never  told  her  wrong ; 

And  meek  content,  whose  griefs  no  more  rebel ; 
And  genius,  warbling  sweet  her  saddest  song ; 

And  sorrow,  listening  to  a  lost  friend's  knell, 
Long  banish'd  from  the  world's  insulting  throng  ; 

With  thee,  and  thy  unfriended  offspring,  dwell. 

♦  There  is  a  wildness  almost  fantastic  in  the  view  oi 
the  river  from  Stirling  Castle,  the  course  of  which  is  seeu 
for  many  miles,  making  a  thousand  turnings. 

t  The  Iichin  is  a  river  running  from  Winchester  to 
Southampton,  the  banks  of  which  have  been  the  scene  of 
many  a  holiday  sport.  The  lines  were  composed  on  an 
evening  in  a  journey  from  Oxford  to  Southampton,  the  first 
lime  I  had  seen  the  Itchin  since  I  left  school. 

t  We  remnmber  them  as  friends  from  whom  we  were 
sorry  ever  to  have  parted.— /SffiiV/t's  Theory. 


516 


BOWLES. 


SONNET. 

AT   DOVER    CUFFS,   JULY   20,    1787. 

Ow  these  white  cliff's,  that,  calm  above  the  flood. 
Uplift  their  shadowing  heads,  and,  at  their  feet. 
Scarce  hear  the  surge  that  has  for  ages  beat. 

Sure  many  a  lonely  wanderer  has  stood ; 

And,  whilst  the  lifted  murmur  met  his  ear, 
And  o'er  the  distant  billows  the  still  eve 
Sail'd  slow,  has  thought  of  all  his  heart  must 
leave 

To-morrow  ;  of  the  friends  he  loved  most  dear ; 

Of  social  scenes,  from  which  he  wept  to  part : 
But  if,  like  me,  he  knew  how  fruitless  all 
The   thoughts  that  would   full   fain   the  past 
recall. 

Soon  would  he  quell  the  risings  of  his  heart, 

And  brave  the  wild  winds  and  unhearing  tide — 

The  world  his  country,  and  his  God  his.  guide. 


SONNET. 

'  AT   OSTEND,   LANDING,  JULY   21,  1787. 

The  orient  beam  illumes  the  parting  oar — 
From  yonder  azure  track,  emerging  white. 
The  earliest  sail  slow  gains  upon  the  sight. 

And  the  blue  wave  comes  rippling  to  the  shore — 

Meantime  far  off  the  rear  of  darkness  flies : 
Yet  'mid  the  beauties  of  the  morn,  unmoved. 
Like  one  for  ever  torn  from  all  he  loved, 

Towards  Albion's  heights  I  turn  my  longing  eyes. 

Where  every  pleasure  seem'd  erewhile  to  dwell : 
Yet  boots  it  not  to  think,  or  to  complain. 
Musing  sad  ditties  to  the  reckless  main : 

To  dreams  like  these,  adieu  !  the  pealing  bell 
\         Speaks  of  the  hour  that  stays  not — and  the  day 

To  life's  sad  turmoil  calls  my  heart  away. 


SONNET. 

AT   OSTEND,   JULY   22,    1787. 

How  sweet  the  tuneful  bells'  responsive  peal  !* 
As  when,  at  opening  morn,  the  fragrant  breeze 
Breathes  on  the  trembling  sense  of  wan  disease, 

So  piercing  to  my  heart  their  force  I  feel ! 

*  Written  on  landing  at  Ostend,  and  hearing,  verj-  early 

in  the  morning,  the  carillons. 
The  effect  of  bells  has  been  often  described,  but  by  none 

more  beautifully  than  Cowper:— 

How  soft  the  music  of  those  village  bells, 

Falling  at  intervals  upon  the  ear 

In  cadence  sweet,  now  dying  all  away, 

Now  pealing  loud  again,  and  louder  still, 

Clear  and  sonorous,  as  the  gale  comes  on! 

With  easy  force  it  opens  all  the  cells 

Where  memory  slept.    Wherever  I  have  heard 

A  kindred  melody,  the  scene  recurs. 

And  with  it  all  its  pleasures  and  its  pains. 

Such  comprehensive  views  the  spirit  takes, 

That  in  a  few  short  moments  I  retrace 

(As  in  a  map  the  voyager  his  course) 

The  windings  of  my  way  through  many  years. 

Coicper^s  Task,  book  vi. 


And  hark  !  with  lessening  cadence  now  they  fall. 
And  now,  along  the  white  and  level  tide, 
They  fling  their  melancholy  music  wide ; 
Bidding  me  many  a  tender  thought  recall 
Of  summer  days,  and  those  delightful  years 

When  by  my  native  streams,  in  life's  fair  prime 
The  mournful  magic  of  their  mingling  chime 
First  waked  my  wondering  childhood  into  tears  ! 
But  seeming  now,  when  all  those  days  are  o'er. 
The  sounds  of  joy  once  heard,  and  heard  no  more. 


SONNET. 


ON   THE   RIVER   RHINE. 


'TwAS  morn,  and  beauteous  on  the  mountain's 
brow 
(Hung  with  the  beamy  clusters  of  the  vine) 
Stream 'd  the  blue  light,  when  on  the  sparkling 
Rhine 
We  bounded,  and   the  white  waves  round  the 

prow 
In  murmurs  parted ; — varying  as  we  go, 
Lo !  the  woods  open,  and  the  rocks  retire. 
Some  convent's  ancient  walls  or  glistening  spire 
'Mid  the  bright  landscape's  track  unfolding  slow. 
Here  dark,  with  furrow'd  aspect,  like  despair. 
Frowns  the  bleak  cliff — there  on  the  woodland's 

side 
The  shadowy  sunshine  pours  its  streaming  tide; 
Whilst  hope,  enchanted  with  the  scene  so  fair. 
Would  wish  to  linger  many  a  summer's  day, 
Nor  heeds  how  fast  the  prospect  winds  away.     • 


SONNET. 


AT   A    CONVENT. 


If  chance  some  pensive  stranger,  hither  led, 
(His  bosom  glowing  from  majestic  views. 
The   gorgeous   dome,  or  the   proud  landscape*! 
hues,) 
Should  ask  who  sleeps  beneath  this  lowly  bed — 
'Tis  poor  Matilda  ! — To  the  cloister'd  scene, 
A  mourner,  beauteous  and  unknown,  she  came, 
To  shed  her  tears  unmark'd,  and  quench   the 
flame 
Of  fruitless  love:   yet  was  her  look  serene 
As  the  pale  moonlight  in  the  midnight  aisle; 
Her  voice  was  soft,  which  yet  a  charm  could 

lend. 
Like  that  which  spoke  of  a  departed  friend 
And  a  meek  sadness  sat  upon  her  smile  ! 
Now,  far  removed  from  every  earthly  ill, 
Her  woes  are  buried,  and  her  heart  is  still. 


SONNET. 

0  TIME  !  who  know'st  a  lenient  hand  to  lay 
Softest  on  sorrow's  wound,  and  slowly  thence 
(Lulling  to  sad  repose  the  weary  sense) 

The  faint  pang  stealest  unperceived  away  ; 


SONNETS. 


61; 


On  thee  I  rest  my  only  hope  at  last, 

And  think,  when  thou  hast  dried  the  bitter  tear 
That  flows  in  vain  o'er  all  my  soul  held  dear, 
I  may  look  back  on  every  sorrow  past. 
And  meet  life's  peaceful  evening  with  a  smile — 
As  some  lone  bird,  at  day's  departing  hour. 
Sings  in  the  sunbeam,  of  the  transient  shower 
Forgetful,  though  its  wings  are  wet  the  while: — 
Yet  ah  !  how  much  must  that  poor  heart  endure. 
Which  hopes  from  thee,  and  thee  alone,  a  cure  ! 


SONNET. 

Languid,  and  sad,  and  slow,  from  day  to  day 
I  journey  on,  yet  pensive  turn  to  view 
(Where  the  rich  landscape  gleams  with  softer  hue) 

The  streams,  and  vales,  and  hills,  that  steal  away. 

So  fares  it  with  the  children  of  the  earth : 
For  when  life's  goodly  prospect  opens  round, 
Their  spirits  beat  to  tread  that  fairy  ground, 

Where  every  vale  sounds  to  the  pipe  of  mirth. 

But  them  vain  hope  and  easy  youth  beguiles, 
And  soon  a  longing  look,  like  me,  they  cast 
Back  on  the  pleasing  prospect  of  the  past : 

Yet  fancy  points  where  still  far  onward  smiles 

Some  sunny  spot,  and  her  fair  colouring  blends, 

nil  cheerless  on  their  path  the  night  descends. 


SONNET. 

ON    A    DISTANT   VIEW   OF    ENGLAND. 

Ah  !  from  mine  eyes  the  tears  unbidden  start, 
As  thee,  my  country,  and  the  long-lost  sight 
Of  thy  own  cliffs,  that  lift  their  summits  white 
Above  the  wave,  once  more  my  beating  heart 
With  eager  hope  and  filial  transport  hails  ! 
Scenes  of  my  youth,  reviving  gales  ye  bring. 
As  when  erewhilc  the  tuneful  morn  of  spring 
Joyous  awoke  amidst  your  blooming  vales. 
And  fiU'd  with  fragrance  every  painted  plain : 
Fled  are  those  hours,  and  all  the  joys  they  gave ! 
Yet  still  I  gaze,  and  count  each  rising  wave 
That  bears  me  nearer  to  your  haunts  again  ; 
If  haply,  'mid  those  woods  and  vales  so  fair, 
Stranger  to  peace,  I  yet  may  meet  her  there. 


SONNET. 

TO   THE    RIVER    CHERWELL,   OXFORD. 

Cherwell  !  how  pleased  along  thy  willow'd  hedge 
Erewhile  I  stray'd,  or  when  the  morn  began 
T'3  tinge  the  distant  turret's  gleamy  fan, 

Or  e/ening  glimmer'd  o'er  the  sighing  sedge  ! 

And  now  reposing  on  thy  banks  once  more, 
I  bid  the  pipe  farewell,  and  that  sad  lay 
Whose  music  on  my  melancholy  way 

1  woo'd :  amid  thy  waving  willows  hoar 

Seeking  a  while  to  rest — till  the  bright  sun 
Of  joy  return,  as  when  heaven's  beauteous  bow 
Beams  on  the  night-storm's  passing  wings  below : 

Whate'er  betide,  yet  something  have  I  won 


Of  solace,  that  may  bear  me  on  serene. 

Till  eve's  last  hush  shall  close  the  silent  scene. 


PART    II. 


SONNET. 


As  one  who,  long  by  wasting  sickness  worn. 
Weary  has  watch'd  the   lingering  night,  and 

heard 
Heartless  the  carol  of  the  matin  bird 
Salute  his  lonely  porch,  now  first  at  morn 
Goes  forth,  leaving  his  melancholj'  bed  ; 

He  the  green  slope  and  level  meadow  views, 
Delightful  bathed  with  slow-ascending  dews  ; 
Or  marks  the  clouds,  that  o'er  the  mountain's  head 
In  varying  forms  fantastic  wander  white  ; 
Or  turns  his  ear  to  every  random  song, 
Heard  the  green  river's  winding  marge  along. 
The  whilst  each  sense  is  stecp'd  in  still  delight. 
With  such  delight,  o'er  all  my  heart  I  feel, 
Sweet  hope  !  thy  fragrance  pure  and  healing  incense 
steal  I 


SONNET. 

CCTOBER,  1792. 

Go  then,  and  join  the  roaring  city's  throng  I 
Me  thou  dost  leave  to  solitude  and  tears. 
To  busy  fantasies,  and  boding  fears. 
Lest  ill  betide  thee:  but  'twill  not  be  long. 
And  the  hard  season  shall  be  past:  till  then 
Live  happy ;  sometimes  the  forsaken  shade 
Remembering,  and  these  trees  now  left  to  fade 
Nor  'mid  the  busy  scenes  and  "  hum  of  men," 
Wilt  thou  my  cares  forget :  in  heaviness 
To  me  the  hours  shall  roll,  weary  and  slow. 
Till,  mournful  autumn  past,  and  all  the  snow 
Of  winter  pale  !  the  glad  hour  I  shall  bless, 
That  shall  restore  thee  from  the  crowd  again^ 
To  the  green  hamlet  in  the  peaceful  plain. 


SONNET. 


NOVEMBER,    179)2. 


There  is  strange  music  in  the  stirring  wind, 
When  lowers  the  autumnal  eve,  and  all  alone 
To  the  dark  wood's  cold  covert  thou  art  gone. 
Whose  ancient  trees  on  the  rough  slope  reclined 
Rock,  and  at  times  scatter  their  tresse«  sear. 
If  in  such  shades,  beneath  their  murmuring. 
Thou  late  hast  pass'd  the  happier  hours  of  springy 
With  sadness  thou  wilt  mark  the  fading  year ; 
Chiefly  if  one,  with  whom  such  sweets  at  morn 
Or  eve  thou'st  shared,  to  distant  scenes  shall 

stray. 
0,  spring,  return  !  return,  auspicious  May  ! 
But  sad  will  be  thy  coming,  and  forlorn, 
If  she  return  not  with  thy  cheering  ray. 
Who  from  these  shades  is  gone,  gone  far  away. 


518 


BOWLES. 


SONNET. 
APKIL,    1793. 

Whose  was   that  gentle   voice,  that  whispering 
sweet, 

Promised  methought  long  days  of  bliss  sincere  ? 

Soothing  it  stole  on  my  deluded  ear, 
Most  like  soft  music,  that  might  sometimes  cheat 
Thoughts  dark  and  drooping  !   'Twas  the  voice  of 
hope. 

Of  love,  and  social  scenes,  it  seem'd  to  speak, 

01  truth,  of  friendship,  of  affection  meek  ; 
That,  0  !   poor  friend,  might  to  life's   downward 

slope 
Lead  us  in  peace,  and  bless  our  latest  hours. 

Ah  me  !  the  prospect  sadden'd  as  she  sung ; 

Loud  on  my  startled  ear  the  death-bell  rung ; 
Chill  darkness  wrapt  the  pleasurable  bowers. 
Whilst  horror,  pointing  to  yon  breathless  clay, 
'  No  peace  be  thine,"  exclaim'd ;  "  away,  away !" 


SONNET. 

MAY,  1793. 

As  o'er  these  hills  I  take  my  silent  rounds, 
Still  on  that  vision  which  is  flown  I  dwell ! 
On  images  I  loved  (alas,  how  well !) 
Now  past,  and  but  remember'd  like  sweet  sounds 
Of  yesterday  !  yet  in  my  breast  I  keep 

Such  recollections,  painful  though  they  seem, 
And  hours  of  joy  retrace,  till  from  my  dream 
I  wake,  and  find  them  not:  then  I  could  weep 
To  think  that  time  so  soon  each  sweet  devours ; 
To  think  so  soon  life's  first  endearments  fail. 
And  we  are  still  misled  by  hope's  smooth  tale  ! 
Who,  like  a  flatterer,  when  the  happiest  hours 
Are  past,  and  most  we  wish  her  cheering  lay. 
Will  fly  as  faithless  and  as  fleet  as  they  ! 


SONNET. 

NETLEY  ABBEY. 

Fall'n  pile  !  I  ask  not  what  has  been  .thy  fate ; 
But  when  the  weak  winds,  wafted  from  the 

main. 
Through  each  rent  arch,  like  spirits  that  com- 
plain, 
Come  hollow  to  my  ear,  I  meditate 
On  this  world's  passing  pageant,  and  the  lot 
Of  those  who  once  full  proudly  in  their  prime 
And  beauteous  might  have  stood,  till  bow'd  by 
time 
Or  injury,  their  early  boast  forgot. 
They  may  have  fall'n  like  thee :  Pale  and  forlorn. 
Their  brow,  besprent  with  thin  hairs,  white  as 
snow. 
They  lift,  majestic  yet ;  as  they  would  scorn 

This  short-lived  scene  of  vanity  and  wo; 
Whilst  on  their  sad  looks  smilingly  they  bear 
The  trace  of  creeping  age,  and  the  dim  hue  of 
care  ! 


SONNET. 
0  HARMONY  !  thou  tcndcrcst  nurse  of  pain. 

If  that  thy  note's  sweet  magic  e'er  can  heal 

Griefs  which  the  patient  spirit  oft  may  feel, 
0  !  let  me  listen  to  thy  songs  again. 

Till  memory  her  fairest  tints  shall  bring, 
Hope  wake  with  brighter  eye,  and  listening  seem 
With  smiles  to  think  on  some  delightful  dream, 

That  waved  o'er  the  charm'd  sense  its  gladsom* 
wing : 

For  when  thou  leadest  all  thy  soothing  strains 
More  smooth  along,  the  silent  passions  meet 
In  one  suspended  transport,  sad  and  sweet. 

And  naught  but  sorrow's  softest  touch  remains, 
That,  when  the  transitory  charm  is  o'er. 
Just  wakes  a  tear,  and  then  is  felt  no  more. 


SONNET. 
MAY,  1793. 

How  shall  I  meet  thee,  summer,  wont  to  fill 
My  heart  with  gladness,  when  thy  pleasant  tide 
Fipst  came,  and  on  each  coomb's  romantic  side 

Was  heard  the  distant  cuckoo's  hollow  bill  ? 

Fresh  flowers  shall  fringe  the  wild  brink  of  the 
stream. 
As  with  the  songs  of  joyance  and  of  hope 
The  hedge-rows  shall  ring  loud,  and  on  the  slop« 

The  poplars  sparkle  in  the  transient  beam  ; 

The  shrubs  and  laurels  which  I  loved  to  tend. 
Thinking  their  May-tide  fragrance  might  delight, 

With  many  a  peaceful  charm,  thee,  my  best  friend; 
Shall  put  forth  their  green  shoot,  and  cheer  the 
sight! 

But  I  shall  mark  their  hues  with  sickening  eyes. 

And  w^eep  for  her  who  in  the  cold  grave  lies  ! 


SONNET. 

How  blest  with  thee  the  path  could  I  have  trod 
Of  quiet  life,  above  cold  want's  hard  fate, 
(And  little  wishing  more,)  nor  of  the  great 
Envious,  or  their  proud  name  !  but  it  pleased  God 
To  take  thee  to  his  mercy :  thou  didst  go 
In  youth  and  beauty,  go  to  thy  death-bed ; 
E'en  whilst  on  dreams  of  bliss  we  fondly  fed. 
Of  years  to  come  of  comfort ! — Be  it  so. 
Ere  this  I  have  felt  sorrow  ;  and  e'en  now 

(Though  sometimes  the  unbidden  thought  must 

start, 
And  half  unman  the  miserable  heart) 
The  cold  dew  I  shall  wipe  from  my  sad  brow, 
And  say,  since  hopes  of  bliss  on  earth  aie  vain, 
"  Best  friend,  farewell,  till  we  do  meet  again  ?'* 


SONNET. 


ON   REVISITING   OXFORD. 


I  NEVER  hear  the  sound  of  thy  glad  bells, 
Oxford  !  and  chime  harmonious,  but  I  say 
(Sighing  to  think  how  time  has  worn  away,) 

"  Some  spirit  speaks  in  the  sweet  tone  that  swellti 


SONNETS. 


519 


Heard  after  years  of  absence,  from  the  vale 
Whefe  Cherwell  winds."    Most  true  it  speaks 
the  tale 

Of  days  departed,  and  its  voice  recalls 
Hours  of  delight  and  hope  in  the  gay  tide 
Of  life,  and  many  friends  now  scatter'd  wide 

By  many  fates.     Peace  be  within  thy  walls  ! 

I  have  scarce  heart  to  visit  thee ;  but  yet, 
Denied  the  joys  sought  in  thy  shades, — denied 
Each  better  hope,  since  my  poor  *****  died. 

What  I  have  owed  to  thee,  my  heart  can  ne'er  forget  I 


SONNET. 

ON   THE   DEATH    OF   THE  REV.  WILLIAM   BENWELL.* 

Thou  camest  with  kind  looks,  when  on  the  brink 
Almost  of  death  I  strove,  and  with  mild  voice 


*  The  following  elegant  inscription  to  the  memory  of 
this  amiable  and  excellent  young  man  is  prefixed  to  the 
chancel  of  Caversham  church,  near  Reading,  and  does 
merely  justice  to  the  many  valuable  qualifications  ofhim 
whose  virtues  and  graces  it  records  :— 

Near  this  Chancel  are  deposited 
The  Eemains  of  the  REV.  WILLIAM  BENWELL, 

Late  Fellow  of  Trinity  College,  Oxford, 
Who  died  of  a  contagious  fever,  the  consequence  of 
his  charitable  endeavours  to  relieve  and  comfort  the 
inhabitants  of  the  village  in  which  he  resided. 
From  early  youth 
He  was  remarkable  for  correctness  of  taste, 
and  variety  of  knowledge ; 
Simple,  modest,  and  retired; 
In  manners  and  conversation  he  possessed  a  natural  grace ; 
a  winning  courtesy,  truly  expressive  of  the  heavenly 
serenity  of  his  mind,  and  of  the  meekness,  low- 
liness and  benevolence  of  his  heart. 
To  his  Relations,  and  to  his  Companions  whom  he  loved, 

he  was  most  tenderly  and  consistently  affectionate : 
To  the  poor  a  zealous  friend,  a  wise  and  patient  instructer ; 

By  his  mildness  cheering  the  sorrowful ; 

A.nd,  by  the  pure  and  amiable  sanctity  which  beamed  in 

his  countenance,  repressing  the  licentious. 

Habitually  pious, 

He  appeared  in  every  instance  of  lifo 

to  act,  to  speak,  and  to  think, 

as  in  the  sight  of  God. 

He  died  Sept.  6ih,  96,  in  his  3-2d  year: 

His  soul  pleased  the  Lord,  therefore  hasted  He  to  take 

him  away. 
This  Tablet  was  erected  to  his  Memory,  with  heart- 
felt grief,  and  the  tenderest  affection, 
By  PfiNELOPE,  eldest  daughter  of  John  Lovbday,  Esq. ; 
and  Penelope  his  wife, 
Wh?,  after  many  years  of  the  most  ardent  friendshipj 
became  his  wife  and  his  widow  in  the 
course  of  eleven  weeks!" 


Didst  soothe  me,  bidding  my  poor  heart  rejoice, 
Though  smitten  sore:  O,  I  did  little  think 
That  thou,  my  friend,  wouldst  the  first  victim  fall 
To  the  stern  king  of  terrors  !  thou  didst  fly, 
By  pity  prompted,  at  the  poor  man's  cry; 
And  soon  thyself  wert  stretch'd  beneath  the  pall, 
Livid  infection's  prey.    The  deep  distress 
Of  her,  who  best  thy  inmost  bosom  knew, 
To  whom  thy  faith  was  vow'd,  thy  soul  was  true, 
What  powers  of  faltering  language  shall  express 
As  friendship  bids,  I  feebly  Veathe  my  own. 
And  sorrowing  say,  "  Pure  spirit,  thou  art  gone !" 


SONNET. 

WRITTEN   AT   MALVERN,   JULY    11,    1793. 

I  SHALL  behold  far  off  thy  towering  crest, 

Proud  mountain !  from  thy  heights  as  slow  I  stray 
Down  through  the  distant  vale  my  homeward  way, 
I  shall  behold,  upon  thy  rugged  breast, 
The  parting  sun  sit  smiling :  me  the  while 
Escaped  the  crowd,  thoughts  full  of  heaviness 
May  visit,  as  life's  bitter  losses  press 
Hard  on  my  bosom :  but  I  shall  "  beguile 
The  tiling  I  am,"  and  think,  that  e'en  as  thou 
Dost  lift  in  the  pale  beam  thy  forehead  high. 
Proud  mountain  !  (whilst  the  scatter'd  vapours  fiy 
Unheeded  round  thy  breast,)  so,  with  calm  brow, 
The  shades  of  sorrow  I  may  meet,  and  wear 
The  smile  unchanged  of  peace,  though  prest  by  care ! 


SONNET. 

ON   REVIEWING    THE   FOREGOING.    SEPT.   21,  1797. 

I  TURN  these  leaves  with  thronging  thoughts,  and 
say, 
"  Alas  !  how  many  friends  of  youth  are  dead. 
How  many  visions  of  fair  hope  have  fled. 
Since  first,  my  muse,  we  met:" — So  speeds  away 

Life,  and  its  shadows  ;  yet  we  sit  and  sing, 
Stretch'd  in  the  noontide  bower,  as  if  the  day 
Declined  not,  and  we  yet  might  trill  our  lay 

Beneath  the  pleasant  morning's  purple  wing 
That  fans  us,  while  aloft  the  gay  clouds  shine  ! 
0,  ere  the  coming  of  the  long  cold  night. 
Religion,  may  we  bless  thy  purer  light. 
That  still  shall  warm  us,  when  the  tints  decline 
O'er  earth's  dim  hemisphere,  and  sad  we  vtaze 
On  the  vain  visions  of  our  passing  days  ! 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR  COLERIDGE. 


Samuel  Taylor  Coleridge  was  born  at  Bris- 
tol, about  1770,  where  he  received  the  earliest  por- 
tion of  his  education.  He  was  afterwards  sent  to 
Christ's  Hospital,  London,  where,  he  says,  in  his 
Biographia  Literaria,  "I  enjoyed  the  inestimable 
advantage  of  a  very  sensible,  though,  at  the  same 
time,  a  very  severe  master,  the  Rev.  James  Bowyer, 
who  early  moulded  my  taste  to  the  preference  of 
Demosthenes  to  Cicero,  of  Homer  and  Theocritus  to 
Virgil,  and  again  of  Virgil  to  Ovid,  &c."  From 
Christ's  Hospital  he  was  sent  to  Jesus  College, 
Cambridge,  where  he  obtained  the  Sir  William 
Brown's  gold  medal,  for  the  best  Greek  ode,  in 
1792.  About  the  same  time,  he  became  acquainted 
with  Southey,  then  a  student  of  Baliol  College, 
Oxford,  and,  like  himself,  imbued  with  ardent  pre- 
dilections for  poesy  and  liberty.  With  him  and 
some  other  young  men,  he  entered  into  a  scheme, 
which  want  of  means  alone  prevented  them  from 
putting  into  execution,  for  settling  on  the  Susque- 
hannah  river,  in  North  America,  under  a  panti- 
socratic  form  of  society.  About  1794,  he  retired  to 
Alforton,  in  Somersetshire,  where  he  was  joined 
by  his  friend  Wordsworth,  with  whom  he  passed 
his  time  in  literary  pursuits,  and  in  wandering  about 
the  Quantock  hills,  with  such  an  air  of  mystery, 
that  they  became  objects  of  suspicion  to  the  neigh- 
bourhood. A  spy  was  set  upon  their  conduct,  and 
an  examination  actually  appears  to  have  taken 
place,  by  the  village  authorities,  of  a  poor  rustic 
who  was  supposed  to  have  discovered  their  dan- 
gerous designs.  Our  author  has  given  a  ludicrous 
account  of  this  in  the  work  before  quoted  from,  and 
the  conclusion  is  worth  extracting,  as  developing 
somewhat  of  his  habits  and  character.  "  Has  not 
this  Mr.  Coleridge  been  wandering  on  the  hills 
towards  the  channel,  and  along  the  shore,  with 
books  and  papers  in  his  hand,  taking  charts  and 
maps  of  the  country  ?" — "  Why,  as  to  that,  your 
honour,"  was  the  rustic's  reply;  "I  am  sure  I 
would  not  wish  to  say  ill  of  anybody  ;  but  it  is 
certain  that  I  have  heard — "  "  Speak  out,  man ! 
don't  be  afraid:  you  are  doing  your  duty  to  your 
king  and  government.  What  have  you  heard  i"' 
"  Why,  folks  do  say,  your  honour,  as  how  that  he 
is  a  poet;  and  that  he  is  going  to  put  Quan- 
tock, and  all  about  here,  in  print ;  and  as  they 
(Wordsworth  and  Coleridge)  be  so  much  together, 
I  suppose  that  the  strange  gentleman  (Wordsworth) 
has  some  consarn  in  the  business."  The  business 
which  engaged  him  was  the  composition  of  a  poem, 
to  be  called  The  Brook,  which,  had  he  finished,  it 
was  his  intention  to  have  dedicated  to  the  commit- 
leo  of  public  safety,  as  containing  the  charts  and 


maps  with  which  he  was  leported  to  have  supplied 
the  French  government,  in  aid  of  their  plans  of  m» 
vasion. 

A  perusal  of  Bowles^  Sonnets  appears  to  have 
first  inspired  him  with  a  taste  for  poetry,  of  which 
his  earliest  specimen  was  given  to  the  public  in  a 
small  volume,  published  previously  to  the  fore- 
going incident,  in  which  publication  a  monody  on 
the  death  of  the  unfortunate  Chattcrton  was  uni- 
versally admired.  In  1795,  he  published  some  anti- 
ministerial  pamphlets ;  and  in  the  following  year, 
made  an  unsuccessful  attempt  to  establish  a  peri- 
odical paper,  called  The  Watchman,  at  the  persua- 
sion, he  says,  of  sundry  philanthropists  and  anti- 
polemists.  His  next  publication  was  a  poem  on  the 
prospect  of  peace;  he  shortly  afterwards  accompa- 
nied Sir  Alexander  Ball,  governor  of  Malta,  as  his 
secretary  ;  and,  on  his  return  from  this  employ- 
ment, became  entitled  to  a  pension.  This  so  far 
improving  his  circumstances  as  to  leave  him  at 
full  liberty  to  pursue  his  literary  designs,  he  en- 
gaged in  the  publication  of  a  variety  of  works,  and 
delivered  two  public  courses  of  lectures,  one  on  the 
plays  of  Shakspeare,  and  another  on  poetry  and  the 
belles  lettres,  which  gained  him  a  reputation  for 
considerable  oratorical  powers.  In  1813,  he  pub- 
lished Remorse,  a  tragedy  ;  followed,  in  1817,  by 
Sibylline  Leaves ;  A  Collection  of  Poems  ;  his 
Biographia  Literaria,  or  biographical  sketches  of  his 
life  and  opinions  ;  and  other  works,  poetical  and 
political.  In  1818,  he  commenced  The  Friend,  a 
series  of  essays,  that  extended  to  three  volumes  ; 
and  in  the  tenth  and  eleventh  numbers  of  which, 
he  says,  he  has  left  a  record  of  his  principles.  In 
1825,  he  published  Aids  to  Reflection,  in  the  for- 
mation of  a  manly  character,  &c. ;  and,  in  1830,  his 
Treatise  on  the  Constitution  of  the  Church  and 
State,  according  to  the  idea  of  each  :  with  aids  to- 
wards a  right  judgment  of  the  late  Catholic  bill. 
Mr.  Coleridge  towards  the  close  of  life  resided  at 
Highgate,  where  he  occasionally  received  his  lite- 
rary friends,  and  passed  his  time  in  reading,  and 
the  amusements  of  his  garden.  He  was  said  to 
excel  all  his  contemporaries  in  powers  of  argu- 
ment ;  and,  when  once  fairly  launched  on  any  fa- 
vourite topic,  to  be  possessed  of  the  faculty  of  rivet- 
ing  for  hours,  the  attention  of  his  audience  by  the 
charm  of  his  eloquence  alone.  He  died  July  25th, 
1834. 

In  addition  to  the  works  already  mentioned, 
he  wrote,  during  the  peace  of  Amiens,  essays 
for  The  Morning  Post  and  Courier.  Mr.  Fox  is 
said  to  have  pointed  his  allusion  to  these  contribu- 
tions, when  he  declared,  that  the  war,  which  fol- 
520 


SIBYLLINE    LEAVES. 


tm 


lowed  the  above  treaty,  was  a  war  raised  by  The 
Morning  Post.  Whilst  Mr.  Coleridge  was  staying 
at  Rome,  Bonaparte  is  said  to  have  sent  an  order 
for  his  arrest,  from  which  he  was  rescued,  partly,  by 
the  forbearance  of  the  late  pope,  Pius  the  Seventh. 
Our  poet,  however,  has  never  displayed  any  evi- 
dence of  his  having  been  guided  by  any  fixed  poli- 
tical creed ;  and  he  altogether  disowns,  as  was 
hinted  ty  The  Morning  Chronicle,  that  he  ever 
bettered  his  fortune  by  his  labours  as  a  political 
writer.  Indeed,  it  is  as  a  poet  only  that  he  will 
be  known  by  posterity ;  however  zealously  his 
friends  may  labour  to  procure  a  reputation  for  him 
as  the  founder  of  a  sect  in  morals  or  philosophy. 
The  chief  fault  of  Coleridge's  poetry  lies  in  the  style, 
which  has  been  justly  objected  to  on  account  of  its 
obscurity,  general  turgidness  of  diction,  and  a  pro- 
fusion of  new-cgined  double  epithets.  With  regard 
to  its  obscurity,  he  says,  in  the  preface  to  a  late 
edition  of  his  poems,  that  where  he  appears  un- 
intelligible, "  the  deficiency  is  in  the  reader."  This 
is  nothing  more  or  less  than  to  suppose  his  readers 
endowed  with  the  powers  of  divination ;  for  we 
defy  any  one  who  is  not  in  the  confidence  of  the  au- 


thor upon  this  subject,  to  solve  the  riddle  which 
is  appended  as  a  conclusion  to  Christabel.  Ht 
might  as  well  attribute  deficiency  of  capacity  to  a 
beholder  of  his  countenance,  who  should  fail,  in  its 
workings,  to  discover  the  exact  emotions  of  his 
mind ;  for  Mr.  Coleridge  has  afforded  no  clearer  clue 
to  the  generality  of  his  poetical  arcana.  This  is 
particularly  manifest  in  his  singularly  wild  and 
striking  poem  of  The  Ancient  Mariner,  on  which  he 
is  said  to  have  written  the  following  epigram,  ad- 
i.'-essed  to  himself : 

"  Your  poem  must  eternal  be, 
Dear  sir !  it  cannot  fail ; 
For,  'lis  incomprehensible, 
And  without  head  or  tail." 

Mr.  Coleridge  is  unquestionably  at  the  head  of 
the  La:<e  school  of  poetry,  and  excels  all  his  frater- 
nitj'  of  that  class  in  feeling,  fancy,  and  sublimity. 
Some  of  his  minor  poems  will  bear  compar:son  with 
those  of  the  bards  cf  this  or  any  other  age  or  coun- 
try ;  and  his  verses  on  Love  appear  to  us  the  most 
touching,  delicate,  and  beautiful  delineation  of  that 
passion  that  ever  was  penned. 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 


I.  POEMS  OCCASIONED  BY  POLITICAL  EVENTS 
OR  FEELINGS  CONNECTED  WIIH  THEM. 


When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed 

Great  nations,  how  ennobling  thoughts  depart 

When  men  change  swords  for  legers,  and  desert 

The  student's  bower  for  gold,  some  fears  unnamed 

I  had,  my  country  !    Am  I  to  be  blamed  1 

But,  when  I  think  of  thee,  and  what  thou  art, 

Verily,  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart. 

Of  those  unfilial  fears  I  am  ashamed. 

But  dearly  must  we  prize  thee ;  we  who  find 

In  thee  a  bulwark  of  the  cause  of  men; 

And  I  by  my  affection  was  beguiled. 

What  wonder  if  a  poet,  now  and  then. 

Among  the  many  movements  of  his  mind. 

Felt  for  thee  as  a  lover  or  a  child. 

Wordsworth. 

ODE  TO  THE  DEPARTING  YEAR.* 

Inv,  lOV,  W  W  KUKOL. 

Yrr*  av  ne  deivos  opdouavTciaq  irSvo; 
JlrpoSeT,  Tapaaacov  (ppoiiiiois  C(Priiiioii. 

T(J  [liWov  'i^ci.     Kal  ov  lirjv  ndxei  irapoiv 
'Ayav  y'  d\r]d6iiavTiv  n'  iptX^. 

^SCHYL.  Agam.  12-25. 

ARGUMENT. 

The  Ode  commences  with  an  address  to  the  Divine  Pro- 
videniB,  that  regulates  into  one  vast  harmony  all  the 
events  of  lime,  however  calamitous  some  of  them  may 
appear  to  mortals.  The  second  strophe  calls  on  men 
to  suspend  their  private  joys  and  sorrows,  and  devote 
them  for  a  while  to  the  cause  of  human  nature  in  gene- 
ral.   The  first  epode  speaks  of  the  Empress  of  Russia, 


*  This  ode  was  composed  on  the  24th,  25lh,  and  2Gth  days 
of  December,  179G:  and  was  firs*  published  on  the  last 
day  of  that  year. 


who  u'.ed  of  an  apoplexy  on  the  ITih  of  November,  1790: 
having  just  concluded  a  oubsidiary  treaty  with  the 
kings  combined  against  France.  The  first  and  second 
antistrophe  describe  the  image  of  the  departing  year, 
etc.  as  in  a  vision.  The  second  epode  prophesies,  in 
anguish  of  spirit,  the  downfall  of  this  country. 


Spirit  who  sweepest  the  wild  harp  of  time  ! 
It  is  most  hard  with  an  untroubled  ear 
Thy  dark  inwoven  harmonies  to  hear  I 
Yet,  mine  eye  fix'd  on  heaven's  unchanging  clime. 
Long  when  I  listen 'd,  free  from  mortal  fear. 
With  inward  stillness,  and  submitted  mind ; 
When  lo  !  its  folds  far  waving  on  the  wind, 
I  saw  the  train  of  the  departing  year  ! 
Starting  from  my  silent  sadness. 
Then  with  no  unhol}'  madness, 
Ere  yet  the  enter'd  cloud  foreclosed  my  sight, 
I  raised  th'  impetuous  song,  and   solemnized   his 
flight. 

IL 
Hitner,  from  the  recent  tomb, 
From  the  prison's  direr  gloom. 
From  distemper's  midnight  anguish  ; 
And  thence,  where  poverty  doth  waste  and  languish, 
Or  where,  his  two  bright  torches  blending. 

Love  illumines  manhood's  maze  ; 
Or  where,  o'er  cradled  infants  bending, 
Hope  has  fix'd  her  wishful  gaze. 
Hither,  in  perplexed  dance, 
Ye  woes  !  ye  young-ej-ed  joys  !  advance  ] 
By  time's  wild  harp,  and  by  the  hand 
Whose  indefatigable  sweep 
Raises  its  fateful  strings  from  sleep, 
I  bid  you  haste,  a  mix'd,  tumultuous  hand! 
From  every  private  bower. 

And  each  domestic  hearth, 
Haste  for  one  solemn  hour ; 


63S 


COLERIDGE, 


And  with  a  loud  and  yet  a  louder  voice, 
O'er  nature  struggling  in  portentous  birth 

Weep  and  rejoice ! 
Still  echoes  the  dread  name  that  o'er  the  earth 
Let  slip  the  storm,  and  woke  the  brood  of  hell : 

And  now  advance  in  saintly  jubilee 
Justice  and  truth !   They  too  have  heard  thy  spell, 
They  too  obey  thy  name,  divinest  Liberty ! 

in. 

I  mark'd  Ambition  in  his  war  array  ! 

I  heard  the  mailed  monarch's  troublous  cry — 
"  Ah !   wherefore  does  the  northern   conqueress 

stay! 
Groans  not  her  chariot  on  its  onward  way  ?" 
Fly,  mailed  monarch,  fly  ! 
Stunn'd  by  death's  twice  mortal  mace. 
No  more  on  murder's  lurid  face 
Th'  insatiate  hag  shall  gloat  with  drunken  eye  ! 
Manes  of  the  unnumber'd  slain  ! 
Ye  that  gasp'd  on  Warsaw's  plain  ! 
Ye  that  erst  at  Ismail's  tower. 
When  human  ruin  choked  the  streams, 

Fell  in  conquest's  glutted  hour, 
'Mid  women's  shrieks  and  infant's  screams  ! 
Spirits  of  the  uncofFm'd  slain, 

Sudden  blasts  of  triumph  swelling. 
Oft,  at  night,  in  misty  train. 

Rush  around  her  narrow  dwelling  ! 
The  exterminating  fiend  is  fled — 

(Foul  her  life,  and  dark  her  doom)— 
Mighty  armies  of  the  dead 

Dance  like  death-fires  round  her  tomb  ! 
Then  with  prophetic  song  relate. 
Each  some  tyrant  murderer's  fate  ! 

IV. 
Departing  year !  'twas  on  no  earthly  shore 
My  soul  beheld  thy  vision  !  where  alone. 
Voiceless  and  stern,  before  the  cloudy  throne. 
Aye  Memory  sits :  thy  robe  inscribed  with  gore, 
With  many  an  unimaginable  groan 

Thou  storied'st  thy  sad  hours  !    Silence  ensued. 
Deep  silence  o'er  th'  ethereal  multitude. 
Whose  locks  with  wreaths,  whose  wreaths  with 
glories  shone. 
Then,  his  eye  wild  ardours  glancing. 
From  the  choired  gods  advancing. 
The  Spirit  of  the  earth  made  reverence  meet. 
And  stood  up,  beautiful,  before  the  cloudy  seat. 

V. 

Throughout  the  blissful  fnrong; 
Hush'd  were  harp  and  song : 
Till  wheeling  round  the  throne  the  Lampads  seven 
(The  mystic  words  of  heaven) 
Permissive  signal  make : 
The  fervent  spirit  bow'd,  then  spread  his  wings 
and  spake  ! 
"  Thou  m  stormy  blackness  throning 

Love  and  uncreated  light. 
By  the  earth's  unsolaced  groaning. 
Seize  thy  terrors,  Arm  of  might ! 
By  peace  with  proffer'd  insult  scared, 
Masked  hate  and  envying  scorn  ! 
By  years  of  havoc  yet  unborn  ! 
And  hunger's  bosom  to  the  frost  winds  bared  I 


But  chief  by  Afric's  wrongs, 

Strange,  horrible,  and  foul ! 
By  what  deep  guilt  belongs 
To  the  deaf  synod, '  full  of  gifts  and  lies  !' 
By  wealth's  insensate  laugh  !  by  torture's   howl ' 
Avenger,  rise ! 
For  ever  shall  the  thankless  island  scowl, 
Her  quiver  full,  and  with  unbroken  bow  ? 
Speak !  from  thy  storm  black  heaven,  0  speak  aloua , 

And  on  the  darkling  foe 
Open  thine  eye  of  fire  from  some  uncertain  cloud ! 

0  dart  the  flash  !  0  rise  and  deal  the  blow  ! 
The  past  to  thee,  to  thee  the  future  cries  ! 

Hark  !  how  wide  nature  joins  her  groans  below. 
Rise,  God  of  nature  !  rise." 

VL 

The  voice  had  ceased,  the  vision  fled  ; 
Yet  still  I  gasp'd  and  reel'd  with  dread. 
And  ever,  when  the  dream  of  night 
Renews  the  phantom  to  my  sight. 
Cold  sweat-drops  gather  on  my  limbs  ; 

My  ears  throb  hot;  my  eyeballs  start? 
My  brain  with  horrid  tumult  swims  ; 

Wild  is  the  tempest  of  my  heart ; 
And  my  thick  and  struggling  breath 
Imitates  the  toil  of  death  ! 
No  stronger  agony  confounds 

The  soldier  on  the  war-field  spread. 
When  all  foredone  with  toil  and  wounds, 

Death-like  he  dozes  among  heaps  of  dead  .' 
(The  strife  is  o'er,  the  daylight  fled. 

And  the  night-wind  clamours  hoarse  ! 
See  !  the  starting  wretch's  head 

Lies  pillow 'd  on  a  brother's  corse  !) 

vn. 

Not  yet  enslaved,  not  wholly  vile, 
O  Albion  !  0  my  mother  isle  ! 
Thy  valleys,  fair  as  Eden's  bowers. 
Glitter  green  with  sunny  showers ; 
Thy  grassy  uplands'  gentle  swells 

Echo  to  the  bleat  of  flocks, 
(Those  grassy  hills,  those  glittering  dells 

Proudly  ramparted  with  rocks  ;) 
And  ocean,  'mid  his  uproar  wild. 
Speaks  safely  to  his  island  child ! 

Hence,  for  many  a  fearless  age 

Has  social  quiet  loved  thy  shore  ! 

Nor  ever  proud  invader's  rage 
Or  sack'd  thy  towers,  or  stain'd  thy  fields  with  gore 

VIII. 
Abandoned  of  Heaven  !  mad  ^.varice  thy  guide. 
At  cowardly  distance,  yet  kindling  with  pride — 
'Mid  thy  herds  and  thy  corn-fields  secure  thou  hast 

stood. 
And  join'd  the  wild  yelling  of  famine  and  blood ! 
The  nati(  ns  curse  thee  !  They  with  eager  wondering 
Shall  Lear  destruction,  like  a  vulture,  scream  ! 
Strange-eyed  destruction !    who  with  many  « 
dream 
Of  central  fires  through  nether  seas  upthundering 
Soothes  her  fierce  solitude ;  yet,  as  she  lies 
By  livid  fount,  or  red  volcanic  stream. 
If  ever  to  her  lidless  dragon-eyes, 
O  Albicn !  thy  predestined  ruins  rise, 


SIBYLLINE    LEAVES. 


523 


The  fiend  hag  on  her  perilous  couch  doth  leap, 
Muttering  distemper'd  tiiumph  in  her  charmed  sleep. 

IX. 

Away,  my  soul,  away  ! 
In  vain,  in  vain,  the  birds  of  warning  sing — 
And  hark  !  I  hear  the  famish'd  brood  of  prey 
Flap  their  lank  pennons  on  the  groaning  wind  ! 
Away,  my  soul,  away  ! 
I,  unpartaking  of  the  evil  thing. 

With  daily  prayer  and  daily  toil 
Soliciting  for  food  my  scanty  soil, 
Have  waird  my  country  with  a  loud  lament. 
Now  I  recentre  my  immortal  mind 

In  the  deep  sabbath  of  meek  self-content ; 
Cleansed  from  the  vaporous  passions  that  bedim 
God's  Image,  sister  of  the  Seraphim. 


FRANCE. 


I. 

Ye  clouds  !  that  far  above  me  float  and  pause, 

Whose  pathless  march  no  mortal  may  control ! 

Ye  ocean  waves  !  that,  wheresoe'er  ye  roll, 
Yield  homage  only  to  eternal  laws  I 
Ye  woods  !  that  listen  to  the  night-birds'  singing, 

Midway  the  smooth  and  perilous  slope  reclined, 
Save  when  your  own  imperious  branches  swinging, 

Have  made  a  solemn  music  of  the  wind  ! 
Where,  like  a  man  beloved  of  God, 
Through  glooms,  which  never  woodman  trod. 

How  oft,  pursuing  fancies  holy. 
My  moonlight  way  o'er  flowering  weeds  I  wound, 

Inspired,  beyond  the  guess  of  folly, 
By  each  rude  shape  and  wild  unconquerable  sound  ! 
0  ye  loud  waves  !  and  0  ye  forests  high  ! 

And  O  ye  clouds  that  far  above  me  soar'd  ! 
Thou  rising  sun  !  thou  blue,  rejoicing  sky  I 

Yea,  every  thing  that  is  and  will  be  free  ! 

Bear  witness  for  me,  wheresoe'er  ye  be, 

With  what  deep  worship  I  have  still  adored 
The  spirit  of  divinest  Liberty. 

11. 
When  France  in  wrath  her  giant-limbs  uprear'd, 
And  with  that  oath,  which  smote  air,  earth  and 

sea, 
Stamp'd  her  strong  foot,  and  said  she  would  be 
free. 
Bear  witness  for  me,  how  I  hoped  and  fear'd  ! 
With  what  a  joy  my  lofty  gratulation 

Unawed  I  sang,  amid  a  slavish  band : 
And  when  to  whelm  the  disenchanted  nation, 
Like  fiends  embattled  by  a  wizard's  wand, 
The  monarchs  march'd  in  evil  day. 
And  Britain  join'd  the  dire  array ; 
Though  dear  her  shores  and  circling  ocean. 
Though  many  friendships,  many  youthful  loves 

Had  swoln  the  patriot  emotion. 
And  flung  a  magic  light  o'er  all  her  hills  and  groves ; 
Yet  still  my  voice,  unalter'd,  sang  defeat 

To  all  that  braved  the  tyrant-quelling  lance, 
And  shame  too  long  d^lay'd  and  vain  retreat ! 


For  ne'er,  0  Liberty  !  with  partial  aim 

I  dimm'd  thy  light  or  damp'd  thy  holy  flame ; 

But  bless'd  the  peeans  of  deliver'd  France, 
And  hung  my  head,  and  wept  at  Britain's  name. 

in. 

"  And  what,"  I  said,  "  though  blasphemy's  louu 
scream 
With  that  sweet  music  of  deliverance  strove  ! 
Though  all  the  fierce  and  drunken  passions  wove 
A  dance  more  wild  than  e'er  was  maniac's  dream  ! 
Ye  storms,  that  rouna  tne  (^iwningeast  assembled. 
The  sun  was  rising,  though  he  hid  his  light ! 
And  when,  to  soothe  my  soul,  that  hoped  and 
trembled. 
The  dissonance  ceased,  and  all  seem'd  calm  and 
bright; 
When  France  her  front  deep-scarr'd  and  gory 
Conceal'd  with  clustering  wreaths  of  glory ; 

When,  insupportably  advancing. 
Her  arm  made  mockery  of  the  warrior's  tramp ; 

While  timid  looks  of  fury  glancing, 
Domestic  treason,  crush'd  beneath  Ker  fatal  stamp, 
Writhed  like  a  wounded  dragon  in  his  gore ; 

Then  I  reproach'd  my  fears  that  would  not  flee  ; 
"  And  soon,"  I  said,  "  shall  wisdom  teach  her  lore 
In  the  low  huts  of  them  that  toil  and  groan  ! 
And,  conquering  by  her  happiness  alone. 

Shall  France  compel  the  nations  to  be  free, 
Till  love  and  joy  look  round,  and  call  the  earth 
their  own." 

IV. 

Forgive  me.  Freedom  !  O  forgive  those  dreams  J 
I  hear  thy  voice,  I  hear  thy  loud  lament, 
From  bleak  Helvetia's  icy  caverns  sent — 

I  hear  thy  groans  upon  her  blood-stain'd  streams  . 
Heroes,  that  for  your  peaceful  country  perish'd; 

And  ye  that,  fleeing,  spot  your  mountain  snows 
With  bleeding  wounds ;  forgive  me  that  I  cherish'd 

One  thought  that  ever  bless'd  your  cruel  foes  ! 
To  scatter  rage,  and  traitorous  guilt. 
Where  peace  her  jealous  home  had  built ; 
A  patriot  race  to  disinherit 

Of  all  that  made  their  stormy  wilds  so  dear ; 
And  with  inexpiable  spirit 

To  taint  the  bloodless  freedom  of  the  mountaineer— 

O  France,  that  mockest  Heaven,  adulterous,  blind, 
And  patriot  only  in  pernicious  toils  ! 

Are  these  thy  boasts,  champion  of  human  kind  ? 
To  mix  with  kings  in  the  low  lust  of  sway. 

Yell  in  the  hunt,  and  share  the  murderous  prey; 

To  insult  the  shrine  of  liberty  with  spoils 
From  freemen  torn ;  to  tempt  and  to  betray  ? 

V. 

,    The  sensual  and  the  dark  rebel  in  vain. 
Slaves  by  their  own  compulsion  .'  In  mad  game 
They  burst  their  manacles,  and  wear  the  name 

Of  freedom,  graven  on  a  heavier  chain  ! 
0  Liberty  !  with  profitless  endeavour 

Have  I  pursued  thee,  many  a  weary  hour ; 

But  thou  nor  swell'st  the  victor's  strain,  noi  ever 

Didst  breathe  thy  soul  in  forms  of  human  power. 
Alike  from  all,  howe'er  they  praise  thee, 
(Not  prayer  nor  boastful  name  delays  thee,) 


524 


COLERIDGE. 


Alike  from  priestcraft's  harpy  minions, 
And  factious  blasphemy's  obscener  slaves, 
Thou  speedest  on  thy  subtle  pinions, 
The  guide  of  homeless  winds,  and  playmates  of  the 

waves ! 
And  there  I  felt  thee  ! — on  that  sea-clifPs  verge, 

Whose  pines,  scarce  travell'd  by  the  breeze  above. 
Had  made  one  murmur  with  the  distant  surge  ! 
Yes,  while  I  stood  and  gazed,  my  temples  bare, 
And  shot  my  being  through  earth,  sea,  and  air, 

Possessing  all  things  with  intensest  love, 
O  Liberty  !  my  spirit  felt  thee  there. 
February. 1797. 


FEARS  IN  SOLITUDE. 

WRITTEN   IN   APRIL,    1798,  BURING   THE   ALARM   OF 
AN   INVASION. 

A  GREEN  and  silent  spot  amid  the  hills, 

A  small  and  silent  dell !    O'er  stiller  place 

No  sinking  skylark  ever  poised  himself. 

The  hills  are  heathy,  save  that  swelling  slope. 

Which  hath  a  gay  and  gorgeous  covering  on, 

All  golden  with  the  never-bloomless  furze. 

Which  now  blooms  most  profusely  ;  but  the  dell, 

Bathed  by  the  mist,  is  fresh  and  delicate 

As  vernal  corn-field,  or  the  unripe  flax, 

When,  through  its  half-transparent  stalks,  at  eve. 

The  level  sunshine  glimmers  with  green  light. 

0  !  'tis  a  quiet,  spirit-healing  nook  ! 

Which  all,  raethinks,  wou^d  love  ;  but  chiefly  he. 

The  .lumble  man,  who,  in  his  youthful  years, 

Knew  just  so  much  of  folly  as  had  made 

His  early  manhood  more  securely  wise  ! 

Here  he  might  lie  on  fern  or  wither'd  heath. 

While  from  the  singing  lark,  (that  sings  unseen 

The  minstrelsy  that  solitude  loves  best,) 

And  from  the  sun,  and  from  the  breezy  air. 

Sweet  influences  trembled  o'er  his  frame  ; 

And  he,  with  many  feelings,  many  thoughts, 

Made  up  a  meditative  joy,  and  found 

Religious  meanings  in  the  forms  of  nature .' 

And  so,  his  senses  gradually  wrapt 

In  a  half  sleep,  he  dreams  of  better  worlds. 

And  dreaming  hears  thee  still,  0  singing  lark  ! 

That  singest  like  an  angel  in  the  clouds  ! 

My  God  !  it  is  a  melancholy  thing 
For  such  a  man,  who  would  full  fain  preserve 
His  soul  in  calmness,  yet  perforce  must  feel 
For  all  his  human  brethren — 0  my  God  ! 
It  weighs  upon  the  heart,  that  he  must  think 
What  uproar  and  what  strife  may  now  be  stirring 
This  way  or  that  way  o'er  these  silent  hills — 
Invasion,  and  the  thunder  and  the  shout, 
And  all  the  crash  of  onset ;  fear  and  rage. 
And  undetermined  conflict — even  now. 
E'en  now,  perchance,  and  in  his  native  isle  ; 
Carnage  and  groans  beneath  this  blessed  sun ! 
We  have  offended,  0 !  my  countrymen  ! 
We  have  offended  very  grievously, 
And  been  most  tyrannous.    From  east  to  west 
A  groan  of  accusation  pierces  heaven  ! 
The  wretched  plead  against  us ;  multitudes 
Countless  and  vehement,  the  ?ons  of  God, 


Our  brethren  !     Like  a  cloud  that  travels  on, 

Steam'd  up  from  Cairo's  swamps  of  pestilence. 

E'en  so,  my  countrymen  !  have  we  gone  forth. 

And  borne  to  distant  tribes  slavery  and  pangs,- 

And,  deadlier  far,  our  vices,  whose  deep  taint  , 

With  slow  perdition  murders  the  whole  man. 

His  body  and  his  soul !    Meanwhile,  at  home. 

All  individual  dignity  and  power 

Ingulf'd  in  courts,  committees,  institutions, 

Associations  and  societies, 

A  vain,  speech-mouthing,  speech-reporting  guild. 

One  benefit  club  for  mutual  flattery. 

We  have  drunk  up,  demure  as  at  a  grace, 

Pollutions  from  the  brimming  cup  of  wealth ; 

Contemptuous  of  all  honourable  rule, 

Yet  bartering  freedom  and  the  poor  man's  life 

For  gold,  as  at  a  market !     The  sweet  words 

Of  Christian  promise,  words  that  even  yet 

Might  stem  destruction  were  they  wisely  preach'd 

Are  mutter'd  o'er  by  men  whose  tones  proclaim 

How  flat  and  wearisome  they  feel  their  trade : 

Rank  scoffers  some,  but  most  too  indolent 

To  deem  them  falsehoods  or  to  know  their  truth. 

O  !  blasphemous  !  the  book  of  life  is  made 

A  superstitious  instrument,  on  which 

We  gabble  o'er  the  oaths  we  mean  to  break ; 

For  all  must  swear — all  and  in  every  place. 

College  and  wharf,  council  and  justice  court ; 

All,  all  must  swear,  the  briber  and  the  bribed. 

Merchant  and  lawyer,  senator  and  priest, 

The  rich,  the  poor,  the  old  man  and  the  young ; 

All,  all  make  up  one  scheme  of  perjury, 

That  faith  doth  reel  ;  the  very  name  of  God 

Sounds  like  a  juggler's  charm ;  and,  bold  with  joy^ 

Forth  from  his  dark  and  lonely  hiding-place, 

(Portentous  sight !)  the  owlet  Atheism, 

Sailing  on  obscene  wings  athwart  the  noon, 

Drops  his  blue-fringed  lids,  and  holds  them  close, 

And  hooting  at  the  glorious  sun  in  heaven. 

Cries  out,  "  Where  is  it  ?" 

Thankless  too  for  peace 
(Peace  long  preserved  bv  fleets  and  perilous  seaSj) 
Secure  from  actual  wariare,  we  have  loved 
To  swell  the  war-whoop,  passionate  for  war ! 
Alas  !  for  ages  ignorant  of  all 
Its  ghastlier  workings  (famine  or  blue  plague, 
Battle,  or  siege,  or  flight  through  wintry  snows,) 
We,  this  whole  people,  have  been  clamorous 
For  war  and  bloodshed ;  animating  sports. 
The  which  we  pay  for  as  a  thing  to  talk  of. 
Spectators  and  not  combatants  !    No  guess 
Anticipative  of  a  wrong  unfelt. 
No  speculation  or  contingency. 
However  dim  and  vague,  too  vague  and  dim 
To  yield  a  justifying  cause  ;  and  forth 
(Stuff'd  out  with  big  preamble,  holy  names^ 
And  adjurations  of  the  God  in  heaven) 
We  send  our  mandates  for  the  certain  death 
Of  thousands  and  ten  thousands  !     Boys  and  girls, 
And  women,  that  would  groan  to  see  a  child 
Pull  off  an  insect's  leg,  all  read  of  war. 
The  best  amusement  for  our  morning  meal  ? 
The  poor  wretch,  who  has  learnt  his  only  prayers 
From  curses,  who  knows  scarcely  words  enough 
To  ask  a  blessing  from  his  heavenly  Father, 
Becomes  a  fluent  phraseman,  absolute 


SIBYLLINE    LEAVES. 


521 


And  technical  in  victories  and  defeats, 

And  all  our  dainty  terms  for  fratricide ; 

Terms  which  we  trundle  smoothly  o'er  our  tongues 

Like  mere  abstractions,  empty  sounds,  to  which 

We  join  no  feeling  and  attach  no  form  ! 

As  if  the  soldier  died  without  a  wound ; 

As  if  the  fibres  of  this  godlike  frame 

Were  gored  without  a  pang;  as  if  the  wretch. 

Who  fell  in  battle,  doing  bloody  deeds, 

Pass'd  off  to  heaven,  translated  and  not  kill'd: 

As  though  he  had  no  wife  to  pine  for  him. 

No  God  to  judge  him  !    Therefore,  evil  days 

Are  coming  on  us,  0  my  countrymen  ! 

And  what  if  all-avenging  Providence, 

Strong  and  retributive,  should  make  us  know 

The  meaning  of  our  words,  force  us  to  feel 

The  desolation  and  the  agony 

Cf  our  fierce  doings  ! 

Spare  us  yet  a  while, 
Father  and  God  !    O  !  spare  us  yet  a  while  ? 
O  !  let  not  English  women  drag  their  flight 
Fainting  beneath  the  burden  of  their  babes. 
Of  the  sweet  infants,  that  but  yesterday 
Laugh'd  at  the  breast !    Sons,  brothers,  husbands,  all 
Who  ever  gazed  with  fondness  on  the  forms 
Which  grew  up  with  you  round  the  same  fireside, 
And  all  who  ever  heard  the  Sabbath-bells 
Without  the  infidel's  scorn,  make  yourselves  pure  ? 
itand  forth :  be  men  !  repel  an  impious  foe, 
Impious  and  false,  a  light  yet  cruel  race. 
Who  laugh  away  S\\  virtue,  mingling  mirth 
With  deeds  of  murder ;  and  still  promising 
Freedom,  themselves  too  sensual  to  be  free. 
Poison  life's  amities,  and  cheat  the  heart 
Of  faith  and  quiet  hope,  and  all  that  soothes 
And  all  that  lifts  the  spirit !     Stand  we  forth ; 
Render  them  back  upon  the  insulted  ocean. 
And  let  them  toss  as  idly  on  its  waves 
As  the  vile  sea-w^ed,  which  some  mountain  blast 
Swept  from  our  shores  !    And  0  !  may  we  return, 
Not  with  a  drunken  triumph,  but  with  fear, 
Repenting  of  the  wrongs  with  which  we  stung 
So  fisite  a  foe  to  frenzy  ! 

I  have  told, 
O  B'  itons  !  0  my  brethren  !  I  have  told 
'M.rsi  bitter  truth,  but  without  bitterness. 
T^.oT  Geem  my  zeal  or  factious  or  mistimed  ; 
For  never  can  true  courage  dwell  with  them, 
Who,  playing  tricks  with  conscience,  dare  not  look 
At  their  own  vices.     We  have  been  too  long 
Dupes  of  a  deep  delusion  !    Some,  belike 
Groaning  with  restless  enmity,  expect 
All  change  from  change  of  constituted  power  ; 
As  if  a  government  had  been  a  robe. 
On  which  our  vice  and  wretchedness  were  tagg'd 
Like  fancy  points  and  fringes,  with  the  robe 
PuU'd  off  at  pleasure.     Fondly  these  attach 
A  radical  causation  to  a  few 
Poor  drudges  of  chastising  Providence, 
Who  boriow  all  their  hues  and  qualities 
From  our  own  folly  and  rank  wickedness, 
Which  gave  them  birth  and  nursed  them.    Others, 

meanwhile. 
Dote  with  a  mad  idolatry ;  and  all 
Who  will  not  fall  before  their  images, 


And  yield  them  worship,  they  are  enemies 
E'en  of  their  country  ! 

Such  have  I  been  deem'd — 
But,  0  dear  Britain  !  0  my  mother  isle  ! 
Needs  must  thou  prove  a  name  most  dear  and 

holy 
To  me,  a  son,  a  brother,  and  a  friend, 
A  husband,  and  a  father  .'  who  revere 
All  bonds  of  natural  love,  and  find  them  all 
Within  the  limits  of  thy  rocky  shores. 

0  native  Britain  !  0  my  mother  isle  ! 

How  shouldst  thou  prove  aught  else  but  dear  and 

holy 
To  me,  who  from  thy  lakes  and  mountain-hills 
Thy  clouds,  thy  quiet  dales,  thy  rocks  and  seas. 
Have  drunk  in  all  my  intellectual  life. 
All  sweet  sensations,  all  ennobling  thoughts, 
All  adoration  of  the  God  in  nature, 
All  lovely  and  all  honourable  things. 
Whatever  makes  this  mortal  spirit  feel 
The  joy  and  greatness  of  its  iuture  heing  ? 
There  lives  nor  form  nor  feeling  in  my  soul 
Unborrow'd  from  my  country.     O  divine 
And  beauteous  island  !  thou  hast  been  my  sole 
And  most  magnificent  temple,  in  the  which 

1  walk  with  awe,  and  sing  my  stately  songs. 
Loving  the  God  that  made  me  ! 

May  rny  fears, 
My  filial  fears,  be  vain  !  and  may  the  vaunts 
And  menace  of  the  vengeful  enemy 
Pass  like  the  gust,  that  roar'd  and  died  away 
In  the  distant  tree :  which  heard,  and  only  heard 
In  this  low  dell,  bow'd  not  the  delicate  grass. 

But  now  the  gentle  dew-fall  sends  abroad 
The  fruit-like  perfume  of  the  golden  furze : 
The  light  has  left  the  summit  of  the  hill. 
Though  still  a  sunny  gleam  lies  beautiful. 
Aslant  the  ivied  beacon.     Now  farewell, 
Farewell,  a  while,  0  soft  and  silent  spot ! 
On  the  green  sheep-track,  up  the  heathy  hill, 
Homeward  I  wind  my  way;  and  lo  !  recall'd 
From  bodings  that  have  wellnigh  wearied  me, 
I  find  myself  upon  the  brow,  and  pause 
Startled  !    And  after  lonely  sojourning 
In  such  a  quiet  and  surrounding  nook. 
This  burst  of  prospect,  here  the  shadowy  mairiy 
Dim-tinted,  there  the  mighty  majesty 
Of  that  huge  amphitheatre  of  rich 
And  elmy  fields,  seems  like  society — 
Conversing  with  the  mind,  and  giving  it 
A  livelier  impulse  and  a  dance  of  thought ! 
And  now,  beloved  Stowey  !  I  behold 
Thy  church-tower,  and,  methinks,  the  four  huge 

elms  • 

Clustering,  which  mark  the  mansion  of  my  friend, 
And  close  behind  them,  hidden  from  my  view. 
Is  my  own  lowly  cottage,  where  my  babe 
And  my  babe's  mother  dwell  in  peace  !  With  light 
And  quicken'd  footsteps  thitherward  I  tend. 
Remembering  thee,  O  green  and  silent  dell ! 
And  grateful,  that,  by  nature's  quietness 
And  solitary  musings,  all  my  heart 
Is  soften'd,  and  made  worthy  to  indulge 
Love,  and  the  thoughts  that  yearn  for  human  kind. 

Nether  Stowey,  April  28th,  1798. 


52C 


COLERIDGE. 


FIRE,  FAMINE,  AND  SLAUGHTER. 

A     WAR     ECLOGUE. 


The  scene  a  desolated  tract  in  La  Vendue.  Famine  is 
discovered  lying  on  the  ground;  to  her  enter  Fire  and 
Slaughter.  

FAMINE. 

Sisters  !  sisters !  who  sent  you  here  ? 

SLATJGHTEn,   {tO  FIRE.) 

I  will  whisper  it  in  her  ear. 

FIRE. 

No  !  no  !  no  !   , 
Spirits  hear  what  spirits  tell : 
'Twill  make  a  holiday  in  hell. 

No  !  no !  no 
Myself,  I  named  him  once  below. 
And  all  the  souls  that  damned  be, 
Leap'd  up  at  once  in  anarchy, 
Clapp'd  their  hands  and  danced  for  glee. 
They  no  longer  heeded  me  ; 
But  laugh 'd  to  hear  hell's  burning  rafters 
Unwillingly  re-echc  laughters ! 

No !  no !  no  ! 
Spirits  hear  what  spirits  tell: 
'Twill  make  a  holiday  in  hell ! 

FAMINE. 

Whisper  it,  sister !  so  and  so  ! 
In  a  dark  hint,  soft  and  slow. 

SLAUGHTER. 

Letters  four  do  form  his  name — 
And  who  sent  you  ? 

BOTH. 

The  same  !  the  same ! 

SLAUGHTER. 

He  came  by  stealth,  and  unlock'd  my  den, 
And  I  have  drunk  the  blood  since  then 
Of  thrice  three  hundred  thousand  men. 

BOTH. 

Who  bade  you  do  it  ? 

SLAUGHTER. 

The  same  !  the  same  ! 
Letters  four  do  form  his  name. 
He  let  me  loose,  and  cried  Halloo 
To  him  alone  the  praise  is  due. 

FAMINE. 

Thanks,  sister,  thanks  !  the  men  have  bled, 

Their  wives  and  their  children  faint  for  bread, 

I  stood  in  a  swampy  tield  of  battle ; 

With  bones  and  sculls  I  made  a  rattle. 

To  frighten  the  wolf  and  carrion  crov/. 

And  the  homeless  dog — but  they  would  not  go. 

So  off  I  flew ;  for  how  could  I  bear 

To  see  them  gorge  their  dainty  fare  ? 

I  heard  a  groan  and  a  peevish  squall, 

And  through  the  chink  of  a  cottage  wall — 

Can  you  guess  what  I  saw  there  ? 

BOTH. 

Whisper  it,  sister !  in  our  ear. 

FAMINE. 

A  baby  beat  its  dying  mother. 

I  had  starved  the  one,  and  was  starving  the  other! 


Who  bade  you  do't  ? 

FAMINE. 

The  same  !'  the  same ' 
Letters  four  do  form  his  name. 
He  let  me  loose,  and  cried  Halloo  ! 
To  him  alone  the  praise  is  due. 

FIRE. 

Sisters  !  I  from  Ireland  came  ! 

Hedge  and  corn-fields  all  on  flame, 

I  triumph'd  o'er  the  setting  sun  ! 

And  all  the  while  the  work  was  done. 

On  as  I  strode  with  my  huge  strides, 

I  flung  back  my  head  and  1  held  my  sides, 

It  was  so  rare  a  piece  of  fun 

To  see  the  swelter'd  cattle  run 

With  uncouth  gallop  through  the  night. 

Scared  by  the  red  and  noisy  light ! 

By  the  light  of  his  own  blazing  cot 

Was  many  a  naked  rebel  shot : 

The  house-stream  met  the  flame  and  hiss'dj 

While  crash  !  fell  in  the  roof,  I  wist, 

On  some  of  those  old  bedrid  nurses, 

That  deal  in  discontent  and  curses. 

BOTH. 

Who  bade  you  do't  ? 

FIRE. 

The  same  !  the  same ! 
Letters  four  do  form  his  name. 
He  let  me  loose,  and  cried  Halloo  ! 
To  him  alone  the  praise  is  due. 

ALL. 

He  let  us  loose,  and  cried  Halloo  ! 
How  shall  we  yield  him  honour  due  ? 

FAMINE. 

Wisdom  comes  of  lack  of  food, 
I'll  gnaw,  I'll  gnaw  the  multitude. 
Till  the  cup  of  rage  o'erbrim : 
They  shall  seize  him  and  his  brood — 

FIRE. 

0  thankless  beldames  and  untrue  ! 
And  is  this  all  that  you  can  do 
For  him  who  did  so  much  for  you  ? 
Ninety  months  he,  by  my  troth  ! 
Hath  richly  cater'd  for  you  both  ; 
And  in  an  hour  would  you  repay 

An  eight  years'  work  ? — Away  !  away  ! 

1  alone  am  faithful !    I 
Cling  to  him  everlastingly. 

1796. 


RECANTATION 

ILLUSTRATED   IN   THE   STORY   OF   THE   MAD   OX 

An  OX,  long  fed  with  musty  hay, 
And  work'd  with  yoke  and  chain, 

Was  turn'd  out  on  an  April  day, 

When  fields  are  in  their  best  array. 

And  growing  grasses  sparkle  gay, 
At  once  with  sun  and  rain. 


SIBYLLINE    LEAVES. 


527 


The  grass  was  fine,  the  sun  was  bright, 

With  truth  I  may  aver  it ; 
The  ox  was  glad,  as  well  he  might. 
Thought  a  green  meadow  no  bad  sight. 
And  frisk'd  to  show  his  huge  delight, 

.Much  like  a  beast  of  spirit. 

*'  Stop,  neighbours  !  stop  !  why  these  alarms  ? 

The  ox  is  only  glad." 
But  still  they  pour  from  cots  and  farms — 
Halloo  !  the  parish  is  up  in  arms, 
(A  hoaxing  hunt  has  always  charms,) 

Halloo  !  the  ox  is  mad. 

The  frighted  beast  scamper'd  about. 
Plunge  !  through  the  hedge  he  drove — 

The  mob  pursue  with  hideous  rout, 

A  bull-dog  fastens  on  his  snout. 

He  gores  the  dog,  his  tongue  hangs  out- 
He's  mad,  he's  mad,  by  Jove  ! 

"  Stop,  neighbours,  stop  !"  aloud  did  call 

A  sage  of  sober  hue, 
But  all  at  once  .on  him  they  fall, 
And  women  squeak  and  children  squall, 
"  What !  would  you  have  him  toss  us  all  ? 

And,  damme  !  who  are  you  ?" 

Ah,  hapless  sage  !  his  ears  they  stun. 

And  curse  him  o'er  and  o'er — 
"You  bloody-minded  dog!"  (cries  one,) 
"  To  slit  your  windpipe  were  good  fun — 
*0d  bl —  you  for  an  impious*  son 

Of  a  Presbyterian  w — re  ! 

"  You'd  have  him  gore  the  parish-priest. 

And  run  against  the  altar — 
You  fiend. '^^ — The  sage  his  warnings  ceased. 
And  north,  and  south,  and  west,  and  east. 
Halloo  I  they  follow  the  poor  beast. 

Mat,  Dick,  Tom,  Bob,  and  Walter. 

Old  Lewis,  'twas  his  evil  day, 

Stood  trembling  in  his  shoes; 
The  ox  was  his — what  could  he  say  ? 
His  legs  were  stiffen 'd  with  dismay. 
The  ox  ran  o'er  him  'mid  the  fray. 

And  gave  him  his  death's  bruise. 

The  frighted  beast  ran  on — but  here. 

The  gospel  scarce  more  true  is — 
My  muse  stops  short  in  mid  career- 
Nay,  gentle  reader !  do  not  sneer, 
I  cannot  choose  but  drop  a  tear, 

A  tear  for  good  old  Lewis. 

The  frighted  beast  ran  through  the  town, 

All  follow'd,  boy  and  dad, 
Bull-dog,  parson,  shopman,  clown. 
The  Publicans  rush'd  from  the  Crown, 
**  Halloo  !  hamstring  him  !  cut  him  down  ;''' 

They  drove  the  poor  ox  mad. 

Should  you  a  rat  to  madness  tease. 

Why  e'en  a  rat  might  plague  you: 
There's  no  philosopher  but  sees 

•  One  of  the  many^ne  words  which  ihe  most  uneducated 
tad  about  this  time  a  constant  opportunity  of  acquiring 
Tom  the  sermons  in  the  pulpit,  and  the  proclamations  on 
he corners. 


That  rage  and  fear  are  one  disease — 
Though  that  may  burn  and  this  may  freeze. 
They're  both  alike  the  ague. 

And  so  this  ox,  in  frantic  mood. 

Faced  round  like  any  bull — 
The  mob  turn'd  tail,  and  he  pursued. 
Till  they  with  fright  and  fear  were  stew'd. 
And  not  a  chick  of  all  this  brood 

But  had  his  belly-full. 

Old  Nick's  astride  the  beast,  'tis  clear- 
Old  Nicholas  to  a  tittle  ! 
But  all  agree  he'd  disappear. 
Would  but  the  parson  venture  near, 
And  through  his  teeth,  right  o'er  the  steer, 
Squirt  out  some  fasting-spittle.* 

Achilles  was  a  warrior  fleet, 

The  Trojans  he  could  worry — 
Our  parson  too  was  swift  of  feet. 
But  show'd  it  chiefly  m  retreat! 
The  victor  ox  scour'd  down  the  street. 

The  mob  fled  hurry-skurry. 

Through  gardens,  lanes,  and  fields  new-plow'd. 
Through  his  hedge  and  through  her  hedge. 

He  plunged  and  toss'd,  and  bellow'd  loud. 

Till  in  his  madness  he  grew  proud 

To  see  this  helter-skelter  crowd, 
That  had  more  wrath  than  courage. 

Alas  !  to  mend  the  breaches  wide 

He  made  for  these  poor  ninnies, 
They  all  must  work,  whate'er  betide. 
Both  days  and  months,  and  pay  beside 
(Sad  news  for  avarice  and  for  pride) 

A  sight  of  golden  guineas. 

But  here  once  more  to  view  did  pop 

The  man  that  kept  his  senses. 
And  now  he  cried — "  Stop,  neighbours  I  stop , 
The  ox  is  mad !  I  would  not  swop. 
No,  not  a  schoolboy's  farthing  top 

For  all  the  parish  fences. 

«  The  ox  is  mad  !     Ho  !  Dick,  Bob,  Mat ! 

What  means  this  coward  fuss  ? 
Ho  !  stretch  this  rope  across  the  plat'^ 
'Twill  trip  him  up — or  if  not  that. 
Why,  damme,  we  must  lay  him  flat — 

See,  here's  ray  blunderbuss  !" 

"  A  lying  dog !  just  now  he  said, 

The  ox  was  only  glad, — 
Let's  break  his  Presbyterian  head  !" 
"  Hush !"  quoth  the  sage, "  you've  been  misled. 
No  quarrels  now — let's  all  make  head — 

You  drove  the  poor  ox  mad  /" 

As  thus  I  sat  in  careless  chat, 

With  the  morning's  wet  newspaper, 

In  eager  haste,  without  his  hat. 

As  blind  and  blundering  as  a  bat, 

In  came  that  fierce  aristocrat. 
Our  pursy  woollen-draper. 

♦  According  to  the  superstition  of  the  west  countries,  if 
you  meet  the  devil,  you  may  either  cut  him  in  half  with 
a  straw,  or  you  may  cause  him  instantly  to  disappear  by 
spitting  over  liis  horns. 


528 


COLERIDGE. 


And  so  my  muse  perforce  drew  bit. 

And  in  he  rush'd  and  panted : — 
"  Well,  have  you  heard  ?" — "  No  !  not  a  whit.' 
"What!  han't  you  heard?"— "Come,  out  with  it! 
«  That  Tierney  votes  for  Mister  Pitt, 

And  Sheridan's  recanted.*' 


II.  LOVE  POEMS. 


Quas  humilis  tenero  stylus  dim  efFudit  in  sevo. 
Perlegis  hie  lacrymas,  et  quod  pharetratus  acut& 
lUe  puer  puero  fecit  mihi  cuspide  vulnus, 
Omnia  paulatim  consumit  longior  setas, 
Vivendoque  simul  morimur,  rapimurque  manendo 
Ispemihii  collatus  enim  non  ille  videbor: 
Frons  alia' est,  moresque  alii,  nova  mentis  imago, 
Voxque  aliud  sonat — 

Pectore  nunc  gelido  calidos  miseremur  amantes, 
Jamque  arsisse  pudet.    Veteres  tranquilla  tumultus 
Mens  horret  relegensque  alium  puiat  ista  locuium. 

Petrarch. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  TALE  OF  THE 
DARK  LADIE. 

The  following  poem  is  intended  as  the  introduction  to  a 
somewhat  longer  one.  The  use  of  the  old  ballad  word 
Ladie  for  Lady,  is  the  only  piece  of  obsoleteness  in  it; 
and  as  it  is  professedly  a  tale  of  ancient  limes,  I  trust 
that  the  affectionate  lovers  of  venerable  antiquity  (as 
Camden  says)  will  grant  me  their  pardon,  and  perliaps 
may  be  induced  to  admit  a  force  and  propriety  in  it.  A 
heavier  objection  may  be  adduced  against  the  author, that 
in  these  times  of  fear  and  expectation,  when  novelties 
explode  around  us  in  all  directions,  he  siiould  presume  to 
offer  to  the  public  a  silly  tale  of  old-fashioned  love:  and 
five  years  ago,  I  own  I  should  have  allowed  and  felt  the 
force  of  tliis  objection.  But,  alas !  explosion  has  succeeded 
explosion  so  rapidly,  that  novelty  itself  ceases  to  appear 
new;  and  it  is  possible  that  now  even  a  simple  story,  wholly 
uninspired  with  politics  or  personality,  may  find  some 
attention  amid  the  hubbub  of  revolutions,  as  to  those  who 
have  remained  a  long  lime  by  Ihe  falls  of  Niagara,  the 
lowest  whispering  becomes  distinctly  audible.— S.  T.  C. 
Dec.  21, 1799. 

0  LEAVE  the  lily  on  its  stem ; 

0  leave  the  rose  upon  the  spray ; 
0  leave  the  elder  bloom,  fair  maids  ! 

And  listen  to  my  lay. 

A  cypress  and  a  myrtle-bough 
This  morn  around  my  harp  you  twined, 

Because  it  fashion'd  mournfully 
Its  murmurs  in  the  wind. 

And  now  a  tale  of  love  and  wo, 

A  woful  tale  of  love  I  sing ; 
Hark,  gentle  maidens,  hark  !  it  sighs 

And  trembles  on  the  string. 

But  most,  my  own  dear  Genevieve, 
It  sighs  and  trembles  most  for  thee  ! 

0  come  and  hear  what  cruel  wrongs 
Befell  the  Dark  Ladie. 

Few  sorrows  hatli  she  of  her  own. 
My  hope,  my  joy,  my  Genevieve  ! 

JShe  loves  me  best,  whene'er  I  sing 
The  songs  that  make  her  grieve. 


All  thoughts,  all  passions,  all  delights, 
Whatever  stir  this  mortal  frame. 

All  are  but  ministers  of  love, 
And  feed  his  sacred  flame. 

0  !  ever  in  my  waking  dreams, 
I  dwell  upon  that  happy  hour. 

When  midway  on  the  mount  I  sate, 
Beside  the  ruin'd  tower. 

The  moonshine,  stealing  o'er  the  scene. 
Had  blended  with  the  lights  of  eve ; 

And  she  was  there,  my  hope,  my  joy. 
My  own  dear  Genevieve  ! 

She  lean'd  against  the  armed  man, 
The  statue  of  the  armed  knight ; 

She  stood  and  listen'd  to  my  harp. 
Amid  the  lingering  light. 

1  play'd  a  sad  and  doleful  air, 

I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 
An  old  rude  song  that  fitted  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 

She  listen'd  with  a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 

For  well  she  knew,  I  could  not  choose 
But  gaze  upon  her  face. 

I  told  her  of  the  knight  that  wore 
Upon  his  shield  a  burning  brand; 

And  how  for  ten  long  years  he  woo'd 
The  ladie  of  the  land  : 

I  told  her  how  he  pined :  and  ah  I 
The  deep,  the  low,  the  pleading  tone 

With  which  I  sung  another's  love. 
Interpreted  my  own. 

She  listen'd  with  .a  flitting  blush, 
With  downcast  eyes  and  modest  grace ; 

And  she  forgave  me,  that  I  gazed 
Too  fondly  on  her  face  ' 

But  when  I  told  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  this  bold  and  lonely  knight 

And  how  he  roam'd  the  mountain  woods. 
Nor  rested  day  or  night ; 

And  how  he  cross'd  the  woodman's  paths. 
Through  briers  and  swampy  mosses  beatj 

How  boughs  rebounding  scourged  his  limbs. 
And  low  stubs  gored  his  feet ; 

That  sometimes  from  the  savage  den. 
And  sometimes  from  the  darksome  shade. 

And  sometimes  starting  up  at  once 
In  green  and  sunny  glade ; 

There  came  and  look'd  him  in  the  face 
An  angel  beautiful  and  bright ; 

And  how  he  knew  it  was  a  fiend. 
This  miserable  knight ! 

And  how,  unknowing  what  he  did. 

He  leapt  amid  a  lawless  band, 
And  saved  from  outrage  worse  than  death 

The  ladie  of  the  land  ' 


SIBYLLINE    LEAVES. 


539 


And  how  she  wept,  and  clasp'd  his  knees ; 

And  how  she  tended  him  in  vain — 
And  meekly  strove  to  expiate 

The  scorn  that  crazed  his  brain  : 

And  how  she  nursed  hin?.  in  a  cave ; 

And  how  his  madness  went  away, 
When  on  the  yellow  forest  leaves 

A  dying  man  he  lay: 

His  dying  words — but  when  I  reach'd 
That  tenderest  strain  of  all  the  ditty, 

My  faltering  voice  and  pausing  harp 
Disturb'd  her  soul  with  pity  ! 

All  impulses  of  soul  and  sense 

Had  thrill'd  my  guiltless  Genevieve ; 

The  music  and  the  doleful  tale. 
The  rich  and  balmy  eve ; 

And  hopes,  and  fears  that  kindle  hope. 

An  undistinguishablfe  throng. 
And  gentle  wishes  long  subdued, 

Subdued  and  cherish'd  long  ! 

She  wept  with  pity  and  delight. 

She  blush'd  with  love  and  maiden  shame ; 
And,  like  the  murmurs  of  a  dream, 

I  heard  her  breathe  my  name. 

I  saw  her  bosom  heave  and  swell. 
Heave  and  swell  with  inward  sighs — 

1  could  not  choose  but  love  to  see 
Her  gentle  bosom  rise. 

Her  wet  cheek  glow'd:  she  stept  aside 
As  conscious  of  my  look  she  stepp'd : 

Then  suddenly,  with  timorous  eye, 
She  flew  to  me  and  wept. 

She  half-enclosed  me  with  her  arms, 
She  pressM  me  with  a  meek  embrace ; 

And  bending  back  her  head,  look'd  up. 
And  gazed  upon  m}'  face. 

'Twas  partly  love,  and  partly  fear. 
And  partly  'twas  a  bashful  art, 

That  I  might  rather  feel  than  see 
The  swelling  of  her  heart. 

I  calm'd  her  fears,  and  she  was  calm, 
And  told  her  love  with  virgin  pride ; 

And  so  I  won  my  Genevieve, 
My  bright  and  beauteous  bride. 

And  now  once  more  a  tale  of  wo, 

A  woful  tale  of  love  I  sing: 
For  thee,  my  Genevieve  !  it  sighs. 

And  trembles  on  the  string. 

When  last  I  sang  the  cruel  scorn 
That  crazed  this  bold  and  lonely  knight 

And  how  he  roam'd  the  mountain  woods, 
Nor  rested  day  or  night: 

I  promised  thee  a  sister  tale 

Of  man's  perfidious  cruelty: 
Come,  then,  and  hear  what  cruel  wrong 

Befell  the  Dark  Ladie. 
Vol.  III.— 34 


LEWTI,  OR  THE  CIRCASSIAN  LOVE- 
CHANT. 

At  midnight  by  the  stream  I  roved. 
To  forget  the  form  I  loved. 
Image  of  Lewti !  from  my  mind 
Depart ;  for  Lewti  is  not  kind. 

The  moon  was  high,  the  moonlight  gleam 

And  the  shadow  of  a  star 
Heaved  upon  Tamaha's  stream  ; 

But  the  rock  shone  brighter  far. 
The  rock  half-shelter'd  from  my  view 
By  pendent  boughs  of  tressy  yew— 
So  shines  my  Lewti's  forehead  fair, 
Gleaming  through  her  sable  hair. 
Image  of  Lewti !  from  my  mind 
Depart ;  for  Lewti  is  not  kind. 

I  saw  a  cloud  of  palest  hue, 

Onward  to  the  moon  it  pass'd ; 
Still  brighter  and  more  bright  it  grew, 
With  floating  colours  not  a  few, 

Till  it  reach'd  the  moon  at  last : 
Then  the  cloud  was  wholly  bright 
With  a  rich  and  amber  light ! 
And  so  with  many  a  hope  I  seek. 

And  with  such  joy  I  find  my  Lewti: 
And  even. so  my  pale  wan  cheek 

Drinks  in  as  deep  a  flush  of  beauty  ! 
Nay,  treacherous  image  !  leave  my  mind. 
If  Lewti  never  will  be  kind. 

The  little  cloud — it  floats  away, 

Away  it  goes  ;  away  so  soon  ? 
Alas  !  it  has  no  power  to  stay  ; 
Its  hues  are  dim,  its  hues  are  gray — 

Away  it  passes  from  the  moon  ! 
How  mournfully  it  seems  to  fly, 

Ever  fading  more  and  more. 
To  joyless  regions  of  the  sky — 

And  now  'tis  whiter  than  before  ! 
As  white  as  mj'  poor  cheek  will  be, 

W'hen,  Lewti !  on  my  couch  I  lie, 
A  dying  man  for  love  of  thee. 
Na}',  treacherous  image  !  leave  my  mind— 
And  yet  thou  didst  not  look  unkind. 

I  saw  a  vapour  in  the  sky. 

Thin,  and  white,  and  very  high ; 
I  ne'er  beheld  so  thin  a  cloud 

Perhaps  the  breezes  that  can  fly 

Now  below  and  now  above, 
Have  snatch'd  aloft  the  lawny  shroud 

Of  lady  fair — that  died  for  love. 
For  maids,  as  well  as  youths,  have  perish'd 
From  fruitless  love  too  fondly  cherish'd. 
Nay,  treacherous  image  !  leave  my  mind- 
For  Lewti  never  will  be  kind. 

Hush  !  my  heedless  feet  from  under 
Slip  the  crumbling  banks  for  ever : 

Like  echoes  to  a  distant  thunder, 
They  plunge  into  the  gentle  river. 

The  river-swans  have  heard  my  tread, 

And  startle  from  their  reedy  bed. 


530 


COLERIDGE. 


0  beauteous  birds  !  methinks  ye  measure 
Your  movements  to  some  heavenly  tune  ! 

0  beauteous  birds  !  'tis  such  a  pleasure 
To  see  you  move  beneath  the  moon, 

1  would  it  were  your  true  delight 
To  s  eep  by  day  and  wake  all  night. 

I  know  the  place  where  Lewti  lies, 
When  silent  night  has  closed  her  eyes  t 

It  is  a  breezy  jasmine  bower, 
The  nightingale  sings  o'er  her  head : 

Voice  of  the  night !  had  I  the  power 
That  leafy  labyrinth  to  thread, 
And  creep,  like  thee,  with  soundless  tread, 
I  then  might  view  her  bosom  white 
Heaving  lovely  to  my  sight. 
As  these  two  swans  together  heave 
On  the  gently  swelling  wave. 

O  !  that  she  saw  me  in  a  dream. 

And  dreamt  that  I  had  died  for  care  j 

All  pale  and  wasted  I  would  seem, 
Yet  fair  withal,  as  spirits  are  ! 

I'd  die,  indeed,  if  I  might  see 

Her  bosom  heave,  and  heave  fur  me  ! 

Soothe,  gentle  image  !  soothe  my  mind  J 

To-morrow  Lewti  may  be  kind. 
1795. 


THE  PICTURE,  OR   THE  LOVER'S 
RESOLUTION. 

TiniouGH  weeds  and  thorns,  and  matted  under- 
wood 
I  force  my  way ;  now  climb,  and  now  descend 
O'er  rocks,  or  bare  or  mossy,  with  wild  foot 
Crushing  the  purple  whorts ;  while  oft  unseen, 
Hurrying  along  the  drifted  forest  leaves. 
The  scared  snake  rustles.     Onward  still  I  toil, 
I  know  not,  ask  not  whither  !     A  new  joy, 
Lovel}^  as  light,  sudden  as  summer  gust. 
And  gladsome  as  the  first-born  of  the  spring, 
Beckons  me  on,  or  follows  from  behind, 
Playmate,  or  guide  !     The  master-passion  quell'd, 
I  feel  that  I  am  free.     With  dun-red  bark 
The  fir  trees,  and  th'  unfrequent  slender  oak, 
Forth  from  this  tangle  wild  of  bush  and  brake 
Soar  up,  and  form  a  melancholy  vault 
High  o'er  me,  murmuring  like  a  distant  sea. 

Here  wisdom  might  resort,  and  here  remorse ; 
Here  too  the  lovelorn  man  who,  sick  in  soul. 
And  of  this  busy  human  heart  aweary. 
Worships  the  spirit  of  unconscious  life 
In  tree  or  wild-flower.     Gentle  lunatic  ! 
If  so  he  might  not  wholly  cease  to  be. 
He  would  far  rather  not  be  that,  he  is  ; 
But  would  be  something  that  he  knows  not  of, 
In  winds,  or  waters,  or  among  the  rocks  ! 

But  hence,  fond  wretch  !   breathe  not  contagion 
here  ! 
No  myrtle-walks  are  these :  these  are  no  groves 
Where  love  dare  loiter  !     If  in  sullen  mood 
He  should  stray  hither,  the  low  stumps  shall  gore 
His  aamty  leet,  the  brier  and  the  thorr. 
Make  nis  plumes  haggard.     Like  a  wounded  bird 


Eas^^Jy  caught,  ensnare  him,  O  ye  nymph3, 
Ye  Oreads  chaste,  ye  dusky  Dryades  ! 
Aug  you,  ye  earth-winds  !  you  that  make  at  oiora 
The  dew-drops  quiver  on  tne  spider's  webs  ! 
You,  0  ye  wingless  airs  !  that  creep  between 
The  rigid  stems  of  heath  and  bitten  furze. 
Within  whose  scanty  shade,  at  summer-noon 
The  mother-sheep  hath  worn  a  hollow  bed — 
Ye,  that  now  cool  her  fleece  with  dropless  damp, 
Now  pant  and  murmur  with  her  feeding  lamb. 
Chase,  chase  him,  all  ye  fays,  and  elfin  gnomes ! 
With  prickles  sharper  than  his  darts  bemock 
His  little  godship,  making  him  perforce 
Creep  through  a  thorn-bush  on  yon  hedgehog*! 

back. 
This  is  my  hour  of  triumph  !  I  can  now 
With  my  own  fancies  play  the  merry  fool. 
And  laugh  away  worse  folly,  being  free. 
Here  will  I  seat  myself,  beside  this  old. 
Hollow,  and  weedy  oak,  which  ivy-twine 
Clothes  as  with  network :   here  will  I  couch  my 

limbs, 
Close  by  this  river,  in  this  silent  shade. 
As  safe  and  sacred  from  the  step  of  man 
As  an  invisible  world — unheard,  unseen. 
And  listening  only  to  the  pebbly  brook 
That  murmurs  with  a  dead,  yet  tinkling  sound ; 
Or  to  the  bees,  that  in  the  neighbouring  trunk 
Make  honey-hoards.     The  breeze  that  visits  me 
Was  never  love's  accomplice,  never  raised 
The  tendril  ringlets  from  the  maiden's  hrow. 
And  the  blue,  delicate  veins  above  her  cheek  ; 
Ne'er  played  the  wanton — never  half-disclosed 
The  maiden's  snowy  bosom,  scattering  thence 
Eye-poisons  for  some  love-distemper'd  youth, 
Who  ne'er  henceforth  may  see  an  aspen  grove 
Shiver  in  sunshine,  but  his  feeble  heart 
Shall  flow  away  like  a  dissolving  thing. 

Sweet  breeze  !  thou  only,  if  I  guess  aright, 
Liftest  the  feathers  of  the  robin's  breast, 
That  swells  its  little  breast,  so  full  of  song. 
Singing  above  me,  on  the  mountain  ash. 
And  thou  too,  desert  stream !  no  pool  of  thine, 
Though  clear  as  lake  in  latest  summer  eve. 
Did  e'er  reflect  the  stately  virgin's  robe. 
The  face,  ftie  form  divine,  the  downcast  look 
Contemplative  !     Behold  !  her  open  palm 
Presses  her  cheek  and  brow  !  her  elbow  rests 
On  the  bare  branch  of  half-uprooted  tree. 
That  leans  towards  its  mirror  !     Who  erewhile 
Had  from  her  countenance  turn'd,  or  look'd  b) 

stealth, 
(For  fear  is  true  love's  cruel  nurse,)  he  now 
With  steadfast  gaze  and  unoffending  eye. 
Worships  the  watery  idol,  dreaming  hopes 
Delicious  to  the  soul,  but  fleeting,  vain. 
E'en  as  that  phantom  world  on  which  he  gazed. 
But  not  un-:eeded  gazed  !  for  see,  ah  !  see, 
The  sportive  tyrant  with  her  left  hand  plucks 
The  heads  of  tall  flowers  that  behind  her  grow. 
Lychnis,  ana  willow-herb,  and  fo^-glove  bells : 
And  suddenly,  as  one  that  toys  with  time. 
Scatters  them  on  the  pool !     Then  all  the  charm 
Is  broken — all  mat  phantom  world  so  fair 
Vanishes,  and  a  thousand  circlets  spread, 
And  each  missnapes  the  other.     Stay  a  while 


SIBYLLINE    LEAVES. 


531 


Pcx)r  youth,  who  scarcely  darest  lift  up  thine  eyes  ! 
The  stream  will  joon  renew  its  smoothness,  soon 
The  visions  will  return  !     And  lo  !  he  stays  : 
And  soon  the  fragments  dim  of  lovely  forms 
Come  trembling  back,  unite,  and  now  once  more 
The  pool  becomes  a  mirror ;  and  behold 
Each  wild-flower  on  the  marge  inverted  there, 
And  there  the  half-uprooted  tree — but  where, 

0  where  the  virgin's  snowj'  arm,  that  lean'd 

On  its  bare  bra::ch  ?     He  turns,  and  she  is  gone  ! 
Homeward  she  steals  through  many  a  woodland 

maze 
Which  he  shall  seek  in  vain.     Hl-fated  youth  ! 
Go,  day  by  day,  and  waste  thy  manly  prime 
In  mad  love-yearning  by  the  vacant  brook. 
Till  sickly  thoughts  bewitch  thine  eyes,  and  thou 
Behold'st  her  shadow  still  abiding  there. 
The  Naiad  of  the  mirror  ! 

Not  to  thee, 
n  wild  and  desert  stream  !  belongs  this  tale: 
Gloomy  and  dark  art  thou — the  crowded  firs 
Spire  Irom  thy  shores,  and  stretch  across  thy  bed. 
Making  thee  doleful  as  a  cavern-well  ; 
Save  when  the  shy  kingfishers  build  their  nest 
On  thy   steep  banks,  no   loves   hast  thou,  wild 
stream ! 
This  be  my  chosen  haunt — emancipate 
From  passion's  dreams,  a  freeman,  and  alone, 

1  rise  and  trace  its  devious  course.     0  lead, 
Lead  me  to  deeper  shades  and  lonelier  glooms. 
Lo  !  stealing  through  the  canopy  of  firs. 
How  fair  the  sunshine  spots  that  mossy  rock. 
Isle  of  the  river,  whose  disparted  waves 
Dart  off  asunder  with  an  angry  sound. 

How  soon  to  reunite  !     And  see  !  they  meet. 

Each  in  the  other  lo  it  and  found :  and  see 

Placeless,  as  spirits,  one  soft  water-sun 

Throbbing  within  them,  heart  at  once  and  eye  ! 

With  its  soft  neighbourhood  of  filmy  clouds, 

The  stains  and  shadings  of  forgotten  tears, 

Dimness  o'erswum  with  lustre  !     Such  the  hour 

Of  deep  enjoyment,  following  love's  brief  feuds; 

And  hark,  the  noise  of  a  near  waterfall ! 

1  pass  forth  into  light — I  find  myself 

Beneath  a  weeping  birch,  (most  beautiful 

Of  forest-trees,  the  lady  of  the  woods,) 

Hard  by  the  brink  of  a  tall  weedy  rock 

That  overbrows  the  cataract.     How  bursts 

The  landscape  on  my  si^ht !     Two  crescent  hills 

Fold  in  behind  each  other,  and  so  make 

A  :ircular  vale,  and  land-lock'd,  as  might  seem. 

With  brook  and  bridge,  and  ^ray  stone  cottages. 

Half  hid  by  rocks  and  fruit  trees.     At  ray  feet 

The  whortleberries  are  bedewed  with  spray, 

Dash'd  upwards  by  the  furious  waterfall. 

How  solemnly  the  pendent  ivy  mass 

Swings  in  its  winnow:  all  the  air  is  ca.lm. 

The   smoke   from   cottage  chimneys,   tinged  with 

ligh.* 
Rises  in  columns  ;  from  this  house  alone. 
Close  by  the  waterfall,  the  column  slants. 
And  feels  its  ceaseless  breeze.     But  what  is  this  ? 
That  cottage,  with  its  slanting  chimney  smoke,. 
And  close  beside   ts  porch  a  sleeping  child. 
His  dear  head  pilbvv'd  on  a  sleeping  dog — 
One  arm  between  its  fore-legs,  and  *^::  ha-^' 


Holds  loosely  its  small  handful  of  wild-flowers, 
Unfilleted,  and  of  unequal  lengths. 
A  curious  picture,  with  a  master's  haste 
Sketch'd  on  a  strip  of  pinky-silver  skin, 
Peel'd  from  the  birchen  bark  !     Divinest  maid  ! 
Yon  bark  her  canvass,  and  those  purple  berries 
Her  pencil  I     See,  the  juice  is  scarcely  dried 
On  the  fine  skin  !     She  has  been  newly  here : 
And  lo  !  yon  patch  of  heath  has  been  her  couch — 
The  pressure  still  remains  !     0  blessed  couch  ! 
For  this  mayest  thou  flower  early,  and  the  sun. 
Slanting  at  eve,  rest  bright,  and  linger  long 
Upon  thy  purple  bells  !     0  Isabel ! 
Daughter  of  genius  !  stateliest  of  our  maids  ! 
More  beautiful  than  whom  Alcaeus  woo'd. 
The  Lesbian  woman  of  immortal  song  ! 
0  child  of  genius  !  stately,  beautiful. 
And  full  of  love  to  all,  save  only  me. 
And  not  ungentle  e'en  to  me  !     My  heart, 
Why  beats  it  thus  ?    Through  yonder  coppice-woGu 
Needs  must  the  pathway  turn,  that  leads  straigni- 

way 
On  to  her  father's  house.     She  is  alone ! 
The  night  draws  on — such  ways  are  hard  to  hit- 
And  fit  it  is  I  should  restore  this  sketch, 
Dropt  unawares,  no  doubt.     Why  should  I  yearn 
To  keep  the  relic  ?  'twill  but  idly  feed 
The  passion  that  consumes  me.     Let  me  haste . 
The  picture  in  my  hand  which  she  has  left. 
She  cannot  blame  me  that  I  follow'd  her ; 
And  I  may  be  her  guide  the  long  wood  througn 


THE    NIGHT-SCENE. 
A  DRAMATIC   FRAGMENT. 

SANDOVAL. 

You  loved  the  daughter  of  Don  Manrique  ! 


EARL   HENRY. 
SANDOVAL. 

Did  you  not  say  you  woo'd  her  ? 


Loved  ? 


EARL    HENRY. 


Once  I  loved 


Her  whom  I  dared  not  woo  ! 


SANDOVAL. 

And  woo'd,  percnan*^ 
One  whom  you  loved  not .' 

EARL    HENRY. 

O  !  I  were  most  base. 
Not  loving  Oropeza.     True,  I  woo'd  her. 
Hoping  to  heal  a  deeper  wound ;  but  she 
Met  my  advances  with  impassion'd  prides 
That  kindled  love  with  love.     And  when  ner  sitv. 
Who  in  his  dream  of  hope  already  grasp'd 
The  golden  circlet  in  his  hand,  rejected 
My  suit  with  insult,  and  in  memory 
Of  ancient  feuds  pour'd  curses  on  my  head, 
Her  blessings  overtook  and  baffled  them  ! 
But  thou  art  stern,  and  with  unkindly  countenaii.** 
Art  inly  reasoning  whilst  thou  listenest  to  ms. 


632 


COLERIDGE. 


Anxiously,  Henry !  reasoning  anxiously, 
But  Oropeza — 

EARL   HENRY. 

Blessings  gather  round  her ! 
Within  this  wood  there  winds  a  secret  passage, 
Beneath  the  walls,  which  opens  out  at  length 
Into  the  gloomiest  covert  of  the  garden— 
The  night  ere  my  departure  to  the  army. 
She,  nothing  trembling,  led  me  through  that  gloom. 
And  to  that  covert  by  a  silent  stream. 
Which,  with  one  star  reflected  near  its  marge, 
Was  the  sole  object  visible  aroimd  me. 
No  leaflet  stirr'd;  the  air  v/as  almost  sultry ; 
So  deep,  so  dark,  so  close  the  umbrage  o'er  us ! 
No  leaflet  stirr'd ; — ^yet  pleasure  hung  upon 
The  gloom  and  stillness  of  the  balmy  night-air. 
A  little  further  on  an  arbour  stood. 
Fragrant  with  flowering  trees — I  well  remember 
What  an  uncertain  glimmer  in  the  darkness 
Their  snow-white  blossoms  made — thither  she  led 

me. 
To  that  sweet  bower !    Then  Oropeza  trembled — 
I  heard  her  heart  beat — if  'twere  not  my  own. 

SANDOVAL. 

A  rude  and  scaring  note,  my  friend ! 


EARL   HENRY. 


0!  no: 


I  have  small  memory  of  aught  but  pleasure. 
Th'  inquietudes  of  fear,  like  lesser  streams 
Still  flowing,  still  were  lost  in  those  of  love : 
So  love  grew  mightier  from  the  fear,  and  nature. 
Fleeing  from  pain,  shelter'd  herself  in  joy. 
The  stars  above  our  heads  were  dim  and  steady, 
Like  eyes  suffused  with  rapture.     Life  was  in  us : 
We  were  all  life,  each  atom  of  our  frames 
A  living  soul — I  vow'd  to  die  for  her: 
With  the  faint  voice  of  one  who,  having  spoken. 
Relapses  into  blessedness,  I  vow'd  it: 
That  solemn  vow,  a  whisper  scarcely  heard, 
A  murmur  breathed  against  a  lady's  ear. 

0  !  there  is  joy  above  the  name  of  pleasure. 
Deep  self-possession,  an  intense  repose. 

SANDOVAL,  (with  u  sarcustic  smile.) 

No  other  than  as  eastern  sages  paint, 
The  god,  who  floats  upon  a  lotos  leaf, 
Dreams  for  a  thousand  ages  ;  then  awaking. 
Creates  a  woriJ,  and  smiling  at  the  bubble, 
Relapses  into  bliss. 

EARL   HENRY. 

Ah !  was  that  bliss 
Fear'd  as  an  alien,  and  too  vast  for  man  ? 
For  suddenly,  impatient  of  its  silence. 
Did  Oropeza,  starting,  grasp  my  forehead. 

1  caught  her  arms;   the  veins  were  swellifig  on 

them. 
Through  the  dark  bower  she  sent  a  hollow  voice, 
'J  !  what  if  all  betray  me  ?  what  if  thou  ? 
I  swore,  and  with  an  inward  thought  that  seem'd 
The  purpose  ayd  the  substance  of  my  being, 
f  swoie  to  her,  that  were  she  red  with  guilt. 


I  would  exchange  my  unblench'd  state  with  hers.-* 
Friend !  by  that  winding  passage,  to  that  bower 
I  now  will  go — all  objects  there  will  teach  me 
Unwavering  love,  and  singleness  of  heart. 
Go,  Sandoval !  I  am  prepared  to  meet  her — 
Say  nothing  of  me — I  myself  will  seek  her — 
Nay,  leave  me,  friend  !  I  cannot  bear  the  torment 
And  keen  inquiry  of  that  scanning  eye. 

[Earl  Henry  retires  into  the  wo(td 

SANDOVAL,  (^alone.) 

0  Henry  !  always  strivest  thou  to  be  great 

By  thine  own  act — ^yet  art  thou  never  great 

But  by  the  inspiration  of  great  passion. 

The  whirl-blast  comes,  the  desert-sands  rise  up 

And  shape  themselves :  from  earth  to  heaven  thej 

stand. 
As  though  they  were  the  pillars  of  a  temple. 
Built  by  Omnipotence  in  its  own  honour ! 
But  the  blast  pauses,  and  their  shaping  spirit 
Is  fled :  the  mighty  columns  were  but  sand. 
And  lazy  snakes  trail  o'er  the  level  ruins  ! 


TO    AN    UNFORTUNATE    WOMAN, 

WHOM  THE   AUTHOR    HAD   KNOWN   IN   THE   DAY 
OF   HER   INNOCENCE. 

Myrtle-leae  that,  ill-besped. 

Finest  in  the  gladsome  ray, 
Soil'd  beneath  the  common  tread. 

Far  from  thy  protecting  spray  ! 

When  the  partridge  o'er  the  sheaf 
Whirr'd  along  the  yellow  vale. 

Sad  I  saw  thee,  headless  leaf! 
Love  the  dalliance  of  the  gale. 

Lightly  didst  thou,  foolish  thing  ! 

Heave  and  flutter  to  his  sighs. 
While  the  flatterer,  on  his  wing, 

Woo'd  and  whispered  thee  to  rise 

Gayly  from  thy  mother-stalk 

Wert  thou  danced  and  wafted  high — • 

Soon  on  this  unshelter'd  walk 
Flung  to  fade,  to  rot,  and  die. 


TO    AN    UNFORTUNATE    WOMAN    AT 
THE    THEATRE. 

Maiden,  that-with  sullen  brow 
Sittest  behind  those  virgins  gay. 

Like  a  scorch'd  and  mildew'd  bough. 
Leafless  'mid  the  blooms  of  May  ! 

Him  who  lured  thee  and  forsook. 
Oft  I  watch'd  with  angry  gaze. 

Fearful  saw  his  pleading  look, 
Anxious  heard  his  fervid  phrase. 

Soft  the  glances  of  the  youth. 

Soft  his  speech,  and  soft  his  sigh ; 

But  no  sound  like  simple  truth, 
But  no  true  love  in  his  eye. 


SIBYLLINE    LEAVES. 


533 


Loathing  thy  polluted  lot, 

Hie  thee,  maiden,  hie  thee  hence ! 
Sack  th}'  weeping  mother's  cot. 

With  a  wiser  innocence. 

Thou  hast  known  deceit  and  folly. 
Thou  hast  felt  that  vice  is  wo : 

With  a  musing  melancholy 
Inly  arm'd,  go,  maiden  !  go. 

Mother  sage  of  self-dominion, 
Firm  thy  steps,  O  melancholy  ! 

The  strongest  plume  in  wisdom's  pinion 
Is  the  memory  of  past  folly. 

Mute  the  sky-lark  and  forlorn, 

While  she  moults  the  firstling  plumes. 
That  had  skimm'd  the  tender  corn. 

Or  the  bean-field's  odorous  blooms  ; 

Scon  with  renovated  wing 
Shall  she  dare  a  loftier  flight. 

Upward  to  the  day-star  spring, 
And  embathe  in  heavenly  light. 


LINES  COMPOSED  IN  A  CONCERT-ROOM. 

Nor  cold  nor  stern  my  soul !  yet  I  detest 

These  scented  rooms,  where,  to  a  gaudy  throng. 

Heaves  the  proud  harlot  her  distended  breast. 
In  intricacies  of  laborious  song. 

These  feel  not  music's  genuine  power,  nor  deign 
To  melt  at  nature's  passion-warbled  plaint ; 

But  when  the  long-breathed  singer's  uptrill'd  strain 
Bursts  in  a  squall — they  gape  for  wonderment. 

Hark  the  deep  buzz  of  vanity  and  hate  ! 

Scornful,  yet  envious,  with  self-torturing  sneer 
My  lady  eyes  some  maid  of  humbler  state, 
While  the  pert  captain,  or  the  primmer  priest. 

Prattles  accordant  scandal  in  her  ear. 
0  give  me,  from  this  heartless  scene  released, 

To  hear  our  old  musician,  blind  and  gray, 
(Whom  stretching  from  my  nurse's  arms  I  kiss'd,) 

His  Scottish  tunes  and  warlike  marches  play 
By  moonshine,  on  the  balmy  summer-night. 

The  while  I  dance  amid  the  tedded  hay 
With  merry  maids,  whose  ringlets  toss  in  light. 

Or  .lies  the  purple  evening  on  the  bay 
Of  the  calm  glossy  lake,  O  let  me  hide 

Unheard,  unseen,  behind  the  alder  trees. 
For  round  their  roots  the  fisher's  boat  is  tied. 

On  whose  trim  seat  doth  Edmund  stretch  at  ease, 
And  while  the  lazy  boat  sways  to  and  fro, 

Breathes  in  his  flute  sad  airs,  so  wild  and  slow. 
That  his  own  cheek  is  wet  with  quiet  tears. 

But  O,  dear  Anne  !  when  midnight  wind  careers, 
And  the  gust  pelting  on  the  outhouse  shed 

Makes  the  cock  shrilly  on  the  rain-storm  crow. 
To  hear  thee  sing  some  ballad  full  of  wo. 
Ballad  of  shipwreck'd  sailor  floating  dead. 

Whom  his  own  true-love  buried  in  the  sands  I 
rhee,  gentle  woman,  for  thy  voice  remeasures 
Whatevei  tores  and  melancholy  pleasures 


The  things  of  nature  utter;  birds  or  trees, 
Or  moan  of  ocean  gale  in  weedy  caves. 
Or  where  the  stiff"  grass  'mid  the  heath-plant  waves^ 

Murmur  and  music  thin  of  sudden  breeze. 


THE  KEEPSAKE. 

The  tedded  hay,  the  first-fruits  of  the  soil. 

The  tedded  hay  and  corn-sheaves  in  one  field. 

Show  summer  gone,  ere  come.     The  fox-glove  tall 

Sheds  its  loose  purple  bells,  or  in  the  gust. 

Or  when  it  bends  beneath  th'  up-springing  lark. 

Or  mountain-finch  alighting.    And  the  rose 

(In  vain  the  darling  of  successful  love) 

Stands,  like  some  boasted  beauty  of  past  years. 

The  thorns  remaining,  and  the  flowers  all  gone. 

Nor  can  I  find,  amid  my  lonely  walk 

Bj'  rivulet,  or  spring,  or  wet  road-side, 

That  blue  and  bright-eyed  floweret  of  the  brook, 

Hope's  gentle  gem,  the  sweet  Forget-me-not  !* 

So  will  net  fade  the  flowers  which  Emmeline 

With  delicate  fingers  on  the  snow-white  silk 

Has  work'd  (the  flowers  which  most  she  knew  1 

loved,) 
And,  more  beloved  than  they,  her  auburn  hair. 

In  the  cool  morning  twilight,  early  waked 
By  her  full  bosom's  joyous  restlessness. 
Softly  she  rose,  and  lightly  stole  along, 
Down  the  slope  coppice  to  the  woodbine  bower. 
Whose  rich  flowers,  swinging  in  the  morning  breeze, 
Over  their  dim,  fast-moving  shadows  hung, 
Making  a  quiet  image  of  disquiet 
In  the  smooth,  scarcely-moving  river-pool. 
There,  in  that  bower  where  first  she  own'd  her  love. 
And  let  me  kiss  my  own  warm  tear  of  joy 
From  off  her  glowing  cheek,  she  sate  and  stretch'd 
The  silk  upon  the  frame,  and  work'd  her  name 
Between  the  moss-rose  and  forget-me-not — 
Her  own  dear  name,  with  her  own  auburn  hair! 
That  forced  to  wander  till  sweet  spring  return, 
I  yet  might  ne'er  forget  her  smile,  her  look, 
Her  voice,  (that  even  in  her  mirthful  mood 
Has  made  me  wish  to  steal  away  and  weep,) 
Nor  yet  th'  entrancement  of  that  maiden  kiss 
With  which  she  promised,  that  when  spring  re- 
turn'd. 
She  vv'ould  resign  one-half  of  that  dear  name, 
And  own  thenceforth  no  other  name  but  mine ! 


TO  A  LADY. 

WITH   falconer's   "  SHIPWRECK." 

Ah  !  not  by  Cam  or  Isis,  famous  streams, 
In  arched  groves,  the  youthful  poet's  choice ; 

Nor  while  half-listening,  'mid  delicious  dreams. 
To  harp  and  song  from  lady's  hand  and  voice ; 


»  One  of  the  names  (and  meriting  to  be  the  only  one) 
of  the  Myosotis  Scorpioides  Palustris,  a  flower  from  six 
to  twelve  inches  high,  with  blue  blossom  and  bright  yellow 
eye.  It  has  the  same  name  over  the  whole  empire  of 
Germany,  iVerglssmein  nicht,)  and,  we  believe,  in  Den 
mark  and  Sweden. 


534 


COLERIDGE. 


Nor  yet  while  gazing  in  sublimer  mood 

On  cliff,  or  cataract,  in  Alpine  dell ; 
Nor  in  dim  cave  with  bladdery  sea-weed  strew'd. 

Framing  wild  fancies  to  the  ocean's  swell ; 

Our  sea-bard  sang  this  song !  which  still  he  sings, 
And  sings  for  thee,  sweet  friend  !    Hark,  Pity, 
harlc  ! 

Now  mounts,  now  totters  on  the  tempest's  wings. 
Now  groans,  and  shivers,  the  replunging  bark  ! 

'*  Cling  to  the  shrouds  !"    In  vain  !    The  breakers 
roar- 
Death  shrieks  !     With  two  alone  of  all  his  clan 

Forlorn  the  poet  paced  the  Grecian  shore. 
No  classic  roamer,  but  a  shipwreck 'd  man ! 

Say  then,  what  muse  inspired  these  genial  strains, 
And  lit  his  spirit  to  so  bright  a  flame  ? 

The  elevating  thought  of  sufFer'd  pains. 
Which  gentle  hearts  shall  mourn  ;  but  chief,  the 
name 

Of  gratitude  !  remembrances  of  friend. 

Or  absent  or  no  more !     Shades  of  the  past, 

vVhich  love  makes  substance !    Hence  to  thee  I 
send, 
0  dear  as  long  as  life  and  memory  last ! 

I  send  with  deep  regards  of  heart  and  head, 
Sweet  maid,  for  friendship  form'd  !  this  work  to 
thee  : 

And  thou,  the  while  thou  canst  not  choose  but  shed 
A  tear  for  Falconer,  wilt  remember  me. 


In  the  winter  they're  silent — the  wind  is  so  strong 
What  it  says,  I  don't  know,  but  it  sings  a  loud 

song. 
But  grfeen  leaves,  and  blossoms,  and  sunny,  warm 

weather. 
And  singing,  and  loving — all  come  back  together. 
But  the  lark  is  so  brimful  of  gladness  and  love^ 
The  green  fields  below  him,  the  blue  sky  above. 
That  he  sings,  and  he  sings  ;  and  for  ever  sings  he— 
"  I  love  my  love,  and  my  love  loves  me  !" 


HOME-SICK. 

WRITTEN  IN  GERMANY. 

'Tis  sweet  to  him,  who  all  the  week 
Through  city  crowds  must  push  hia  way. 

To  stroll  along  through  fields  and  woods, 
And  hallow  thus  the  Sabbath-day ; 

And  sweet  it  is,  in  summer  bower, 

Sincere,  affectionate,  and  gay, 
One's  own  dear  children  feasting  round, 

To  celebrate  one's  marriage-day. 

But  what  is  all,  to  his  delight, 

Who  having  long  been  doom'd  to  roam. 

Throws  off  the  bundle  from  his  back 
Before  the  door  of  his  own  home  ? 

Home-sickness  is  a  wasting  pang ; 

This  feel  I  hourly  more  and  more : 
There's  healing  only  in  thy  wings, 

Thou  breeze  that  playest  on  Albion's  shore ! 


ANSWER  TO  A  CHILD'S  QUESTION. 

Do  you  ask  what  the  birds  say  ?     The  sparrow,  the 
dove, 
he  linnet  and  thrush,  say.  "  I  love  and  I  love  !" 


TO  A  ?  OUNG  LADY. 

ON   HER   RECOVERY   EROM   A   EEVER. 

Why  need  I  say,  Louisa  dear ! 
How  glad  I  am  to  see  you  here 

A  lovely  convalescent; 
Risen  from  the  bed  of  pain  and  fear, 

And  feverish  heat  incessant. 

The  sunny  showers,  the  dappled  sky, 
The  little  birds  that  warble  high, 

Their  vernal  loves  commencing, 
Will  better  welcome  you  than  I 

With  their  sweet  influencing. 

Believe  me,  while  in  bed  you  lay. 
Your  danger  taught  us  all  to  pray: 

You  made  us  grow  devouter  ! 
Each  eye  look'd  up,  and  seem'd  to  say 

How  can  we  do  without  her  ? 

Besides,  what  vex'd  us  worst,  we  knew. 
They  have  no  need  of  such  as  you 

In  the  place  where  you  were  going ; 
This  world  has  angels  all  too  few. 

And  heaven  is  overflowing  ! 


THE  VISIONARY  HOPE. 

Sad  lot,  to  have  no  hope  !     Though  lowly  kneeling 
He  fain  would  frame  a  prayer  within  his  breast, 
Would  fain  entreat  for  some  sweet  breath  of  heal- 
ing* 
That  his  sick  body  might  have  ease  and  rest ; 
He  strove  in  vain  I  the  dull  sighs  from  his  chest 
Against  his  will  the  stifling  load  revealing. 
Though  nature  forced ;   though  like  some  captive 

guest. 
Some  royal  prisoner  at  ^is  conqueror's  feast. 
An  alien's  restless  mood  but  half-concealing, 
The  sternness  on  his  gentle  brow  confess'd. 
Sickness  within  and  miserable  feeling  : 
Though  obscure  pangs  made  curses  of  his  dreams. 
And  dreaded  sleep,  each  night  repell'd  in  vain. 
Each  night  was  scatter'd  by  its  own  loud  screams, 
Yet  never  could  his  heart  command,  though  fain. 
One  deep  full  wish  to  be  no  more  in  pain. 

That  hope,  which  was  his  inward  bliss  and  boast 
Which  waned  and  died,  yet  ever  near  him  stood. 
Though    changed    in    nature,   wander  where    he 

would — 
For  love's  despair  is  but  hope's  pining  ghost ! 


SIBYLLINE    LEAVES. 


3Si> 


For  this  one  hope  he  makes  his  hourly  moan, 
He  wishes  and  can  wish  for  this  alone ! 
Pierced,  as  with  light  from  heaven,  before  its  gleams 
(So  the  love-stricken  visionary  deems) 
Disease  would  vanish,  like  a  summer  shower, 
Whose  dews    fling   sunshine  from    the  noontide 

bower ! 
Or  let  it  stay  !  yet  this  one  hope  should  give 
8ucn  strength  that  he  would  bless  his  pains  and  live. 


SOMETHING  CHILDISH,  BUT  VERY 
NATURAL. 

WRITTEN   IN   GERMANY. 

If  I  had  but  two  little  wings. 
And  were  a  little  feathery  bird, 
To  you  I'd  fly,  my  dear  ! 
But  thoughts  like  these  are  idle  things, 
And  I  stay  here. 

But  in  my  sleep  to  you  I  fly: 

I'm  always  with  you  in  my  sleep  ! 
The  world  is  all  one's  own. 
But  then  one  wakes,  and  where  am  I  ? 
All,  all  alone. 

Sleep  stays  not,  though  a  monarch  bids : 

So  I  love  to  wake  ere  break  of  day : 

For  though  my  sleep  be  gone. 

Yet,  while  'tis  dark,  one  shuts  one's  lids, 

And  still  dreams  on. 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  LOVE. 

How  warm  this  woodland  wild  recess  ! 
Love  surely  hath  been  breathing  here. 
And  this  sweet  bed  of  heath,  my  dear ! 

Swells  up,  then  sinks,  with  faint  caress, 
As  if  to  have  you  yet  more  near. 

Eight  springs  have  flown,  since  last  I  lay 
On  seaward  Quantock's  heathy  hills, 
"Where  quiet  sounds  from  hidden  rills 

Float  here  and  there,  like  things  astray, 
And  high  o'erhead  the  sky-lark  shrills. 

No  voice  as  yet  had  made  the  air 

Be  music  with  your  name  ;  yet  why 
That  asking  look  ?  that  yearning  sigh  ? 

That  sense  of  promise  everywhere  ? 
Beloved  !  flew  your  spirit  by  ? 

As  when  a  mother  doth  explore 

The  rose  mark  on  her  long-lost  child, 
I  met,  I  loved  you,  maiden  mild ! 

As  whom  I  long  had  loved  before — 
So  deeply,  had  I  been  beguiled. 

You  stood  before  me  like  a  thought, 
A  dream  remember'd  in  a  dream. 
But  when  those  meek  eyes  fust  did  seem 

To  tell  me,  love  within  you  wrought — 
O  Gieta,  dear  domestic  stream  I 


Has  not,  since  then,  love's  prompture  deep, 
Has  not  love's  whisper  evermore. 
Been  ceaseless,  as  thy  gentle  roar  ? 

Sole  voice,  when  other  voices  sleep. 
Dear  under-song  in  clamour's  hour. 


THE  HAPPY  HUSBAND. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

Oft,  oft  methinks,  the  while  with  thee 
I  breathe,  as  from  the  heart,  thy  dear 
And  dedicated  name,  I  hear 

A  promise  and  a  mystery, 

A  pledge  of  more  than  passing  life, 
Yea,  in  that  very  name  of  wife  ! 

A  pulse  of  love,  that  ne'er  can  sleep ! 

A  feeling  that  upbraids  the  heart 

With  happiness  beyond  desert. 
That  gladness  half  requests  to  weep  ! 

Nor  bless  I  not  the  keener  sense 

And  unalarmlng  turbulence 

Of  transient  joys,  that  ask  no  sting 
From  jealous  fears,  or  coy  denying; 
But  born  beneath  love's  brooding  wing, 

And  into  tenderness  soon  dying. 

Wheel  out  their  giddy  moment,  then 
Resign  the  soul  to  love  again. 

A  more  precipitated  vein 

Of  notes,  that  eddy  in  the  flow 

Of  smoothest  song,  they  come,  they  go. 

And  leave  the  sweeter  under-strain, 
Its  own  sweet  self — a  love  of  thee 
That  seems,  yet  cannot  greater  be  ! 


ON  REVISITING  THE  SEA-SHORE,  AFTER 
LONG   ABSENCE, 

ITNDER   STRONG   MEDICAL    RECOMMENDATION  NOT 
TO   BATHE. 

God  be  with  thee,  gladsome  ocean  I 
How  gladly  greet  I  thee  once  more : 

Ships  and  waves,  and  ceaseless  motion, 
And  men  rejoicing  on  thy  shore. 

Dissuading  spake  the  mild  physician, 

"  Those  briny  waves  for  thee  are  death  .** 

But  my  soul  fulfill'd  her  mission, 

And  lo  !  I  breathe  untroubled  breath ! 

Fashion's  pining  sons  and  daughters. 
That  seek  the  crowd  they  seem  to  fly. 

Trembling  they  approach  thy  waters  ; 
And  what  cares  nature,  if  they  die  ? 

Me  a  thousand  hopes  and  pleasures, 
A  thousand  recollections  bland, 

Thoughts  sublime,  and  stately  measurtt 
Revisit  on  thy  echoing  strand  : 


53G 


COLERIDGE. 


Dieams,  (the  soul  herself  forsaking,) 
Tearful  raptures,  boyish  mirth ; 

Silent  adorations,  making 

A  blessed  shadow  of  this  earth ! 

O  ye  hopes,  that  stir  within  me. 
Health  comes  with  you  from  above  '. 

God  is  with  me,  God  is  in  me ! 
I  cannot  die,  if  life  be  love. 


THE  COMPOSITION  OF   A  KISS. 

Cupid,  if  storying  legends*  tell  aright, 

Once  framed  a  rich  elixir  of  delight. 

A  chalice  o'er  love-kindled  flames  he  fix'd. 

And  in  it  nectar  and  ambrosia  mix'd: 

With  these  the  magic  dews,  which  evening  brings, 

Brush'd  from  th'  Idalian  star  by  faery  wings  : 

Each  tender  pledge  of  sacred  faith  he  join'd, 

Each  gentler  pleasure  of  th'  unspotted  mind — 

Ray-dreams,  whose  tints  with  sportive  brightness 

glow, 
And  hope,  the  blameless  parasite  of  wo. 
The  eyeless  chemist  heard  the  process  rise. 
The  steamy  chalice  bubbled  up  in  sighs ; 
Sweet  sounds  transpired,  as  when  th'  enamour'd 

dove 
Pours  the  soft  murmuring  of  responsive  love. 
The  finish'd  work  might  envy  vainly  blame. 
And  "  Kisses"  was  the  precious  compound's  name. 
With  half  the  god  his  Cyprian  mother  blest, 
A.nd  breathed  on  Sara's  lovelier  lips  the  rest. 


III.  MEDITATIVE   POEMS. 

ix  Blank  verse. 


Yea,  he  deserves  to  find  himself  deceived, 
Who  seeks  a  heart  in  the  unthinking  man. 
Like  shadows  on  a  stream,  the  forms  of  life 
Impress  their  characters  on  the  smooth  forehead : 
Naught  sinks  into  the  bosom's  silent  depth. 
Quick  sensibility  of  pain  and  pleasure 
Moves  the  light  fluids  lightly ;  but  no  soul 
Warmeth  the  inner  frame. 

Schiller. 


HYMN  BEFORE  SUNRISE,  IN  THE  VALE 
OF   CHAMOUNY. 

Besides  the  rivers  Arve  and  Arveiron,  which  have  their 
sources  in  the  foot  of  Mont  Blanc,  five  conspicuous 
torrents  rush  down  its  sides,  and  within  a  few  paces  of 
the  Glaciers,  the  gentiana  major  grows  in  immense 
numbers,  with  its  "flowers  of  loveliest  blue." 


Hast  thou  a  charm  to  stay  the  morning  star 

[n  his  steep  course  ?     So  long  he  seems  to  pause 


♦  Efiinixt  quondam  blandum  meditala  laboreni 
Basia  lasciv^  Cypria  Diva  man^. 

Ambrosiae  succos  occultS.  temperat  arte. 
Fragransque  infuse  nectare  tingit  opus. 

Suflicil  et  partem  mellis,  quod  subdolus  olim 
Nou  impune  favis  surripuisset  Amor 


On  thy  bald  awful  head,  0  sovran  Blanc  ! 

The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 

Rave  ceaselessly ;  but  thou,  most  awful  form ! 

Risest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines. 

How  silently !     Around  thee  and  above 

Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  blacky 

An  ebon  mass :  methinks  thou  piercest  it. 

As  with  a  wedge  !     But  when  I  look  again. 

It  is  thine  own  calm  home,  thy  crystal  shrine. 

Thy  habitation  from  eternity  ! 

C  dread  and  silent  mount !  I  gazed  upon  thse. 

Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought :  entranced  in  prayer, 

I  worshipp'd  the  Invisible  alone. 

Yet,  like  some  sweet  beguiling  melody. 
So  sweet,  we  know  not  '^e  are  listening  to  it. 
Thou,  the  meanwhile,  wast  blending   with  my 

thought. 
Yea,  with  my  life  and  ]i&*s  own  secret  joy: 
Till  the  dilating  sou]_,  enrapt,  transfused. 
Into  the  mighty  vision  passing — there 
As  in  her  nj>tv.ral  form,  swell'd  vast  to  heaven ! 

AwaJie,  -my  soul !  not  only  passive  praise 
Thou  owest !  not  alone  these  swelling  tears. 
Mute  thanks,  and  secret  ecstasy  !     Awake, 
Voice  of  sweet  song !    Awake,  my  heart,  awake  1 
Green  vales  and  icy  cliffs,  all  join  my  hymn. 

Thou  first  and  chief,  sole  sovereign  of  the  vale  t 
0  struggling  with  the  darkness  all  the  night. 
And  visited  all  night  by  troops  of  stars, 
Or  when  they  climb  the  sky,  or  when  they  sink: 
Companion  of  the  morning  star  at  dawn, 
Thyself  earth's  rosy  star,  and  of  the  dawn 
Co-herald :  wake,  0  wake,  and  utter  praise  ! 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  earth  ? 
Who  fill'd  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light  ? 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams  ? 

And  you,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad ! 
Who  call'd  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  aeath 
From  dark  and  icy  caverns  call'd  you  forth, 
Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  rocks, 
For  ever  shatter'd  and  the  same  for  ever  ? 
Who  gave  you  your  invulnerable  life, 
Your  strength,  your  speed,  your  fury,  and  your  joy 
Unceasing  thunder,  and  eternal  foam  ? 
And  who  commanded,  (and  the  silence  came,) 
Here  let  the  billows  stiffen,  and  have  rest  ? 

Ye  ice-falls  !  ye  that  from  the  mountain's  brow 
Adown  enormous  ravines  slope  amain — 
Torrents,  methinks,  that  heard  a  mighty  voice. 
And  stopp'd  at  once  amid  their  maddest  plunge ! 
Motionless  torrents  !  silent  cataracts  ! 
Who  made  you  glorious  as  the  gates  of  heaven 
Beneath  the  keen  full  moon  ?     Who  bade  the  sun 
Clothe   3'ou   with   rainbows  ?     Who,  with  living 

flowers 
Of  loveliest  blue,  spread  garlands  at  your  feet  ?— 
God  !  let  the  torrents,  like  a  shout  of  nations. 
Answer  !  and  let  the  ice-plains  echo,  God  I 


Decussos  violse  foliis  ad  miscet  odores 
Et  spolia  seslivis  plurima  rapta  rosis. 

Addit  et  illecebras  et  mille  et  mille  lepores, 
Et  quot  Acidalius  gaudia  Cost  us  habet. 

Ex  his  composuit  Dea  basia;  et  rtmnia  libang 
Invenias  nitidie  sparsa  per  ora  Cloes. 

Caim.  Quod.  Vol   IL 


SIBYLLINE    LEAVES 


537 


God!  sing,  ye  meadow-streams  with  gladsome  voice  ! 
Ye  pine-grov  js,  with  your  soft  and  soul-like  sounds ! 
And  they  toe  have  a  voice,  yon  piles  of  snow. 
And  in  their  perilous  fall  shall  thunder,  God  ! 

Ye  living  flowers  that  skirt  th'  eternal  frost ! 
Ye  wild  goats,  sporting  round  the  eagle's  nest ! 
Ye  eagles,  playmates  of  the  mountain  storm  ! 
Ye  lightnings,  the  dread  arrows  of  the  clouds  ! 
Ye  signs  and  wonders  of  the  element ! 
Utter  forth  God,  and  fill  the  hills  with  praise  ! 

Thou,  too,  hoar  mount !   with  thy  sky-pointing 
peaks. 
Oft  from  whose  feet  the  avalanche,  unheard, 
Shoots  downward,  glittering  through  the  pure  serene 
Into  the  depth  of  clouds,  that  veil  thy  breast — 
Thou  too  again,  stupendous  mountain  !  thou 
That  as  I  raised  my  head,  a  while  bow'd  low 
In  adoration,  upward  from  thy  base 
Slow  travelling  with  dim  eyes  suffused  with  tears, 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapory  cloud. 
To  rise  before  me — Rise,  0  ever  rise, 
Rise  like  a  cloud  of  incense,  from  the  earth  ! 
Thou  kingly  spirit  throned  among  the  hills. 
Thou  dread  ambassador  from  earth  to  heaven. 
Great  hierarch  !  tell  thou  the  silent  sky. 
And  tell  the  stars,  and  tell  yon  rising  sun. 
Earth,  with  her  thousand  voices,  praises  God. 


LINES 


"VrRITTEN   IN   THE   ALBUK   AT   ELBINGERODE,   IN 
THE   HARTZ   FOREST. 

I  STOOD  on  Brocken's*  sovran  height,  and  saw 
Woods  crowding  upon  woods,  hills  over  hills 
A  surging  scene,  and  only  limited 
By  the  blue  distance.     Heavily  my  way 
Downward  I  dragg'd  through  fir-groves  evermore. 
Where  bright  green  moss   heaves  in  sepulchral 

forms 
Speckled  with  sunshine  ;  and,  but  seldom  heard. 
The  sweet  bird's  song  became  a  hollow  sound ; 
And  the  breeze,  murmuring  indivisibly. 
Preserved  its  solemn  murmur  most  distinct 
From  many  a  note  of  many  a  waterfall. 
And  the  i'ook's  chatter:  'mid  whose  islet  stones 
The  ding7  kidling  with  its  tinkling  bell 
Leap'd  frolicsome,  or  old  romantic  goat 
Sat,  his  white  beard  slow  waving.     I  moved  on 
In  low  and  languid  mood  :t  for  I  had  found       r 
That  outward  forms,  the  loftiest,  still  receive 
Their  fmer  influence  from  the  life  within  : 
Fair  ciphers  else:  fair,  but  of  import  vague 
Or  unconcerning,  where  the  heart  not  finds 
History  or  prophecy  of  friend,  or  child. 
Or  gentle  maid,  our  first  and  early  love. 


*  The  highest  mountain  in  the  Hartz,  and,  indeed,  in 
J^orth  Germany, 
t  "When  I  have  gazed 

From  some  high  eminence  on  goodly  vales, 
And  cots  and  villages  embower'd  below. 
The  ihought  vk^ould  rise  that  all  to  me  was  strange 
Amid  the  scenes  so  fair,  nor  one  small  spot 
Where  my  tired  mind  might  rest,  and  call  it  home. 
Southey''s  Hymn  to  the  Penates. 


Or  father,  or  the  venerable  name 

Of  our  adored  country  !     0  thou  queen, 

Thou  delegated  deity  of  earth, 

O  dear,  dear  England  !  how  rny  longing  eye 

Turn'd  westward,  shaping  in  the  steady  clouds 

Thy  sands  and  high  white  cliffs  I 

'    My  native  land . 
Fill'd  with  the  thought  of  thee  this  heart  wai 

proud. 
Yea,  mine  eye  swam  with  tears :  that  all  the  view 
From  sovran  Brocken,  woods  and  woody  hills. 
Floated  away,  like  a  departing  dream. 
Feeble  and  dim  !     Stranger,  these  impulses 
Blame  thou  not  lightly ;  nor  will  I  profane. 
With  hasty  judgment  or  injurious  doubt. 
That  man's  sublimer  spirit,  who  can  feel 
That  God  is  everywhere  !  the  God  who  framed 
Mankind  to  be  one  mighty  family, 
Himself  our  Father,  and  the  world  our  home. 


ON  -OBSERVING  A  BLOSSOM  ON  THE  FIRST 
OF  FEBRUARY,  1796. 

Sweet  flower  !  that  peeping  from  thy  russet  stem 

Unfoldest  timidly,  (for  in  strange  sort 

This   dark,  frieze-coated,  hoarse,  teeth-chattering 

month 
Hath  borrow'd  Zephyr's  voice,  and  gazed  upon  thee 
With  blue  voluptuous  eye,)  alas,  poor  flower ! 
These  are  but  flatteries  of  the  faithless  year. 
Perchance,  escaped  its  unknown  polar  cave. 
E'en  now  the  keen  north-east  is  on  its  way. 
Flower  that  must  perish  !  shall  I  liken  thee 
To  some  sweet  girl  of  too,  too  rapid  growth, 
Nipp'd  by  consumption  'mid  untimely  charms  ? 
Or  to  Bristowa's  bard,*  the  wondrous  boy ! 
An  amaranth,  which  earth  scarce  seem'd  to  own. 
Till  disappointment  came,  and  pelting  wrong 
Beat  it  to  earth  ?  or  with  indignant  grief 
Shall  I  compare  thee  to  poor  Poland's  hope. 
Bright  flower  of  hope  kill'd  in  the  opening  bud  f 
Farewell,  sweet  blossom  !  better  fate  be  thine, 
And  mock  my  boding  !     Dim  similitudes 
Weaving  in  moral  strains,  I've  stolen  one  hour 
From  anxious  Self,  life's  cruel  task-master  I 
And  the  warm  wooings  of  this  sunny  day 
Tremble  along  my  frame,  and  harmonize 
Th'  attemper'd  organ,  that  even  saddest  thoughts 
Mix  with  some  sweet  sensations,  like  harsh  tone« 
Play'd  deftly  on  a  soft-toned  instrument. 


THE   EOLIAN  HARP. 

COMPOSED   AT   CLEVEDON,   SOMERSETSHIRE. 

My  pensive  Sara  !  thy  soft  cheek  reclined 
Thus  on  mine  arm,  most  soothing  sweet  it  is 
To  sit  beside  our  cot,  our  cot  o'ergrown 
With  white-flower'd  jasmin,  and  the  broad-leaved 
myrtle. 


*  Chatterton. 


638 


COLERIDGE. 


(Meet  emblems  they  of  innocence  and  love  !) 
And  watch  the  clouds,  that  late  were  rich  with 

light. 
Slow  saddening  round,  and  mark  the  star  of  eve 
Serenely  brilliant  (such  should  wisdom  be) 
Shine  opposite  !     How  exquisite  the  scents 
Sp  tch'd  from  yoh  bean-field !   and  the  world  so 

hush'd ! 
The  stiHy  murmur  of  the  distant  sea 
Tells  us  of  silence. 

And  that  simplest  lute, 
Placed    length-ways    in   the   clasping   casement, 

hark ! 
How  by  the  desultory  breeze  caress'd, 
Like  some  coy  maid  half  yielding  to  her  lover, 
It  pours  such  sweet  upbraiding,  as  must  needs 
Tempt    to    repeat    the   wrong !      And    now,  its 

strings, 
Boldlier  swept,  the  long  sequacious  notes 
Over  delicious  surges  sink  and  rise. 
Such  a  soff  floating  witchery  of  sound 
As  twilight  elfins  make,  when  they  at  eve 
Voyage  on  gentler  gales  from  Fairy-land, 
Where  melodies  round  honey-dropping  flowers. 
Footless  and  wild,  like  birds  of  paradise. 
Nor  pause,  nor  perch,  hovering  on  untamed  wing  ! 
O  the  one  life  within  us  and  abroad, 
Which  meets  all  motion  and  becomes  its  soul, 
A  light  in  sound,  a  sound-like  power  in  light. 
Rhythm  in  all  thought,  and  joyance  everywhere — 
Methinks,  it  should  have  been  impossible 
Not  to  love  all  things  in  a  world  so  fill'd ; 
Where  the  breeze  warbles,  and  the  mute  still  air 
Is  music  slumbering  on  her  instrument. 

And  thus,  my  love  !  as  on  the  midway  slope 
Of  yonder  hill  I  stretch  my  limbs  at  noon. 
Whilst  through  my  half-closed  eyelids  I  behold 
The  sunbeams  dance,  like  diamonds,  on  the  main. 
And  tranquil  muse  upon  tranquillity ; 
Full  many  a  thought  uncall'd  and  undetain'd. 
And  many  idle,  flitting  fantasies. 
Traverse  my  indolent  and  passive  brain, 
As  wild  and  various  as  the  random  gales 
That  swell  and  flutter  on  this  subject  lute  ! 

And  what  if  all  of  animated  nature 
Be  but  organic  harps  diversely  framed, 
That  tremble  into  thought,  as  o'er  them  sweeps. 
Plastic  and  vast,  one  intellectual  breeze, 
At  once  the  soul  of  eaA:,  and  God  of  all  ? 

But  thy  more  serious  eye  a  mild  reproof 
Darts,  0  beloved  woman  !  nor  such  thoughts 
Dim  and  unhallow'd  dost  thou  not  reject. 
And  biddest  me  walk  humbly  with  my  God. 
Meek  daughter  in  the  family  of  Christ ! 
Well  hast  thou  said,  and  holily  dispraised 
These  shapings  of  th'  unregenerate  mind  ! 
Bubbles  that  glitter  as  they  rise  and  break 
On  vain  philosophy's  aye-babbling  spring. 
For  never  guiltless  may  I  speak  of  Him, 
The  Incomprehensible  !  save  when  \Vith  awe 
I  praise  him,  and  with  faith  that  inly  feels; 
Who  with  his  saving  mercies  healed  me, 
A  sinful  and  most  miserable  man, 
Wilder'd  and  dark,  and  gave  me  to  possess 
Peace,  and    this    cot,  and    thee,    heart-honour'd 
maid ! 


REFLECTIONS  ON  HAVING  LEFT  A  PLACE 
OF  RETIREMENT. 

Sermoni  propriora.— ^or. 

Low  was  our  pretty  cot :  our  tallest  rose 
Peep'd  at  the  chamber  window.    We  could' hear 
At  silent  noon,  and  eve,  and  early  morn. 
The  sea's  faint  murmur.    In  the  open  air 
Our  myrtles  blossom'd  ;  and  across  the  porch 
Thick  jasmins  twined :  the  little  landscape  round 
Was  green  and  woody,  and  refresh'd  the  eye. 
It  was  a  spot  which  you  might  aptly  call 
The  Valley  of  Seclusion  !  once  I  saw 
(Hallowing  his  Sabbath-day  by  quietness) 
A  wealthy  son  of  commerce  saunter  by, 
Bristowa's  citizen  :  methought,  it  calm'd 
His  thirst  of  idle  gold,  and  made  him  muse 
With  wiser  feelings ;  for  he  paused,  and  look'd 
With  a  pleased  sadness,  and  gazed  all  around, 
Then  eyed  our  cottage,  and  gazed  round  again, 
And  sigh'd,  and  said,  it  was  a  blessed  place. 
And  we  were  bless 'd.     Oft  with  patient  ear 
Long  listening  to  the  viewless  sky-lark's  note, 
(Viewless,  or  haply  for  a  moment  seen 
Gleaming  on  sunny  wings,)  in  whisper'd  tones 
I've  said  to  my  beloved,  "  Such,  sweet  girl ! 
The  inobtrusive  song  of  happiness. 
Unearthly  minstrelsy  !  then  only  heard 
When  the  soul  seeks  to  hear ;  when  all  is  hush'd. 
And  the  heart  listens  !" 

But  the  time,  when  first 
From  that  low  dell,  steep  up  the  stony  mount 
I  climb 'd  with  perilous  toil,  and  reach'd  the  top, 

0  !  what  a  goodly  scene  !     Here  the  bleak  mount, 
The  bare  bleak  mountain  speckled  thin  with  sheep, 
Gray  clouds,  that  shadowing  spot  the  sunny  fields 
And  river,  now  with  bushy  rocks  o'erbrow'd. 
Now  winding  bright  and  full,  with  naked  banks; 
And  seats,  and  lawns,  the  abbey  and  the  wood. 
And  cots,  and  hamlets,  and  faint  city  spire  ; 

The  channel  there,  the  islands,  and  white  sails. 
Dim   coasts,   and  cloud-like   hills,   and    shoreless 

ocean — 
It  seem'd  like  Omnipresence  !     God,  methought, 
Had  built  him  there  a  temple  :  the  whole  world 
Seem'd  imaged  in  its  vast  circumference. 
No  wish  profaned  my  overwhelmed  heart. 
Blest  hour  I     It  was  a  luxury, — to  oe  ! 
Ah  !  quiet  dell ;  dear  cot,  and  mount  sublime  J 

1  was  constrain 'd  to  quit  you.     Was  it  right. 
While  my  unnumber'd  brethren  toil'd  and  bled, 
That  I  should  dream  away  th'  intrusted  hours 
On  rose-leaf  beds,  pampeiing  the  coward  heart 
With  feehngs  all  too  delicate  for  use  ? 

Sweet  is  the  tear  that  from  some  Howard's  eye 
I  Drops  on  the  cheek  of  one  he  lifts  from  earth : 
And  he  that  works  me  good  with  unmoved  face» 
Does  it  but  half:  he  chills  me  while  he  aids. 
My  benefactor,  not  my  brother  man  ! 
Yet  even  this,  this  cold  beneficence. 
Praise,  praise  it,  0  my  soul !  oft  as  thou  scann'g* 
The  sluggard  pity's  vision-weaving  tribe! 
Who  sigh  for  wretchedness,  yet  shun  the  wretched 
Nursing  in  some  delicious  solitude 


SIBYLLINE    LEAVES. 


639 


Their  slothful  loves  and  dainty  sympathies  ! 
k  therefore  go,  and  join  head,  heart,  and  hand. 
Active  and  firm,  to  fight  the  bloodless  fight 
Of  science,  freedom,  and  the  truth  in  Christ. 

Yet  oft,  when  after  honourable  toil 
Rests  the  tired  mind,  and  waking  loves  to  dream. 
My  spirit  shall  revisit  thee,  dear  cot .' 
Thy  jasmin  and  thy  vnndow-peeping  rose, 
And  myrtles  fearless  of  the  mild  sea-air. 
And  I  shall  sigh  fond  wishes — sweet  abode  ! 
Ah  I — had  none  greater  !     And  that  all  had  such  I 
It  might  be  so — but  the  time  is  not  yet. 
Speed  it,  0  Father  !     Let  thy  kingdom  come  ! 


TO   THE   REV.  GEORGE   COLERIDGE   OF 
OTTERY  ST.  MARY,  DEVON. 

WITH   SOME   POEMS. 


Notus  in  fratres  animi  paterni. 

Hor.  Carm.  lib.  i.  2. 


A  BLESSED  lot  hath  he,  who  having  pass'd 
His  youth  and  early  manhood  in  the  stir 
And  turmoil  of  the  world,  retreats  at  length. 
With  cares  that  move,  not  ao:'.tate  the  heart. 
To  tLe  same  dwelling  where  bis  father  dwelt; 
And  haply  views  his  tottering  little  ones 
Embrace  those  aged  knees  and  climb  that  lap. 
On  which  first  kneeling  his  own  infancy 
Lisp'd  its  brief  prayer.    Such,  0  my  earliest  friend  ! 
Thy  lot,  and  such  thy  brothers  too  enjoy. 
At  distance  did  ye  climb  life's  upland  road, 
Yet  cheer'd  and  cheering ;  now  fraternal  love 
Hath  drawn  you  to  one  centre.     Be  your  days 
Holy,  and  blest,  and  blessing  may  ye  live  I 

To  me  th'  Eternal  Wisdom  hat^  dispensed 
A  diiFerent  fortune  and  more  different  mind — 
Me  from  the  spot  where  first  I  sprang  to  light 
Too  soon  transplanted,  ere  my  soul  had  fix'd 
Its  first  domestic  loves ;  and  hence  through  life 
Chasing  chance-started  friendships.     A  brief  while 
Some  have  preserved  me  from  life's  pelting  ills ; 
But,  like  a  tree  with  leaves  of  feeble  stem. 
If  the  clouds  lasted,  and  a  sudden  breeze 
Ruffled  the  boughs,  they  on  my  head  at  once 
Dropp'd  the  collected  shower ;  and  some  most  false. 
False  and  fair-foliaged  as  the  manchineel, 
Have  tempted  me  to  slumber  in  thc.i  shade 
E'en    'mid  the    storm ;    then    breathing    subtlest 

damps, 
Mix'd  their  own  venom  with  the  rain  from  heaven, 
That  I  woke  poison'd  !     But,  all  praise  to  Him 
Who  gives  us  all  things,  more  have  yielded  me 
Permanent  shelter ;  and  beside  one  friend, 
Keneath  th'  impervious  covert  of  one  oak, 
I've  raised  a  lowly  shed,  and  know  the  names 
Of  husband  and  of  father  ;  nor  i,ineanng 
Of  that  divine  and  nightly-whispering  voice, 
Which  from  my  childhood  to  maturer  years 
Spake  to  me  of  predestinated  wreaths 
Bright  with  no  fading  colours  I 

Yet  at  times 
My  soul  is  sad,  that  I  have  roam'd  through  life 
Still  most  a  stranger,  most  with  naked  heart 


At  mine  own  home  and  birthplace :  chiefly  then^ 

When  I  remember  thee,  my  earliest  friend  ! 

Thee,  who  didst  watch  my  boyhood  and  my  yoiitn 

Didst  trace  my  wanderings  with  a  father's  eje ; 

And  boding  evii,  yet  still  hoping  good. 

Rebuked  each  fault,  and  over  all  ray  woes 

Sorrow 'd  in  silence  !     He  who  cov.ntu  alone 

The  beatings  of  the  solitary  heart, 

That  Being  knows,  how  I  have  loved  the<a  eT6r, 

Loved  as  a  brother,  as  a  son  revered  thee  ! 

0  !  'tis  to  me  an  ever-new  delight, 

To  talk  of  thee  and  thine :  or  when  the  blast 

Of  the  shrill  winter,  rattling  our  rude  sash, 

Endears  the  cleanly  hearth  and  social  bowlj 

Or  when  as  now,  on  some  delicious  eve. 

We,  in  our  sweet  sequester'd  orchard  plot. 

Sit   on   the   tree   crook 'd   earthward;    whose  old 

boughs, 
That  hang  above  us  in  an  arborous  roof, 
Stirr'd  by  the  faint  gale  of  departing  May, 
Send  their  loose  blossoms  slanting  o'er  our  heads  . 
Nor  dost  not  thou  sometimes  recall  those  ho'jrg. 
When  with  the  joy  of  hope  thou  gavest  thine  ear 
To  my  wild  firstling-lays  ?     Since  then  my  son 
Hath  sounded  deeper  notes,  such  as  beseem 
Or  that  sad  wisdom  folly  leaves  behind, 
Or  such  as,  tuned  to  these  tumultuous  times 
Cope  with  the  tempest's  swell ! 

These  various  strains, 
Which  I  have  framed  in  many  a  various  mood. 
Accept,  my  brother  !  and  (for  some  perchance 
Will  strike  discordant  on  thy  milder  mind) 
If  aught  of  error  or  intemperate  truth 
Should  meet  thine  ear,  think  thou  that  riper  age 
Will  calm  it  down,  and  let  thy  love  forgive  it ! 


A  TOMBLESS  EPITAPH. 

'Tis  true,  Idoloclastes  Sat)'rane  ! 

(So  call  him,  for  so  mingling  blame  with  praise. 

And  smiles  with  anxious  looks,  his  earliest  friends, 

Masking  his  birth-name,  wont  to  character 

His  wild-wood  fancy  and  impetuous  zeal,) 

'Tis  true  that,  passionate  for  ancient  truths. 

And  honouring  with  religious  love  the  great 

Of  elder  times,  he  hated  to  excess. 

With  an  unquiet  and  intolerant  scorn. 

The  hollow  puppets  of  a  hollow  age. 

Ever  idolatrous,  and  changing  ever 

Its  worthless  idols  !     Learning,  power,  and  time^ 

(Too  much  of  all,)  thus  wasting  in  vain  war 

Of  fervid  colloquy.     Sickness,  'tis  true. 

Whole  years  of  weary  days,  besieged  him  close. 

E'en  to  the  gates  and  inlets  of  his  life  ! 

But  it  is  true,  no  less,  that  strenuous,  firm. 

And  with  a  natural  gladness,  he  maintained 

The  citadel  unconquer'd,  and  in  jcy 

Was  strong  to  follow  the  delightful  muse. 

For  not  a  hidden  path,  that  to  the  shades 

Of  the  beloved  Parnassian  iorest  leads, 

Lurk'd  undiscover'd  by  him  ;  not  a  rill 

There  issues  from  the  fount  of  Hippocrene, 

But  he  had  traced  it  upward  to  its  source. 

Through  open  glade,  dark  glen,  and  secret  deii. 

Knew  the  gay  wild-flowers  on  its  banks,  and  cull'd 


540 


COLERIDGE. 


Its  med'cinable  herbs.    Yea,  oft  alone, 
Piercing  the  long-neglected  holy  cave. 
The  haunt  obscure  of  old  philosophy, 
He  bade  with  lifted  torch  its  starry  walls 
Sparkle  as  erst  they  sparkled  to  the  flame 
Of  odorous  lamps  tended  by  saint  and  sage. 
0  framed  lor  calmer  times  and  nobler  hearts  ! 
O  studious  poet,  eloquent  for  truth  I 
Philosopher  !  contemning  wealth  and  death, 
Yet  docile,  childlike,  full  of  life  and  love  ! 
Here,  rather  than  on  monumental  stone, 
This  record  of  thy  worth  thy  friend  inscribes, 
Thoughtful,  with  quiet  tears  upon  his  cheek. 


INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  FOUNTAIN  ON  A 
HEATH. 

This  sycamore,  oft  musical  with  bees, — 

Such  tents  the  patriarchs  loved  !     0  long  unharm'd 

May  all  its  aged  boughs  o'er-canopy 

The  small  round  basin,  which  this  jutting  stone 

Keeps  pure  from  falling  leaves !     Long  may  the 

spring. 
Quietly  as  a  sleeping  infant's  breath. 
Send  up  cold  waters  to  the  traveller 
With  soft  and  even  pulse  !     Nor  ever  cease 
Yon  tiny  cone  of  sand  its  soundless  dance. 
Which  at  the  bottom,  like  a  fairy's  page. 
As  merry  and  no  taller,  dances  still, 
Nor  wrinkles  the  smooth  surface  of  the  fount. 
Here  twilight  k  and  coolness  :  here  is  moss, 
A  soft  seat,  and  a  deep  and  ample  shade. 
Thou  mayst  toil  far  and  find  no  second  tree. 
Drink,  pilgrim,  here  !     Here  rest !  and  if  thy  heart 
Be  innocent,  here  too  shalt  thou  refresh 
Thy  spirit,  listening  to  some  gentle  sound. 
Or  passing  gale,  or  hum  of  murmuring  bees ! 


THIS  LIME-TREE  BOWER  MY  PRISON. 

In  the  June  df  1797,  some  long-expected  friends 
paid  a  visit  to  the  author's  cottage;  and  on  the 
morning  of  their  arrival,  he  met  with  an  accident, 
which  disabled  him  from  walking  during  the  whole 
time  of  their  stay.  One  evening,  when  they  had 
left  him  for  a  few  hours,  he  composed  the  following 
lines  in  the  garden  bower. 

Well,  they  are  gone,  and  here  must  I  remain. 
This  lime-tree  bower  my  prison !     I  have  lost 
Beauties  and  feelings,  such  as  would  have  been 
Most  sweet  to  my  remembrace,  e'en  when  age 
Had  dimm'd  mine  eyes  to  blindness  !    They,  mean- 
while, 
Friends,  whom  I  never  more  may  meet  again, 
On  springy  heath,  along  the  hill-top  edge, 
Wander  in  gladness,  and  wind  down,  perchance. 
To  that  still  roaring  dell,  of  which  I  told: 
The  roaring  dell,  o'erwooded,  narrow,  deep, 
And  only  speckled  by  the  mid-day  sun  ; 
Where  its  slim  trunk  the  ash  from  rock  to  rock 
Flings  arching  like  a  bridge ; — that  branchless  ash, 


Unsunn'd  and  damp,  whose  few  poor  yellow  leaves 
Ne'er  tremble  in  the  gale,  yet  tremble  still, 
Fann'd  by  the  waterfall !  and  there  my  friends 
Behold  the  dark  green  file  of  long  lank  weeds,* 
That  all  at  once  (a  most  fantastic  sight !) 
Still  nod  and  drip  beneath  the  dripping  edge 
Of  the  blue  clay-stone. 

Now,  my  friends  emerge 
Beneath  the  w^ide,  wide  heaven — and  view  again 
The  many-stecpled  tract  magnificent 
Of  hilly  fields  and  meadows,  and  the  sea. 
With  some  fair  bark,  perhaps,  whose  sails  liglk   ip 
The  slip  of  smooth  clear  blue  betvvixt  two  isles 
Of  purple  shadow  !     Yes,  they  wander  on 
In  gladness  all ;  but  thou,  methinks,  most  glad, 
My  gentle-hearted  Charles  ;  for  thou  hast  pined 
And  hunger'd  after  nature,  many  a  year. 
In  the  great  city  pent,  winning  thy  way 
With  sad  yet  patient  soul,  through  evil  and  pain 
And  strange  calamity  !     Ah  !  slowly  sink 
Behind  the  western  ridge,  thou  glorious  sun  ! 
Shine  in  the  slant  beams  of  the  sinking  orb. 
Ye  purple  heath-flowers  !  richlier  burn,  ye  clouds ! 
Live  in  the  yellow  light,  ye  distant  groves  ! 
And  kindle,  thou  blue  ocean  !     So  my  friend. 
Struck  with  deep  joy,  may  stand,  as  I  have  stood, 
Silent  with  swimming  sense;  yea,  gazing  round 
On  the  wide  landscape,  gaze  till  all  doth  seem 
Less  gross  than  bodily  ;  and  of  such  hues 
As  veil  th'  Almighty  Spirit,  when  yet  he  makps 
Spirits  perceive  his  presence. 

A  delight 
Comes  sudden  on  my  heart,  and  I  am  glad 
As  I  myself  was  there  !     Nor  in  this  bower. 
This  little  lime-tree  bower,  have  I  not  mark'd 
Much  that  has  soothed  me.  Pale  beneath  the  blaze 
Hung  the  transparent  foliage ;  and  I  watch'd 
Some  broad  and  sunny  leaf,  and  loved  to  see 
The  shadow  of  the  leaf  and  stem  above 
Dappling  its  sunshine  !     And  that  walnut  tree 
Was  richly  tinged,  and  a  deep  radiance  lay 
Full  on  the  ancient  ivy,  which  usurps 
Those  fronting  elms,  and  now,  with  blackest  mass, 
Makes  their  dark  branches  gleam  a  lighter  hue 
Through  the  late  twilight :  and  though  now  the  bai 
Wheels  silent  by,  and  not  a  swallow  twitters. 
Yet  still  the  solitary  humble  bee 
Sings   in  the  bean-flower !      Henceforth  I  shall 

know 
That  nature  ne'er  deserts  the  wise  and  pure: 
No  plot  so  narrow,  be  but  nature  there. 
No  waste  so  vacant,  but  may  well  employ 
Each  faculty  of  sense,  and  keep  the  heart 
Awake  to  love  and  beauty  !  and  sometimes 
'Tis  well  to  be  bereft  of  promised  good. 
That  we  may  lift  the  soul,  and  contemplate 
With  lively  joy  the  joys  we  cannot  share. 
My  gentle-hearted  Charles  !  when  the  last  rook 
Beat  its  straight  path  along  the  dusky  air 
Homewards,  I  blest  it!  deeming  its  black  wing 
(Now  a  dim  sneck  now  vanishing  in  light) 
Had  cross  a  ii.e  mighty  orb's  dilated  giory. 


*  The  asplenium  scolopendrium,  called  in  some  coun- 
tries the  adder's  tongue,  in  others  the  hart's  tongue;  but 
Withering  gives  the  adder's  tongue  as  the  trivial  natneof 
the  opliioglossum  only 


SIBYLLINE    LEAVES. 


541 


While  thou  stood'st  gazing;  or  when  all  was  still, 
Flew  creaking*  o'er  thy  head,  and  had  a  charm 
For  thee,  my  gentle-hearted  Charles,  to  whom 
No  sound  is  dissonant  which  tells  of  life. 


TO  A  GENTLEMAN. 

COMPOSED  ON  THE  NIGHT  AFTER  HIS  RECITATION 
OF  A  POEM  ON  THE  GROWTH  OF  AN  INDIVIDUAL 
MIND. 

Friend  of  the  wise  !  and  teacher  of  the  good ! 
into  my  heart  have  I  received  that  lay 
More  than  historic,  that  prophetic  lay, 
Wherein  (high  theme  by  thee  first  sung  aright) 
Of  the  foundations  and  the  building  up 
Of  a  human  spirit,  thou  hast  dared  to  tell 
What  may  be  told,  to  the  understanding  mind 
Revealable  ;  and  what  within  the  mind, 
By  vital  breathings  secret  as  the  soul 
Of  vernal  growth,  oft  quickens  in  the  heart 
Thoughts  all  too  deep  for  words  I — 

Theme  hard  as  high  ! 
Of  smiles  spontaneous,  and  mysterious  fears, 
(The  first-born  they  of  reason  and  twin  birth,) 
Of  tides  obedient  to  external  force. 
And  currents  self-determined,  as  might  seem, 
Or  by  some  inner  power  ;  of  moments  awful, 
Now  in  thy  inner  life,  and  now  abroad, 
When  power  stream'd  from  thee,  and  thy  soul  re- 
ceived 
The  light  reflected,  as  a  light  bestow 'd — 
Of  fancies  fair,  and  milder  hours  of  youth, 
Hyblean  murmurs  of  poetic  thought 
Industrious  in  its  joy,  in  vales  and  glens 
Native  or  outland,  lakes  and  famous  hills  ! 
Or  on  the  lonely  high-road,  when  the  stars 
Were  rising ;  or  by  secret  mountain  streams, 
The  guides  and  the  companions  of  thy  way! 

Of  more  than  fancy,  of  the  social  sense 
Distending  wide,  and  man  beloved  as  man, 
Where  France  in  all  her  towns  lay  vibrating 
Like  some  becalmed  bark  beneath  the  burst 
Of  heaven's  immediate  thunder,  when  no  cloud 
Is  visible,  or  shadow  on  the  main. 
For  thou  wert  there,  thine  own  brows  garlanded. 
Amid  the  tremor  of  a  realm  aglow, 
Amid  a  mighty  nation  jubilant, 
When  from  the  general  heart  of  human  kind 
Hope  sprang  forth  like  a  full-born  deity ; 

Of  that  dear  hope  afflicted  and  struck  down. 
So  summon 'd  homeward,  thenceforth  calm  and  sure 
From  the  drc<id  watch-tower  of  man's  absolute  self, 
With  light  unwaning  on  her  eyes,  to  look 
Far  on — herself  a  glory  to  behold, 
The  angel  of  the  vision  I     Then  (last  strain) 
Of  duty,  chosen  laws  controlling  choice. 


*  Some  months  after  I  had  written  this  line,  it  gave  me 
pleasure  to  observe  that  Bartram  had  observed  the  same 
circumstance  of  the  Savanna  crane.  "  When  these  birds 
move  their  wings  in  flight,  their  strokes  are  slow,  mode- 
rate, and  regular;  and  even  when  at  a  considerable  dis- 
tance, or  high  above  us,  we  plainly  hear  the  quiU-feathers ; 
their  shafus  and  webs  upon  one  another  creak  as  the  joints 
or  working  of  a  vessel  in  a  tempestuous  sea." 


Action  and  joy  ! — An  orphic  song,  indeed, 

A  song  divine,  of  high  and  passionate  thoughts, 

To  their  own  music  chanted  ! 

O  great  bard  I 
Ere  yet  that  last  strain  dying  awed  the  air. 
With  steadfast  eye  I  view'd  thee  in  the  choir 
Of  e'er-enduring  men.     The  truly  great 
Have  all  one  age,  and  from  one  visible  space 
Shed  influence  !     They,  both  in  power  and  act 
Are  permanent,  and  time  is  not  with  thein. 
Save  as  it  worketh /or  them,  they  in  it. 
Nor  less  a  sacred  roll,  than  those  of  old. 
And  to  be  placed,  as  they,  with  gradual  fame 
Among  the  archives  of  mankind,  thy  work 
Makes  audible  a  linked  lay  of  truth, 
Of  truth  profound  a  sweet  continuous  lay, 
Not  learnt,  but  native,  her  own  natural  notes  ! 
Ah  !  as  I  listen'd  with  a  heart  forlorn. 
The  pulses  of  my  being  beat  anew : 
And  e'en  as  life  returns  upon  the  drown'd. 
Life's  joy  rekindling  roused  a  throng  of  pains — 
Keen  pangs  of  love,  awakening  as  a  babe 
Turbulent,  with  an  outcry  in  the  heart ; 
And  fears  self-will'd,  that  shunn'd  the  eye  of  hope ; 
And  hope  that  scarce  would  know  itself  from  feai , 
Sense  of  past  youth,  and  manhood  come  in  vam, 
And  genius  given,  and  knowledge  won  in  vain; 
And  all  which  I  had  cull'd  in  wood-walks  wild, 
And  all  which  patient  toil  had  rear'd,  and  all. 
Commune  with  thee  had  open'd  out — but  flowers 
Strew'd  on  my  corse,  and  borne  upon  my  bier. 
In  the  same  coffin,  for  the  selfsame  grave  ! 

That  way  no  more  !  and  ill  beseems  it  me. 
Who  came  a  welcomer  in  herald's  guise. 
Singing  of  glory,  and  futurity. 
To  wander  back  on  such  unhealthful  road, 
Plucking  the  poisons  of  self-harm  !     And  ill 
Such  intertwine  beseems  triumphal  wreaths 
Strew'd  before  thy  advancing ! 

Nor  do  thou. 
Sage  bard  !  impair  the  memory  of  that  hour 
Of  my  communion  with  thy  nobler  mind 
By  pity  or  grief,  already  felt  too  long  ! 
Nor  let  my  words  import  more  blame  than  needs. 
The  tumult  rose  and  ceased  ;  for  peace  is  nigh 
Where  wisdom's  voice  has  found  a  listening  heart 
Amid  the  howl  of  more  than  wintry  storms. 
The  halcyon  hears  the  voice  of  vernal  hours 
Already  on  the  wing. 

Eve  following  eve. 
Dear  tranquil  time,  when  the  sweet  sense  of  home 
Is  sweetest !  moments  for  their  own  sake  hail'd 
And  more  desired,  more  precious  for  thy  song. 
In  silence  listening,  like  a  devout  child, 
My  soul  lay  passive,  by  the  various  strain 
Driven  as  in  surges  now  beneath  the  stars. 
With  momentary  stars  of  my  own  birth, 
Fair  copstellated  foam,*  still  darting  off 


*  "A  beautiful  white  cloud  of  foam  at  momentary  inter- 
vals coursed  by  the  side  of  the  vessel  with  a  roar,  and  lit- 
tle stars  of  flame  danced  and  sparkled  and  went  out  in  it : 
and  every  now  and  then  light  detachments  of  this  white 
cloud-like  foam  darted  off  from  the  vessel's  side,  each 
with  its  own  small  constellation,  over  the  sea,  a.id  scoured 
out  of  sight  like  a  Tartar  troop  over  a  wilderness."— 2%« 
Friend,  p.  220. 


54i 


COLERIDGE. 


Into  the  darkness ;  now  a  tranquil  sea, 
Outspread  and  bright,  yet  swelling  to  the  moon. 

And  when — 0  friend !  my  comforter  and  guide  ! 
Strong  in  thyself,  and  powerful  to  give  strength  ! — 
Thy  long-sustained  song  finally  closed, 
And  thy  deep  voice  had  ceased— j'^et  thou  thyself 
Wert  still  before  my  eyes,  and  round  us  both 
That  happy  vision  of  beloved  faces — 
Scarce  conscious,  and  yet  conscious  of  its  close 
I  sate,  my  being  blended  in  one  thought, 
(Thought  was  it  ?  or  aspiration  ?  or  resolve  ?) 
Absorb'd,  yet  hanging  still  upon  the  sound — 
A.nd  when  I  rose,  I  found  myself  in  prayer. 


TO  A  FRIEND, 


WHO   HAD    DECLARED   HIS    INTENTION    OF   WRITING 
NO   MORE   POETRY. 

Dear  Charles !    whilst  yet  thou  wert  a  babe,  I 

ween 
That  genius  plunged  thee  in  that  wizard  fount, 
Hight  Castalie:  and  (sureties  of  thy  faith) 
That  pity  and  simplicity  stood  by, 
A.nd  promised  for  thee,  that  thou  shouldst  renounce 
The  world's  low  cares  and  lying  vanities. 
Steadfast  and  rooted  in  the  heavenly  muse. 
And  wash'd  and  sanctified  to  poesy. 
Yes,  thou  wert  plunged,  but  with  forgetful  hand 
Held,  as  by  Thetis  erst  her  warrior  son : 
And  with  those  recreant  unbaptized  heels 
Thou'rt  flying  from  thy  bounden  ministeries-^ 
So  sore  it  seems  and  burthensome  a  task 
To  weave  unwithering  flowers !     But  take  thou 

heed: 
For  thou  a'rt  vulnerable,  wild-eyed  boy, 
And  I  have  arrows*  mystically  dipp'd, 
Such  as  may  stop  thy  speed.     Is  thy  Burns  dead  f 
And  shall  he  die  unwept,  and  sink  to  earth 
'  Without  the  meed  of  one  melodious  tear  ?" 
Thy  Burns,  and  nature's  own  beloved  bard. 
Who  to  the  "  Illustrioust  of  his  native  land 
So  properly  did  look  for  patronage." 
Ghost  of  Maecenas  !  hide  thy  blushing  face  ! 
They  snatch'd  him  from'  the  sickle  and  the  plough. 
To  gauge  ale-firkins. 

0  !  for  shame,  return  ! 
On  a  bleak  rock,  midway  th'  Aonian  mount. 
There  stands  a  lone  and  melancholy  tree. 
Whose  aged  branches  in  the  midnight  blast 
Make  solemn  music :  pluck  its  darkest  bough. 
Ere  yet  th'  unwholesome  night-dew  be  exhaled. 
And  weeping  wreath  it  round  thy  poet's  tomb. 
Then  in  the  outskirts,  where  pollutions  grow. 
Pick  the  rank  henbane  and  the  dusky  flowers 
Of  night-shade,  or  its  red  and  tempting  fruit. 
These  with  stopp'd  nostril  and  glove-guarded  hand. 
Knit  in  nice  intertexture,  so  to  twine 
Th'  illustrious  brow  of  Scotch  nobility. 


THE     NIGHTINGALE; 
A  CONVERSATION  POEM. 

WRITTEN   IN   APRIL,    1798. 

No  cloud,  no  relic  of  the  sunken  day 

Distinguishes  the  west,  no  long  thin  slip 

Of  sullen  light,  no  obscure  trembling  hues. 

Come,  we  will  rest  on  this  old  mossy  bridge  ! 

You  see  the  glimmer  of  the  stream  beneath,, 

But  hear  no  murmuring:  it  flows  silently, 

O'er  its  soft  bed  of  verdure.    All  is  still, 

A  balmy  night !  and  though  the  stars  be  dim, 

Yet  let  us  think  upon  the  vernal  showers 

That  gladden  the  green  earth,  and  we  shall  fine 

A  pleasure  in  the  dimness  of  the  stars. 

And  hark  !  the  nightingale  begins  its  song, 

"  Most  musical,  most  melancholy"t  bird ! 

A  melancholy  bird  ?     0  !  idle  thought ! 

In  nature  there  is  nothing  melancholy. 

But  some  night-wandering  man,  whose  heart  wai 

pierced 
With  the  remembrance  of  a  grievous  wrong, 
Or  slow  distemper,  or  neglected  love, 
(And  so,  poor  wretch !   fill'd  all  things  with  him- 
self. 
And  made  all  gentle  sounds  tell  back  the  tale 
Of  his  own  sorrow,)  he,  and  such  as  he. 
First  named  these  notes  a  melancholy  strain. 
And  many  a  poet  echoes  the  conceit; 
Poet  who  hath  been  building  up  the  rhyme 
When  he  had  better  far  have  stretch'd  his  limba 
Beside  a  brook  in  mossy  forest  dell. 
By  sun  or  moonlight,  to  the  influxes 
Of  shapes  and  sounds  and  shifting  elements 
Surrendering  his  whole  spirit,  of  his  song 
And  of  his  frame  forgetful !  so  his  fame 
Should  share  in  nature's  immortality, 
A  venerable  thing  !  and  so  his  song 
Should  make  all  nature  lovelier,  and  itself 
Be  loved  like  nature  !     But  'twill  not  be  so ; 
And  youths  and  maidens  most  poetical. 
Who  lose  the  deepening  twilights  of  the  spring 
In  ball-rooms  and  hot  theatres,  they  still. 
Full  of  meek  sympathy,  must  heave  their  sighs 
O'er  Philomela's  pity-pleading  strains. 

My  friend,  and  thou,  our  sister !  we  have  learnl 
A  different  lore :  we  may  not  thus  profane 
Nature's  sweet  voices,  always  full  of  love 
And  joyance !     'Tis  the  merry  nightingale 
That  crowds,  and  hurries,  and  precipitates 
With  fast  thick  warble  his  delicious  notes, 
As  he  were  fearful  that  an  April  night 
Would  be  too  short  for  him  to  utter  forth 
His  love-chant,  and  disburthen  his  f'lU  soul 
Of  all  its  music  ! 

And  I  know  a  grove 
Of  large  extent,  hard  by  a  castle  huge. 


*  Vide  Find.  Olymp.  iii.  1.  156. 

t  Verbatim  from  Burns's  dedication  of  his  Poem  to  the 
Vcbility  and  Gc-.ntry  of  ilie  Caledonian  Hunt. 


*  This  passage  in  Milton  possesses  an  excellence  far 
superior  to  that  of  mere  description.  It  is  spoken  in  tli9 
character  of  the  melancholy  man,  and  has  therefore  a 
dramatic  propriety.  The  author  makes  this  remark,  to 
rescue  himself  from  the  charge  of  having  alluded  with 
levity  10  a  line  in  Milton;  a  charge  ihan  which  none 
could  be  more  painful  to  him,  except  perhaps  that  of  hai* 
ing  ridiculed  his  Bible. 


SIBYLLINE    LEAVES. 


543 


Which  the  great  lord  inhabits  not ;  and  so 
This  grove  is  wild  with  tangling  underwood, 
And  the  trim  walks  are  broken  up,  and  grass, 
Thin  grass  and  king-cups  grow  within  the  paths. 
But  never  elsewhere  in  one  place  I  knew 
So  many  nightingales ;  and  far  and  near, 
In  wood  and  thicket,  over  the  wide  grove, 
They  answer  and  provoke  each  other's  song. 
With  skirmish  and  capricious  passagings, 
And  murmurs  musical  and  swift  jug  jug, 
And  one  low  piping  sound  more  sweet  than  all — 
Stirring  the  air  with  such  a  harmony, 
That  should  you  close  your  eyes,  you  might  al- 
most 
Forget  it  was  not  day !    On  moonlight  bushes, 
Whose  dewy  leaflets  are  but  half-disclosed. 
You  may  perchance  behold  them  on  the  twigs. 
Their  bright,  bright  eyes,  their  eyes  both  bright 

and  full. 
Glistening,  while  many  a  glow-worm  in  the  shade 
Lights  up  her  love-torch. 

A  most  gentle  maid, 
Who  dwelleth  in  her  hospitable  home 
Hard  by  the  castle,  and  at  latest  eve, 
(E'en  like  a  lady  vow'd  and  dedicate 
To  something  more  than  nature  in  the  grove,) 
Glides  through  the  pathways :  she  knows  all  their 

notes, 
That  gentle  maid !  and  oft  a  moment's  space, 
What  time  the  moon  was  lost  behind  a  cloud, 
Hath  heard  a  pause  of  silence  ;  till  the  moon 
Emerging,  hath  awaken'd  earth  and  sky 
With  one  sensation,  and  these  wakeful  birds 
Have  all  burst  forth  in  choral  minstrelsy. 
As  if  some  sudden  gale  had  swept  at  once 
A  hundred  airy  harps  !     And  she  hath  watch'd 
Many  a  nightingale  perch'd  giddily 
On  blossomy  twig  still  swinging  from  the  breeze, 
And  to  that  motion  tune  his  wanton  song 
Like  tipsy  joy  that  reels  with  tossing  head. 
Farewell,  O  warbler  !  till  to-morrow  eve, 
And  you,  my  friends  !  farewell,  a  short  farewell ! 
We  have  been  loitering  long  and  pleasantly. 
And  now  for  our  dear  homes. — The  strain  again  ? 
Full  fain  it  would  delay  me  !     My  dear  babe. 
Who,  capable  of  no  articulate  sound. 
Mars  all  things  with  his  imitative  lisp. 
How  he  would  place  his  hand  beside  his  ear, 
His  little  hand,  the  small  forefinger  up, 
And  bid  us  listen  !     And  I  deem  it  wise 
To  make  him  nature's  playmate.     He  knows  well 
The  evening  star;  and  once,  when  he  awoke 
In  most  distressful  mood,  (some  inward  pain 
Had  made  up  that  strange  thing,  an  infant's  dream,) 
I  hurried  with  him  to  our  orchard-plot. 
And  he  beheld  the  moon,  and,  hush'd  at  once. 
Suspends  his  sobs,  and  laughs  most  silently, 
While  his  fair  eyes,  that  svvam  with  undropp'd 

tears 
Did  glitter  in  the  yellow  moonbeam  !     Well ! — 
It  is  a  father's  tale:  but  if  that  Heaven 
Should  give  me  life,  his  childhood  shall  grow  up 
Familiar  with  these  songs,  that  with  the  night 
He  may  associate  joy  !     Once  more,  farewell. 
Sweet  nightingale  !     Once  more,  my  friends  !  fare- 
well. 


FROST  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

The  frost  performs  its  secret  ministry, 
Unhelp'd  by  any  wind.     The  owlet's  cry 
Came  loud — and  hark,  again  !  loud  as  before. 
The  inmates  of  my  cottage,  all  at  rest. 
Have  left  me  to  fr.at  solitude,  which  suits 
Abstruser  musings  :  save  that  at  my  side 
My  cradled  infant  slumbers  peacefully. 
'Tis  calm  indeed  !  so  calm,  that  it  disturbs 
And  vexes  meditation  with  its  strange 
And  extreme  silentness.     Sea,  hill,  and  wood. 
This  populous  village  I     Sea,  and  hill,  and  wood. 
With  all  the  numberless  goings  on  of  life. 
Inaudible  as  dreams  !  the  thin  blue  flame 
Lies  on  my  low  burnt  fire,  and  quivers  not ; 
Only  that  film,  which  flutter'd  on  the  grate, 
Still  flutters  there,  the  sole  unquiet  thing. 
Methinks,  its  motion  in  this  hush  of  nature 
Gives  it  dim  sympathies  witli  me  who  live. 
Making  it  a  companionable  form. 
Whose  puny  flaps  and  freaks  the  idling  spirit 
By  its  own  moods  interprets,  everywhere 
Echo  or  mirror  seeking  of  itself, 
And  makes  a  toy  of  thought. 

But  0  !  how  oft, 
How  oft,  at  school,  with  most  believing  mind 
Presageful,  have  I  gazed  upon  the  bars. 
To  watch  that  fluttering  stranger!  and  as  oft 
With  unclosed  fids,  already  had  I  dreamt 
Of  my  sweet  birthplace,  and  the  old  church  tower, 
Whose  bells,  the  poor  man's  only  music,  rang 
From  morn  to  evening,  all  the  hot  fair-day. 
So  sweetly,  that  they  stirr'd  and  haunted  me 
With  a  wild  pleasure,  falling  on  mine  ear 
Most  like  articulate  sounds  of  things  to  come  ! 
So  gazed  I,  till  the  soothing  things  I  dreamt, 
Lull'd  me  to  sleep,  and  sleep  prolong'd  my  dreams ! 
And  so  I  brooded  all  the  following  morn. 
Awed  by  the  stern  preceptor's  face,  mine  ej'e 
Fix'd  with  mock  study  on  my  swimming  book; 
Save  if  the  door  half-open'd,  and  I  snatch'd 
A  hasty  glance,  and  still  my  heart  leap'd  up. 
For  still  I  hoped  to  see  the  stranger^s  face. 
Townsman,  or  aunt,  or  sister  more  beloved, 
My  playmate  when  we  both  were  clothed  alike  ! 

Dear  babe,  that  sleepest  cradled  by  my  side. 
Whose  gentle  breathings,  heard  in  this  deep  calm, 
Fill  up  the  interspersed  vacancies 
And  momentar}'  pauses  of  the  thought ! 
My  babe  so  beautiful !  it  thrills  my  heart 
With  tender  gladness,  thus  to  look  at  thee. 
And  think  that  thou  shalt  learn  far  other  lore, 
And  in  far  other  scenes  !     For  I  was  rear'd 
In  the  great  city,  pent  'mid  cloisters  dim. 
And  saw  naught  lovely  but  the  sky  and  stars. 
But  thou,  my  babe  !  shalt  wander  like  a  breeze 
By  lakes  and  sandy  shores,  beneath  the  crags 
Of  ancient  mountain,  and  beneath  the  clouds, 
Which  ima^-e  in  their  bulk  both  lakes  and  shorea 
And  mountain  crags:  so  shalt  thou  see  and  hew 
The  lovely  shapes  and  sounds  intelligible 
Of  that  eternal  language,  which  thy  God 
Utters,  who  from  eternity  doth  teach 
Himself  in  all,  and  all  things  in  hintself. 


544 


COLERIDGE. 


Great  universal  Teacher  !  he  shall  mould 
Thy  spirit,  and  by  giving  make  it  ask. 

Therefore  all  seasons  shall  be  sweet  to  thee, 
Whether  the  summer  clothe  the  general  earth 
With  greenness,  or  the  redbreast  sit  and  sing 
Betwixt  the  tufts  of  snow  on  the  bare  branch 
Of  mossy  apple  tree,  while  the  nigh  thatch 
Smokes  in  the  sun-thaw ;  whether  the  eave-drops 

fall 
Heard  only  in  the  trances  of  the  blast, 
Or  if  the  secret  ministry  of  frost 
Shall  hang  them  up  in  silent  icicles, 
Quietly  shining  to  the  quiet  moon. 


TO  A  FRIEND. 

TOGETHER   WITH   AN   UNFINISHED    POEM. 

Thus  far  my  scanty  brain  hath  built  the  rhyme 
Elaborate  and  swelling :  yet  the  heart 
Not  owns  it.     From  thy  spirit-breathing  powers 
I  ask  not  now,  my  friend  !  the  aiding  verse, 
Tedious  to  thee,  and  from  my  anxious  thought 
Of  dissonant  mood.     In  fancy  (well  I  know) 
From  business  wandering  far  and  local  cares, 
Thou  deepest  round  a  dear-loved  sister's  bed 
With  noiseless  step,  and  watchest  the  faint  look 
Soothing  each  pang  with  fond  solicitude, 
And  tenderest  tones  medicinal  of  love. 

I  too  a  sister  had,  an  only  sister 

She  loved  me  dearly,  and  I  doted  on  her ! 
To  her  I  pour'd  forth  all  my  puny  sorrows, 
(As  a  sick  patient  in  his  nurse's  arms,) 
And  of  the  heart  those  hidden  maladies 
That  shrink  ashamed  from  even  friendship's  eye. 
O  !  I  have  woke  at  midnight,  and  have  wept 
Because  she  was  not  ! — Cheerily,  dear  Charles  ! 
Thou  thy  best  friend  shalt  cherish  many  a  year : 
Such  warm  presages  feel  I  of  high  hope. 
For  not  uninterested  the  dear  maid 
I've  view'd — her  soul  affectionate  yet  wise, 
Her  polish'd  wit  as  mild  as  lambent  glories 
That  play  around  a  sainted  infant's  head. 
He  knows  (the  Spirit  that  in  secret  sees. 
Of  whose  omniscient  and  all-spreading  love 
Aught  to  implore*  were  impotence  of  mind) 
That  my  mute  thoughts  are  sad  before  his  throne. 
Prepared,  when  he  his  healing  ray  vouchsafes. 
To  pour  forth  thanksgiving  with  lifted  heart. 
And  praise  him  gracious  with  a  brother's  joy  ! 
December,  1794. 


THE  HOUR  WHEN  WE  SHALL  MEET 
AGAIN. 

COMPOSED   DURING   ILLNESS    AND   IN   ABSENCE. 

Dim  hour  !  that  sleep'st  on  pillowing  clouds  afar, 
0  rise  and  yoke  the  turtles  to  thy  car  ! 


♦  ^  utterly  recant  the  sentiment  contained  in  the  lines 
Of  whose  omniscient  and  all-spreading  love 
A.ught  to  implore  were  impotence  of  mind, 
It  tDeing  written  in  Scripture,  "Ask,  and  it  shall  be  given 
you,"  and  my  human  reason  being  moreover  convinced 
of  the  propriety  of  offering  petitions  as  well  as  thanksgiv- 
ings to  the  Deity. 


Bend  o'er  the  traces,  blame  each  lingering  dove. 
And  give  me  to  the  bosom  of  my  love ! 
My  gentle  love,  caressing  and  carest. 
With  heaving  heart  shall  cradle  me  to  rest ; 
Shed  the  warm  tear-drop  from  her  smiling  eyes. 
Lull  with  fond  wo,  and  med'cine  me  with  sighs : 
While  finely-flushing  float  her  kisses  meek, 
Like  melted  rubies,  o'er  my  pallid  cheek. 
Chill'd  by  the  night,  the  drooping  rose  of  May 
Mourns  the  long  absence  of  the  lovely  day ; 
Young  day,  returning  at  her  promised  hour, 
W^eeps  o'er  the  sorrows  of  her  favourite  flower 
Weeps  the  soft  dew,  the  balmy  gale  she  sighs. 
And  darts  a  trembling  lustre  from  her  eyes. 
New  life  and  joy  th'  expanding  floweret  feels : 
His  pitying  mistress  mourns,  and  mourning  heals ! 


LINES  TO  JOSEPH  COTTLE. 

My  honour'd  friend !   whose  verse  concise,  yet 

clear. 
Tunes  to  smooth  melody  unconquer'd  sense. 
May  your  fame  fadeless  live,  as  "  never-sere" 
The  ivy  wreathes  yon  oak,  whose  broad  defence 
Embowers  me  from  noon's  sultry  influence  ! 
For,  like  that  nameless  rivulet  stealing  by. 
Your  modest  verse,  to  musing  quiet  dear. 
Is  rich  with  tints  heaven-borrow'd:   the  charm'd 

eye 
Shall  gaze  undazzled  there,  and  love  the  soften'd 

sky. 

Circling  the  base  of  the  poetic  mount 
A  stream  there  is,  which  rolls  in  lazy  flow 
Its  coal-black  waters  from  oblivion's  fount: 
The  vapour-poison'd  birds,  that  fly  too  low, 
Fall  with  dead  swoop,  and  to  the  bottom  go. 
Escaped  that  heavy  stream  on  pinion  fleet. 
Beneath  the  mountain's  lofty  frowning  brow, 
Ere  aught  of  perilous  ascent  you  meet, 
A  mead  of  mildest  charm  delays  th'  unlabouring 
feet. 

Not  there  the  cloud-climb 'd  rock,  sublime  and  vast, 
That  like  some  giant  king,  o'erglooms  the  hill; 
Nor  there  the  pine-grove  to  the  midnight  blast 
Makes  solemn  music  !     But  th'  unceasing  rill 
To  the  soft  wren  or  lark's  descending  trill 
Murmurs  sweet  under-song  'mid  jasmin  bowers. 
In  this  same  pleasant  meadow,  at  your  will, 
I  ween,  you  wander'd — there  collecting  flowers 
Of  sober  tint,  and  herbs  of  med'cinable  powers  ! 

There  for  the  monarch-murder'd  soldier's  tomb 
You  wove  th'  unfuiish'd  wreath  of  saddest  hues  j* 
And  to  that  holier  chapletf  added  bloom, 
Besprinkling  rt  with  Jordan's  cleansing  dews. 

But  lo  !  your  Henderson^  awakes  the  muse ■ 

His  spirit  beckon'd  from  the  mountain's  height ! 
You  left  the  plain  and  soar'd  mid  richer  views  ; 
So  nature  mourn'd,  when  sank  the  first  day's  light, 
With  stars,  unseen  before,  spangling  her  robe  oi 
night ! 

*  War,  a  fcagment.  t  John  the  Baptist,  a  poem. 

t  Monody  on  John  Henderson. 


SIBYLLINE    LEAVES. 


545 


d  At  ooar,  rny  friend,  those  richer  views  among, 
si<X5ng,  rapid,  fervent  flashing  fancy's  beam  ! 
virtue  and  truth  shall  love  your  gentler  song; 
Put  poesy  demands  th'  impassion 'd  theme: 
Waked   by   heaven's   silent  dews   at  eve's    mild 

gleam. 
What  balmy  sweets  Pomona  breathes  around  ! 
But  if  the  vext  air  rush  a  stormy  stream, 
Of  autumn's  shrill  gust  moan  in  plaintive  sound, 
With  fruits  and   flowers   she  loads   the  tempest- 

honour'd  ground. 


IV.  ODES   AND   MISCELLANEOUS 
POEMS. 

THE  THREE   GRAVES. 

A   FRAGMENT   OF   A   SEXTON's   TALE. 

[The  author  has  published  the  following  humble 
fragment,  encouraged  by  the  decisive  recommenda- 
tion of  more  than  one  of  our  most  celebrated  living 
poets  The  language  was  intended  to  be  dramatic  ; 
that  is,  suited  to  the  narrator:  and  the  metre  cor- 
responds to  the  homeliness  of  the  diction.  It  is 
therefore  presented  as  the  fragment,  not  of  a  poem, 
but  of  a  conr.Tnon  ballad  tale.  Whether  this  is  suf- 
ficient to  justify  the  adoption  of  such  a  st^-le,  in 
any  metrical  composition  not  professedly  ludicrous, 
ine  author  is  himself  in  some  doubt.  At  all  events, 
it  is  not  presented  as  poetrj',  and  it  is  in  no  way 
connected  with  the  author's  judgment  concerniiss 
poetic  diction.  Its  merits,  if  any,  are  exclusivley 
psychological.  The  story,  which  must  be  supposed 
to  have  been  narrated  in  the  first  and  second  parts, 
is  as  follows. 

Edward,  a  young  fanner,  meets,  at  the  house  of 
Ellen,  her  bosom  friend,  Mary,  and  commences  an 
acquaintance,  which  ends  in  a  mutual  attachment. 
With  her  consent,  and  b\'  the  advice  of  their  com- 
mon friend  Ellen,  he  announces  his  hopes  and  in- 
tentions to  Mary's  mother,  a  widow  woman  border- 
ing on  her  fortieth  year,  and  from  constant  health, 
the  possession  of  a  competent  property,  and  from 
having  had  no  other  children  but  Mary  and  another 
daughter,  (the  father  died  in  their  infancy,)  retain- 
ing, for  the  greater  part,  her  personal  attractions 
and  comeliness  of  appearance ;  but  a  woman  of 
low  education  and  violent  temper.  The  answer 
which  she  at  once  returned  to  Edward's  application 
was  remarkable :  "  Well !  Edward,  you  are  a 
handsome  young  fellow,  and  you  shall  have  my 
daughter."  From  this  time  all  their  wooing  passed 
under  the  mother's  eye;  and,  in  fine,  she  became 
herself  enamoured  of  her  future  son-in-law,  and 
practised  every  art,  both  of  endearment  and  of 
calumny,  to  transfer  his  affections  from  her  daughter 
to  herself.  (The  outlines  of  the  tale  are  positive 
facts,  and  of  no  very  distant  date,  though  the  au- 
thor has  purposely  altered  the  names  and  the  scene 
of  action,  as  well  as  invented  the  characters  of  the 
parties  and  the  detail  of  the  incidents.)  Edward, 
however,  though  perplexed  by  her  strange  detrac- 
.on  from  her  daughter's  good  qualities,  yet  in  the 
Vol.  III.— 35 


innocence  of  his  own  heart  still  mistaking  her  in 
creasing  fondness  for  motherly  affection ;  she,  at 
length,  overcome  by  her  miserable  passion,  after 
much  abuse  of  Mary's  temper  and  moral  tendencies, 
exclaimed  with  violent  emotion — "  0  Edward  !  in- 
deed, indeed,  she  is  not  fit  for  you — she  has  not  a 
heart  to  love  you  as  you  deserve.  It  is  I  that  love 
you  !  Marry  me,  Edward !  and  I  will  this  very 
day  settle  all  my  property  on  you." — The  lover's 
eyes  were  now  opened  ;  and  thus  taken  by  surprise, 
whether  from  the  effect  of  the  horror  which  he  felt, 
acting  as  it  were  hysterically  on  his  nervous  sys- 
tem, or  that  at  the  first  moment  he  lost  the  sense 
of  the  proposal  in  the  feeling  of  its  strangeness  and 
absurdity,  he  flung  her  from  him  and  burst  into  a 
fit  of  laughter.  Irritated  by  this  almost  to  frenzy, 
the  woman  fell  on  her  knees,  and  in  a  loud  voice 
that  approached  to  a  scream,  she  prayed  for  a  curse 
both  on  him  and  on  her  own  child.  INIary  happened 
to  be  in  the  room  directly  above  them,  heard  Ed- 
ward's laugh  and  her  mother's  blasphemous  prayer, 
and  fainted  away.  He,  hearing  the  fall,  ran  up 
stairs,  and  taking  her  in  his  arms,  carried  her  off  to 
Ellen's  home ;  and  after  some  fruitless  attempts  on 
her  part  toward  a  reconciliation  with  her  mother, 
she  was  married  to  him. — And  here  the  third  part 
of  the  tale  begins. 

I  was  not  led  to  choose  this  story  from  any  par- 
tiality to  tragic,  much  less  to  monstrous  events, 
(though  at  the  time  that  I  composed  the  verses, 
somewhat  more  than  twelve  years  ago,  I  was  less 
averse  to  such  subjects  than  at  present,)  but  from 
finding  in  it  a  striking  proof  of  the  possible  effect 
on  the  imagination,  from  an  idea  violently  and 
suddenly  impressed  on  it.  I  had  been  reading 
Bryan  Edwards's  account  of  the  effect  of  the  Oby 
Witchcraft  on  the  Negroes  in  the  West  Indies,  and 
Hearne's  deeply  interesting  anecdotes  of  similar 
workings  on  the  imagination  of  the  Copper  Indians, 
(those  of  my  readers  who  have  it  in  their  power 
Avill  be  well  repaid  for  the  trouble  of  referring  to 
those  works  for  the  passages  alluded  to,)  and  I  con- 
ceived the  design  of  showing  that  instances  of  this 
kind  are  not  peculiar  to  savage  or  barbarous  tribes, 
and  of  illustrating  the  mode  in  which  the  mind  is 
affected  in  these  cases,  and  the  progress  and  symp- 
toms of  the  morbid  action  on  the  fancy  from  the 
beginning. 

[The  tale  is  supposed  to  be  narrated  by  an  old 
sexton,  in  a  country  churchyard,  to  a  traveller 
whose  curio'sity  had  been  awakened  by  the  appear- 
ance of  three  graves,  close  by  each  other,  to  two 
only  of  which  there  were  grave-stones.  On  the 
first  of  these  were  the  name,  and  dates,  as  usual : 
on  the  second  no  name  but  onl}-  a  date,  and  the 
words.  The  mercy  of  God  is  infinite.] 


PART    III. 

The  grapes  upon  the  vicar's  wall 
Were  ripe  as  ripe  could  be ; 

And  yellow  leaves  in  sun  and  wind 
Were  falling  from  the  tree. 


546 


COLERIDGE. 


On  the  hedge  elms  Ji  the  narrow  lane 
Still  swung  the  spikes  of  corn  ; 

Dear  Lord !  it  seems  but  yesterday — 
Young  Edward's  marriage  morn. 

Up  through  that  wood  behind  the  church, 
There  leads  from  Edward's  door 

A  mossy  track,  all  over-bough'd 
For  half  a  mile  or  more. 

And  from  their  house-door  by  that  track 
The  bride  and  bridegroom  went ; 

Sweet  Mary,  though  she  was  not  gay, 
Seem'd  cheerful  and  content. 

But  when  they  to  the  churchyard  came, 

I've  heard  poor  Mary  say, 
As  soon  as  she  stepp'd  into  the  sun, 

Her  heart  it  died  away. 

And  when  the  vicar  joined  their  hands, 
Her  limbs  did  creep  and  freeze  ; 

But  when  they  pray'd,  she  thought  she  saw 
Her  mother  on  her  knees. 

And  o'er  the  church  path  they  return'd — 

I  saw  poor  Mary's  back, 
Just  as  she  stepp'd  beneatl-   iie  boughs 

Into  the  mossy  track. 

Her  feet  upon  the  ra  ,''sy  track 

The  married  maiden  set : 
That  moment — I  have  heard  her  say — 

She  wish'd  she  could  forget. 

The  shade  o'ertlush'd  her  limbs  with  heat — 

Then  came  a  chill  like  death : 
And  when  the  merry  bells  rang  out. 

They  seem'd  to  stop  her  breath. 

Beneath  the  foulest  mother's  curse 

No  child  could  ever  thrive  ; 
A  mother  is  a  mother  still, 

The  holiest  thing  alive. 

So  five  months  pass'd :  the  mother  still 

Would  never  heal  the  strife : 
But  Edward  was  a  loving  man, 

And  Mary  a  fond  wife. 

"  My  sister  may  not  visit  us. 
My  mother  says  her  nay: 

0  Edward  !  you  are  all  to  me, 

1  wish  for  your  sake  I  could  be 

More  lifesome  and  more  gay. 

« I'm  dull  and  sad  !  indeed,  indeed, 

I  know  I  have  no  reason  ! 
Perhaps  I  am  not  well  in  health, 

And  'tis  a  gloomy  season." 

'Twas  a  drizzlj^  time — no  ice,  no  snow ! 

And  on  the  few  fine  days 
She  stirr'd  not  out,  lest  she  might  meet 

Hei  mother  in  her  ways. 


But  Ellen,  spite  of  miry  ways, 

And  weather  dark  and  dreary, 
Trudged  every  day  to  Edward's  house, 

And  made  them  all  more  cheery 

0  .'  Ellen  was  a  faithful  friend, 

M:  re  dear  than  any  sister ! 
*-;  vneerful,  too,  as  singing  lark; 
Arid  sne  ne'er  left  them  till  it  was  dark 

And  then  they  always  miss'd  her. 

And  now  Ash  Wednesday  came — that  day 

But  few  to  church  repair  : 
For  on  that  day  you  know  we  read 

The  commination  prayer- 

Our  late  old  vicar,  a  kind  man. 

Once,  sir,  he  said  to  me. 
He  wish'd  that  service  was  clean  out    i 

Of  our  good  Liturgy. 

The  mother  walk'd  into  the  church- 
To  Ellen's  seat  she  went; 

Though  Ellen  always  kept  her  chir>  cb, 
All  church-days  during  Lent. 

And  gentle  Ellen  welcomed  her 
Witli  courteous  looks  and  mild  ; 

Thought  she,  "  What  if  her  heart  should  me  t 
And  all  be  reconciled  !" 

The  day  was  scarcely  like  a  day — 
The  clouds  were  black  outright ; 

And  many  a  night  with  half  a  moon, 
I've  seen  the  church  more  light. 

The  wind  was  wild ;  against  the  glass 

The  rain  did  beat  and  bicker ; 
The  church  tower  swinging  overhead, 

You  scarce  could  hear  the  vicar ! 

And  then  and  there  the  mother  knelt. 

And  audibly  she  cried — 
"  0  !  may  a  clinging  curse  consume 

This  woman  by  my  side  ! 

"Ohear  me,  hear  me,  Lord  in  heaven. 
Although  you  take  my  life — 

0  curse  this  woman,  at  wlvose  house 
Young  Edward  woo'd  his  wife. 

"  By  night  and  day,  in  bed  and  bower, 

O  let  her  cursed  be  ! ! !" 
So  having  pray'd,  steady  and  slow. 

She  rose  up  from  her  knee  ! 
And  left  the  church,  nor  e'er  again 

The  church  door  enter'd  she. 

1  saw  poor  Ellen  kneeling  still. 

So  pale  !   I  guess'd  not  why  : 
When  she  stood  up,  there  plainly  was 
A  trouble  in  her  eye. 

And  wher  the  prayers  were  done,  wc  all 
Came  round  and  ask'd  her  why: 


SIBYLLINE    LEAVES. 


647 


Giddy  she  seem'd,  and  sure  there  was 
A  trouble  in  her  eye. 

But  ere  she  from  the  church  door  stepp'd, 

She  smiled  and  told  us  why ; 
"It  was  a  wicked  woman's  curse," 

Quoth  she,  "  and  what  care  I  ?" 

She  smiled,  and  smiled,  and  pass'd  it  off 
Ere  from  the  door  she  stept — 

But  all  agree  it  would  have  been 
Much  better  had  she  wept. 

And  if  her  heart  was  not  at  ease, 
This  was  her  constant  cry — 

"  It  was  a  wicked  woman's  curse- 
God's  good,  and  what  care  I  ?" 

There  was  a  hurry  in  her  looks, 

Her  struggles  she  redoubled  : 
« It  was  a  wicked  woman's  curse. 

And  why  should  I  be  troubled  ?" 

These  tears  will  come — I  dandled  her 
When  'twas  the  merest  fairy — 

Good  creature  !  and  she  hid  it  all : 
She  told  it  not  to  Mary. 

But  Mary  heard  the  tale :  her  arms 
Round  Ellen's  neck  she  threw ; 

"0  Ellen,  Ellen,  she  cursed  me, 
And  now  she  hath  cursed  you  !" 

I  saw  young  Edward  by  himself 

Stalk  fast  adown  the  lea. 
He  snatch'd  a  stick  from  every  fence, 

A  twi^  fi'-*n  every  tree. 

He  s-napp'd  them  still  with  hand  or  kneiv, 

And  then  away  they  flew  . 
As  if  with  his  uneasy  limbs 

He  knew  not  what  to  do  ! 

You  see,  good  sir !  that  single  hiL . 

His  farm  lies  underneath  : 
He  heard  it  there,  he  heard  it  all. 

And  only  gnash'd  his  teeth. 

Now  Ellen  was  a  durling  love 

In  all  his  joys  and  cares : 
And  Ellen's  name  md  Mary's  name 
Fast  link'd  they  both  together  came. 

Whene'er  he  said  his  prayers. 

And  in  the  moment  of  his  prayers 

He  loved  them  both  alike: 
Yea,  both  sweet  names  with  one  sweet  joy 

Upon  his  heart  did  strike  ! 

He  reach'd  hi's  home,  and  by  his  looks 

They  saw  his  inward  strife  ! 
And  they  clung  round  him  with  their  arms, 

Both  Ellen  and  his  wife. 

And  Mary  could  not  check  Jjer  tears. 

So  on  his  breast  she  bow'd  ; 
Then  fienzy  melted  into  grief. 

And  Edward  wept  aloud. 


Dear  Ellen  did  not  weep  at  all, 

But  closelier  did  she  cling. 
And  turn'd  her  face,  and  look'd  as  if 

She  saw  some  frightful  thing. 

PART    IV. 

To  see  a  man  tread  over  graves 

I  hold  it  no  good  mark ; 
*Tis  wicked  in  the  sun  and  moon, 

And  bad  luck  in  the  dark ! 

You  see  that  grave  ?    The  Lord  he  givos, 

The  Lord  he  takes  away : 
0,  sir  !  the  child  of  my  old  age 

Li€s  there  as  cold  as  clay. 

Except  that  grave,  you  scarce  see  one 

That  was  not  dug  by  me : 
I'd  rather  dance  upon  them  all 

Than  tread  upon  these  three  I 

"Ay,  sexton!  'tis  a  touching  tale." 

You,  sir  !  are  but  a  lad  ; 
This  month  I'm  in  my  seventieth  year. 

And  still  it  makes  me  sad. 

And  Mary's  sister  told  it  me. 
For  three  good  hours  and  more  ; 

Though  I  had  heard  it,  in  the  main, 
From  Edward's  self,  before. 

Well !  it  pass'd  off!  the  gentle  Ellen 

Did  wellnigh  dote  on  Mary ; 
And  she  went  oftener  than  before. 
And  Mary  loved  her  more  and  mo/t : 

She  managed  all  the  dairy. 

To  market  she  on  market  days, 

To  church  on  Sundays  came ; 
All  seem'd  the  same :  all  seem'd  so,  sir  I 

But  all  was  not  the  same  ! 

Had  Ellen  lost  her  mirth  ?    O  !  no  .' 

But  she  was  seldom  cheerful ; 
And  Edward  look'd  as  if  he  thought 

That  Ellen's  mirth  was  fearful. 

When  by  herself,  she  to  herself 

Must  sing  some  merry  rhyme  ; 
She  could  not  now  be  glad  for  hours. 

Yet  silent  all  the  time. 

And  when  s  :e  soothed  her  friend,  through  ali 

Her  soothing  words  'twas  plain 
She  had  a  sore  grief  of  her  own, 

A  haunting  in  her  brain. 

And  oft  she  said,  I'm  not  grown  thin  ! 

And  then  her  wrist  she  spann'd  ; 
And  once,  when  Mary  was  downcast. 

She  took  her  by  the  hand. 
And  gazed  upon  her,  and  at  first 

She  gently  press'd  her  hand; 

Then  harder,  till  her  grasp  at  length 

Did  gripe  like  a  convulsion  ! 
Alas  !  said  she,  we  ne'er  can  be 

Made  hap;)v  ^v  compulsion  ! 


54,8 


COLERIDGE. 


And  once  her  both  arms  suddenly- 
Round  Mary's  neck  she  flung, 

And  her  heart  panted,  and  she  felt 
The  words  upon  her  tongue. 

She  felt  them  coming,  but  no  power 

Had  she  the  words  to  smother ; 
And  with  a  kind  of  shriek  she  cried, 

"  0  Christ !  you're  like  your  mother !" 

So  gentle  Ellen  now  no  more 

Could  make  this  sad  house  cheery ; 

And  Mary's  melancholy  ways 
Drove  Edward  wild  and  weary. 

Lingering  he  raised  his  latch  at  eve, 
Though  tired  in  heart  and  limb : 

He  loved  no  other  place,  and  yet 
Home  was  no  home  to  him. 

L'De  evening  he  took  up  a  book. 

And  nothing  in  it  read  ; 
Then  flung  it  down,  and  groaning,  cried, 

*'  0  !  Heaven  !  that  I  were  dead." 

Mary  look'd  up  into  his  face. 

And  nothing  to  him  said ; 
She  tried  to  smile,  and  on  his  arm 

Mournfully  lean'd  her  head. 

And  he  burst  into  tears,  and  fell 

Upon  his  knees  in  prayer ; 
«  Her  heart  is  broke  !    0  God  !  my  grief. 

It  is  too  great  to  bear !" 

'Twas  such  a  foggy  time  as  makes 

Old  sextons,  sir !  like  me, 
Rest  on  their  spades  to  cough ;  the  spring 

Was  late  uncommonly. 

And  then  the  hot  days,  all  at  once. 
They  came,  we  knew  not  how  ; 

You  look'd  about  for  shade,  when  scarce 
A  leaf  was  on  a  bough. 

It  happen'd  then,  ('twas  in  the  bower 

A  furlong  up  the  wood  ; 
Perhaps  you  know  the  place,  and  yet 

I  scarce  know  how  you  should,) 

No  path  leads  thither,  'tis  not  nigh 

To  any  pasture  plot ; 
But  cluster'd  near  the  chattering  brook, 

Lone  hollies  mark'd  the  spot. 

Those  hollies  of  themselves  a  shape 

As  of  an  arbour  took, 
A  close,  round  arbour ;  and  it  stands 

Not  three  strides  from  a  brook. 

Within  this  arbour,  which  was  still 

With  scarlet  berries  hung, 
Were  these  three  friends,  one  Sunday  morn. 

Just  as  the  first  bell  rung. 

*Tis  sweet  to  hear  a  brook,  'tis  sweet 

To  hear  the  Sabbath  bell, 
*Tis  sweet  to  hear  them  both  at  once. 

Deep  in  a  woody  dell. 


His  limbs  along  the  moss,  his  head 

Upon  a  mossy  heap. 
With  shut-up  senses,  Edward  lay, 
That  brook  e'en  on  a  working  day 

Might  chatter  one  to  sleep. 

And  he  had  pass'd  a  restless  night, 

And  was  not  well  in  health ; 
The  women  sat  down  by  his  side. 

And  talk'd  as  'twere  by  stealth. 

"  The  sun  peeps  through  the  close  thick  leaves 

See,  dearest  Ellen  !  see ! 
'Tis  in  the  leaves,  a  little  sun. 

No  biggex  than  your  e'e ; 

"  A  tiny  sun,  and  it  has  got 

A  perfect  glory,  too  ; 
Ten  thousand  threads  and  hairs  of  light, 
Make  up  a  glory,  gay  and  bright, 

Round  that  small  orb,  so  blue." 

And  then  they  argued  of  those  rays, 

What  colour  they  might  be: 
Says  this,  "  They're  mostly  green  ;"  says  ttV , 

"  They're  amber-like  to  me." 

So  they  sat  chatting,  while  bad  thoughts 

Were  troubling  Edward's  rest ; 
But  soon  they  heard  his  hard  quick  pants, 

And  the  thumping  in  his  breast. 

"  A  mother,  too  !"  these  selfsame  words 

Did  Edward  mutter  plain  ; 
His  face  was  drawn  back  on  itself. 

With  horror  and  huge  pain. 

Both  groan'd  at  once,  for  both  knew  well 
What  thoughts  were  in  his  mind ; 

When  he  waked  up,  and  stared  like  one 
That  hath  been,  just  struck  blind. 

He  sat  upright ;  and  ere  the  dream 

Had  had  time  to  depart, 
«  0  God,  forgive  me  .'"  he  exclaim'd, 

"  I  have  torn  out  her  heart." 

Then  Ellen  shriek'd,  and  forthwith  burst 

Into  ungentle  laughter ; 
And  Mary  shiver'd,  where  she  sat. 

And  never  she  smiled  after. 


Carmen  reliquum  in  futurum  tempus  relegatum. 
morrow  I  and  to-morrow !  and  to-morrow  ! — 


T« 


DEJECTION ; 

AN   ODE. 


Late,  late  yestreen,  I  saw  the  new  Moon, 
With  the  old  Moon  in  herarms; 
And  I  fear,  I  fear,  my  master  dear! 
We  shall  have  a  deadly  storm. 

Ballad  of  Sir  Palnck  Spena. 


I. 

Well  !  if  the  bard  jvas  weather-wise,  who  maue 
The  grand  old  ballad  of  Sir  Patrick  Spence, 
This  night,  so  tranquil  now,  will  not  go  henc« 

Unroused  by  winds,  that  ply  a  busier  trade 


SIBYLLINE    LEA\ES. 


MS 


Than  t'nose  which  mould  yon  cloud  in  lazy  flakes, 
Or  the  dull  sobbing  draught,  that  moans  and  rakes 
Upon  the  strings  of  this  ^olian  lute, 
"Which  better  far  were  mute. 
For  lo  .'  the  new  moon  winter-bright ! 
And  overspread  with  phantom  light, 
(With  swimming  phaytom  light  o'erspread. 
But  rimm'd  and  circled  by  a  silver  thread,) 
-.  see  the  old  moon  in  her  lap,  foretelling 

The  coming  on  of  rain  and  squally  blast. 
And  0  !  that  even  now  the  gust  were  swelling, 

And  the  slant  night-shower  driving  loud  and  fast ! 
Those  sounds  which  oft  have  raised  me,  whilst 
they  awed, 
And  sent  my  soul  abroad, 
Might  now  perhaps  their  wonted  impulse  give, 
Might  startle  this  dull  pain,  and  make  it  move  and 
live ! 

II. 

A  grief  without  a  pang,  void,  dark,  and  drear, 
A  stifled,  drowsy,  unimpassion'd  grief. 
Which  finds  no  natural  outlet,  no  relief, 
In  word,  or  sigh,  or  tear — 

0  lady !  in  this  wan  and  heartless  mood, 
To  other  thoughts  by  yonder  throstle  woo'd, 

All  this  long  eve,  so  balmy  and  serene. 
Have  I  been  gazing  on  the  western  sky, 

And  its  peculiar  tint  of  yellow  green  ; 
And  still  I  gaze — and  with  how  blank  an  eye; 
And  those  thin  clouds  above,  in  flakes  and  bars. 
That  give  away  their  motion  to  the  stars ; 
Those  stars,  that  glide  behind  them  or  between, 
Now  sparkling,  now  bedimin'd,  but  always  seen  : 
Yon  crescent  moon,  as  fix'd  as  if  it  grew 
In  its  own  cloudless,  starless  lake  of  blue ; 

1  see  them  all  so  excellently  fair, 

I  see,  not  feel,  how  beautiful  they  are  ! 

III. 

My  genial  spirits  fail. 

And  what  can  these  avail 
To  lift  the  smothering  weight  from  off  my  breast  ? 

It  were  a  vain  endeavour. 

Though  I  should  gaze  for  ever 
On  that  green  light  that  lingers  in  the  west: 
I  may  not  hope  from  outward  forms  to  win 
The  passion    and   the   life,  whose   fountains   are 
within. 

IV. 

0  lady  !  we  receive  but  what  we  give. 
And  in  our  life  alone  does  nature  live : 
Ours  is  her  wedding  garment,  ours  her  shroud ! 

And  would  we  aught  behold,  of  higher  worth, 
Than  that  inanimate  cold  world  allow 'd 
To  the  poor,  loveless,  ever-anxious  crowd. 

Ah  !  from  the  soul  itself  must  issue  forth, 
A  light,  a  glory,  a  fair  luminous  cloud 

Enveloping  the  earth — 
And  from  the  soul  itself  must  there  be  sent 

A  sweet  and  potent  voice,  of  its  own  birth. 
Of  all  sweet  sounds  the  life  and  element ! 

V. 
0  pure  of  heart !  thou  need'st  not  ask  of  me 
What  this  strong  music  in  the  soul  may  be  ! 


What,  and  wherein  it  doth  exist, 

This  light,  this  glory,  this  fair  luminous  mist, 

This  beautiful,  and  beauty-making  power. 

Joy,  virtuous  lady  !     Joy  that  ne'er  was  given. 
Save  to  the  pure,  and  in  their  purest  hour, 
Life,  and  life's  effluence,  cloud  at  once  and  shower 
Joy,  lady  !  is  the  spirit  and  the  power. 
Which  wedding  nature  to  us  gives  in  dower, 

A  new  earth  and  new  heaven. 
Undreamt  of  by  the  sensual  and  the  proud ; 
Joy  is  the  sweet  voice,  Joy  the  luminous  cloud — 

We  in  ourselves  rejoice  ! 
ind  thence  flows  all  that  charms  or  ear  or  sight, 

All  melodies  the  echoes  of  that  voice. 
All  colours  a  suffusion  from  that  light. 

VI. 
There   was   a  time  when,  though  my  path   was 
rough. 

This  joy  within  me  dallied  with  distress. 
And  all  misfortunes  were  but  as  the  stuff 

W^hence  fancy  made  me  dreams  of  happiness: 
For  hope  grew  round  me,  like  the  twining  vine, 
And  fruits,  and  foliage,  not  my  own,  seem'd  mine. 
But  now  afflictions  bow  me  down  to  earth ; 
Nor  care  I  that  they  rob  me  of  my  mirth. 

But  0  !  each  visitation 
Suspends  what  nature  gave  me  at  my  birth, 

My  shaping  spirit  of  imagination. 
For  not  to  think  of  what  I  needs  must  feel, 

But  to  be  still  and  patient,  all  I  can  ; 
And  haply  by  abstruse  research  to  steal 

From  my  own  nature  all  the  natural  man — 

This  was  my  sole  resource,  my  only  plan  ; 
Till  that  which  suits  a  part  infects  the  whole, 
And  now  is  almost  grown  the  habit  of  my  soul. 

VII. 
Hence,  viper  thoughts,  that  coil  around  my  mind. 

Reality's  dark  dream  ! 
I  turn  from  you,  and  listen  to  the  wind. 

Which  long  has  raved  unnoticed.    What  a  scream 
Of  agonj'  by  torture  lengthen'd  out 
That  lute   sent  forth !     Thou  wind,  that   raves, 
without, 
Bare  crag,  or  mountain  tairn,*  or  blasted  tree, 
Or  pine-grove  whither  woodman  never  clomb. 
Or  lonely  house,  long  held  the  witches'  home, 

Methinks  were  fitter  instruments  for  thee. 
Mad  lutanist !  who  in  this  month  of  showers, 
Of  dark-brown  gardens,  and  of  peeping  flowers, 
Makest  devils'  yule,  with  worse  than  wintry  song, 
The  blossoms,  buds,  and  timorous  leaves  among. 

Thou  actor,  perfect  in  all  tragic  sounds  ! 
Thou  mighty  poet,  e'en  to  frenzy  bold  ! 
What  tell'st  thou  no\^  about  ? 
'Tis  of  the  rushing  of  a  host  in  rout, 
With  groans  of  tramipled  men,  with  smarting 
wounds — 
At  once  they  groan  with  pain,  and  shudder  with 
the  cold ! 


*  Tairn  is  a  small  lake,  generally,  ifnotalways,appll«cf 
to  the  lakes  up  in  the  mountains,  and  which  are  the 
feeders  of  those  in  the  valleys.  This  address  to  the  storm 
wind  will  not  appear  extravagant  to  those  who  have  heesd 
it  at  night,  and  in  a  mountainous  country. 


550 


COLERIDGE. 


But  hush  !  there  is  a  pause  of  deepest  silence  ! 

And  all  that  noise,  as  of  a  rushing  crowd, 
With  groans,  and  tremulous  shudderings — all  is 
over — 
!t  telb  another  tale,  with  sounds  less  deep  and 
loud ! 
A  tale  of  less  affright, 
And  temper'd  with  delight. 
As  Ot way's  self  had  framed  the  tender  lay, 
'Tis  of  a  little  child 
Upon  a  lonesome  wild, 
Not  far  from  home,  but  she  hath  lost  her  way, 
And  now  moans  low  in  bitter  grief  and  fear. 
And  now  screams  loud,  and  hopes  to  make  her 
mother  hear. 

VIII. 

'Tis  midnight,  but  small  thoughts  have  I  of  sleep : 
Full  seldom  may  my  friend  such  vigils  keep  ! 
Visit  her,  gentle  sleep  !  with  wings  of  healing. 

And  may  this  storm  be  but  a  mountain-birth. 
May  all  the  stars  hang  bright  above  her  dwelling, 

Silent  as  though  they  watch'd  the  sleeping  earth  ! 
With  light  heart  may  she  rise, 
Gay  fancy,  cheerful  eyes, 

Joy  lift  her  spirit,  joy  attune  her  voice : 
To  her  may  all  things  live,  from  pole  to  pole, 
Their  life  the  eddying  of  her  living  soul ! 

0  simple  spirit,  guided  from  above. 
Dear  lady  !  friend  devoutest  of  my  choice. 
Thus  may'st  thou  ever,  evermore  rejoice. 


ODE  TO  GEORGIANA,  DUTCHESS  OF 
DEVONSHIRE, 

ox   THE   TWENTY-FOURTH   STANZA    IN    HER   "  PJ 
SAGE   OVER   MOUNT    GOTHARD." 


And  hail  the  chapel !  hail  the  platform  wild! 

Where  Tell  directed  the  avenging  dart, 
With  well-strung  arm,  that  first  preserved  his  child; 

Then  aim'd  Ine  arrow  at  the  tyrant's  heart. 


Splendour's  fondly  foster'd  child  ! 
And  did  you  hail  the  platform  wild. 

Where  once  the  Austrian  fell 

Beneath  the  shaft  of  Tell  ? 
0  lady,  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure  ! 
Whence  learnt  you  that  heroic  measure  ? 

Light  as  a  dream  your  days  their  circlets  ran. 

From  all  that  teaches  brotherhood  to  man ; 

Far,  far  removed !    from  want,  from  hope,  from 

fear ! 
Enchanting  music  lull'd  your  infant  ear. 
Obeisance,  praises  soothed  your  infant  heart: 

Emblazonments  and  old  ancestral  crests 
With  many  a  bright  obtrusive  form  of  art, 

Detain'd  your  eye  from  nature :  stately  vests, 
That  veiling  strove  to  deck  your  charms  divine. 
Rich  viands,  and  the  pleasurable  wine. 
Were  yours  unearn'd  by  toil ;  nor  could  you  see 
The  unenjoying  toiler's  misery. 


And  ye%  free  nature's  uncorrupted  child. 
You  hail'd  the  chapel  and  the  platform  wild, 
Where  once  the  Austrian  fell 
Beneath  the  shaft  of  Tell ! 
0  lady,  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure ! 
Whence  learnt  you  that  heroic  measure  ? 

There  crowd  your  finely-fibred  frame. 

All  living  faculties  of  bliss ; 
And  genius  to  your  cradle  came. 
His  forehead  wreathed  with  lambent  flame. 
And  bending  low,  with  godlike  kiss 
Breathed  in  a  more  celestial  life ; 
But  boasts  no   many  a  fair  compeer 

A  heart  as  sensitive  to  joy  and  fear; 
And  some,  perchance,  might  wage  an  equal  otufft. 
Rome  few,  to  nobler  being  wrought, 
Co-rivals  in  the  nobler  gift  of  thought* 
Yet  these  delight  to  celebrate 
Laurell'd  war  and  plumy  state ; 
Or  in  verse  and  music  dress 
Tales  of  rustic  happiness — 
Pernicious  tales  !  insidious  strains  ! 
That  steel  the  rich  man's  breast. 
And  mock  the  lot  unblest. 
The  sordid  vices  and  the  abject  pains, 
Which  evermore  must  be 
The  doom  of  ignorance  and  penny  ! 
But  you,  free  nature's  uncorrupted  child, 
You  hail'd  the  chapel  and  the  platform  wild, 
Where  once  the  Austrian  fell 
Beneath  the  shaft  of  Tell  ! 
0  lady,  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure ! 
Where  learnt  you  that  heroic  measure  ? 

You  were  a  mother  !     That  most  holy  name 
Which  heaven  and  nature  bless, 
I  may  not  vilely  prostitute  to  those 

Whose  infants  owe  them  less 
Than  the  poor  caterpillar  owes 
Its  gaudy  parent  fly. 
You  were  a  mother !  at  your  bosom  fed 

The  babes  that  loved  you.  You,  with  laughi«g  eye 
Each  twilight  thought,  each  nascent  feeling  read. 
Which  you  yourself  created.     O  !  delight ! 
A  second  time  to  be  a  mother. 

Without  the  mother's  bitter  groans : 
Another  thought,  and  yet  another. 
By  touch  or  taste,  by  looks  or  tones 
O'er  the  growing  sense  to  roll, 
The  mother  of  your  infant's  soul ! 
The  angel  of  the  earth,  who,  while  he  guides 

His  chariot-planet  round  the  goal  of  day. 
All  trembling  gazes  on  the  eye  of  God, 

A  moment  turn'd  his  awful  face  away; 
And  as  he  view'd  you,  from  his  aspect  sweet 

New  influences  in  your  being  rose. 
Blest  intuitions  and  communions  fleet 

With  living  nature,  in  her  joys  and  M^oes  ! 
Thenceforth  your  soul  rejoiced  see 
The  shrine  of  social  liberty  I 
0  beautiful !  O  nature's  child  ! 
'Twas  thence  you  hail'd  the  platform  wild. 
Where  once  the  Austrian  fell 
Beneath  the  shaft  of  Tell  ! 
O  lady,  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure  ! 
Thence  learnt  you  that  heroic  measure. 


SIBYLLINE    LEAVES. 


ODE  TO  TRANQUILLITY. 

Tkanquillity  !  thou  better  name 

Than  all  the  family  of  fame  ! 

Tiou  ne'er  wilt  leave  my  riper  age 

To  low  intrigue,  or  factious  rage  ; 

For  O  !  dear  child  of  thoughtful  truth, 

To  thee  I  gave  my  early  youth, 
Aud  left  the  bark,  and  blest  the  steadfast  shore, 
Eie  yet  the  tempest  rose  and  scared  me  with  its 
roar. 

Who  late  and  lingering  seeks  thy  shrine, 
On  him  bat  seldom,  power  divine, 
Thy  spirit  rests  !     Satiety 
And  sloth,  poor  counterfeits  of  thee. 
Mock  the.  tired  worldling.     Idle  hope 
And  dire  remembrance  interlope, 
"o  vex  the  feverish  slumbers  of  the  mind : 
The  bubble  floats  before,  the  spectre  stalks  behind. 

But  me  thy  gentle  hand  will  lead 
At  morning  through  th'  accustom'd  mead 
And  in  the  sultry  summer's  heat 
Will  build  me  up  a  mossy  seat ; 
And  when  the  gust  of  autumn  crowds 
And  breaks  the  busy  moonlight  clouds. 
Thou  best  the  thought  canst  raise,  the  heart  attune. 
Light  as  the  busy  clouds,  calm  as  the  gliding  moon. 

The  feeling  heart,  the  searching  soul. 
To  thee  I  dedicate  the  whole  ! 
And  while  within  myself  I  trace 
The  greatness  of  some  future  race. 
Aloof  with  hermit  e3'e  I  scan 
The  present  works  of  present  man — 
A.  wild  and  dreamlike  trade  of  blood  and  guile. 
Too  foolish  for  a  tear,  too  wicked  for  a  smile  ! 


TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND, 

ON   HIS   PKOPOSING   TO    DOMESTICATE   WITH   THE 

AUTHOR. 

COMPOSED  IN  1796. 

A  MOUNT,  not  wearisome  and  bare  and  steep. 

But  a  green  mountain  variously  up-piled, 
Where  o'er  the  jutting  rocks  soft  mosses  creep. 
Or  colour'd  lichens  with  slow  oozing  weep ; 

Where  cj'press  and  the  darker  yew  start  wild ; 
And  'mid  the  summer  torrent's  gentle  dash 
Dance  brighten'd  the  red  clusters  of  the  ash  ; 

Beneath  whose  boughs,  by  those  still  sounds  be- 
guiled. 
Calm  pensivenes5  might  muse  herself  to  sleep ; 

Till  haply  startled  by  some  fleecy  dam. 
That  rustling  on  the  bushy  clift  above. 
With  melancholy  bleat  of  anxious  love. 

Made  meek  inquiry  for  her  wandering  lamb. 

Such  a  green   mountain  'twere  most  sweet  to 
climb. 
E'en  while  the  bosom  ached  with  loneliness — 
How  more  than  swept,  if  some  dear  friend  should 
bless 

Th'  adventurous  toil,  and  up  the  path  sublime 


Now  lead,  now  follow :  the  glad  landscape  round. 
Wide  and  more  wide,  increasing  without  bound ! 

0  then  'twere  loveliest  sympathy,  to  mark 
The  berries  of  the  half  uprooted  ash 
Dripping  and  bright ;  and  list  the  torrent's  dash,— 

Beneath  the  cypress,  or  the  yew  more  dark. 
Seated  at  ease,  on  some  smooth  mossy  rock ; 
In  social  silence  now,  and  now  t'  unlock 
The  treasured  heart ;  arm  link'd  in  friendly  arm. 
Save  if  the  one,  his  muse's  witching  charm 
Muttering  brow-bent,  at  unwatch'd  distance  lag; 

Till  high  o'erhead  his  beckoning  friend  appears 
And  from  the  forehead  of  the  topmost  crag 

Shouts  eagerly  :  for  haply  there  uprears 
That  shadowing  pine  its  old  romantic  limbs, 

Which  latest  shall  detain  th'  enamour'd  sight 
Seen  from  below,  when  eve  the  valley  dims, 

Tinged  yellow  with  ti.e  rich  departing  light ; 

And  haply,  basin'd  in  some  unsunn'd  cleft, 
A  beauteous  spring,  the  rock's  collected  tears. 
Sleeps  shelter'd  there,  scarce  wrinkled  by  the  gale ! 

Together  thus,  the  world's  vain  turmoil  left, 
Stretch'd  on  the  crag,  and  shadow'd  by  the  pine, 

And  bending  o'er  the  clear  delicious  fount. 
Ah  !  dearest  youth  !  it  were  a  lot  divine 
To  cheat  our  noons  in  moralizing  mood, 
While  west  winds  fann'd  our  temples  toil-bedew'd: 

Then  downwards  slope,  oft  pausing,  from  the 
mount. 
To  some  lone  mansion,  in  some  woody  dale. 
Where  smiling  with  blue  eye,  domestic  bliss 
Gives  this  the  husband's,  that  the  brother's  kiss ! 

Thus  rudely  versed  in  allegoric  lore, 
The  hill  of  knowledge  I  essay'd  to  trace  ; 
That  verdurous  hill  with  many  a  resting-place, 
And  many  a  stream,  whose  warbling  waters  pour 

To  glad  and  fertilize  the  subject  plains ; 
That  hill  with  secret  springs,  and  nooks  untrod, 
And  many  a  fancy-blest  and  holy  sod, 

Where  inspiration,  his  diviner  strains 
Low  murmuring,  lay ;  and  starting  from  the  rocks 
Stiff  evergreens,,  whose  spreading  foliage  mocks 
Want's  barren  soil,  and  the  bleak  frosts  of  age. 
And  bigotry's  mad  fire-invoking  rage  ! 

0  meek  retiring  spirit  i  we  will  climb, 
Cheering  and  cheer'd,  this  lovely  hill  sublime; 

And  from  the  stirring  world  uplifted  high, 
(Whose  noises,  faintly  wafted  on  the  wind, 
To  quiet  musings  shall  attune  the  mind. 

And  oft  the  melancholy  theme  supply,) 

There,  while  the  prospect  through  the  gazing 
eye 

Pours  all  its  healthful  greenness  on  the  soul, 
We'll  smile  at  wealth,  and  learn  to  smile  at  fame. 
Our  hopes,  our  knowledge,  and  our  joys  the  same. 

As    neighbouring    fountains    image,    each    the 
whole : 
Then,  when  the  mind  hath  drunk  its  fill  of  truth. 

We'll  discipline  the  heart  to  pure  delight. 
Rekindling  sober  joy's  domestic  flame. 
They  whom   I   love  siiall   love  thee.     Honour'd 
youth  I 

Now  may  Heaven  realize  this  vision  bright  I 


552 


COLERIDGE. 


LINES  TO  W.  L.,  ESQ., 

WHILE  HE   SANG   A   SONG   TO   PUKCELL'S   MUSIC, 

While  my  young  cheek  retains  its  healthful  hues, 

And  I  have  many  friends  who  hold  me  dear ; 

L !  methinks,  I  would  not  often  hear 

Such  melodies  as  thine,  lest  I  should  lose 
All  memory  of  the  wrongs  and  sore  distress, 

For  which  my  miserable  brethren  weep  ! 

But  should  uncomforted  misfortunes  steep 
My  daily  bread  in  tears  and  bitterness  ; 
And  if  at  death's  dread  moment  I  should  lie 

With  no  beloved  face  at  my  bed-side, 
To  fix  the  last  glance  of  my  closing  eye, 

Methinks,  such  strains,  breathed  by  my  angel- 
guide. 
Would  make  me  pass  the  cup  of  anguish  by, 

Mix  with  the  blest,  nor  know  that  I  had  died ! 


SONNET. 

COMPOSED  ON  A  JOURNEY  HOMEWARD  ;  THE  AUTHOK 
HAVING  RECEIVED  INTELLIGENCE  OF  THE  BIRTH 
OF   A    SON,   SEPTEMBER   20,    1796. 

Oft  o'er  my  brain  does  that  strange  fancy  roll 

Which  makes  the  present  (while  the  flash  dotk 
last) 

Seem  a  mere  semblance  of  some  unknown  past, 
Mix'd  with  such  feelings,  as  perplex  the  soul 
Self-question 'd  in  her  sleep ;  and  some  have  said* 

We  lived  ere  yet  this  robe  of  flesh  we  wore. 

O  my  sweet  baby  !  when  I  reach  my  door, 
I  If  heavy  looks  shall  tell  me  thou  art  dead, 

( As  sometimes,  through  excess  of  hope,  I  fear,) 
.  think  that  I  should  struggle  to  believe 

Thou  wert  a  spirit,  to  this  nether  sphere 
Sentenced  for  some  more  venial  crime  to  grieve ; 
Didst  scream,  then  spring  to  meet  Heaven's  quick 
reprieve. 

While  we  wept  idly  o'er  thy  little  bier ! 


ADDRESSED  TO  A  YOUNG  MAN  OF  FOR- 
TUNE, 

WHO   ABANDONED    HIMSELF   TO    AN     INDOLENT   AND 
CAUSELESS   MELANCHOLY. 

Hence  that  fantastic  wantonness  of  WJ 
0  youth  to  partial  fortune  vainly  dear  ! 

To  plunder'd  want's  half-shelter'd  hovel  go, 
Go,  and  some  hunger-bitten  infant  hear 
Moan  haply  in  a  iying  mother's  ear : 

Or  when  the  cold  and  dismal  fog-damps  brood 

O'er  the  rank  churchyard  with  sere  elm  leaves 
strew'd. 

Pace  round  some  widow's  grave,  whose  dearer  part 
Was  slaughter'd,  where  o'er  his  uncoffin'd  limbs 

The  flocking  flesh-birds  scream'd !     Then,  while 
thy  heart 
Groans,  and  thine  eye  a  fiercer  sorrow  dims. 

Know  (and  the  truth  shall  kindle  thy  young  mind) 

What  nature  makes  thee  mourn,  she  bids  thee  heal ! 
O  abject !  if,  to  sickly  dreams  resign 'd. 

All  effortless  thou  leave  life's  commonweal 

A  prey  to  tyrants,  murderers  of  mankind. 


SONNET  TO  THE  RIVER  OTTER. 

Dear  native  brook  !  wild  streamlet  of  the  west ! 

How  many  various-fated  years  have  past. 

What  happy,  and  what  mournful  hours,  since  last 
I  skimm'd  the  smooth  thin  stone  along  thy  breast, 
Numbering  its  light  leaps  !  yet  so  deep  imprest 
Sink  the  sweet  scenes  of  childhood,  that  mine  eyes 

I  never  shut  amid  the  sunny  ray. 
But  straight  with  all  their  tints  thy  waters  rise, 

Thy  crossing  plank,  thy  marge  with  willows 
gray, 
And  bedded  sand  that  vein'd  with  various  dyes 
Gleam'd  through  thy  bright  transparence  !     On  my 
way. 

Visions  of  childhood  !  oft  have  ye  beguiled 
Lone  manhood's  cares,  yet  waking  fondest  sighs : 

Ah  S  that  once  more  I  were  a  careless  child ! 


SONNET. 


TO  A  FRIEND   WHT;  ASKED,  HOW  I  FELT   WHEN   THE 
NURSE   FIRST   PRESENTED   MY   INFANT   TO   ME. 

Charles  !  my  slow  heart  was  only  sad,  when  first 
I  scann'd  that  face  of  feeble  infancy : 

For  dimly  on  my  thoughtful  spirit  burst 
All  I  had  been,  and  all  my  child  might  be  ! 

But  when  I  saw  it  on  its  mother's  arm. 
And  hanging  at  her  bosom  (she  the  while 
Bent  o'er  its  features  with  a  tearful  smile,) 

Then  I  was  thrill'd  and  melted,  and  most  waxm 

Impress'd  a  father's  kiss:  and  all  beguiled 
Of  dark  remembrance  and  presageful  fear, 
I  seem'd  to  see  an  angel  form  appear — 

'Twas  even  thine,  beloved  woman  mild  ! 
So  for  the  mother's  sake  the  child  was  dear, 

And  dearer  was  the  mother  for  the  child. 


THE  VIRGIN'S  CRADLE  HYMN. 

COPIED    FROM    A    PRINT    OF    THE    VIRGIN    IN    ▲ 
CATHOLIC   VILLAGE   IN    GERMANY. 

DoRMi,  Jesu  !    Mater  ridet. 
Quae  tam  dulcem  somnum  videt, 

Dormi,  Jesu  !  blandule  ! 
Si  non  dormis.  Mater  plorat, 
Inter  fila  cantans  orat 

Blande,  veni,  somnule. 


Sleep,  sweet  babe !  my  cares  beguiling. 
Mother  sits  beside  thee  smiling: 

Sleep,  my  darling,  tenderly  ! 
If  thou  sleep  not,  mother  mourneth. 
Singing  as  her  wheel  she  turneth : 

Come,  soft  slumber,  balmily  ! 

*  Hv  irov  rinoiv  rj  ^vx^  Trpiv  sv  tcjoe  tco  avdpcoTTivit 
ei6ei  yeveadai.  Plat,  in  PJuzdon 


SIBYLLINE    LEAVES. 


5dd 


ON  THE  CHRISTENING  OF  A  FRIEND'S 
CHILD. 

This  day  among  the  faithful  placed. 

And  fed  with  fontal  manna  j 
O  with  maternal  title  graced 

Dear  Anna's  dearest  Anna  ! 

While  others  wish  thee  wise  and  fair, 

A  maid  of  spotless  fame, 
I'll  breathe  this  more  compendious  prayer — 

Mayst  thou  deserve  thy  name  ! 

Thy  mother's  name,  a  potent  spell. 

That  bids  the  virtues  hie 
From  mystic  grove  and  living  cell 

Confest  to  fancy's  eye; 

Meek  quietness,  without  offence  ; 

Content,  in  homespun  kirtle  ; 
True  love ;  and  true  love's  innocence. 

White  blossom  of  the  myrtle  ! 

Associates  of  thy  name,  sweet  child  ! 

These  virtues  mayst  thou  win  ; 
With  face  as  eloquently  mild 

To  say,  they  lodge  within. 

So  when,  her  tale  of  days  all  flown. 
Thy  mother  shall  be  miss'd  here ; 

When  Heaven  at  length  shall  claim  its  own. 
And  angels  snatch  their  sister ; 

Some  hoary-headed  friend,  perchance. 

May  gaze  with  stifled  breath. 
And  oft,  in  momentary  trance, 

Forget  the  waste  of  death. 

E'en  thus  a  lovely  rose  I  view'd 

In  summer-swelling  pride ; 
Nor  mark'd  the  bud,  that  green  and  rude 

Peep'd  at  the  rose's  side. 

It  chanced,  I  pass'd  again  that  way 

In  autumn's  latest  hour, 
And  wondering  saw  the  selfsame  spray 

Rich  with  ;.ie  selfsame  flower. 

Ah  fond  deceit !  the  rude  green  bud 

Alike  in  shape,  place,  name, 
Had  bloom'd,  where  bloom'd  its  parent  stud. 

Another  and  the  same  ] 


EPITAPH  ON  AN  INFANT. 

Its  balmy  lips  the  infant  blest 
Relaxing  from  its  mother's  breast, 
How  sweet  it  heaves  the  happy  sigh 
Of  innocent  satiety ! 

And  such  my  infant's  latest  sigh  ! 
O  tell,  rude  stone !  the  passer  by, 
That  here  the  pretty  babe  doth  lie, 
Death  sang  to  sleep  with  lullaby. 


MELANCHOLY. 


A   FRAGMENT. 


Stretch'd  on  a  moulder'd  abbey's  broadest  wall. 
Where runring  ivies  propp'd  the  ruins  steep— 
Her  folded  arms  wrapping  her  tatter'd  pall. 
Had  melancholy  mused  herself  to  sleep. 
The  fern  was  press 'd  beneath  her  hair. 
The  dark  green  adder's  tongue*  was  there ; 
And  still  as  past  the  flagging  sea-gale  weak. 
The  long  lank  leaf  bow'd  fluttering  o'er  her  cheek. 

That  pallid  cheek  was  flush'd :  her  eager  look 

Beam'd  eloquent  in  slumber  !     Inly  wrought. 
Imperfect  sounds  her  moving  lips  forsook. 

And  her  bent  forehead  work'd  with  troubled 
thought. 
Strange  was  the  dream 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 

The  shepherds  went  their  hasty  way. 

And  found  the  lowly  stable-shed 
Where  the  virgin  mother  lay: 

And  now  they  check 'd  their  eager  tread. 
For  to  the  '^abe,  that  at  her  bosom  clung, 
A  mother's  song  the  virgin-mother  sung. 

They  told  her  how  a  glorious  light. 

Streaming  from  a  heavenly  throng, 
Around  them  shone,  suspending  night . 
While,  sweeter  than  a  mother's  soi^. 
Blest  angels  heralded  the  Saviour's  birth, 
Glory  to  God  on  high  !  and  peace  on  earth. 

She  listen'd  to  the  tale  divine, 

And  closer  still  the  babe  she  press'd ; 
And  while  she  cried,  the  babe  is  mine  ! 
The  milk  rush'd  faster  to  her  breast: 
Joy  rose  within  her,  like  a  summer  morn  ; 
Peace,  peace  on  earth !  the  Prince  of  peace  is  born. 

Thou  mother  of  the  Prince  of  peace, 

Poor,  simple,  and  of  low  estate  ! 

That  strife  should  vanish,  battle  cease, 

O  why  should  this  thy  soul  elate  ? 

Sweet  music's  loudest  note,  the  poet's  story,—— 

Didst  thou  ne'er  love  to  hear  of  fame  and  glory  ? 

And  is  not  war  a  youthful  king, 

A  stately  hero  clad  in  mail  ? 
Beneath  his  footsteps  laurels  spring ; 
Hint  earth's  majestic  monarchs  hail 
Their  friend,  their  playmate !  and  his  bold  bright  eye 
Compels  the  maiden's  love-confessing  »igh. 

"  Tell  this  in  some  more  courtly  scene. 

To  maids  and  youths  in  robes  of  state  ! 
I  am  a  woman  poor  and  mean. 
And  therefore  is  my  soul  elate. 
War  is  a  m'     n,  all  with  guilt  defiled, 
That  from  t.ic  aged  father  tears  his  child  ! 


*  A  botanical  mistake.    The  plant  which  the  poet  het 
describes  is  called  the  hart's  tongue. 


654 


COLERIDGE. 


"A  murderous  fiend,  by  fiends  adored, 

He  kills  the  sire  and  starves  the  son ; 
The  husband  kills,  and  from  her  board 
Steals  all  his  widow's  toil  had  won  ; 
Plunders  God's  world  of  beauty ;  rends  away 
All  safety  from  the  night,  all  comfort  from  the  day. 

"  Then  wisely  is  my  soul  elate, 

That  strife  should  vanish,  battle  cease : 
I'm  poor  and  of  a  low  estate. 

The  mother  of  the  Prince  of  peace. 
Joy  rises  in  me,  like  a  summer's  morn : 
Peace,  peace  on  earth !  the  Prince  of  peace  is  born !" 


TELL'S  BIRTHPLACE. 

IMITATED  FROM  STOLBERG. 

Mark  this  holy  chapel  well ! 
The  birthplace,  this,  of  William  Tell. 
Here,  where  stands  God's  altar  dread. 
Stood  his  parents'  marriage  bed. 

Here  first,  an  infant  to  her  breast. 
Him  his  loving  mother  prest ; 
And  kiss'd  the  babe,  and  bless'd  the  day, 
And  pray'd  as  mothers  used  to  pray : 

"  Vouchsafe  him  health,  0  God,  and  give 
The  child,  thy  servant,  still  to  live  !" 
But  God  has  destined  to  do  more 
Through  him,  than  through  an  armed  power. 

God  gave  him  reverence  of  laws. 

Yet  stirring  blood  in  freedom's  cause — 

A  spirit  to  his  rocks  akin, 

The  eye  of  the  hawk,  and  the  fire  therein  ! 

To  nature  and  to  holy  writ 
Alone  did  God  the  boy  commit: 
Where  flash'd  and  roar'd  the  torrent,  oft 
His  soul  found  wings,  and  soar'd  aloft ! 

The  straining  oar  and  chamois  chase 
Had  form'd  his  limbs  to  strength  and  grace : 
On  wave  and  wind  the  boy  would  toss. 
Was  great,  nor  knew  how  great  he  was  ! 

He  knew  not  that  his  chosen  hand. 
Made  strong  by  God,  his  native  land 
Would  rescue  from  the  shameful  yoke 
Of  slavery the  which  he  broke  ! 


HUMAN  LIFE. 

ON   THE    DENIAL   OF    IMMORTALITY. 

Ir  dead,  we  cease  to  be  ;  if  total  gloom 

Swallow  up  life's  brief  flash  for  aye,  we  fare 
Aj  summer  gusts,  of  sudden  birth  and  doom, 

Whose  sound  and  motion  not  alone  declare, 
But  are  their  tvhole  of  being  !     If  the  breath 

Be  life  itself,  and  not  its  task  and  tent. 
If  e'en  a  soul  like  Milton's  can  know  death, 

O  man !  thou  vessel,  purposeless,  unmeant. 
Yet  drone-hive  strange  of  phantom  purposes  ! 

Surplus  of  nature's  dread  activity, 


Which,  as  she  gazed  on  some  nigh-finish'd  vase. 
Retreating  slow,  with  meditative  pause. 

She  form'd  with  restless  hands  unconsciously ! 
Blank  accident !  nothing's  anomaly  ! 

If  rootless  thus,  thus  substanceless  thy  state, 
Go,  weigh  thy  dreams,  and  be  thy  hopes,  thy  fears 
The  counter-weights ! — Thy  laughter  and  thy  tearf 

Mean  but  themselves,  each  fittest  to  create. 
And  to  repay  the  other !     Why  rejoices 

Thy  heart  with  hollow  joy  for  hollow  good  ? 

Why  cowl  thy  face  beneath  the  mourner's  hood, 
Why  waste  thy  sighs,  and  thy  lamenting  voices, 

Image  of  image,  ghost  of  ghostly  elf. 
That  such  a  thing  as  thou  feel'st  warm  or  cold ! 
Yet  what  and  whence  thy  gain  if  thou  withhold 

These  costless  shadows  of  thy  shadowy  self? 
Be  sad  !  be  glad  !  be  neither !  seek,  or  shun  ! 
Thou  hast  no  reason  why  !    Thou  canst  have  none : 
Thy  being's  being  is  a  contradiction. 


ELEGY, 

IMITATED   FROM   ONE  OF  AKENSIDE's   BLANK   VERSE 
INSCRIPTIONS. 

Near  the  lone  pile  with  ivy  overspread. 
Fast  by  the  rivulet's  sleep-persuading  sound. 

Where  "  sleeps   the  moonlight"  on  yon  verdant 
bed— 
0  humbly  press  that  consecrated  ground  ! 

For  there  does  Edmund  rest,  the  learned  swain ! 

And  there  his  spirit  most  delights  to  rove : 
Young  Edmund  !  famed  for  each  harmonious  strain, 

And  the  sore  wounds  of  ill-requited  love. 

Like  some  tall  tree  that  spreads  its  branches  wide^ 
And  loads  the  west  wind  with  its  soft  perfume, 

His  manhood  blossom'd:  till  the  faithless  pride 
Of  fair  Matilda  sank  him  to  the  tomb. 

But  soon  did  righteous  Heaven  her  guilt  pursue  ! 

Where'er  with  wilder'd  steps  she  wander'd  pale 
Still  Edmund's  image  rose  to  blast  her  view. 

Still  Edmund's  voice  accused  her  in  each  gale. 

With  keen  regret,  and  conscious  guilt's  alarms, 
Amid  the  pomp  of  affluence  she  pined : 

Nor  all  that  lured  her  faith  from  Edmund's  iarras 
Could  lull  the  wakeful  horror  of  her  mind. 

Go,  traveller  !  tell  the  tale  with  sorrow  fraught : 
Some  tearful  maid,  perchance,  or  blooming  youtt 

May  hold  it  in  remembrance ;  and  be  taught 
That  riches  cannot  pay  for  love  or  truth. 


THE  VISIT  OF  THE  GODS. 

IMITATED   FROM   SCHILLER. 

Never,  believe  me. 
Appear  the  immortals. 
Never  alone: 
Scarce  had  I  welcomed  the  sorrow-beguiler, 
lacchus  !  but  in  came  boy  Cupid  the  smiler ; 


SIBYLLINE    LEAVES. 


55f 


Lo  !  PhcEbus  the  glorious  descends  from  his  throne  I 
They  advance,  they  float  in,  the  Olympians  all ! 
With  divinities  fills  my 
Terrestrial  hall ! 

How  shall  I  yield  you 
Due  entertainment. 
Celestial  choir  ? 
Me  rather,  bright  guests  !  with  your  wings  of  up- 

buoyance 
Bear  aloft  to  your  homes,  to  your  banquets  of  joy- 

ance. 
That  the  roofs  of  Olympus  may  echo  my  lyre  ! 
Ha !  we  mount  i  on  their  pinions  they  waft  up  my 
soul ! 

O  give  me  the  nectar  ! 
O  fill  me  the  bowl ! 
Give  him  the  nectar  ! 
Pour  out  for  the  poet, 
Hebe  !  pour  free  ! 
Quicken  his  eyes  with  celestial  dew, 
That  Styx  the  detested  no  more  he  may  view. 
And  like  one  of  us  gods  may  conceit  him  to  be  I 
Thanks,  Hebe  !  I  quaff  it !     lo  ptean,  I  cry  ! 
The  wine  of  th'  immortals 
Forbids  me  to  die  ! 


KUBLA  KHAN  ; 

OR,   A   VISION   II»   A   DREAM. 

[The  following  fragment  is  here  published  at 
the  request  of  a  poet  of  great  and  deserved  celebrity, 
and,  as  far  as  the  author's  own  opinions  are  con- 
cerned, rather  as  a  psychological  curiosity,  than  on 
the  ground  of  any  supposed  poetic  merits. 

In  the  summer  of  the  year  1797,  the  author,  then 
in  ill  health,  had  retired  to  a  lonely  farm-house 
between  Porlock  and  Linton,  on  the  Exmoor  con- 
fines of  Somerset  and  Devonshire.  In  consequence 
of  a  slight  indisposition,  an  anodyne  had  been  pre- 
scribed, from  the  effects  of  which  he  fell  asleep  in 
his  chair  at  the  moment  that  he  was  reading  the 
following  sentence,  or  words  of  the  same  substance, 
in  Purchas's  "Pilgrimage:"  —  "Here  the  Khan 
Kubla  commanded  a  palace  to  be  built,  and  a  stately 
garden  thereunto ;  and  thus  ten  miles  of  fertile 
ground  were  enclosed  with  a  wall."  The  author 
continued  for  about  three  hours  in  a  profound  sleep, 
at  least  of  the  external  senses,  during  which  time 
he  has  the  most  vivid  confidence  that  he  could  not 
have  composed  less  than  from  two  to  three  hun- 
dred lines  ;  if  that  indeed  can  be  called  composition 
in  which  all  the  images  rose  up  before  him  as  things 
with  a  parallel  production  of  the  correspondent 
expressions,  without  any  sensation,  or  conscious- 
ness of  effort.  On  awaking  he  appeared  to  him- 
self to  have  a  distinct  recollection  of  the  whole, 
and  taking  his  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  instantly  and 
eagerly  wrote  down  the  lines  that  are  here  pre- 
served. At  this  moment  he  was  unfortunately 
called  out  by  a  person  on  business  from  Porlock, 
and  detained  by  him  above  an  hour,  and  on  his 


return  to  his  room,  found,  to  his  no  small  surprise 
and  mortification,  that  though  he  still  retained  some 
vague  and  dim  recollection  of  the  general  purport 
of  the  vision,  yet,  with  the  exception  of  some  eight 
or  ten  scattered  lines  and  images,  all  the  rest  had 
passed  away  like  the  images  on  the  surface  of  a 
stream  into  which  a  stone  had  been  cast,  but,  alas  ' 
without  the  after  restoration  of  the  latter. 

Then  all  the  charm 
Is  broken— all  that  phantom-world  so  fair 
Vanishes,  and  a  thousand  circlets  spread, 
And  each  misshapes  the  other.    Stay  a  while, 
Poor  youth  !  who  scarcely  darest  lift  up  thine  eyes— 
The  stream  will  soon  renew  its  smoothness,  soon 
The  visions  will  return !    And  lo,  he  stays, 
And  soon  the  fragments  dimof  lovely  forms 
Come  trembling  back,  unite,  and  now  once  more 
The  pool  becomes  a  mirror. 

Yet,  from  the  still  surviving  recollections  in  his 
mind,  the  author  has  frequently  purposed  to  finish 
for  himself  what  had  been  originally,  as  it  were, 
given  to  him.  Hufiepov  a6iov  acrco  :  but  the  to-mor- 
row is  yet  to  come. 

As  a  contrast  to  this  vision,  I  have  annexed  a 
fragment  of  a  very  different  character,  describing 
with  equal  fidelity  the  dream  of  pain  and  disease. 
—Note  to  the  first  edition,  1816.] 

In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree  ; 
Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man, 

Down  to  a  sunless  sea. 
So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girdled  round  ; 
And  here  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills, 
Where  blossom'd  many  an  incense-bearing  tree  ; 
And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills. 
Infolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery. 

But  0  that  deep  romantic  chasm  which  slanted 
Down  the  green  hill  athwart  a  cedarn  cover ! 
A  savage  place  I  as  holy  and  enchanted 
As  e'er  beneath  a  waning  moon  was  haunted 
By  woman  wailing  for  her  demon  lover ! 
And  from  this  chasm,  with  ceaseless  turmoil  seeth- 
ing. 
As  if  this  earth  in  fast  thick  pants  were  breathing 
A  mighty  fountain  momently  was  forced : 
Amid  whose  swift  half-intermitted  burst 
Huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail. 
Or  chaffy  grain  beneath  the  thresher's  flail : 
And  'mid  these  dancing  rocks  at  once  and  ever 
It  flung  up  momently  the  sacred  river. 
Five  miles,  meandering  with  a  mazy  motion. 
Through  wood  and  dale  the  sacred  river  ran, 
Then  reach'd  the  caverns  measureless  to  man. 
And  sank  in  tumult  to  a  lifeless  ocean : 
And  'mid  this  tumult  Kubla  heard  from  far 
Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war  ! 

The  shadow  of  the  dome  of  pleasure 

Floated  midway  on  the  waves ; 

Where  was  heard  the  mingled  measure 

From  the  fountain  and  the  caves. 
It  was  a  miracle  of  rare  device, 
A  sunny  pleasure-dome  with  caves  of  ice  ! 


556 


COLERIDGE. 


A  damsel  with  a  dulcimer 

In  a  vision  once  I  saw : 

It  was  an  Abyssinian  maid, 

And  on  her  dulcimer  she  play'd, 

Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I  revive  within  me 

Her  symphony  and  song, 

To  such  a  deep  delight  'twould  win  me, 
That  with  music  loud  and  long, 
I  would  build  that  dome  in  air, 
That  sunny  dome  !  those  caves  of  ice  ! 
And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 
And  all  should  cry,  Beware  !  Beware  ! 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair ! 
Weave  a  circle  round  him  thrice. 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed. 
And  drank  the  milk  of  Paradise. 


THE  PAINS  OF  SLEEP. 

Ere  on  my  bed  my  limbs  I  lay. 

It  hath  not  been  my  use  to  pray 

With  moving  lips  or  bended  knees ; 

But  silently,  by  slow  degrees, 

My  spirit  I  to  love  compose. 

In  humble  trust  mine  ej^elids  close. 

With  reverential  resignation, 

No  wish  conceived,  no  thought  express'd  ! 

Only  a  sense  of  supplication, 

A  sense  o'er  all  my  soul  imprest 

That  I  am  weak,  yet  not  unblest. 

Since  in  me,  round  me,  everywhere. 

Eternal  Strength  and  Wisdom  are. 

But  yesternight  I  pray'd  aloud 

In  anguish  and  in  agony, 

Up-starting  from  the  fiendish  crowd 

Of  shapes  and  thoughts  that  tortured  me : 

A  lurid  light,  a  trampling  throng, 

Sense  of  intolerable  wrong. 

And  whom  I  scorn 'd,  those  only  strong! 

Thirst  of  revenge,  the  powerless  will 

Still  baffled,  and  yet  burning  still ! 

Desire  with  loathing  strangely  mix'd. 

On  wild  or  hateful  objects  fix^d. 

Fantastic  passions  !  maddening  brawl ! 

And  shame  and  terror  over  all ! 

Deeds  to  be  hid  which  were  not  hid. 

Which  all  confused  I  could  not  know. 

Whether  I  suffer'd,  or  I  did  : 

For  all  seem'd  guilt,  remorse,  or  wo, 

My  own  or  others',  still  the  same 

Life-stifling  fear,  soul-stifling  shame. 

So  two  nights  pass'd:  the  night's  dismay 
Sadden'd  and  stunn'd  the  coming  day. 
Sleep,  the  wide  blessing,  seem'd  to  me 
Distemper's  worst  calamity. 
The  third  night,  when  my  own  loud  scream 
Had  waked  me  from  the  fiendish  dream, 
O'ercome  with  suflTerings  strange  and  wild, 
I  wept  as  I  had  been  a  child ; 
And  having  thus  by  tears  subdued 
My  anguish  to  a  milder  mood, 


Such  punishments,  I  said,  were  due 
To  natures  deepliest  stain'd  with  sin: 
For  aye  en  tempesting  anew 
Th'  unfathomable  hell  within. 
The  horror  of  their  deeds  to  view. 
To  know  and  loath,  yet  wish  and  do  . 
Such  griefs  with  such  men  well  agree. 
But  wherefore,  wherefore  fall  on  me  ? 
To  be  beloved  is  all  I  need, 
And  whom  I  ^ove,  I  love  indeed. 


THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT 
MARINER. 

IN   SEVEN   PARTS. 


Facile  credo,  plures  esse  Naturas  invisibllesquam  visl. 
biles  in  rerum  universitate.  Sed  horum  omnium  familiam 
quis  nobis  enarrabit?  et  gradus  et  cognationes  et  discri- 
mina  et  singulorum  munera  1  Quid  agunt  7  quae  loca 
habitant?  Harum  rerum  noliiiam  semper  ambivit  inge- 
nium  humanum,  nunquam  altigil.  Juvat,  inlerea,  non 
diffileor,  quandoque  in  animo,  tanquam  in  tabul^,  majorii 
et  melioris  mundi  imaginem  coniemplari :  ne  mens  as. 
suefacta  hodiernae  vitae  minutiis  se  contrahat  nimis,  et 
tola  subsidat  in  pusillas  cogitationes.  Sed  verilati  interea 
invigilandum  est,  modusque  servandus,  ut  ceria  ab  incer- 
tis,  diem  a  node,  distinguamus.— T.  Burnet:  Archceol. 
Phil.  p.  68.  • 


An  ancient  mari* 
ner  meeteth  three 
gallants  bidden  to 
a  wedding-feast, 
and  detaineth 


PART   1. 

It  is  an  ancient  mariner, 
And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three : 
«  By  thy  long  gray  beard  and  glitter- 
ing eye. 
Now  wherefore  stopp'st  thou  me  ? 

"  The  bridegroom's  doors  are  open'd 

wide. 
And  I  am  next  of  kin  ; 
The  guests  are  met,  the  feast  is  set : 
Mayst  hear  the  merry  din," 

He  holds  him  with  his  skinny  hand : 
"  There  was  a  ship,"  quoth  he. 
"Hold  off!    unhand  me,  gray-beard 

loon  !" 
Eftsoons  his  hand  dropt  Iva. 


He   holds   him   with    his    glittering  i:^«»»«aaiBs 
eve R««»' '» "peii- 

•^  bo  and  by  the  eys 

The  wedding-guest  stood  still,  of  *«  ow  •eifai* 

And  listens  like  a  three  years'  child  ;  'ZZl'Z^bZ 

his  tale. 


The  mariner  hath  his  will. 

The  wedding-guest  sat  on  a  stone, 
He  cannot  choose  but  hear ; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man. 
The  bright-eyed  mariner : — 

The  ship  was  cheer'd,  the  harbour 

clear'd. 
Merrily  did  we  drop 
Below  the  kirk,  below  the  hill. 
Below  the  light-house  top. 


THE    ANCIENT    MARINER. 


657 


The  Etiriner  teiu  The  sun  Came  lip  upon  the  left, 

bow  the  ship  sail'   r\    ^     r  a.i.  u     i 

ed  wuthward       0"^  of  the  sea  came  he  ! 

■with  a  good  wind  And  he  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 

tm  iltaThe^th^  Went  down  into  the  sea. 

line. 

Higher  and  higher  every  day. 

Till  over  the  mast  at  noon 

The   wedding-guest    here    heat    his 

breast. 
For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 

The  wedding.       The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall, 
!^rrr;i'lRedasaroseisshe; 
ae  mariner  con-  Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 
The  merry  minstrelsy. 


f'oueth  his  tale. 


The  wedding-guest  he  beat  his  breast. 
Yet  he  cannot  choose  but  hear ; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man, 
The  bright-eyed  mariner : — 

The  ship  drawn  And  now  the  STORM-BLAST  Came,  and 

by  a  storm  toward  , 

the  south  pole.  "® 

Was  tyrannpus  and  strong  ; 

He  struck  with  his  o'ertaking  wings. 

And  chased  us  south  along. 

With  sloping  masts  and  dripping  prow, 
As  who  pursued  with  yell  and  blow 
Still  treads  the  shadow  of  his  foe. 
And  forward  bends  his  head. 
The  ship  drove  fast,  loud  roar'd  the 

blast, 
And  southward  aye  we  fled. 

And  now  there  came  both  mist  and 

snow. 
And  it  grew  wondrous  cold  ; 
And  ice,  mast-high,  came  floating  by, 
As  green  as  emerald. 

The  land  of  ice,  And  through  the  drifts  the  snowy 

and  of  fearful  ... 

sounds,  where  no  CJlllS 

living  thing  was  Did  Send  a  dismal  sheen : 

to  be  seen.  »-  ,  ,.  ,  , 

XMor  shapes  of  men  nor  beasts  we 

ken — 
The  ice  was  all  between. 

The  ice  was  here,  the  ice  was  there, 

The  ice  was  all  around : 

It  crack'd  and  growl'd,and  roar'd  and 

howl'd, 
Like  noises  in  a  swound ! 

Till  a  great  se*.  At  length  did  cross  an  albatross; 

bird,  called  the       rnt.  i_  ^.       r 

aibalross,    came  Thorough  the  fog  it  Came  ; 
through  the  snow  As  if  it  had  been  a  Christian  soul, 

fog,  and  was  re- 
ceived with  great 
jOT  and  bospita- 
lity. 


We  hail'd  it  in  God's  name. 


It  ate  the  food  it,  ne'er  had  eat. 
And  round  and  round  it  flew. 
The  ice  did  split  with  a  thunder-fit ; 
The  helmsman  steer'd  us  through  ! 

froi'Vovttf "  A"*!  ^  g°°^  s°"th  Wind  sprung  up 
tird  of  good  behind  ; 

^r,"h*"h!^"'"^;  The  albatross  did  follow, 

eth  the  ship  as  it  ' 

returned  north-     And  cvcry  day,  for  food  or  play, 
ZVoZlV:'  Came  to  the  mariner's  hollo  ! 


In  mist  or  cloud,  on  man  or  shroud, 
It  peich'd  for  vespers  nine : 
Whiles  all  the  night,  through  fog- 
smoke  white, 
Gliramer'd  the  white  moonshine. 

"  God  save  thee,  ancient  mariner !       The  ancient  miri- 
From  the  fiends  that  plague  thee  thus !  ^"leth'thT'SSi 
Why  look'st   thou  so?"  — With  my  bird  of  goo* 
cross-bow  "'"''" 

I  shot  the  ALBATROSS. 

PART    II. 

The  sun  now  rose  upon  the  right: 
Out  of  the  sea  came  he, 
Still  hid  in  mist,  and  on  the  left 
Went  down  into  the  sea. 

And  the  goc/  ?outh  wind  still  blew 

behind, 
But  no  sweet  bird  did  follow. 
Nor  any  day  for  food  or  play 
Came  to  the  mariner's  hollo  ! 

And  I  had  done  an  hellish  thing.  Hi*  shipmates  cry 

And  it  would  work  'em  wo  :  anL?nrmariner, 

For  all  averr'd,  I  had  kill'd  the  bird    for  killing  the  bird 
That  made  the  breeze  to  blow.  "  ^° 

Ah  wretch !  said  they,  the  bird  to  slay, 
That  made  the  breeze  to  blow  ! 

Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  own  head,  But  when  the  fog 

_,         -      .  .   ^  cleared  off,  thef 

The  glorious  sun  Upnst:  ju,,ify  the  same, 

Then  all  averr'd,  I  had  kill'd  the  bird  and  «hu.  make 
That  brought  the  fog  and  mist.  com"Jiicirin%h« 

'Twas  right,  said  they,  such  birds  to  crime. 

slay 
That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. 

The  fair  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  The  fair  breeie 

continues ;  the 
ship  enters  the 
Pacific  Ocean,  and 
sails      northward 
even  till  it  reach 
es  the  line. 


flew, 
The  furrow  folio w'd  free  ; 
We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 
Into  that  silent  sea. 


Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt  The  ship  hath 

'Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be  ; 
And  we  did  speak  only  to  break 
The  silence  of  the  sea ! 

All  in  a  hot  and  copper  sky. 
The  bloody  sun,  at  noon, 
Right  up  above  the  mast  did  stand. 
No  bigger  than  the  moon. 

Day  after  day,  day  after  day. 
We  stuck,  nor  breath  nor  motion  ; 
As  idle  as  a  painted  ship 
Upon  a  painted  ocean. 


Water,  water,  everywhere. 
And  all  the  boards  did  shrink : 
Water,  water,  everywhere. 
Nor  any  drop  to  drink. 

The  very  deep  did  rot  $  0  Christ ! 
That  ever  this  should  be  ! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  legs 
Upon  the  slimy  sea. 


And  the  albatmt 
begins  to  be 
avenged. 


558 


COLERIDGE. 


About,  about,  in  reel  and  rout 
The  death-fires  danced  at  night ; 
The  water,  like  a  witch's  oils, 
Burnt  green,  and  blue,  and  white. 

A  spirit  had  foi-  And  some  in  dreams  assured  were 
STh^^SieTn!  f^f  the  spirit  that  plagued  us  so  ; 
habitants  of  this  Nine  fathom  deep  he  had  follow'd  us 

planet  -neither     p  ^j^     j   ^     f  j^j^t  j^^d  snOW. 

departed  souls 

nor  angels ;    concerning  whom  the  learned  Jew,  Josephus,  and  the 

Platonic  Constantinopolitan,  Michael  Psellus,  may  be  consulted.    They 

are  very  numerous,  and  there  is  no  climate  or  element  without  one  or 

mor;. 

And    every    tongue,   through    utter 

drought. 
Was  withered  at  the  root ; 
We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 


The  shipmates, in 
their  sore  distress 
would  fain  throw 
the  whole  guilt  on 
the  ancient  mari- 
ner;— in  sign 
whereof  they 
nang  the  dead 
sea-bird  round  hii 
neck. 


The  ancient  ma> 
riner  beholdeth  a 
tign  in   the  ele- 


Ah  I  well-a-day !  what  evil  looks 
Had  I  from  old  and  young  ! 
Instead  of  the  cross,  the  albatross 
^bout  my  neck  was  hung. 

PART    III. 

There  pass'd  a  weary  time.    Each 

throat 
Was  parch'd,  and  glazed  each  eye. 
A  weary  time  I  a  weary  time  ! 
How  glazed  each  weary  ej^e, 
When  looking  westward,  I  beheld 
A  something  in  the  sky. 

At  first  it  seem'd  a  little  speck 
And  then  it  seem'd  a  mist ; 
It  moved  and  moved,  and  took  at  last 
A  certain  shape,  I  wist. 

A  speck,  a  mist,  a  shape,  I  wist ! 
And  it  still  near'd  and  near'd: 
As  if  it  dodged  a  water-sprite, 
It  plunged  and  tack'd  and  veer'd. 


At  its  nearer  ap-  With   throats  Unslaked,  with  black 

proach,   it  seem-  ,.        v    u^ 

eth  him  to  be  a  "P^  Oakeo, 

ship;  and  at  a  We  could  uor  laugh  nor  wail; 
ftethr°speeoh  Through  utter  drought  all  dumb  we 

from  the  bonds  of  stood  ; 

thjnu  J  ijjj.  j^y.  j^j.j^^  J  suck'd  the  blood, 

And  cried,  A  sail !  a  sail ! 

With  thjpats   unslaked,  with  black 

lips  baked. 
Agape  they  heard  me  call ; 
A  flash  of  joy.      Gramcrcy  !  they  for  joy  did  griu. 

And  all  at  once  their  breath  drew  in, 
As  they  were  drinking  all. 

And  horror  foi-  See !   See  !    (I  cried,)  she  tacks  no 

lows;forcanitbe  mnrP  ' 

a  ship,  that  comes  moie  . 

onward   witho«t  Hither  to  work  US  weal ; 
wind  or  tide  ?       Without  a  breeze,  without  a  tide, 
She  steadies  with  upright  keel ! 

The  western  wave  was  all  a  flaiue, 
The  day  was  wellnigh  done, 
Almcct  upon  the  western  wave 
r*«sted  the  broad  bright  sun ; 


When  that  strange  shape  drove  sud- 
denly 
Betwixt  us  and  the  sun. 

And  straight  the  sun  was  fleck'd  with  it  seemeth   Vm 

,  but  the  skeletoa 

tars,  of  a. hip. 

(Heaven's  mother  send  us  grace  !) 

As   if  through  a  dungeon-grate   he 
peer'd 

With  uroad  and  burning  face. 

Alas !  (thought  I,  apd  my  heart  be<tt 

loud,) 
How  fast  she  nears  and  n^ars  ! 
Are  those  her  sails  that  glance  in  the 

sun, 
Like  restless  gossamers  ? 


And  its  ribs  ar* 
seen  as  bars  on 
the  face  of  the 
setting  eun. 


lie  spectre- 
woman  and  her 
death-mate,  and 
no  other  on  board 
the  skeleton-ship. 
Like  vessel,  like 
crew  ! 


Death   and  Life 
in-Death  have 
diced  for  the 
ship's   crew,  and 
she,  the  latter, 
winneth  the   an- 
cient mariner. 

No  twilight 
within  the  courts 
of  the  sun. 


Are  those  her  ribs  through  which  the 

sun 
Did  peer,  as  through  a  grate  ; 
And  is  that  woman  all  her  crew  ? 
Is  that  a  Death,  and  are  there  two  ? 
Is  Death  that  woman's  mate  ? 

Her  lips  were  red,  her  looks  were 

free. 
Her  locks  were  yellow  as  gold : 
Her  skin  was  as  white  as  leprosy, 
The  Night-Mare  Life-in-Death  was 

she. 
Who  thicks  man's  blood  with  cold. 

The  naked  hulk  alongside  came. 
And  the  twain  were  casting  dice ; 
"  The  game  is  done  !   I've  won,  I've 

won !" 
Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

The  sun's  rim  dips ;  the  stars  rush 

out: 
At  one  stride  comes  the  dark ; 
With  far-heard  whisper,  o'er  the  sea 
Off  shot  the  spectre-bark. 


We  listen'd  and  look'd  sideways  up  !  At  the  nsmy  e* 

„  ,  ,  ,  ,  the  moon, 

Fear  at  my  heart,  as  at  a  cup. 

My  life-blood  seem'd  to  sip  ! 

The  stars  were  dim,  and  thick  the 

night. 
The  steersman's   face  by  his   lamp 

gleam'd  white ; 
From  the  sails  the  dew  did  drip- 
Till  clomb  above  the  eastern  bar 
The  horned  moon,  with  one  bright 

star 
Within  the  nether  tip. 

One  after  one,  bj-  the   star-dogg'd  One  after  an- 

other 

moon. 
Too  quick  for  groan  or  sigh. 
Each  turn'd  his  face  with  a  ghastly 

pang, 
And  cursed  me  with  his  eye. 


Four  times  fifty  living  men, 
(And  I  heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan,) 
With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump, 
They  dropp'd  down  one  by  one. 


His  shipmate! 
drop  down  dead 


THE    ANCIENT    MARINER. 


559 


%\it Liftin-Death  The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly, — 

berini  her  work   ^ni  a    j  x     i.t  i 

ca    the    .ncient   They  fled  tO  bllSS  OF  WO  ! 

mariner.  And  every  soul,  it  pass'd  me  by 

LiJce  the  whizz  of  my  cross-bow  ! 


The  wedding.      «  I  FEAR  thec,  ancient  mariner ! 
r;pt[riruiS  I  f^ar  thy  skinny  hand !  [brown, 

to  him;  And   thou  art  long,  and   lank,  and 

As  is  the  ribb'd  sea-sand.* 

"  I  fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye, 

And  thy  skinny  hand  so  brown." — 

3ut  the  ancient  Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou   wedding- 
manner  assureth  .  , 
him  of  his  bodily                   gnestl 

life,  and  proceed-  This  body  dropt  not  dowD. 

eth  to  relate  his 

m  e  penance,  ^j^j^g^  alone,  all,  all  alone. 
Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea  ! 
And  never  a  saint  took  pity  on 
My  soul  in  agony. 

He  despiseth  the  The  many  men,  so  beautiful ! 

cr^ture.   of   the   ^^^^  ^^^^  ^^^  ^^^^  ^.^  j.^  . 

And  a  thousand  thousand  slimy  things 

Lived  on  ;  and  so  did  I. 
And  envieth  that  I  look'd  upon  the  rotting  sea, 
S7.0  mli;t  And  drew  my  eyes  away; 
dead.  1  look'd  upon  the  rotting  deck, 

And  there  the  dead  men  lay. 

I  look'd  to  heaven,  and  tried  to  pray ; 
But  or  ever  a  prayer  had  gush'd, 
A  wicked  whisper  came,  and  made 
My  heart  as  dry  as  dust. 

I  closed  my  lids,  and  kept  them  close, 

And  the  balls  like  pulses  beat ; 

For  the  sky  and  the  sea,  and  the  sea 

and  the  sky, 
Lay  like  a  load  on  my  weary  ej'e 
And  the  dead  were  at  my  feet. 

But  the  corse  liT.  The  cold  swcat  melted  from  their 

eth  for  him  in  the  limh*! 

eye  of  the  dead  UntlDS, 

men.  Nor  rot  nor  reek  did  they :  Lme 

The  look  with  which  they  look'd  on 
Had  never  pass'd  away. 
An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  hell 
A  spirit  from  on  high  ; 
But  0  !  more  horrible  than  that 
Is  a  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye  ! 
Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  that 

curse. 
And  yet  I  could  not  die. 

In  his  loneiinesa  The  moving  moon  Went  up  the  sky, 
^^a'm'etfrai:  And  nowhcre  did  abide: 
the  journeying      Softly  she  was  going  up, 

moon  and  the         ^^       g^^j.  ^j.  ^^  beside— 
stars  that  still  so- 
journ, yet  still   move  onward  ;  and  everywhere  the  blue  sky  belongs 
to  thorn,  and  is  their  appointed  rest,  and  their  native  country  and  their 
own  natural  homes,  which  they  enter  unannounced,  as  lords  that  are 
certainly  expected,  and  yet  there  is  a  silent  joy  at  their  arrival. 


*  For  the  last  two  lines  of  this  stanza,  I  am  indebted  to 
Mr.  Wordsworth.  It  was  on  a  delightful  walk  from  Nether 
Stowey  to  Dulverton,  with  him  and  his  sister,  in  the 
autumn  of  1797  that  this  poem  was  planned,  and  in  part 
composed. 


Her  beams  bemock'd  the  sultry  main. 
Like  April  hoar-frost  spread ; 
But  where  the  ship's  huge  shadow  lay. 
The  charmed  water  burnt  alway 
A  still  and  awful  red. 

Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship  Bytheiigi.tofth* 

I  watch'd  the  water-snakes  ;  Ttr  God's'^crll* 

They  moved    in   tracks   of   shining  tures  of  the  great 

white,  '*^'"- 

And  when  they  rear'd,  the  elfish  light 
Fell  off  ia  hoary  flakes. 

Within  the  shadow  of  the  ship 

I  watch'd  their  rich  attire ; 

Blue,  glossy  green,  and  velvet  black. 

They  coil'd  and  swam ;    and  every 

track 
Was  a  flash  of  golden  fire. 


Their  beauty  i 

their  bappioe* 


He  blessefh  t 
in  his  heart. 


The  spell  begins 
to  break. 


O  happy  living  things  !  no  tongue 

Their  beauty  might  declare ; 

A  sprihg  of   love  gush'd  from  my 

heart, 
And  I  bless'd  them  unaware : 
Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pit}'  on  me. 
And  I  bless'd  them  unaware. 

The  selfsame  moment  I  could  pray ; 
And  from  my  neck  so  free 
The  albatross  fell  off,  and  sank 
Like  lead  into  the  sea. 

PART   V. 

0  SLEEP  !  it  is  a  gentle  thing. 
Beloved  from  pole  to  pole  ! 
To  Mary  queen  the  praise  be  given  ! 
She  sent  the  gentle  sleep  from  heaven. 
That  slid  into  my  soul. 


The  silly  buckets  on  the  deck.  By  grace  of  the 

That  had  so  long  remain'd,  LlnT'mI;i'n« 

I  dreamt  that  they  were  fill'd  with  •>  refreshed  with 

dew;  '^'^ 
And  when  I  awoke  it  rain'd. 

My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold. 
My  garments  all  were  dank ; 
Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my  dreams, 
And  still  my  body  drank. 

I  moved,  and  could  not  feel  my  limbs : 
I  was  so  light — almost 
I  thought  that  I  had  died  in  sleep, 
And  was  a  blessed  ghost. 

And  soon  I  heard  a  roaring  wind :        He  heareth 

T,    <-j        ,  sounds  and  (e«tk 

It  did  not  come  anear ;  .,^„g,  .j^^ts  and 

But  with  its  sound  it  shook  the  sails,  commotions  in 

the  sky  and    tb« 
element. 


That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 


The  upper  air  burst  into  life  ! 
And  a  hundred  fire-flags  sheen. 
To  and  fro  they  were  hurried  about ! 
And  to  and  fro,  and  in  and  out. 
The  wan  stars  danced  between. 

And  the  coming  wind  did  roar  more 

loud. 
And  the  sails  did  sigh  like  sedge ; 


560 


COLERIDGE. 


And  the  rain  pour'd  down  from  one 

black  cloud ; 
The  moon  was  at  its  edge. 

,    The  thick  black  cloud  was  cleft,  and 
still 
The  moon  was  at  its  side : 
Like  waters  shot  from  some  high  crag, 
The  lightning  fell  with  never  a  jag, 
A  river  steep  and  wide. 

The  bodies  of  the  The  loud  wind   never  reach'd  the 

ship's    crew  are  ,  . 

inspired,  and  the  Ship, 

thin  moves  on.     Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on  ! 

Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  inoon 
The  dead  men  gave  a  groan. 

They  groan'd,  they  stirr'd,  they  all 

uprose. 
Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes ; 
It  had  been  strange,  e'en  in  a  dream, 
To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 

The  helmsman  steer'd,  the  ship  moved 

on; 
Yet  never  a  breeze  up  blew  ; 
The  mariners  all  'gan  work  the  ropes. 
Where  they  were  wont  to  do ; 
They  raised  their  limbs  like  lifeless 

tools — 
We  were  a  ghastly  crew 


It  ceased  ;  yet  still  the  sails  made  on 

A  pleasant  noise  till  noon, 

A  noise  like  of  a  hidden  brook 

In  the  leafy  month  of  June, 

That  to  the  sleeping  woods  all  night 

Singeth  a  quiet  tune. 

Till  noon  we  quietly  sailec  <sn, 
Yet  never  a  breeze  did  breathe : 
Slowly  and  smoothly  went  the  ship. 
Moved  onward  from  beneath. 

Under  the  keel  nine  fathom  deep. 
From  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 
The  spirit  siid:  and  it  was  he 
That  made  the  ship  to  go. 
The  sails  at  noon  left  off  their  tune. 
And  the  ship  stood  still  also. 

The  sun,  right  up  above  the  mast. 
Had  fix'd  her  to  the  ocean : 
But  in  a  minute  she  'gan  to  stir. 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion — 
Backwards    and    forwards    half   her 

length 
With  a  short  uneasy  motion. 


The  lonesoRM 
spirit  from  tba 
south  pole  Carrie 
on  the  ship  as  fai 
as  the  line,  ia 
obedience  to  the 
angelic  troop,  but 
still  requireth 
vengeance. 


The  body  of  my  brother's  son 
Stood  by  me,  knee  to  knee ; 
The  body  and  I  pull'd  at  one  rope. 
But  he  said  naught  to  me. 

But  not  by  the  « I  fear  thee,  ancient  mariner!" 

souls  of  the  men,   „  ,        ,,  ,,. 

nor  by  daemons  of  Be  Calm,  thou  weddmg-guost : 

earth  or  middle  'Twas  not  those  souls  that  fled  in 

air,  but  by  a 

blessed   troop   of  _    V^^^) 

angelic  spirits.     Which  to  their  corses  came  again, 

sent  down  by  the   t>    ..       x  ^        •   •  ^     ,  , 

invocation  of  the   ^"^  ^  ^^OOp  of  Spirits  blest: 
(uardian  saint. 

For  when  it  dawn'd — they  dropp'd 

their  arms. 
And  cluster'd  round  the  mast ; 
Sweet  sounds  rose   slowly  through 

their  mouths, 
And  from  their  bodies  pass'd. 

Around,   around,    flew    each    sweet 

sound. 
Then  darted  to  the  sun ; 
Slowly  the  sounds  came  back  again, 
.    Now  mix'd,  now  one  by  one. 

Sometimes,  a-drooping  from  the  sky, 
I  heard  the  skylark  sing ; 
Sometimes  all  little  birds  that  are, 
How  they  seem'd  to  fill  the  sea  and 

air,  i 

With  their  sweet  jargoning ! 

And  now  'twas  like  all  instruments, 
Now  like  a  lonely  flute ; 
And  now  it  is  an  angel's  song, 
That  makes  the  heavens  be  mute. 


Then  like  a  pawing  horse  let  go. 
She  made  a  sudden  bound: 
It  flung  the  blood  into  my  head. 
And  I  fell  down  in  a  swound. 

How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay, 
I  have  not  to  declare  ; 
But  ere  my  living  life  return 'd, 
I  heard  and  in  my  soul  discern 'd 
Two  VOICES  in  the  air. 

"  Is  it  he  ?"  quoth  one,  "  is  this  the 

man  ? 
By  Him  who  died  on  cross. 
With  his  cruel  bow  he  laid  full  low 
The  harmless  albatross. 

"  The  spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 
In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow. 
He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  the  man 
Who  shot  him  with  his  bow." 

The  other  was  a  softer  voice. 

As  soft  as  honey-dew  : 

Quoth  he,  "The  man  hath  penance 

done. 
And  penance  more  will  do." 

PART   VI. 

FIRST   VOICE. 

But  tell  me,  tell  me  !  speak  again, 
Thy  soft  response  renewing — 
What  makes  that  ship  drive  on  so  fast  ? 
What  is  the  ocean  doing  ? 

SECOND   VOICE. 

Still  as  a  slave  before  his  lord. 
The  OCEAN  hath  no  blast ; 
His  great  bright  eye  most  silently 
Up  to  the  moon  is  cast — 


The  polar  spirits 
felbw     daemons, 
the   invisible  in. 
habitants    of  the 
element,  take  part 
in  his  wrong ; 
and  two  of  them 
relate,  one  to  the 
other,   that    pen- 
ance long  and 
heavy  for  the  an. 
cient  mariner 
hath  been  accord- 
ed   to    the   pola 
spirit,    who    r»- 
turneth  south- 
ward. 


THE    ANCIENT    MARINER. 


561 


If  he  may  know  which  way  to  go  ; 
For  she  guides  hira  smooth  or  grim. 
See,  brother,  see  !  how  graciously 
She  looketh  down  on  him. 


FIRST  VOICE. 

The  iniriner  hath  But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast, 

been  cast   into  a   Tir-iL       i  •    j  ■> 

trance;  for  the  Without  Or  wave  or  wind  ? 

angslic  power 
eauseth  the  vessel 
to    drive    north- 


SECOND  VOICE. 


ward  faster  than  -pjjg  ^ir  is  cut  away  before, 

»i«inan  life  could  ,  ,.,,.•. 

tniure.  And  closes  from  behind. 

Fly,  brother,  fly !   more  high,  more 

high ! 
Or  we  shall  be  belated  : 
For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go. 
When  the  mariner's  trance  is  abated. 

The  supematTirai  I  woke,  and  we  Were  sailing  on 

rdtthe'.^r;  As  in  a  gentle  weather: 

awakes,  and  his  'Twas  night,  Calm  night,  the  moon 

Prance     begin.  .^as  high  ; 

The  dead  men  stood  together. 

All  stood  together  on  the  deck 
For  a  charnel-dungeon  fitter: 
All  fix'd  on  me  their  stony  ej-es. 
That  in  the  moon  did  glitter. 

The  pang,  the  curse,  with  which  they 

died. 
Had  never  pass'd  away : 
I  could  not  draw  my  eyes  from  theirs, 
Nor  turn  them  up  to  pray. 


Tfce  cur»«  is  final-  And  now  the  spell  was  snapt:  once 

ly  expiated.  ^^^.^ 

I  view'd  the  ocean  green. 

And  look'd  far  forth,  yet  little  saw 

Of  what  had  else  been  seen — 

Like  one,  that  on  a  lonesome  road 

Doth  walk  in  fear  and  dread. 

And  having  once  turned  round  walks 

on. 
And  turns  no  more  his  head ; 
Because  he  knows  a  frightful  fiend 
Doth  close  behind  him  tread. 

But  soon  there  breathed  a  wind  on  me. 
Nor  sound  nor  motion  made : 
Its  path  was  not  upon  the  sea, 
In  ripple  or  in  shade. 

It  raised  my  hair,  it  fann'd  my  cheek 
Like  a  meadow  gale  of  spring- 
It  mingled  strangely  with  my  fears 
Yet  it  felt  like  a  w^elcoming. 

Swiftly,  swiftly  flew  the  ship, 
Yet  she  sail'd  softl}',  too  : 
Sweetly,  sweetly  blew  the  breeze — 
On  me  alone  it  blew. 

And  the  ancient  O  !  dream  of  joy  !  is  this,  indeed, 
rSrlrnaS^''  The  light-house  top  I  see  ? 
tnatTj.  Is  this  the  hill  ?  is  this  the  kirk  ? 

Is  this  mv  own  countree  ? 
Vol,  III.— 36 


We  drifted  o'er  the  harbour  bar, 
And  I  with  sobs  did  pray- 
0  let  me  be  awake,  my  God  ! 
Or  let  me  sleep  alway. 

The  harbour  bay  was  clear  as  glass, 
So  smoothly  it  was  strewn  ! 
And  on  the  bay  the  moonlight  lay. 
And  the  shadow  of  the  moon. 

The  rock  shone  bright,  the  kirk  no 

less 
That  stands  above  the  rock : 
The  moonlight  steep'd  in  silentness, 
The  steady  weathercock. 

And  the  bay  was  white  with  silent 

light. 
Till  rising  from  the  same.  The  angelic  ipi 

Full  many  shapes  that  shadows  were,  a^d^^^j*" 
In  crimson  colours  came. 


And  appear  in 
their  own  forma 
of  light. 


A  little  distance  from  the  prow 
Those  crimson  shadows  were : 
I  turn'd  my  eyes  upon  the  deck — 
0,  Christ !  what  saw  I  there  ! 

Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat ; 
And,  by  the  holy  rood  ! 
A  man  all  light,  a  seraph-man. 
On  every  corse  there  stood. 

This   seraph  band,  each  waved  his 

hand: 
It  was  a  heavenly  sight ! 
They  stood  as  signals  to  the  land, 
Each  one  a  lovely  light ; 

This   seraph   band,  each  waved  his 

hand, 
No  voice  did  they  impart — 
No  voice ;  but  0  !  the  silence  sank 
Like  music  on  my  heart. 

But  soon  I  heard  the  dash  of  oars, 
I  heard  the  pilot's  cheer ; 
My  head  was  turn'd  perforce  away, 
And  I  saw  a  boat  appear. 

The  pilot  and  the  pilot's  boy, 
I  heard  them  coming  fast : 
Dear  Lord  in  heaven  !  it  was  a  joy 
The  dead  men  could  not  blast. 

I  saw  a  third — I  heard  his  voice : 

It  is  the  hermit  good  ! 

He  singeth  loud  his  godly  hymns 

That  he  makes  in  the  wood. 

He'll  shrive  my  soul,  he'll  wash  away 

The  albatross's  blood. 

PART  VII. 


This  hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood    The  bnmlt  ei 

Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea. 

How  loudly  his  sweet  voice  he  rears  .' 

He  loves  to  talk  with  mariners 

That  come  from  a  far  countree. 


563 


COLERIDGE. 


He  kneels  at  morn,  and  noon,  and 

eve — 
He  hath  a  cushion  plump : 
It  is  the  moss  that  wholly  hides 
The  rotted  old  oak  stump. 

'        The  skiff-boat  near'd :  I  heard  them 

talk, 
"  Why  this  is  strange,  I  trow  ! 
Where  are  those  lights,  so  many  and 

fair, 
That  signal  made  but  now  ?" 

Approacheth  the  «  Strange,  by  my  faith !"  the  hermit 

•hip  with  wonder.  ^^^^ 

"  And  they  answer  not  our  cheer  ! 
The  planks  look'd  warp'd !   and  see 

those  sails. 
How  thin  they  are  and  sere  ! 
I  never  saw  aught  like  to  them, 
Unless  perchance  it  were 

"  Brown  skeletons  of  leaves  that  lag 
M}'  forest  brook  along; 
When  the  ivy-tod  is  heavy  with  snow, 
And  the  owlet  whoops  to  the  wolf 

below, 
That  eats  the  she-wolf's  young." 

"  Dear  Lord !  it  hath  a  fiendish  look — 
(The  pilot  made  reply,) 
lama-fear'd." — "  Push  on,  push  on  !" 
Said  the  hermit  cheerily. 

The  boat  came  closer  to  the  ship, 
But  I  nor  spake  nor  stirr'd  ; 
The  boat  came  close  beneath  the  ship. 
And  straight  a  sound  was  heard. 

The  ship  sudden-  Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on, 
Ir  .inketh.  gjjjj  j^^^^^  ^^^  ^^^^  ^^^^^ . 

It  reach'd  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay ; 
The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 

The  incient  ma-  Stunn'd  by  that  loud  and  dreadful 

finer  ii  caved  in  j, 

sound. 


"  Ha  !  ha  !"  quoth  he,  "  full  plain  I 

see, 
The  devil  knows  how  to  row." 

And  now,  all  in  my  own  countree. 

I  stood  on  the  firm  land  ! 

The  hermit  stepp'd  forth  from  the 

boat, 
And  scarcely  he  could  stand. 

t«  0  shrive  me,  shrive  me,  holy  man  !"  The  ancient  mt 

_,,       ■  ..  <j  1  •     T  rinerearnestlyeu 

The  hermit  cross'd  his  brow.  t^eateth  the  her 

"  Say  quick,"  quoth  he,  "  I  bid  thee  mit  to  shrive  him: 

and  the  penanct 
say —  of    life   fall*  on 

What  manner  of  man  art  thou  ?"  him 

Forthwith  this  frame  of  mine  was 

wrench'd 
With  a  woful  agony, 
Which  forced  me  to  begin  n!y  tale ; 
And  then  it  left  me  free. 


the  pilot'*  boat. 


Which  sky  and  ocean  smote, 

Like  one  that  hath  been  seven  days 

drown'd, 
My  body  lay  afloat ; 
But  swift  as  dreams,  myself  I  found 
Within  the  pilot's  boat. 

Upon  the  whirl,  where  sank  the  ship. 
The  boat  spun  round  and  round ; 
And  all  was  still,  save  that  the  hill 
Was  telling  of  the  sound. 

I  moved  my  lips — the  pilot  shriek'd. 
And  fell  down  in  a  fit ; 
The  holy  hermit  raised  his  eyes, 
And  pray'd  where  he  did  sit. 

I  took  the  oars :  the  pilot's  boy, 

Who  now  doth  crazy  go, 

Laugh'd  loud  and  long,  and  all  the 

while 
His  eyes  went  to  and  fro, 


Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour, 
That  agony  returns  : 
And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told. 
This  heart  within  me  burns. 

I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land : 
I  have  strange  power  of  speech  ; 
That  moment  that  his  face  I  see, 
I  know  the  man  that  must  hear  me : 
To  him  my  tale  I  teach. 

What  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that 

door ! 
The  wedding-guests  are  there 
But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 
And  bridemaids  singing  are : 
And  hark  !  the  little  vesper-bell. 
Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer. 

O  wedding-guest !  this  soul  hath  been 
Alone  on  a  wide,  wide  sea^ 
So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  himself 
Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

0  sweeter  than  the  marriage-feast, 
'Tis  sweeter  far  to  me, 
To  walk  together  to  the  kirk. 
With  a  goodly  company  I — 

To  walk  together  to  the  kirk. 
And  all  together  pray, 
While  each  to  his  great  Father  bends. 
Old  men  and  babes,  and  loving  friends. 
And  youths  and  maidens  gay ! 

FareweU,  farewell !  but  this  I  tell 
To  thee,  thou  wedding-guest ! 
He  prayeth  well,  who  loveth  well 
Both  man,  and  bird,  and  beast. 

He  prayeth  best,  who  loveth  best 
All  things,  both  great  and  small ; 
For  the  dear  God  who  loveth  us, 
He  made  and  loveth  all. 

The  mariner,  whose  eye  is  bright, 
Whose  beard  with  age  is  hoar. 
Is  gone  :  and  now  the  wedding-guest 
Turn'd  from  the  bridegroom's  door. 


And  ever  and 
anon  throughout 
his  future  life  an 
agony  constrain- 
eth  him  to  travel 
from  land  to  land. 


And  to  teach,  oy 
his  own  example, 
lore  and  rever- 
ence to  all  thin?j 
that  God  made 
and  loveth. 


CHRISTABEL. 


563 


He  went  like  one  that  hath  been 

stunn'd, 
And  is  of  sense  forlorn, 
A  sadder  and  a  wiser  man 
lie  rose  the  morrow  morn. 


CHRISTABEL. 


PREFACE.* 


The  first  part  of  the  following  poem  was  written 
in  the  year  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  ninety- 
seven,  at  Stowey  in  the  county  of  Somerset.  The 
second  part,  after  my  return  from  Germany,  in  the 
year  one  thousand  eight  hundred,  at  Keswick,  Cum- 
berland. Since  the  latter  date,  my  poetic  powers 
have  been,  till  very  lately,  in  a  state  of  suspended 
animation.  But  as,  in  my  very  first  conception  of 
the  tale,  I  had  the  whole  present  to  my  mind,  with 
the  wholeness,  no  less  than  with  the  loveliness  of 
a  vision,  I  trust  that  I  shall  yet  be  able  to  embody 
in  verse  the  three  parts  yet  to  come. 

It  is  probable,  that  if  the  poem  had  been  finished 
at  either  of  the  former  periods,  or  if  even  the  first 
and  second  part  had  been  published  in  the  year 
1800,  the  impression  of  its  originality  would  have 
been  much  greater  than  I  dare  at  present  expect. 
But  for  this,  I  have  only  my  own  indolence  to 
blame.  The  dates  are  mentioned  for  the  exclusive 
purpose  of  precluding  charges  of  plagiarism  or  ser- 
vile imitation  from  myself.  For  there  is  amongst 
us  a  set  of  critics,  who  seem  to  hold,  that  every 
possible  thought  and  image  is  traditional  5  who 
have  no  notion  that  there  are  such  things  as  fountains 
in  the  world,  small  as  well  as  great;  and  who 
w^ould,  therefore,  charitably  derive  every  rill  they 
behold  flowing,  from  a  perforation  made  in  some 
other  man's  tank.  I  am  confident,  however,  that 
as  far  as  the  present  poem  is  concerned,  the  cele- 
brated poets  whose  writings  I  might  be  suspected 
of  having  imitated,  either  in  particular  passages,  or 
in  the  tone  and  the  spirit  of  the  whole,  would  be 
among  the  first  to  vindicate  me  from  the  charge, 
and  who,  on  any  striking  coincidence,  would  per- 
mit me  to  address  them  in  this  doggerel  version  of 
two  monkish  Latin  hexameters. 

'Tis  mine,  and  it  is  likewise  yours ; 
But  an'  if  this  will  not  do, 
Let  it  be  mine,  good  friend  !  for  I 
Am  the  poorer  of  the  two. 

I  have  only  to  add,  that  the  metre  of  the  Christa- 
bel  is  not,  properly  speaking,  irregular,  though  it 
may  seem  so  from  its  being  founded  on  a  new  prin- 
ciple :  namely,  that  of  counting  in  each  line  the 
accents,  not  the  syllables.  Though  the  latter  may 
vary  from  seven  to  twelve,  yet  in  each  line  the 
accents  will  be  found  to  be  only  four.  Neverthe- 
less, this  occasional  variation  in  number  of  sylla- 
•jles  is  not  introduced  wantonly,  or  for  the  mere 
ends  of  convenience,  but  in  correspondence  with 
some  transition,  in  the  nature  of  the  imagery  or 
passion. 


To  the  edition  of  1816. 


PART  I. 

'Tis  the  middle  of  night  by  the  castle  clock, 
And  the  owls  have  awakeri'd  the  crowing  cock 

Tu-whit ! Tu-whoo  ! 

And  hark,  again  !  the  crowing  cock. 
How  drowsily  it  crew. 

Sir  Leoline,  the  baron  rich, 

Hath  a  toothless  mastiff,  which 

From  her  kennel  beneath  the  rock 

Maketh  answer  to  the  clock, 

Four  for  the  quarters,  and  twelve  for  the  hour  | 

Ever  and  aye,  by  shine  and  shower. 

Sixteen  short  howls,  not  over-loud  ; 

Some  say,  she  f-ees  my  lady's  shroud.  , 

Is  the  night  i  hi  !y  and  dark  ? 
The  night  is  chill}',  but  not  dark. 
The  thin  gray  cloud  is  spread  on  high. 
It  covers  but  not  hides  the  sky. 
The  moon  is  behind,  and  at  the  full ; 
And  yet  she  looks  both  small  and  dull. 
The  night  is  chill,  the  cloud  is  gray: 
'Tis  a  month  before  the  month  of  May, 
And  the  spring  comes  slowly  up  this  way. 

The  lovely  lady,  Christabel, 

Whom  her  father  loves  so  well. 

What  makes  her  in  the  wood  so  late, 

A  furlong  from  the  castle  gate  r 

She  had  dreams  all  yesternight 

Of  her  own  betrothed  knight ; 

And  she  in  the  midnight  wood  will  pray 

For  the  weal  of  her  lover  that's  far  away 

She  stole  along,  she  nothing  spoke. 

The  sighs  she  heaved  were  soft  and  low. 

And  naught  was  green  upon  the  oak. 

But  moss  and  rarest  misletoe : 

She  kneels  beneath  the  huge  oak  tree, 

And  in  silence  prayeth  she. 

The  lady  sprang  up  suddenly. 

The  lovely  lady,  Christabel ! 

It  moan'd  a^  near  as  near  could  be. 

But  what  it  is  she  cannot  tell. — 

On  the  other  side  it  seems  to  be. 

Of  the  huge,  broad-breasted,  old  oak  tree 

The  night  is  chill ;  the  forest  bare ; 
Is  it  the  wind  that  moaneth  bleak  ? 
There  is  not  wind  enough  in  the  air 
To  move  away  the  ringlet  curl 
From  the  lovely  lady's  cheek- 
There  is  not  wind  enough  to  twirl 
The  one  red  leaf,  the  last  of  its  clan. 
That  dances  as  often  as  dance  it  can. 
Hanging  so  light,  and  hanging  so  high. 
On  the  topmost  twig  that  looks  up  at  the  sky 

Hush,  beating  heart  of  Christabel ! 
Jesu,  Maria,  shield  her  well ! 
She  folded  her  arms  beneath  her  cloak, 
And  stole  to  the  other  side  of  the  oak. 
What  sees  she  there  ? 

There  she  sees  a  damsel  bright, 
Drest  in  a  silken  robe  of  white. 


564 


COLERIDGE. 


That  shadowy  in  the  moonlight  shone : 
The  neck  that  made  that  white  robe  wan, 
Her  stately  aeck,  and  arms  were  bare ; 
Her  blue-vein'd  feet  unsandall'd  were, 
And  wildly  glitter'd  here  and  there 
The  gems  entangled  in  her  hair. 
I  guess,  'twas  frightful  there  to  see 
A  lady  so  richly  clad  as  she — 
Beautiful  exceedingly  ! 

Mary  mother,  save  me  now  ! 

(Said  Christabel,)  And  who  art  thou  ? 

The  lady  strange  made  answer  meet. 

And  her  voice  was  faint  and  sweet : — 

Have  pit}'  on  my  sore  distress, 

I  scarce  can  speak  for  weariness : 

Stretch  forth  thy  hand,  and  have  no  fear  ! 

Said  Christabel,  How  camest  thou  here  ? 

And  the  lady,  whose  voice  was  faint  and  sweet. 

Did  thus  pursue  her  answer  meet : — 

My  sire  is  of  a  noble  line. 
And  my  name  is  Geraldine ; 
'Five  warriors  seized  me  yestermorn. 
Me,  even  me,  a  maid  forlorn  : 
They  choked  my  cries  with  force  and  fright, 
And  tied  me  on  a  palfrey  white. 
The  palfrey  was  as  fleet  as  wind, 
And  they  rode  furiously  behind. 
They  spurr'd  amain,  their  steeds  were  white ; 
And  once  we  cross'd  the  shade  of  night. 
As  sure  as  Heaven  shall  rescue  me, 
I  have  no  thought  what  men  they  be ; 
Nor  do  I  know  how  long  it  is 
(For  I  have  lain  entranced  I  wis) 
Since  one,  the  tallest  of  the  five, 
Took  me  from  the  palfrey's  back, 
A  weary  woman,  scarce  alive. 
Some  mutter'd  words  his  comrades  spoke : 
He  placed  me  underneath  this  oak, 
He  swore  they  would  return  with  haste : 
Whither  they  went  I  cannot  tell — 
I  thought  I  heard,  some  minutes  past. 
Sounds  as  of  a  castle-bell. 
Stretch  forth  thy  hand,  (thus  ended  she,) 
And  help  a  wretched  maid  to  flee. 

Then  Christabel  stretch'd  forth  her  hand. 

And  comforted  fair  Geraldine  : 

O  well,  bright  dame  !  may  you  command 

The  sft  ?ice  of  Sir  Leoline  ; 

And  gladly  our  stout  chivalry 

Will  he  send  forth  and  friends  withal. 

To  guide  and  guard  you  safe  and  free 

Home  to  your  noble  father's  hall. 

She  rose ;  and  forth  with  steps  they  pass 'd 

That  strove  to  be,  and  were  not,  fast. 

Her  grawous  stars  the  lady  blest. 

And  thus  spake  on  sweet  Christabel  :— 

All  our  household  are  at  rest, 

The  hall  as  silent  as  the  cell ; 

Sir  Leoline  is  weak  in  health. 

And  may  not  well  awaken 'd  be. 

But  we  will  move  as  if  in  stealth  ; 

And  I  beseech  your  courtesy, 

This  nighty  to  share  your  couch  with  me. 


They  cross'd  the  moat,  and  Christabel 

Took  the  key  that  fitted  well ; 

A  little  door  she  open'd  straight, 

All  in  the  middle  of  the  gate  ; 

The  gate  that  was  iron'd  within  and  without, 

Where  an  army  in  battle  array  had  march'd  out 

The  lady  sank,  belike  through  pain. 

And  Christabel  with  might  and  main 

Lifted  her  up,  a  weary  weight. 

Over  the  threshold  of  the  gate  : 

Then  the  lady  rose  again, 

And  moved,  as  she  were  not  in  pain. 

So  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear. 

They  cross'd  the  court :  right  glad  they  were 

And  Christabel  devoutly  cried 

To  the  lady  by  her  side. 

Praise  we  the  Virgin  all  divine 

Who  hath  rescued  thee  from  thy  distress ! 

Alas,  alas  !  said  Geraldine, 

I  cannot  speak  for  weariness. 

So  free  from  danger,  free  from  fear, 

They  cross'd  the  court :  right  glad  they  were. 

Outside  her  kennel,  the  mastiff  old 
Lay  fast  asleep,  in  moonshine  cold. 
The  mastiff  old  did  not  awake. 
Yet  she  an  angry  moan  did  make  ! 
And  what  can  ail  the  mastifT  bitch  ? 
Never  till  now  she  utter'd  yell 
Beneath  the  eye  of  Christabel. 
Perhaps  it  is  the  owlet's  scritch ; 
For  what  can  ail  the  mastiff  bitch  ? 

They  pass'd  the  hall,  that  echoes  still. 

Pass  as  lightly  as  you  will  ! 

The  brands  were  flat,  the  brands  were  dying, 

Amid  their  own  white  ashes  lying : 

But  when  the  lady  pass'd,  there  came 

A  tongue  of  light,  a  fit  of  flame  ; 

And  Christabel  saw  the  lady's  eye. 

And  nothing  else  saw  she  thereby. 

Save  the  boss  of  the  shield  of  Sir  Leoline  tall, 

Which  hung  in  a  murky  old  niche  in  the  wall 

O  softly  tread  !  said  Christabel, 

My  father  seldom  sleepeth  well. 

Sweet  Christabel  her  feet  doth  bare ; 
And,  jealous  of  the  listening  air. 
They  steal  their  way  from  stair  to  stair; 
Now  in  glimmer,  and  now  in  gloom — 
And  now  they  pass  the  baron's  room. 
As  still  as  death  with  stifled  breath  ! 
And  now  have  reach'd  her  chamber-door ; 
And  now  doth  Geraldine  press  down 
The  rushes  of  the  chamber  floor. 

The  moon  shines  dim  in  the  open  air, 
And  not  a  moonbeam  enters  here. 
But  they  without  its  light  can  see 
The  chamber  carved  so  curiously, 
Carved  with  figures  strange  and  sweet, 
All  made  out  of  the  carver's  brain. 
For  a  lacjy's  chamber  meet: 
The  lamp  with  twofold  silver  chain 
Is  fasten 'd  to  an  angel's  feet. 


CHRISTABEL. 


565 


The  silver  lamp  burns  dead  and  dim  ; 

But  Christabel  the  lamp  will  trim. 

She  trimm'd  the  lamp,  and  made  it  bright, 

And  left  it  swinging  to  and  fro. 

While  Geraldine,  in  wretched  plight, 

Sank  down  upon  the  floor  below, 

0  weary  lady,  Geraldine, 

1  pray  you,  drink  this  cordial  wifie  ! 
It  is  a  wine  of  virtuous  powers ; 
My  mother  made  it  of  wild  flowers. 

And  will  your  mother  pity  me. 
Who  am  a  maiden  most  forlorn  ? 
Christabel  answer'd — Wo  is  me  ! 
She  died  the  hour  that  I  was  born. 
I  have  heard  the  gray-hair'd  friar  tell. 
How  on  her  death-bed  she  did  say, 
That  she  should  hear  the  castle-bell 
Strike  twelve  upon  my  wedding-day. 

0  mother  dear  !  that  thou  wert  here  ! 

1  would,  said  Geraldine,  she  were ! 

But  soon,  with  alter'd  voice  said  she — 
«  Off,  wandering  mother  !     Peak  and  pine  ! 
I  have  power  to  bid  thee  flee." 
Alas  !  what  ails  poor  Geraldine  ? 
Why  stares  she  with  unsettled  eye  ? 
Can  she  the  bodiless  dead  espy  ? 
And  why  with  hollow  voice  cries  she, 
"Off,  woman,  off!  this  hour  is  mine- 
Though  thou  her  guardian  spirit  be. 
Off,  woman,  off!  'tis  given  to  me." 

Then  Christabel  knelt  by  the  lady's  side. 
And  raised  to  heaven  her  eyes  so  blue — 
Alas  !  said  she,  this  ghastly  ride — 
Dear  lady !  it  hath  wilder'd  you  ! 
The  lady  wiped  her  moist  cold  brow, 
And  faintly  said,  "  'Tis  over  now  !" 

Again  the  wild-flower  wine  she  drank  ; 
Her  fair  large  eyes  'gan  glitter  bright. 
And  from  the  floor  whereon  she  sank, 
The  lofty  lady  stood  upright ; 
She  was  i>-)st  beautiful  to  see, 
Like  a  lac!/  of  a  far  countree. 

And  thus  the  lofty  lady  spake — 
All  they,  who  live  in  the  upper  sky. 
Do  love  you,  holy  Christabel  ! 
And  you  love  them,  and  for  their  sake 
And  for  the  good  which  me  befell, 
Even  I  in  my  degrees  will  try. 
Fair  maiden  !  to  requite  you  well. 
But  now  unrobe  yourself ;  for  I 
Must  pray,  ere  yet  in  bed  I  lie. 

Quoth  Christabel,  So  let  it  be  ! 
And  as  the  lady  bade,  did  she. 
Her  gentle  limbs  did  she  undress, 
And  lay  down  in  her  loveliness. 

But  through  her  brain  of  weal  and  wo 
So  many  thoughts  moved  to  and  fro, 
That  vain  it  were  her  lids  to  close  j 
So  halfway  from  the  bed  she  rose. 


And  on  her  elbow  did  recline 
To  look  at  the  Lady  Geraldine. 

Beneath  the  lamp  the  Lady  bow'd. 
And  slowly  roll'd  her  eyes  around  ; 
Then  drawing  in  her  breath  aloud, 
Like  one  that  shudder'd,  she  unbound 
The  cincture  from  beneath  her  breast : 
Her  silken  robe,  and  inner  vest, 
Dropt  to  her  feet,  and  full  in  view, 
Behold  !  her  bosom  and  half  her  side 
A  sight  to  dream  of,  not  to  tell ! 
0  shield  her  !  shield  sweet  Christabel. 

Yet  Geraldine  nor  speaks  nor  stirs'; 
Ah  !  what  a  stricken  look  was  hers  ! 
Deep  from  within  she  seems  halfway 
To  lift  some  weight  with  sick  assay. 
And  eyes  the  m.aid  and  seeks  delay; 
Then  suddenly  as  one  defied 
Collects  herself  in  scorn  and  pride. 
And  lay  down  by  the  maiden's  side  ! — 
And  in  her  arms  the  maid  she  took, 

Ah  well-a-day  ! 
And  with  low  voice  and  doleful  look 
These  words  did  say  : 
In  the  touch  of  this  bosom  there  worketh  a  spell 
Which  is  lord  of  thy  utterance,  Christabel ! 
Thou  knowest  to-night,  and  wilt  know  to-morrow 
This  mark  of  my  shame,  this  seal  of  my  sorrow ; 
But  vainly  thou  warrest. 

For  this  is  alone  in 
Thy  power  to  declare. 

That  in  the  dim  forest 
Thou  heardest  a  low  moaning. 
And  foundest  a  bright  lady,  surpassingly  fair: 
And  didst  bring  her  home  with  thee  in  love  and  is 

charity, 
To  shield  her  and  shelter  her  from  the  damp  air. 

THE  CONCLUSION  TO  PART  I. 

It  was  a  lovely  sight  to  see 
The  lady  Christabel,  when  she 
Was  praying  at  the  old  oak  tree. 

Amid  the  jagged  shadows 

Of  mossy  leafless  boughs. 

Kneeling  in  the  moonlight. 

To  make  her  gentle  vows  ; 
Her  slender  palms  together  prest. 
Heaving  sometimes  on  her  breast ; 
Her  face  resign'd  to  bliss  or  bale — 
Her  face — O  call  it  fair,  not  pale  ! 
And  both  blue  eyes  more  bright  than  clear. 
Each  about  to  have  a  tear. 

With  open  eyes  (ah  wo  is  me  !) 
Asleep,  and  dreaming  fearfully, 
Fearfully  dreaming,  yet  I  wis. 
Dreaming  that  alone,  which  is — 
0  sorrow  and  shame  !     Can  this  be  she. 
The  lady,  who  knelt  at  the  old  oak  tree  ? 
And  lo  !  the  worker  of  these  harms, 
That  holds  the  maiden  in  her  arnns. 
Seems  to  slumber  still  and  mild. 
As  a  mother  with  her  child. 


566 


COLERIDGE. 


A  star  hath  set,  a  star  hath  risen. 
0  Geraldine  !  since  arms  of  thine 
Have  been  the  lovely  lady's  prison. 
O  Geraldine  !  one  hour  was  thine — 
Thou'st  had  thy  will !     By  tairn  and  rill. 
The  night-birds  all  that  hour  were  still. 
But  now  they  are  jubilant  anew, 
From  cliff  and  tower,  tu-whoo  !  tu-whoo  ! 
Tu-whoo  !  tu-whoo  !  from  wood  and  fell ! 

And  see !  the  Lady  Christabel 
Gathers  herself  from  out  her  trance ; 
Her  limbs  relax,  her  countenance 
Grows  sad  and  soft ;  the  smooth  thin  lids 
Close  o'er  her  eyes  ;  and  tears  she  sheds — 
Large  tears  that  leave  the  lashes  bright ! 
And  oft  the  while  she  seems  to  smile 
As  infants  at  a  sudden  light ! 

Yea,  she  doth  srnile,  and  she  doth  weep. 
Like  a  youthful  hermitess, 
Beauteous  in  a  wilderness. 
Who,  praying  always,  prays  in  sleep. 
And,  if  she  move  unquietly. 
Perchance,  'tis  but  the  blood  so  free. 
Comes  back  and  tingles  in  her  feet. 
No  doubt,  she  hath  a  vision  sweet : 
What  if  her  guardian  spirit  'twere. 
What  if  she  knew  her  mother  near  ? 
But  this  she  knows,  in  joys  and  woes. 
That  saints  will  aid  if  men  will  call : 
For  the  blue  sky  bends  over  all ! 

PART   II. 

Each  matin-bell,  the  baron  saith. 
Knells  us  back  to  a  world  of  death. 
These  words  Sir  Leoline  first  said, 
When  he  rose  and  found  his  lady  dead : 
These  words  Sir  Leoline  will  say. 
Many  a  morn  to  his  dying  day  I 

And  hence  the  custom  and  law  began, 
That  still  at  dawn  the  sacristan, 
Who  duly  pulls  the  heavj'  bell, 
Five-and-forty  beads  must  tell 
Between  each  stroke — a  warning  knell. 
Which  not  a  soul  can  choose  but  hear 
From  Bratha  Head  to  Wyndermere. 

Saith  Bracy  the  bard,  So  let  it  knell ! 
And  let  the  drowsy  sacristan 
Still  count  as  slowly  as  he  can  ! 
There  is  no  lack  of  such,  I  ween. 
As  well  fill  up  the  space  between. 
In  Langdale  Pike  and  Witch's  Lair 
A,nd  dungeon-ghyll  so  foully  rent, 
With  ropes  of  rock  and  bells  of  air 
Three  sinful  sextons'  ghosts  are  pent, 
Who  all  give  back,  one  after  t'other, 
The  death-note  to  their  living  brother ; 
And  oft,  too,  by  the  knell  offended. 
Just  as  their  one  !  two  !  three  !  is  ended, 
The  devil  mocks  the  doleful  tale 
Wi^h  a  merry  peal  from  Borrowdale. 

The  air  is  still !  through  mist  and  cloud 
That  merry  peal  comes  ringing  loud  ; 


And  Geraldine  shakes  off  her  dread, 
And  rises  lightly  from  the  bed ; 
Puts  on  her  silken  vestments  white, 
And  tricks  her  hair  in  lovely  plight. 
And,  nothing  doubting  of  her  spell. 
Awakens  the  Lady  Christabel. 
"  Sleep  you,  sweet  Lady  Christabel  ? 
I  trust  that  you  have  rested  well." 

And  Christabel  awoke,  and  spied 
The  same  who  lay  down  by  her  side — 
O  rather  say,  the  same  whom  she 
Raised  up  beneath  the  old  oak  tree ! 
Nay,  fairer  yet !  and  yet  more  fair  ! 
For  she  belike  hath  drunken  deep 
Of  all  the  blessedness  of  sleep  ! 
And  while  she  spake,  her  looks,  her  air 
Such  gentle  thankfulness  declare. 
That  (so  it  seem'd)  her  girded  vests 
Grew  tight  beneath  her  heaving  breasts. 
"  Sure  I  have  sinn'd,"  said  Christabel, 
"  Now  Heaven  be  praised,  if  all  be  well ; 
And  in  low  faltering  tones,  yet  sweet. 
Did  she  the  lofty  lady  greet 
With  such  perplexity  of  mind 
As  dreams  too  lively  leave  behind. 

So  quickly  she  rose,  and  quickly  array 'd 
Her  maiden  limbs,  and  having  pray'd 
That  He,  who  on  the  cross  did  groan. 
Might  wash  away  her  sins  unknown. 
She  forthwith  led  fair  Geraldine 
To  meet  her  sire.  Sir  Leoline. 

The  lovely  maid  and  the  lady  tall 
Are  pacing  both  into  the  hall. 
And,  pacing  on  through  page  and  grooHi 
Enter  the  baron's  presence-room. 

The  baron  rose,  and  while  he  prest 
His  gentle  daughter  to  his  breast, 
With  cheerful  wonder  in  his  eyes 
The  Lady  Geraldine  espies. 
And  gave  such  welcome  to  the  same, 
As  might  beseem  so  bright  a  dame  I 

But  when  he  heard  the  lady's  tale. 
And  when  she  told  her  father's  name, 
Why  wax'd  Sir  Leoline  so  pale. 
Murmuring  o'er  the  name  again. 
Lord  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Tryermaine  ? 

Alas  !  they  had  been  friends  in  youth  ; 
But  whispering  tongues  can  poison  truth 
And  constancy  lives  in  realms  above. 
And  life  is  thorny  ;  and  youth  is  vain  ; 
And  to  be  wroth  with  one  we  lo^e. 
Doth  work  like  madness  in  the  brain. 
And  thus  it  chanced,  as  I  divme 
With  Roland  and  Sir  Leoline 
Each  spake  words  of  high  disdam 
And  insult  to  his  heart's  best  brother' 
They  parted— ne'er  to  meet  again .' 
But  never  either  found  another 
To  free  the  hollow  heart  from  paining — 
They  stood  aloof,  the  scars  remaining. 


CHRISTABEL. 


567 


Like  cliflfs  which  had  been  rent  asunder ; 

A  dreary  sea  now  flows  between. 

But  neither  heat,  nor  frost,  nor  thunder, 

Shall  wholly  do  away,  I  ween. 

The  marks  of  that  which  once  hath  been. 

Sir  Leoline,  a  moment's  space, 

Stood  gazing  on  the  damsel's  face : 

And  the  youthful  Lord  of  Tryermaine 

Came  back  upon  his  heart  again. 

0  then  the  baron  forgot  his  age ! 

His  noble  heart  swell'd  high  with  rage; 

He  swore  by  the  wounds  in  Jesu's  side. 

He  would  proclaim  it  far  and  wide 

With  trump  and  solemn  heraldry, 

That  they,  who  thus  had  wrong'd  the  dame, 

Were  base  as  spotted  infamy  ! 

"  And  if  they  dare  deny  the  same, 

My  herald  shall  appoint  a  week. 

And  let  the  recreant  traitors  seek 

My  tourney  court — that  there  and  then 

1  may  dislodge  their  reptile  souls 
From  the  bodies  and  forms  of  men  I" 
He  spake :  his  eyes  in  lightning  rolls ! 

For  the  lady  was  ruthlessly  seized ;  and  he  kenn'd 
In  the  beautiful  lady  the  child  of  his  friend  ! 

And  now  the  tears  were  on  his  face. 

And  fondly  in  his  arms  he  took 

Fair  Geraldine,  who  met  th'  embrace. 

Prolonging  it  with  joyous  look. 

Which  when  she  view'd,  a  vision  fell 

Upon  the  soul  of  Christabel, 

The  vision  of  fear,  the  touch  and  pain  ! 

She  shrunk  and  shudder'd,  and  saw  again — 

(Ah,  wo  is  me  !     Was  it  for  thee. 

Thou  gentle  maid !  such  sights  to  see !) 

Again  she  saw  that  bosom  old, 

Again  she  felt  that  bosom  cold, 

And  drew  in  her  breath  with  a  hissing  sound : 

Whereat  the  knight  turn'd  wildly  round. 

And  nothing  saw  but  his  own  sweet  maid 

With  eyes  upraised,  as  one  that  pray'd. 

The  touch,  the  sight,  had  pass'd  away. 
And  It  its  stead  that  vision  blest, 
WhicL  comforted  her  after-rest, 
While  in  the  lady's  arms  she  lay. 
Had  put  a  rapture  in  her  breast. 
And  on  her  lips  and  o'er  her  eyes 
Spread  smiles  like  light ! 

With  new  surprise, 
«  What  ails  then  my  beloved  child  ?" 
The  baron  said. — His  daughter  mild 
Made  answer,  "  All  will  yet  be  well !" 
I  ween,  she  had  no  power  to  tell 
Aught  else  ;  so  mighty  was  the  spell. 

Yet  he,  who  saw  this  Geraldine, 
Had  deem'd  her  sure  a  thing  divine. 
Such  sorrow  with  such  grace  she  blended. 
As  if  she  fear'd  she  had  offended 
Sweet  Christabel,  that  gentle  maid  I 
Ant.  with  such  lowly  tones  she  pray'd, 


She  might  be  sent  without  delay 
Home  to  hei  father's  mansion. 


Nay! 


Nay,  by  my  soul !"  said  Leoline. 

"  Ho  !  Bracy  the  bard,  the  charge  be  thine 

Go  thou,  with  music  sweet  and  ioud. 

And  take  two  steeds  with  trappings  proud. 

And  take  the  youth  whom  thou  lovest  best 

To  bear  thy  harp,  and  learn  thy  song, 

A.nd  clothe  you  both  in  solemn  vest, 

\nd.  over  fhe  mountains  haate  along. 

Lest  wandering  folk,  that  are  abroad, 

Detain  you  on  the  valley  road. 

And  when  he  has  cross'd  the  Irthing  flood, 

My  merry  bard  !  he  hastes,  he  hastes 

Up  Knorren  Moor,  through  Halegarth  wood, 

And  reaches  soon  that  castle  good 

Which  stands  and  threatens  Scotland's  wastes. 

"  Bard    Bracy,   bard  Bracj' .    j^our    horses    are 

fleet. 
Ye  must  ride  up  the  hall,  your  music  so  sweet. 
More  loud  than  your  horses'  echoing  feet ! 
And  loud  and  loud  to  Lord  Roland  call, 
Thy  daughter  is  safe  in  Langdale  hall ! 
Thy  beautiful  daugliter  is  safe  and  free — 
Sir  Leoline  greets  thee  thus  through  me. 
He  bids  thee  come  without  delay 
With  all  thy  numerous  array  ; 
And  take  thy  lovely  daughter  home : 
And  he  will  meet  thee  on  the  way 
With  all  his  numerous  array. 
White  with  their  panting  palfreys'  foam: 
And  by  mine  honour  !   I  will  say 
That  I  repent  me  of  the  day 
When  I  spake  words  of  high  disdain 
To  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Tryermaine  I-— 
For  since  that  evil  hour  hath  flown, 
Many  a  summer's  sun  hath  shone ; 
Yet  ne'er  found  I  a  friend  again 
Like  Roland  de  Vaux  of  Tryermaine." 

The  lady  fell,  and  clasp'd  his  knees, 
Her  face  upraised,  her  eyes  o'erflowing; 
And  Bracy  replied,  with  faltering  voice. 
Her  gracious  hail  on  all  bestnwing : — 
Thy  words,  thou  sire  of  Christabel, 
Are  sweeter  than  my  heart  can  tell ; 
Yet  might  I  gain  a  boon  of  thee. 
This  day  my  journey  should  not  be. 
So  strange  a  dream  hath  come  to  me. 
That  1  had  vow'd  with  music  loud 
To  clear  yon  wood  from  thing  unblest, 
Warn'd  by  a  vision  in  my  rest ! 
For  in  my  sleep  I  saw  that  dove. 
That  gentle  bird,  whom  thou  dost  love. 
And  call'st  by  thy  own  daughter's  name — 
Sir  Leoline  !  I  saw  the  same, 
Fluttering,  and  uttering  fearful  moan, 
Among  the  green  herbs  in  the  forest  alone. 
Which  when  I  saw  and  when  I  heard, 
I  wonder'd  what  might  ail  the  bird 
For  nothing  near  it  could  I  see, 
Save  the  grass  and  green  herbs  underneath  the 
old  tree. 


568 


COLERIDGE. 


And  in  my  dreams,  methought,  I  went 
To  search  out  what  might  there  be  found ; 
And  what  the  sweet  bird's  trouble  meant. 
That  thus  lay  fluttering  on  the  ground. 
I  went  and  peer'd,  and  could  descry 
No  cause  for  her  distressful  cry ; 
But  yet  for  her  dear  lady's  sake 
I  stoop'd,  methought,  the  dove  to  take. 
When  lo  !  I  saw  a  bright  green  snake 
Coil'd  around  its  wings  and  neck. 
Green  as  the  herbs  on  which  it  couch'd, 
Close  by  the  dove's  its  head  it  crouch'd  ! 
And  with  the  dove  it  heaves  and  stirs, 
Swelling  its  neck  as  she  swell'd  hers  ! 
I  woke ;  it  was  the  midnight  hour, 
The  clock  was  echoing  in  the  tower ; 
But  though  my  slumber  was  gone  by, 
This  dream  it  would  not  pass  away— 
It  seems  to  live  upon  my  eye  ! 
And  thence  I  vow'd  this  selfsame  day. 
With  music  strong  and  saintly  song 
To  wander  through  the  forest  bare, 
Lest  aught  unholy  loiter  there. 

Thus  Bracy  said:  the  baron,  the  while. 

Half-listening  heard  him  with  a  smile  ; 

Then  turn'd  to  Lady  Geraldine, 

His  eyes  made  up  of  wonder  and  love  j 

And  said  in  courtly  accents  fine. 

Sweet  maid  !  Lord  Roland's  beauteous  dove. 

With  arms  more  strong  than  harp  or  song, 

Thy  sire  and  I  will  crush  the  snake ! 

He  kiss'd  her  forehead  as  he  spake. 

And  Geraldine  in  maiden  wise, 

Casting  down  her  large  bright  eyes, 

With  blushing  cheek  and  courtesy  fine 

She  turn'd  her  from  Sir  Leoline  ; 

Softly  gathering  up  her  train. 

That  o'er  her  right  arm  fell  again 

And  folded  her  arms  across  her  chest. 

And  couch'd  her  head  upon  her  breast. 

And  look'd  askance  at  Christabel 

Jesu,  Maria,  shield  her  well ! 

A  snake's  small  eye  blinks  dull  and  shy, 
And  the  lady's  eyes  they  shrunk  in  her  head, 
Each  shrunk  up  to  a  serpent's  eye. 
And  with  somewhat  of  malice   and  more  of 

dread. 
At  Christabel  she  look'd  askance  :— 
One  moment — and  the  sight  was  fled  ! 
But  Christabel,  in  dizzy  trance 
Stumbling  on  the  unsteady  ground, 
Shudder'd  aloud,  with  a  hissing  sound ; 
And  Geraldine  again  turn'd  round. 
And  like  a  thing,  that  sought  relief. 
Full  of  wonder  and  full  of  grief. 
She  roll'd  her  large  bright  eyes  divine 
Wildly  on  Sir  Leoline. 

The  maid,  alas  !  her  thoughts  are  gone. 

She  nothing  sees — no  sight  but  one ! 

The  maid,  devoid  of  guile  and  sin, 

I  know  not  how,  in  fearful  wise 

So  deeply  had  she  drunken  in 

That  look,  those  shrunken  serpent  eyes. 


That  all  her  features  were  resign'd 
To  this  sole  image  in  her  mind : 
And  passively  did  imitate 
That  look  of  dull  and  treacherous  hate ! 
And  thus  she  stood,  in  dizzy  trance. 
Still  picturing  that  look  askance 
With  forced,  unconscious  sympathy 

Full  before  her  father's  view 

As  far  as  such  a  look  could  be 
In  eyes  so  innocent  and  blue. 
And  when  the  trance  was  o'er,  the  maid 
Paused  a  while,  and  inly  pray'd : 
Then  falling  at  the  baron's  feet, 
"  By  my  mother's  soul  do  J  sntreat 
That  thou  this  woman  senc  away  !'^ 
She  said:  and  more  she  cou  jd  not  say; 
For  what  she  knew  she  could  not  tell, 
O'ermaster'd  by  the  mighty  spell. 

Why  is  thy  cheek  so  wan  and  wild. 
Sir  Leoline  ?     Thy  only  child 
Lies  at  thy  feet,  thy  joy,  thy  pride, 
Sc  "Jair,  so  innocent,  so  mild  ; 
The  same,  for  whom  thy  lady  died. 

0  by  the  pangs  of  her  dear  mother, 
Think  thou  no  evil  of  thy  child  ! 
For  her,  and  thee,  and  for  no  other, 
She  pray'd  the  moment  ere  she  died ; 
Pray'd  that  the  babe  for  whom  she  died 
Might  prove  her  dear  lord's  joy  and  pride  ! 

That  prayer  her  deadly  pangs  beguiled. 

Sir  Leoline ! 
And  wouldst  thou  wrong  thy  only  child. 

Her  child  and  thine  ? 

Within  the  baron's  heart  and  brain 

If  thoughts  like  these  had  any  share. 

They  only  swell'd  his  rage  and  pain, 

And  did  but  work  confusion  there. 

His  heart  was  cleft  with  pain  and  rage. 

His  cheeks  they  quiver'd,  his  eyes  were  wila 

Dishonour'd  thus  in  his  old  age ; 

Dishonour'd  by  his  only  child. 

And  all  his  hospitality 

To  the  insulted  daughter  of  his  friend 

By  more  than  woman's  jealousy 

Brought  thus  to  a  disgraceful  end — 

He  roll'd  his  eye  with  stern  regard 

Upon  the  gentle  minstrel  bard, 

And  said  in  tones  abrupt,  austere, 

Why,  Bracy  !  dost  thou  loiter  here  ? 

1  bade  thee  hence  !  The  bard  obey'd ; 
And,  turning  from  his  own  sweet  maid. 
The  aged  knight,  Sir  Leoline, 

Led  forth  the  Lady  Geraldine  ! 

THE  CONCLUSION  TO  PART  D 

A  LITTLE  child,  a  limber  elf. 
Singing,  dancing  to  itself, 
A  fairy  thing  with  red  round  cheeis 
That  always  finds  and  never  seeks, 
Makes  such  a  vision  to  the  sight 
As  fills  a  father's  eyes  with  light ; 
And  pleasures  flow  in  so  thick  and  fast 
Upon  his  heart,  that  he  at  last 


THE    DEVIL'S    THOUGHTS. 


569 


Must  needs  express  his  love's  excess 
With  words  of  unmeant  bitterness. 
Perhaps  'tis  pretty  to  force  together 
Thoughts  so  all  unlike  each  other ; 
To  mutter  and  mock  a  broken  charm, 
To  dally  with  wrong  that  does  no  harnc, 
Perhaps  'tis  tender  too  and  pretty 
At  each  wild  word  to  feel  within 
A  sweet  recoil  of  love  and  pity.     / 
And  what,  if  in  a  world  of  sin 
(0  sorrow  and  shame  should  this  be  true!) 
Such  giddiness  of  heart  and  brain 
Comes  seldom,  save  from  rage  and  pain, 
So  talks  as  it's  most  used  to  do. 


YOUTH  AND  AGE. 

V"er?e,  a  breeze  'raid  blossoms  straying, 
Where  Hope  clung  feeding,  like  a  bee — 
Both  were  mine  !     Life  went  a-maying 
With  Nature,  Hope,  and  Poesy, 
When  I  was  young  ! 
When  I  was  young ? — Ah,  woful  when! 
Ah  for  the  change  'twixt  now  and  then  ! 
This  breathing  house  not  built  with  hands, 
This  body  that  does  me  grievous  wrong. 
O'er  airy  cliffs  and  glittering  sands. 
How  lightly  then  it  flash'd  along : — 
Like  those  trim  skiffs,  unknown  of  yore. 
On  winding  lakes  and  rivers  wide. 
That  ask  no  aid  of  sail  or  oar, 
That  fear  no  spite  of  wind  or  tide  ! 
Naught  cared  this  body  for  wind  or  weather, 
When  Youth  and  I  lived  in't  together. 

Flowers  are  lovely ;  love  is  flower-iike  ; 
Friendship  is  a  sheltering  tree ; 
0  the  joys,  that  came  down  shower-like. 
Of  friendship,  love,  and  liberty, 

Ere  I  was  old  ! 
Ere  I  was  old  ?     Ah  woful  Ere, 
Which  tells  me.  Youth's  no  longer  here  ! 

0  Youth  !  for  years  so  many  and  sweet, 
'Tis  known,  that  thou  and  I  were  one, 
I'll  think  it  but  a  fond  conceit — 

It  cannot  be  that  thou  art  gone  ! 
Thy  vesper-bell  hath  not  yet  toll'd : — 
And  thou  wert  aye  a  masker  bold  ! 
What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on. 
To  make  believe  that  thou  art  gone  ? 

1  see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips, 
This  drooping  gait,  this  alter'd  size: 
But  springtide  blossoms  on  thy  lips. 
And  tears  take  sunshine  from  thine  eyes  ! 
Life  is  but  thought :  so  think  I  will 
That  Youth  and  I  are  house-mates  stilL 


Over  the  hill  and  over  the  dale 

And  he  went  over  the  plain, 
And  backward  and  forward  he  swish'd  his  long  tail 

As  a  gentleman  swishes  his  cane. 

And  how  then  was  the  Devil  drest  ? 

0  !  he  was  in  his  Sunday's  best : 
His  jacket  was  red  and  his  breeches  were  blue, 

And  there  was   a  hole  where   the  tail    came 
through. 

He  saw  a  lawyer  killing  a  viper 

On  a  dung-heap  beside  his  stable. 
And  the  Devil  smiled,  for  it  put  him  in  mind 

Of  Cain  and  his  brother,  Atel. 

A  poTHECARY  on  a  white  horse 

Rode  by. on  his  vocations. 
And  the  Devil  thought  of  his  old  friend 

Death  in  the  Revelations. 

He  saw  a  cottage  with  a  double  coach-hause, 

A  cottage  of  gentility ! 
And  the  Devil  did  grin,  for  his  darling  sin 

Is  pride  that  apes  humility. 

He  went  into  a  rich  bookseller's  shop. 
Quoth  he  !  we  are  both  of  one  college ; 

For  I  myself  sate  like  a  cormorant  once, 
Fast  by  the  tree  of  knowledge.* 

Down  the  river  there  plied  with  wind  and  tide, 
A  pig,  with  vast  celerity  ; 


THE  DEVIL'S  THOUGHTS. 

From  his  brimstone  bed  at  break  of  day 
A-walking  the  Devil  is  gone, 

To  visit  his  little  snug  farm  of  the  earth, 
And  see  bow  hii  stock  went  on. 


*  And  all  amid  them  stood  the  Tree  of  Life 
High  eminent,  blooming  ambrosial  fruit 
Of  vegetable  gold  (query  paper  money  ?) ;  and  next  to 

Life 
Our  Deatli,  the  Tree  of  Knowledge,  grew  fast  by.— 
*  Jfc  '   *  *  *  *  » 

******* 

So  clomb  this  first  grand  thief 

Thence  up  he  flew,  and  on  the  tree  of  life 
Sat  like  a  cormorant.— Par.  Lost,  IV. 

The  allegory  here  is  so  apt,  that  in  a  catalogue  of  ro» 
rious  readings  obtained  from  collating  the  MSS.  one 
might  expect  to  find  it  noted,  that  for  '•'■Life'''  Cod.  quia 
habent,  "  Trade."  Tiiough  indeed  the  trade,  i.  e.  the 
bibliopolic,  so  called,  kolt  e^Sxriv,  may  be  regarded  as  hfe 
sansu  ejninentiori :  a  suggestion,  which  I  owe  to  a  young 
retailer  in  the  hosiery  line,  who  on  hearing  a  description 
of  the  net  profits,  dinner  parlies,  country  houses,  etc.  of 
the  trade,  exclaimed,  "  Ay!  that's  what  I  call  life  now !" 
—This  "Life,  our  Death,"  is  thus  happily  contrasted  with 
the  fruits  of  authorship. — Sic  nos  non  nobis  mellificanius 
Apes. 

Of  this  poem,  with  which  the  Fire,  Famine,  and 
Slaughter  first  appeared  in  the  Morning  Post,  the  three 
first  stanzas,  which  are  worth  all  the  rest,  and  the  ninth, 
were  dictated  by  Mr.  Southey.  Between  tlie  ninth  and 
the  concluding  stanza,  two  or  three  are  omitted  as  grounded 
on  subjects  that  have  lost  their  interest— and  for  better 
reasons. 

If  any  one  should  ask,  who  General meant,  the 

author  begs  leave  to  inform  him,  that  he  did  once  see 
red-faced  person  in  a  dream  whom  by  the  dress  he  took  for 
a  general;  but  he  might  have  been  mistaken,  and  most 
certainly  he  did  not  hear  any  names  mentioned, 
simple  verity,  the  author  never  meant  any  one,  or  •■- 
deed  any  thing  but  to  out  a  concluding  stanza  to  his  dog- 
gerel. 


5  0 


COLERIDGE. 


And  the  Devil  look'd  wise  as  he  saw  how  the  while, 
It  cut  its  own  throat.    There!  quoth  he,  with  a 
smile. 
Goes  "  England's  commercial  prosperity." 

As  he  went  through  Cold-Bath  Fields,  he  saw 

A  solitary  cell. 
And  the  Devil  was  pleased,  for  it  gave  him  a  hint 

For  improving  his  prisons  in  hell. 


-'s  burning  face 


General  - 

He  saw  with  consternation, 
And  back  to  hell  his  way  did  he  take. 
For  the  devil  thought,  by  a  slight  mistake, 

It  was  general  conflagration. 


EPIGRAMS. 


I. 
I  ask'd  my  fair,  one  happy  day, 
What  I  should  call  her  in  my  lay, 
By  what  sweet  name  from  Rome,  or  Greece, 
Neaera,  Laura,  Daphne,  Chloris, 
Carina,  Lalage,  or  Doris, 
Dorimene,  or  Lucrece  ? 

II. 
"Ah,"  replied  my  gentle  fair; 
•'  Dear  one,  what  are  names  but  air?— 
Choose  thou  whatever  suits  the  line  ; 
Call  me  Laura,  call  me  Chloris, 
Call  me  Lalage,  or  Doris, 
Only — only — call  me  tJiine!" 


Sly  Beelzebub  took  all  occasions 
To  try  Job's  constancy,  and  patience. 
He  took  his  honour,  took  his  health ; 
He  took  his  children,  took  his  wealth, 
His  servants,  oxen,  horses,  cows, — 
But  cunning  Satan  did  not  take  his  spouse. 

But  Heaven,  that  brings  out  good  from  evil. 

And  loves  t:  disappoint  the  devil, 

Had  predetermined  to  restore 

Twofold  all  he  had  before  ; 

His  servants,  horses,  oxen,  cows — 

Short-sighted  devil,  not  to  take  his  spouse  ! 


Hoarse  Maevius  reads  his  hobbling  verse 
To  all,  and  at  all  times  ; 
And  finds  them  both  divinely  smooth. 
His  voice  as  well  as  rhymes. 

But  folks  say  Maevius  is  no  ass 
But  Maevius  makes  it  clear 
That  he's  a  monster  of  an  ass— 
An  ass  without  an  ear ! 


There  comes  from  old  Avaro's  grave 
A  deadly  stench — why,  sure,  they  have 
Immured  his  soul  within  his  grave  ! 


Last  Monday  all  the  papers  said, 

That  Mr. was  dead ; 

Why,  then,  what  said  the  city  ? 
The  tenth  part  sadly  shook  their  head. 
And  shaking,  sigh'd,  and  sighing  said, 
"  Pity,  indeed,  'tis  pity  !" 

But  when  the  said  report  was  found 
A  rumour  wholly  without  ground. 
Why,  then,  what  said  the  city  ? 
The  other  nine  parts  shook  their  head, 
Repeating  what  the  tenth  had  said, 
«  Pity,  indeed,  'tis  pity !" 


Your  poem  must  eternal  be, 
Dear  sir  ! — it  cannot  fail — 
For  'lis  incomprehensible. 
And  wants  both  head  and  tail. 


Swans  sing  before  they  die — 'twere  no  bad  thin| 
Did  certain  persons  die  before  they  sing. 


THE  GARDEN  OF  BOCCA.CCIO. 

Of  late,  in  one  of  those  most  weary  hours. 
When  life  seems  emptied  of  all  genial  powers, 
A  dreary  mood,  which  he  who  ne'er  has  known 
May  bless  his  happy  lot,  I  sate  alone; 
And,  from  the  numbing  spell  to  win  relief, 
Call'd  on  the  past  for  thought  of  glee  or  grief. 
In  vain  !  bereft  alike  of  grief  and  glee, 
I  sate  and  cower'd  o'er  my  own  vacancy ! 
And  as  I  watch'd  the  dull  continuous  ache. 
Which,  all  else  slumbering,  seem'd  alone  to  wake 

0  friend  !  long  wont  to  notice  yet  conceal. 
And  soothe  by  silence  what  words  cannot  aeal, 

1  but  half  saw  that  quiet  hand  of  thine 
Place  on  my  desk  this  exquisite  dedgn, 
Boccaccio's  garden  and  its  faery. 

The  love,  the  joyance,  and  the  gallantry  ! 
An  idyl,  with  Boccaccio's  spirit  warm 
Framed  in  the  silent  poesy  of  form. 
Like  flocks  adown  a  newly-bathed  steep 

Emerging  from  a  mist:  or  like  a  stream 
Of  music  soft  that  not  dispels  the  sleep. 

But  casts  in  happier  moulds   the  slumberer'i 
dream, 
Gazed  by  an  idle  eye  with  silent  might 
The  picture  stole  upon  my  inward  sight. 
A  tremulous  warmth  crept  gradual  o'er  my  chest. 
As  though  an  infant's  finger  touch'd  my  breast. 
And  one  by  one  (I  know  not  whence)  were  brought 
All   spirits  of  power  that  most  had  stirr'd  my 

thought. 
In  selfless  boyhood,  on  a  new  world  tost 
Of  wonder,  and  in  its  own  fancies  lost ; 
Or  charm'd  my  youth,  that  kindled  from  above, 
Loved  ere  it  loved,  and  sought  a  form  for  love ; 
Or  lent  a  lustre  to  the  earnest  scan 
Of  manhood,  musing  what  and  whence  is  man  ! 
Wild  strain  of  scalds,  that  in  the  sea-worn  caves 
Rehearsed  their  war-spell  to  the  winds  and  waves  t 


THE    GARDEN    OF    BOCCACCIO. 


571 


Or  fateful  hymn  of  those  prophetic  maids, 
That  call'd  on  Hertha  in  deep  forest  glades ; 
Or  minstrel  lay,  that  cheer'd  the  baron's  feast ; 
Or  rhyme  of  city  pomp,  of  monk  and  priest, 
Judge,  mayor,  and  many  a  guild  in  long  array, 
To  high-church  pacing  on  the  great  saint's  day. 
And  many  a  verse  which  to  myself  I  sang. 
That  woke  the  tear,  vet  stole  away  the  pang, 
Of  hopes  which  in  lamenting  I  renew'd. 
And  last,  a  matron  now,  of  sober  mien. 
Yet  radiant  still  and  with  no  earthly  sheen. 
Whom  as  a  faery  child  my  childhood  woo'd 
E'en  in  my  dawn  of  thought — Philosophy. 
Though  then  unconscious  of  herself,  pardie. 
She  bore  no  other  name  than  poesy ; 
And,  like  a  gift  from  heaven,  in  lifeful  glee. 
That  had  but  newly  left  a  mother's  knee. 
Prattled  and  play 'd  with  bird,  and  flower,  and  stone, 
As  with  elfin  playfellows  well  known. 
And  life  reveal'd  to  innocence  alone. 

Thanks,  gentle  artist !  now  I  can  descry 

Thy  fair  creation  with  a  mastering  eye. 

And  all  awake  !     And  now  in  fix'd  gaze  stand, 

Now  wander  through  the  Eden  of  thy  hand  ; 

Praise  the  green  arches,  on  the  fountain  clear 

See  fragment  shadows  of  the  crossing  deer. 

And  with  that  serviceable  nymph  I  stoop. 

The  crystal  from  its  restless  pool  to  scoop. 

I  see  no  longer  !  I  myself  am  there, 

Sit  on  the  ground-sward,  and  the  banquet  share. 

'Tis  I,  that  sweep  that  lute's  love-echoing  strings, 

And  gaze  upon  the  maid,  who  gazing  sings: 

Or  pause  and  listen  to  the  tinkling  bells 

From  the  high  tower,  and  think  that  there  she 

dwells. 
With  old  Boccaccio's  soul  I  stand  possest. 
And  breathe  an  air  like  life,  that  swells  my  chest. 

The  brightness  of  the  world,  O  thou  once  free, 
And  always  fair,  rare  land  of  courtesy  ! 
0,  Florence  !  with  the  Tuscan  fields  and  hills  ! 
And  famous  Arno  fed  with  all  their  rills ; 
Thou  brightest  star  of  star-bright  Italy  ! 
Rich,  ornate,  populous,  all  treasures  thine, 
The  golden  corn,  the  olive,  and  the  vine. 


Fair  cities,  gallant  mansions,  castles  old, 
And  forests,  where  beside  his  leafy  hold 
The  sullen  boar  hath  heard  the  distant  horn, 
And  whets  his  tusks  against  the  gnarled  thorn; 
Palladian  palace  with  its  storied  halls  ; 
Fountains,  where  love  lies  listening  to  their  falls; 
Gardens,  where  flings  the  bridge  its  airy  span. 
And  nature  makes  her  happy  home  with  man 
Where  many  a  gorgeous  flower  is  duly  fed 
With  its  own  rill,  on  its  own  spangled  bed. 
And  wreathes  the  marble  urn,  or  leans  its  head, 
A  mimic  mourner,  that  with  veil  withdrawn 
Weeps  liquid  gems,  the  presents  of  the  dawn. 
Thine  all  delights,  and  every  muse  is  thine: 
And  more  than  all,  th'  embrace  and  intertwine 
Of  all  with  all  in  gay  and  twinkling  dance  ! 
'Mid  gods  of  Greece  and  warriors  of  romance. 
See  !  Boccace  sits,  unfolding  on  his  knees 
The  new-found  roll  of  old  Maeonides  ;* 
But  from  his  mantle's  fold,  and  near  the  heart. 
Peers  Ovid's  Holy  Book  of  Love's  sweet  smart  !t 
O  all-enjoying  and  all-blending  sage, 
Long  be  it  mine  to  con  thy  mazy  page, 
Where,  half-conceal'd,  the  ej'e  of  fancy  views 
Fauns,  nymphs,  and  winged  saints,  all  gracious  to 
thy  muse  I 

Still  in  thy  garden  let  me  watch  their  pranks. 
And  see  in  Dian's  vest  between  the  ranks 
Of  the  trim  vines,  some  maid  that  half  believes 
The  vestal  fires,  of  which  her  lover  grieves, 
With  that  sly  satyr  peering  through  the  leaves ! 

*  Boccaccio  claimed  for  himself  the  glory  of  having  first 
introduced  the  works  of  Homer  to  his  country. 

t  I  know  few  more  striking  or  more  interesting  proofa 
of  the  overwhelming  influence  which  the  study  of  the 
Greek  and  Roman  classics  exercised  on  the  judgments, 
feelings,  and  imaginations  of  the  literati  of  Europe  at  tho 
commencement  of  the  restoration  of  literature,  than  the 
passage  in  the  Filocopo  of  Boccaccio:  where  the  sage  in- 
strucler,  Racheo,  as  soon  as  the  young  prince  and  the 
beautiful  girl,  Biancafiore  had  learned  their  letters,  seta 
them  to  study  the  Hobj  Book,  Ovid's  Art  of  Love.  "  In- 
cominci6  Racheo  a  metiere  il  suo  officio  in  essecuzione 
con  iniera  soUecitudine.  E  loro,  in  breve  tempo,  inseg- 
nalo  a  conoscer  le  l8ltere,/ecc  legere  il  santo  libra  cV  Ov- 
vidio,  net  quale  il  sommo  poeta  mostra,  come  i  santi 
fuochi  di  Venere  si  debbano  nefreddi  cuori  occendere.'" 


JAMES  MONTGOMERY 


James  Montgomery  was  born  in  Irvine,  Ayr- 
shire, m  1771.  His  parents  belonged  to  the  church 
of  the  United  Brethren,  commonly  called  Mora- 
vians,— a  sect  by  no  means  numerous  in  England, 
and  still  more  limited  in  Scotland.  Having  pre- 
viously sojourned  for  a  short  time  at  a  village  in  the 
Irish  county  of  Antrim,  they  placed  the  future  poet 
at  the  school  of  their  society  at  Fulnick,  near  Leeds, 
and  embarked  for  the  West  Indies  as  missionaries 
among  the  negro  slaves.  They  were  the  victims  of 
their  zeal  and  humanity ;  the  husband  died  in  Bar- 
badoes,  and  the  wife  in  Tobago. 

After  remaining  two  years  at  Fulnick,  and,  like 
other  men  of  genius,  disappointing  the  expectations 
of  his  friends  as  a  student,  "  from  very  indolence," 
he  was  placed  by  them  in  a  retail  shop  at  Mirfield 
near  Wakefield.  This  ungenial  employment  he 
considered  himself — not  being  under  indentures — 
at  liberty  to  relinquish  at  the  end  of  two  years, 
with  a  view  to  try  his  fortune  in  the  great  world. 
After  spending  other  two  years  at  a  village  near 
Rotherham,and  a  few  months  with  a  bookseller  in 
London,  he  engaged  as  an  assistant  with  Mr. 
Joseph  Gales  of  Sheffield,  who,  published  a  news- 
paper ; — to  the  management  of  which,  in  1794,  he 
succeeded.  This,  though  conducted  with  compara- 
tive moderation,  exposed  him  to  much  enmit}^ — 
rather  inherited  from  his  predecessor  than  actually 
incurred  by  himself.  The  liberty  of  the  press  in 
those  days  was,  like  faith,"  the  substance  of  things 
hoped  for ;"  a  sentence  of  condemnation,  or  even  a 
word  of  reproach,  against  men  in  "  high  places," 
was  punished  as  libellous.  Montgomery  did  not 
indeed  share  the  fate  of  some  of  his  stern  sectarian 
forefathers ;  but  in  lieu  of  maiming  and  pillory, 
he  had  to  endure  fine  and  imprisonment.  Within 
eighteen  months,  and  when  he  had  scarcely  arrived 
at  manhood,  his  exertions  in  the  cause  of  rational 
freedom  had  twice  consigned  him  to  a  jail.  During 
the  thirty  years  that  followed,  however,  he  was 
permitted  to  publish  his  opinions,  without  being 
the  object  of  open  persecutions.  Wearied  out,  at 
length,  he  relinquished  his  newspaper,  in  1825. 
Recently  one  of  the  government  grants  to  British 
worthies  has  been  conferred  upon  him ;  and — it 
must  be  recorded  to  his  honour — by  Sir  Robert  Peel. 

The  poet  continues  to  reside  in  Sheffield, — 
esteemed,  admired,  and  beloved:  a  man  of  purer 
mind,  or  more  unsuspected  integrity,  never  existed. 
He  is  an  honour  to  the  profession  of  letters  j  and 


by  the  upright  and  unimpea^able  tenor  of  his  life- 
even  more  than  by  his  writings — the  persuasive 
and  convincing  advocate  of  religion.  In  his  per- 
sonal appearance,  Montgomery  is  rather  below  than 
above  the  middle  stature :  his  countenance  is 
peculiarly  bland  and  tranquil ;  and  but  for  the 
occasional  sparklings  of  a  clear  gray  eye,  it  could 
scarcely  be  described  as  expressive. 

Very  early  in  life,  Montgomery  published  a 
volume  of  poems.  They  were  not,  it  would  appear, 
favourably  received  by  the  public  ;  and  he  writes, 
the  disappointment  of  his  premature  poetical  hopes 
brought  with  it  {i  blight  which  his  mind  has  never 
recovered.  "  For  many  years,"  he  adds,  "  I  was 
as  mute  as  a  moulting  bird  ;  and  when  the  power 
of  song  returned,  it  was  without  the  energy,  self- 
confidence,  and  freedom  which  happier  minstrels 
among  my  contemporaries  have  manifested."  The 
Wanderer  of  Switzerland  was  published  in  1806; 
the  West  Indies,  in  1810;  the  World  before  the 
Flood,  in  1813;  Greenland  in  1819;  the  Pelican 
Island,  in  1827:  he  has  since  contented  himself 
with  the  production  of  occasional  verses. 

Those  who  can  distinguish  the  fine  gold  from  the 
"  sounding  brass"  of  poetry,  must  place  the  name 
of  James  Montgomery  high  in  the  list  of  British 
poets  ;  and  those  who  consider  that  the  chiefest 
duty  of  such  is  to  promote  the  cause  of  religion, 
virtue,  and  humanity,  must  acknowledge  in  him 
one  of  their  most  zealous  and  efficient  advocates. 
He  does  not,  indeed,  often  aim  at  bolder  flights  of 
imagination  ;  but  if  he  seldom  rises  above,  he  never 
sinks  beneath,  the  object  of  which  he  desires  the 
attainment.  If  he  rarely  startles  us,  he  still  more 
rarely  leaves  us  dissatisfied ;  he  does  not  attempt 
that  to  which  his  powers  are  unequal,  and  there- 
fore is  at  all  times  successful.  To  the  general 
reader,  it  will  seem  as  if  the  early  bias  of  his  mind 
and  his  first  associations  had  tinged — we  may  not 
say  tainted — the  source  from  whence  he  drew  his 
inspirations,  and  that  his  poems  are  "  sicklied  o'er" 
with  peculiar  impressions  and  opinions  which  fail 
to  excite  the  sympathy  of  the  great  mass  of  man- 
kind. We  should,  however,  recollect,  that,  although 
he  has  chiefly  addressed  himself  to  those  who  think 
with  him,  his  popularity  is  by  no  means  confined 
to  them ;  but  that  those  who  read  poetry  for  the 
delight  it  aflTords  them,  and  without  any  reference 
to  his  leading  design,  acknowledge  his  merit,  and 
contribute  to  his  fame. 

572 


THE    WANDERER   OF   SWITZERLAND. 


573 


THE    WANDERER    OF    SWITZER- 
LAND. 

IN   SIX   PARTS. 

ADVERTISEMENT. 
The  historical  facts  alluded  to  in  The  Wanderer 
of  Switzerland  may  be  found  in  the  supplement  to 
Coxe's  Travels,  in  Planta's  History  of  the  Helvetic 
Confederacy,  and  in  Zschokke's  Invasion  of  Swit- 
zerland by  the  French,  in  1798,  translated  by  Dr. 
Aikin.  

PART    I. 

A  "Wanderer  of  Switzerland  and  his  family,  consisting  of 
his  wife,  his  daughter,  and  her  young  children,  emigrat- 
ing from  their  country,  in  consequence  of  its  subjugation 
by  the  French,  in  1793,  arrive  at  the  cottage  of  a  shep- 
herd, beyond  the  frontiers,  where  they  are  hospitably 
entertained. 

SHEPHERD. 

"  Wanderer,  whither  dost  thou  roam  ? 

Weary  wanderer,  old  and  gray ; 
Wherefore  hast  thou  left  thine  home 

In  the  sunset  of  thy  day  ?" 

WANDERER. 

"  In  the  sunset  of  my  day, 

Stranger !  I  have  lost  my  home : 
Weary,  wandering,  old,  and  gray — 

Therefore,  therefore  do  I  roam. 
"  Here  mine  arms  a  wife  enfold, 

Fainting  in  their  weak  embrace  ;  * 
There  my  daughter's  charms  behold. 

Withering  in  that  widow 'd  face. 

«  These  her  infants — 0  their  sire. 

Worthy  of  the  race  of  Tell, 
In  the  battle's  fiercest  fire. 

In  his  country's  battle  fell  I" 

SHEPHERD. 

*•  Switzerland,  then,  gave  thee  birth  ?"    - 

WANDERER. 

"  Ay — 'twas  Switzerland  of  yore ; 
But,  degraded  spot  of  earth, 
Thou  art  Switzerland  no  more : 

"  O'er  thy  mountains  sunk  in  blood, 

Are  the  waves  of  ruin  hurl'd ; 
Like  the  waters  of  the  flood 

Rolling  round  a  buried  world." 

SHEPHERD. 

"  Yet  will  time  the  deluge  stop ; 

Then  may  Switzerland  be  blest 
On  St.  Gothard's*  hoary  top 

Shall  the  ark  of  Freedom  rest.' 

WANDERER. 

"No  .' — irreparably  lost. 

On  the  day  that  made  us  slaves. 

Freedom's  ark,  by  tempest  tost, 
Founder'd  in  the  swallowing  waves." 


♦  St.  Gothard  is  the  name  of  the  highest  mountain  ia 
the  canton  of  Uri.  the  birthplace  of  Swiss  independence. 


SHEPHERD. 

"  Welcome,  wanderer  as  thou  art. 
All  my  blessings  to  partake  ; 

Yet  thrice  welcome  to  my  heart, 
For  thine  injured  country's  sake. 

"  On  the  western  hills  afar 
Evening  lingers  with  delight, 

While  she  views  her  favourite  star 
Brightening  on  the  brow  of  night. 

"  Here,  though  lowly  be  my  lot, 

Enter  freely,  freely  share 
All  the  comforts  of  my  cot. 

Humble  shelter,  homely  fare. 
"  Spouse,  I  bring  a  suffering  guest, 

With  his  family  of  grief  ; 
Give  the  weary  pilgrims  rest. 

Yield  the  exiles  sweet  relief." 

shepherd's  wife. 
"  I  will  yield  them  sweet  relief: 

Weary  pilgrims  I  welcome  here  ; 
Welcome,  family  of  grief, 

Welcome  to  my  warmest  cheer." 

WANDERER. 

"  When  in  prayer  the  broken  heart 
Asks  a  blessing  from  above, 

Heaven  shall  take  the  wanderer's  part, 
Heaven  reward  the  stranger's  love." 

shepherd. 
"  Haste,  recruit  the  failing  fire. 
High  the  winter-fagots  raise ; 
See  the  crackling  flames  aspire ; 

0  how  cheerfully  they  blaze  ! 

"  Mourners,  now  forget  your  cares, 
And,  till  supper-board  be  crown'd, 

Closely  draw  j'our  fireside  chairs ; 
Form  the  dear  domestic  round." 

wanderer. 

"  Host,  thy  smiling  daughters  bring. 
Bring  those  rosy  lads  of  thine  ; 

Let  them  mingle  in  the  ring 

With  these  poor  lost  babes  of  mine.'* 

shepherd. 
"  Join  the  ring,  my  girls  and  boys ; 

This  enchanting  circle,  this 
Binds  the  social  loves  and  joys : 

'Tis  the  fairy  ring  of  bliss  I" 

WANDERER. 

"  0  ye  loves  and  joys  !  that  sport 

In  the  fairy  ring  of  bliss. 
Oft  with  me  ye  held  your  court ; 

1  had  once  a  home  like  this  ! 

"  Bountiful  my  former  lot 
As  my  native  country's  rills; 

The  foundations  of  my  cot 
Were  her  everlasting  hills. 

"  But  those  streams  no  longer  pour 
Rich  abundance  round  my  lands ; 

And  my  father's  cot  no  more 
On  my  father's  mountain  stands. 


574 


MONTGOMERY. 


«  By  a  hundred  winters  piled, 

When  the  glaciers,*  dark  with  death. 
Hang  o'er  precipices  wild, 

Hang — suspended  by  a  breath : 

*'  If  a  pulse  but  throb  alarm. 

Headlong  down  the  steeps  they  fall ; 
For  a  pulse  will  break  the  charm, — 

Bounding,  bursting,  burying  all. 

"  Struck  with  horror  stiff  and  pale. 
When  the  chaos  breaks  on  high, 

All  that  view  it  from  the  vale. 
All  that  hear  it  coming,  die : — 

"  In  a  day  and  hour  accurst, 
O'er  the  wretched  land  of  Tell, 

Thus  the  Gallic  ruin  burst. 
Thus  the  Gallic  glacier  fell !»' 

SHEPHERD. 

"  Hush  that  melancholy  strain  ; 
Wipe  those  unavailing  tears. 

WANDERER. 

"Nay — I  must,  I  will  complain ; 
'Tis  the  privilege  of  years : 

"  'Tis  the  privilege  of  wo 
Thus  her  anguish  to  impart: 

And  the  tears  that  freely  flow 
Rase  the  agonizing  heart." 

SHEPHERD. 

"  Yet  suspend  thy  griefs  a  while ; 

See  the  plenteous  table  crown'd ; 
And  my  wife's  endearing  smile 

Beams  a  rosy  welcome  round. 

"  Cheese,  from  mountain  dairies  prest. 
Wholesome  herbs,  nutritious  roots. 

Honey,  from  the  wild-bee's  nest. 
Cheering  wine  and  ripen'd  fruits: 

«  These,  with  soul-sustaining  bread. 
My  paternal  fields  afford : — 

On  such  fare  our  fathers  fed  ; 
Holy  pilgrim  !  bless  the  board." 


PART    II. 

After  supper,  Ih?  Wanderer,  at  the  desire  of  his  host, 
relates  the  sorrows  and  sufferings  of  liis  country  during 
the  invasion  and  conquest  of  it  by  the  French,  in  con- 
nexion with  his  own  story. 

SHEPHERD. 

"  Wanderer  !  bow'd  with  griefs  and  years. 
Wanderer,  with  the  check  so  pale, 

0  give  language  to  those  tears  ! 
Tell  their  melancholy  tale." 


♦  More  properly  the  avalanches ;  immense  accumula- 
tions of  ice  and  snow,  balanced  on  tlie  verge  of  the  moun- 
tains in  such  subtle  suspense,  that,  in  the  opinion  of  the 
natives,  the  tread  of  the  traveller  may  bring  them  down 
in  destruction  upon  him.  The  glaciers  are  more  perma- 
nent masses  of  ice,  and  formed  rather  in  the  valleys  than 
on  the  summits  of  the  Alps. 


WANDERER. 

"  Stranger-friend,  the  tears  that  flow 
Down  the  channels  of  this  cheek. 

Tell  a  mystery  of  wo 

Which  no  human  tongue  can  speak. 

"  Not  the  pangs  of  *  hope  deferr'd' 

My  tormented  bosom  tear  :— 
On  the  tomb  of  hope  interr'd 

Scowls  the  spectre  of  despair. 

«  Where  the  Alpine  summits  rise. 
Height  o'er  height  stupendous  huil'd; 

Like  the  pillars  of  the  skies. 
Like  the  ramparts  of  the  world : 

*'  Born  in  freedom's  eagle  nest, 

Rock'd  by  whirlwinds  in  their  rage, 

Nursed  at  freedom's  stormy  breast. 
Lived  my  sires  from  age  to  age. 

"  High  o'er  Underwalden's  vale. 
Where  the  forest  fronts  the  morn  j 

Whence  the  boundless  eye  might  sail 
O'er  a  sea  of  mountains  borne  ; 

"  There  my  little  native  cot 

Peep'd  upon  my  father's  farm  :— 

0  !  it  was  a  happy  spot. 
Rich  in  every  rural  charm  ! 

«  There,  my  life,  a  silent  stream, 

Glid  along,  yet  seem'd  at  rest ; 
Lovely  as  an  infant's  dream 

On  the  waking  mother's  breast. 

"  Till  the  storm  that  wreck'd  the  world. 

In  its  horrible  career. 
Into  hopeless  ruin  hurl'd 

All  this  aching  heart  held  dear. 

"  On  the  princely  lowers  of  Berne 
Fell  the  Gallic  thunder-stroke; 

To  the  lake  of  poor  Lucerne, 
All  submitted  to  the  yoke. 

"  Reding  then  his  standard  raised. 
Drew  his  sword  on  Brunnen's  plain  ;* 

But  in  vain  his  banner  blazed. 
Reding  drew  his  sword  in  vain. 

"  Where  our  conquering  fathers  died, 

Where  their  awful  bones  repose. 
Thrice  the  battle's  fate  he  tried. 

Thrice  o'erthrew  his  country's  foes.f 
"  Happy  then  were  those  who  fell 

Fighting  on  their  father's  graves  ! 
Wretched  those  who  lived  to  tell 

Treason  made  the  victors  slaves  !| 

*  Brunnen,  at  the  fool  of  the  mountains,  on  the  bordere 
of  the  Lake  of  Uri,  where  the  first  Swiss  patriots,  Wallet 
Furst  of  Uri,  Werner  Stauffacher  of  Schwilz,  and  Arnold 
of  Melchtal  in  Underwalden,  conspired  against  the  ty- 
ranny of  Austria  in  1307,  again  in  1798,  became  the  seat 
of  the  diet  of  these  three  forest  cantons. 

t  On  the  plains  of  Morgarthen,  where  the  Swiss  gained 
their  first  decisive  victory  over  the  force  of  Austria,  and 
thereby  secured  the  independence  of  their  country ;  Aloys 
Reding,  at  the  head  of  the  troops  of  the  little  cantons,  Uri, 
Schwilz,  and  Underwalden,  repeatedly  repulsed  the 
invading  army  of  France. 

t  By  the  resistance  of  these  small  cantons,  the  French 
General  Schawenbourg  was  compelled  to  respect  their 
independence,  and  gave  them  a  solemn  pledge  to  that 


THE    WANDERER    OF    SWITZERLAND. 


5i5 


"  Thus  my  country's  life  retired, 
Slowly  driven  from  part  to  part ; 

Underwalden  last  expired, 
Underwalden  was  the  heart.* 

"  In  the  valley  of  their  birth, 

Where  our  guardian  mountains  stand ; 
In  the  eye  of  heaven  and  earth. 

Met  the  warriors  of  our  land. 

"  Like  their  sires  in  olden  time, 
Arm'd  they  met  in  stern  debate ; 

While  in  every  breast  sublime 
Glow'd  the  spirit  of  the  state. 

"  Gallia's  menace  fired  their  blood : 
With  one  heart  and  voice  they  rose ; 

Hand  in  hand  the  heroes  stood, 
And  defied  their  faithless  foes. 

"  Then  to  heaven,  in  calm  despair. 
As  they  lurn'd  the  tearless  eye, 

By  their  countrj'-'s  wrongs  they  sware 
With  their  country's  rights  to  die. 

"  Albert  from  the  council  came — 

(My  poor  daughter  was  his  wife  ; 
All  the  valley  loved  his  name  ; 

Albert  was  my  staff  of  life.) 
"From  the  council  field  he  came: 

All  his  noble  visage  burn'd  ; 
At  his  look  I  caught  the  flame ; 

At  his  voice  my  youth  return'd. 
"  Fire  from  heaven  my  heart  renew'd, 

Vigour  beat  through  every  vein  ; 
All  the  powers,  that  age  had  hew'd, 

Started  into  strength  again. 
"  Sudden  from  my  couch  I  sprang. 

Every  limb  to  life  restored ; 
With  the  bound  my  cottage  rang, 

As  I  snatch'd  my  fathers'  sword. 
'  This  the  weapon  they  did  wield 

On  Morgarthen's  dreadful  day; 
And  through  Sempach'sf  iron  field 

This  the  ploughshare  of  their  way. 
"  Then,  my  spouse  !  in  vain  thy  fears 

Strove  my  fury  to  restrain  ; 
O  my  daughter  !  all  thy  tears. 

All  thy  children's,  were  in  vain. 


purport ;  but  no  sooner  had  they  disarmed,  on  the  faith  of 
this  engagement,  than  the  enemy  came  suddenly  upon 
them  with  an  immense  force ;  and  with  threats  of  exter- 
mination compelled  them  to  take  the  civic  oath  to  the 
new  constitution,  imposed  upon  all  Switzerland. 

*  The  inhabitants  of  the  lower  valley  of  Underwalden 
alone  resisted  the  French  message,  which  required  sub- 
mission to  the  new  constitution,  and  the  immediate  sur- 
render, alive  or  dead,  of  nine  of  their  leaders.  When  the 
demand,  accompanied  by  a  menace  of  destruction,  was 
read  in  the  assembly  of  the  district,  all  the  men  of  the 
valley,  fifteen  hundred  in  number,  took  up  arms,  and 
devaed  themselves  to  perish  in  the  ruins  of  their  country. 

t  At  the  battle  of  Sempach,  the  Austrians  presented  so 
impenetrable  a  front  wiih  their  projected  spears,  that  the 
Swiss  were  repeatedly  compelled  to  retire  from  the  attack, 
till  a  native  of  Underwalden, named  Arnold  de  Winkelried, 
commending  his  family  to  his  countrymen,  sprung  upon 
the  enemy,  and  burying  as  many  of  their  spears  as  he 
could  grasp  in  his  body,  made  a  breach  in  their  line;  the 
Swiss  mshed  in,  and  routed  the  Austrians  with  a  terrible 
slaughter. 


"  Quickly  from  our  hastening  foes, 
Albert's  active  care  removed, 

Far  amidst  th'  eternal  snows. 
Those  who  loved  us, — those  beloved.* 

«  Then  our  cottage  we  forsook  ; 

Yet  as  down  the  steeps  we  pass'd. 
Many  an  agonizing  look 

Homeward  o'er  the  hills  we  cast. 

"  Now  we  reach'd  the  nether  glen, 
Where  in  arms  our  brethren  lay ; 

Thrice  five  hundred  fearless  men. 
Men  of  adamant  were  they  ! 

"  Nature's  bulwarks,  built  by  time, 

'Gainst  eternity  to  stand, 
Mountains,  terribly  sublime. 

Girt  the  camp  on  either  hand. 

"  Dim  behind,  the  valley  brake 
Into  rocks  that  fled  from  view; 

Fair  in  front  the  gleaming  lake 
Roll'd  its  waters  bright  and  blue. 

*'  Midst  the  hamlets  of  the  dale, 

StantZjt  with  simple  grandeur  crown'd, 

Seem'd  the  mother  of  the  vale, 
With  her  children  scatter'd  round. 

"  Midst  the  ruins  of  the  dale 

Now  she  bows  her  hoary  head, 
Like  the  widow  of  the  vale 

Weeping  o'er  her  children  dead. 
"  Happier  then  had  been  her  fate. 

Ere  she  fell  by  such  a  foe, 
Had  an  earthquake  sunk  her  state, 

Or  the  lightning  laid  her  low  !" 

SHEPHERD. 

"  By  the  lightning's  deadly  flash 

Would  her  foes  had  been  consumed ! 

Or  amidst  the  earthquake's  crash 
Suddenly,  alive,  entomb'd  ? 

"  Why  did  justice  not  prevail .?" 


«*Ah 


WANDERER. 

it  was  not  thus  to  be  !" 


SHEPHERD. 

Man  of  grief !  pursue  thy  tale 
To  the  death  of  liberty." 


PART   m. 

.The  Wanderer  continues  his  narrative,  and  describe*  the 
battle  and  massacre  of  Underwalden. 

WANDERER. 

"  From  the  valley  we  descried, 

As  the  Gauls  approach'd  our  shores, 

Keels  that  darken'd  all  the  tide. 
Tempesting  the  lake  with  oars. 


*  Many  of  the  Underwalders,  on  the  approach  of  the 
French  army,  removed  their  families  and  cattle  among 
the  higher  Alps ;  and  themselves  returned  to  join  their 
brethren,  who  had  encamped  in  their  native  valley,  on  tha 
borders  of  the  lake,  and  awaited  the  attack  of  the  enemy 

t  The  capital  of  Underwalden. 


576 


MONTGOMERY. 


**  Then  the  mountain  echoes  rang 
With  the  clangour  of  alarms  : 

Shrill  the  signal  trumpet  sang ; 
All  our  warriors  leapt  to  arms. 

"  On  the  margin  of  the  flood, 

While  the  frantic  foe  drew  nigh, 

Grim  as  watching  wolves  we  stood, 
Prompt  as  eagles  stretch'd  to  fly. 

"  In  a  deluge  upon  land 

Burst  their  overwhelming  might ; 
Back  we  hurl'd  them  from  the  strand, 

Oft  returning  to  the  fight. 

"  Fierce  and  long  the  combat  held — 
Till  the  waves  were  warm  with  blood, 

Till  the  booming  waters  swell'd 
As  they  sank  beneath  the  flood.* 

"  For  on  that  triumphant  day 
Underwalden's  arms  once  more 

Broke  oppression's  black  array, 
Dash'd  invasion  from  her  shore. 

"  Gaul's  surviving  barks  retired, 
Muttering  vengeance  as  they  fled  ; 

Hope  in  us,  by  conquest  fired, 
Raised  our  spirits  from  the  dead. 

«  From  the  dead  our  spirits  rose. 
To  the  dead  they  sonn  returned  ; 

Bright,  on  its  eternal  close, 
Underwalden's  glory  burn'd. 

"  Star  of  Switzerland  !  whose  raj'S 
Shed  such  sweet  expiring  light. 

Ere  the  Gallic  comet's  blaze 
Swept  thy  beauty  into  night  :— 

"Star  of  Switzerland !  thy  fame 
No  recording  bard  hath  sung ; 

Yet  be  thine  immortal  name 
Inspiration  to  my  tongue  If 

«  While  the  lingering  moon  delay'd 

In  the  wilderness  of  night, 
Ere  the  morn  awoke  the  shade 

Into  loveliness  and  light : — 

"  Gallia's  tigers,  wild  for  blood. 

Darted  on  our  sleeping  fold : 
Down  the  mountains,  o'er  the  flood. 

Dark  as  thunder  clouds  they  roU'd. 

*  By  the  trumpet's  voice  alarm 'd, 

All  the  valley  burst  awake ; 
All  were  in  a  moment  arm'd. 

From  the  barriers  to  the  lake. 


*  The  French  made  their  first  attack  on  the  valley  of 
Underwalden  from  the  lake:  but,  after  a  desperate  con- 
flict, they  were  victoriously  repelled,  and  two  of  their 
vessels,  containing  five  hundred  men,  perished  in  the  en- 
gagement. 

1  In  the  last  and  decisive  battle,  the  Underwalders 
were  overpowered  by  two  French  armies,  which  rushed 
upon  them  from  the  opposite  mountains,  and  surrounded 
their  camp,  while  an  assault,  at  the  same  time,  was  made 
upon  them  from  the  lake. 


"  In  that  valley,  on  that  shore. 

When  the  graves  give  up  their  dead. 

At  the  trumpet's  voice  once  more 
Shall  those  slumberers  quit  their  bed 

«  For  the  glen  that  gave  them  birth 
Hides  their  ashes  in  its  womb : 

0  !  'tis  venerable  earth. 

Freedom's  cradle,  freedom's  tomb. 

"  Then  on  every  side  begun 

That  unutterable  fight ; 
Never  rose  th'  astonish'd  sun 

On  so  horrible  a  sight. 

"  Once  an  eagle  of  the  rock 

('Twas  an  omen  of  our  fate) 
Stoop'd,  and  from  my  scatter'd  flock 

Bore  a  lambkin  to  his  mate. 

"  While  the  parents  fed  their  young, 

Lo  !  a  cloud  of  vultures  lean. 
By  voracious  famine  stung, 

Wildly  screaming,  rush'd  between. 

«  Fiercely  fought  the  eagle-twain. 
Though  by  multitudes  opprest, 

Till  their  little  ones  were  slain, 
Till  they  perish 'd  on  their  nest. 

•  More  unequal  was  the  fray 
Which  our  band  of  brethren  waged  ; 

More  insatiate  o'er  their  pre}' 

Gaul's  remorseless  vultures  raged. 

"  In  innumerable  waves, 

Swoln  with  fury,  grim  with  blood. 
Headlong  roll'd  the  hordes  of  slaves, 

And  ingulf'd  us  with  a  flood. 

"  In  the  whirlpool  of  that  flood. 

Firm  in  fortitude  divine. 
Like  th'  eternal  rocks  we  stood. 

In  the  cataract  of  the  Rhine.* 

«  Till  by  tenfold  force  assail'd. 

In  a  hurricane  of  fire, 
When  at  length  our  phalanx  fail'd. 

Then  our  courage  blazed  the  higher. 

"  Broken  into  feeble  bands. 

Fighting  in  dissever'd  parts. 
Weak  and  weaker  grew  our  hands, 

Strong  and  stronger  still  our  hearts. 

"  Fierce  amid  the  loud  alarms, 
Shouting  in  the  foremost  fra}'. 

Children  raised  their  little  arms 
In  their  country's  evil  day. 

"  On  their  country's  dying  bed. 

Wives  and  husbands  pour'd  their  breath  j 
Many  a  youth  and  maiden  bled. 

Married  at  thine  altar,  Death.f 


♦  At  Schaffhausen,— See  Coxe's  Travels. 

t  In  this  miserable  conflict,  many  of  the  women  and 
children  of  the  Underwalders  fought  in  the  ranks  by  their 
husbands,  and  fathers,  and  friends,  and  fell  gloriously  for 
their  country. 


THE    WANDERER   OF    SWITZERLAND. 


577 


"  Wildly  scatter'd  o'er  the  plain, 
Bloodier  still  the  battle  grew ; — 

0  ye  spirits  of  the  slain, 

Slain  on  those  your  prowess  slew : 

"  Who  shall  now  your  deeds  relate  ? 

Ye  that  fell  unwept,  unknown ; 
Mourning  for  your  country's  fate, 
ut  rejoicing  in  your  own. 

"  Virtue,  valour,  naught  avail'd 

With  so  merciless  a  foe ; 
When  the  nerves  of  heroes  fail'd, 

Cowards  then  could  strike  a  blow. 

"  Cold  and  keen  th'  assassin's  blade 
Smote  the  father  to  the  ground ; 

Through  the  infant's  breast  convey'd 
To  the  mother's  heart  a  wound.* 

**  Underwalden  thus  expired  ; 

But  at  her  expiring  flame, 
With  fraternal  feeling  fired, 

Lo,  a  band  of  Switzers  came.f 

"  From  the  steeps  beyond  the  lake. 
Like  a  winter's  weight  of  snow. 

When  the  huge  lavanges  break, 
Devastating  all  below^ 

"  Down  they  rush'd  with  headlong  might, 
Swifter  than  the  panting  wind  ; 

All  before  them  fear  and  flight, 
Death  and  silence  all  behind. 

**  How  the  forest  of  the  foe 

Bow'd  before  the  thunder  strokes. 

When  they  laid  the  cedars  low, 
When  they  overwhelm'd  the  oaks. 

"Thus  they  hew'd  their  dreadful  way; 

Till,  by  numbers  forced  to  yield. 
Terrible  in  death  they  lay. 

The  AVENGERS  OF  THE  FIELD." 


PART    IV. 

The  Wanderer  relates  the  circumstances  attending  the 
death  of  Alberu 

*  SHEPHERD. 

"  Pledge  the  memory  of  the  brave, 

And  the  spirits  of  the  dead ; 
Pledge  the  venerable  grave. 

Valour's  consecrated  bed. 

«  Wanderer,  cheer  thy  drooping  soul, 

This  inspiring  goblet  take  ; 
Drain  the  deep  delicious  bowl, 

For  thy  martyr'd  brethren's  sake. 


*  An  indiscriminate  massacre  followed  the  battle. 

t  Two  hundred  self-devoted  heroes  from  the  canton  of 
Switz  arrived,  at  the  close  of  the  battle,  to  the  aid  of  their 
brethren  of  Underwalden ;  and  perished  to  a  man,  after 
having  slain  thrice  their  number. 

t  The  lavanges  are  tremendous  •. jrrents  of  melting  snow 
that  tumble  from  the  tops  of  the  Alps,  and  deluge  all  the 
country  before  them. 

Vol.  III.— 87 


wanderer. 
«  Hail ! — all  hail !  the  patriot's  grave. 

Valour's  venerable  bed : 
Hail !  the  memory  of  the  brave. 

Hail !  the  spirits  of  the  dead. 

"  Time  their  triumphs  shall  proclaim. 
And  their  rich  reward  be  this, — 

Immortality  of  famo. 
Immortality  of  bliss." 

SHEPHERD. 

"  On  that  melancholy  plain. 

In  that  conflict  of  despair. 
How  was  noble  Albert  slain  ? 

How  didst  thou,  old  warrior,  fare  ?** 

WANDERER. 

"  In  the  agony  of  strife. 

Where  the  heart  of  battle  bled 

Where  his  country  lost  her  life. 
Glorious  Albert  bow'd  his  head. 

"  When  our  phalanx  broke  away, 
And  our  stoutest  soldiers  fell, 

Where  the  dark  rocks  diram'd  the  day, 
Scowling  o'er  the  deepest  dell ; 

"  There,  like  lions  old  in  blood, 
Lions  rallying  round  their  den, 

Albert  and  his  warriors  stood ; 
We  were  few,  but  we  were  men. 

"  Breast  to  breast  we  fought  the  ground, 
Arm  to  arm  repell'd  the  foe ; 

Every  motion  was  a  wound. 
And  a  death  tvas  every  blow. 

"  Thus  the  clouds  of  sunset  beam 
Warmer  with  expiring  light ; 

Thus  autumnal  meteors  stream 

Redder  through  the  darkening  night 

"  Miracles  our  champions  wrought — 
Who  their  dying  deeds  shall  tell ! 

O  how  gloriously  they  fought ! 
How  triumphantly  they  fell  I 

"  One  by  one  gave  up  the  ghost. 

Slain,  not  conquer'd, — they  died  free. 

Albert  stood, — himself  a  host: 
Last  of  all  the  Swiss  was  he. 

"  So,  when  night  with  rising  shade 
Climbs  the  Alps  from  steep  to  steep 

Till,  in  hoary  gloom  array 'd, 
All  the  giant  mountains  sleep  ; 

*'  High  in  heaven  their  monarch*  stands, 
Bright  and  beauteous  from  afar. 

Shining  unto  distant  lands 
Like  a  new-created  star. 


•  IMont  Blanc ;  which  is  so  much  higher  than  the  sur- 
rounding Alps,  that  it  catches  and  retains  the  beams  of 
the  sun  twenty  minutes  esirVier  and  later  than  they,  and, 
crowned  with  eternal  ice,  may  be  seen  from  an  immense 
distance  purpling  with  his  eastern  light,  or  crimsoned 
with  his  setting  glory  while  mist  and  obscurity  rest  on  the 
mountains  below. 


678 


MONTGOMERY. 


«*  While  I  struggled  through  the  fight, 
Albert  was  my  sword  and  shield ; 

Till  strange  horror  quench'd  my  sight, 
And  I  fainted  on  the  field. 

«'  Slow  awakening  from  that  trance, 
When  my  soul  return'd  to  day, 

Vanish'd  were  the  fiends  of  France, — 
But  in  Albert's  blood  I  lay. 

**  Slain  for  me,  his  dearest  breath 

On  my  lips  he  did  resign ; 
Slain  for  me,  he  snatch'd  his  death 

From  the  blow  that  menaced  mine. 

"  He  had  raised  his  dying  head. 

And  was  gazing  on  my  face ; 
As  I  woke,— the  spirit  fled. 

But  I  felt  his  last  embrace." 

SHEPHERD. 

"  Man  of  suffering !  such  a  tale 
Would  bring  tears  from  marble  eyes  !" 

WANDERER. 

"  Ha !  my  daughter's  cheek  grows  pale  !" 

wanderer's  wife. 
"  Help  !  0  help  !  my  daughter  dies  !'* 

wanderer. 
**  Calm  thy  transports,  O  my  wife  ! 
Peace !  for  these  dear  orphans'  sake  !" 

wanderer's  wife. 
"  0  my  joy,  my  hope,  my  life, 
0  my  child,  my  child,  awake  !'* 

wanderer. 
"  God !  0  God,  whose  goodness  gives ; 
God  !  whose  wisdom  takes  away — 
Spare  my  cl^ild." 

SHEPHERD. 

"  She  lives,  she  lives  I" 

WANDERER. 

"  Lives  ? — my  daughter,  didst  thou  say .? 

"  God  Almighty,  on  my  knees. 

In  the  dust  will  I  adore 
Thine  unsearchable  decrees ; 

— She  was  dead : — she  lives  once  more.*' 

wanderer's   DAUGHTER. 

"  When  poor  Albert  died,  no  prayer 

Call'd  him  back  to  hated  life : 
0  that  I  had  perish'd  there. 

Not  his  widow,  but  his  wife  !" 

WANDERER. 

"Dare  my  daughter  thus  repine ? 

Albert,  answer  from  above ; 
Tell  me, — are  these  infants  thine. 

Whom  their  mother  does  not  love .'" 

wanderer's    DAUGHTER. 

"  Does  not  love  ! — my  father,  hear ; 

Hear  me,  or  my  heart  will  break  ; 
Dear  is  life,  but  only  dear 

For  my  parents',  children's  sake. 


"Bow'd  to  Heaven's  mysterious  will, 

I  am  worthy  yet  of  you ; 
Yes  ! — I  am  a  mother  still. 

Though  I  feel  a  widow,  too." 

WANDERER. 

"  Mother,  widow,  mourner,  all, 
All  kind  names  in  one, — my  child; 

On  thy  faithful  neck  I  fall ; 
Kiss  me, — are  we  reconciled  ?" 

wanderer's   DAUGHTER. 

"  Yes,  to  Albert  I  appeal : 
Albert,  answer  from  above. 

That  my  father's  breast  may  feel 
All  hi?  daughter's  heart  of  love." 

shepherd's  wife. 
"  Faint  and  wayworn  as  they  be 

With  the  day's  long  journey,  sire. 
Let  thy  pilgrim  family 

Now  with  me  to  rest  retire." 

WANDERER. 

"  Yes,  the  hour  invites  to  sleep ; 

Till  the  morrow  we  must  part:— 
Nay,  my  daughter,  do  not  weep, 

Do  not  weep  and  break  my  heart. 

*'  Sorrow-soothing  sweet  repose 
On  your  peaceful  pillows  light; 

Angel  hands  your  eyelids  close — 
Dream  of  Paradise  to-night." 


PART    V. 

The  Wanderer,  being  left  alone  with  the  shepherd,  relatef 
his  adventures  after  the  battle  of  Underwalden. 

SHEPHERD. 

«  When  the  good  man  yields  his  breath, 

(For  the  good  man  never  dies,) 
Bright,  beyond  the  gulf  of  death, 

Lo  !  the  land  of  promise  lies. 

"Peace  to  Albcit's  awful  shade. 
In  that  land  where  sorrows  cease; 

And  to  Albert's  ashes,  laid  • 

In  the  earth's  cold  bosom,  peace." 

WANDEllER. 

«  On  the  fatal  field  I  lay, 

Till  the  hour  when  twilight  pale. 

Like  the  ghost  of  dying  day, 

Wander'd  down  the  darkening  vale. 

"  Then  in  agony  I  rose. 

And  with  horror  look'd  around. 
Where,  embracing  friends  and  foes, 

Dead  and  dying,  strew'd  the  ground, 

"  Many  a  widow  fix'd  her  eye. 
Weeping,  where  her  husband  bled. 

Heedless,  though  her  babe  was  by, 
Prattling  to  his  father  de?d 


THE    WANDERER    OF    SWITZERLAND. 


579 


"  Many  a  mother,  in  despair, 
Turning  up  the  ghastly  slain. 

Sought  her  son,  her  hero  there. 
Whom  she  long'd  to  seek  in  vain. 

**  Dark  the  evening  shadows  roll'd 
On  the  eye  that  gleam 'd  in  death ; 

And  the  evening  dews  fell  cold 
On  the  lip  that  gasp'd  for  breath. 

"  As  I  gazed,  an  ancient  dame, 
— She  was  childless  by  her  look, — 

With  refreshing  cordials  came  ; 
Of  her  bounty  I  partook.         / 

«  Then,  with  desperation  bold, 
Albert's  precious  corpse  I  bore 

On  these  shoulders  weak  and  old, 
Bow'd  with  misery  before. 

"Albert's  angel  gave  me  strength. 
As  I  stagger'd  down  the  glen  ; 

And  I  hid  my  charge  at  length 
In  its  wildest,  deepest  den. 

"  Then,  returning  through  the  shade 
To  the  battle  scene,  I  sought, 

'Mongst  the  slain,  an  axe  and  spade ; 
With  such  weapons  freemew  fought. 

**  Scythes  for  swords  our  youth  did  wield. 

In  that  execrable  strife  : 
Ploughshares  in  that  horrid  field 

Bled  with  slaughter,  breathed  with  life. 

**  In  a  dark  and  lonely  cave, 

While  the  glimmering  moon  arose. 

Thus  I  dug  my  Albert's  grave  ; 
There  his  hallow'd  limbs  repose. 

"  Tears  then,  tears  too  long  represt, 
Gush'd: — they  fell  like  healing  balm, 

Till  the  whirlwind  in  my  breast 
Died  into  a  dreary  calm, 

**  On  the  fresh  earth's  humid  bed. 
Where  my  martyr  lay  enshrined, 

Tfiis  forlorn,  unhappy  head. 

Crazed  with  anguish,  I  reclined. 

"  But  while  o'er  my  weary  eyes 
Soothing  slumbers  seem'd  to  creep. 

Forth  I  sprang,  with  strange  surprise. 
From  the  clasping  arms  of  sleep. 

"  For  the  bones  of  Albert  dead 

Heaved  the  turf  with  horrid  throes. 

And  his  grave  beneath  my  head. 
Burst  asunder ; — Albert  rose ! 

** '  Ha  !  my  son — my  son,'  I  cried, 

*  Wherefore  hast  thou  left  thy  grave  ?' 
*  Fly,  my  father,'  he  replied  ; 

*  Save  my  wife — my  children  save.* 

**  In  the  passing  of  a  breath 

This  tremendous  scene  was  o'er : 

Darkness  shut  the  gates  of  death. 
Silence  seal'd  them  as  before. 


"One  pale  moment  fix'd  I  stood 

In  astonishment  severe ; 
Horror  petrified  my  blood, — 

I  was  wither 'd  up  with  fear. 

''Then  a  sudden  trembling  came 
O'er  my  limbs  ;  I  felt  on  fire, 

Burning,  quivering  like  a  flame 
In  the  instant  to  expire." 

SHEPHERD. 

"  Rather  like  the  mountain  oak, 
Tempest-shaken,  rooted  fast. 

Grasping  strength  from  every  stroke. 
While  it  wrestles  with  the  blast.** 

WANDERER. 

"  Ay  ! — my  heart,  unwont  to  yield. 
Quickly  quell'd  the  strange  affright. 

And  undaunted  o'er  the  field 
I  began  my  lonely  flight. 

'*  Loud  the  gusty  night-wind  blew. 
Many  an  awful  pause  between. 

Fits  of  light  and  darkness  flew. 
Wild  and  sudden  o'er  the  scene. 

«  For  the  moon's  resplendent  eye 
Gleams  of  transient  glory  shed ; 

And  the  clouds,  athwart  the  sky 
Like  a  routed  army,  fled. 

"  Sounds  and  voices  fill'd  the  vale. 
Heard  alternate  loud  and  low ; 

Shouts  of  victory  swell'd  the  gale. 
But  the  breezes  murmur'd  wo. 

"  As  I  climb'd  the  mountain's  side, 
W^hSk-e  the  lake  and  valley  meet. 

All  my  country's  power  and  pride 
Lay  in  ruins  at  my  feet. 

"  On  that  grim  and  ghastly  plain 
Underwalden's  heart-strings  broke. 

When  she  saw  her  heroes  slain. 
And  her  rocks  receive  the  yoke. 

"  On  that  plain,  in  childhood's  houi^. 
From  their  mother's  arms  set  free. 

Oft  those  heroes  gather'd  flowers, 
Often  chased  the  wandering  bee. 

"  On  that  plain,  in  rosy  youth. 

They  had  fed  their  father's  flocks, 
Told  their  love,  and  pledged  their  truth, 

In  the  shadow  of  those  rocks. 

«  There,  with  shepherd's  pipe  and  son^, 
In  the  merry  mingling  dance. 

Once  they  led  their  brides  along. 

Now  I Perdition  seize  thee,  France 

SHEPHERD. 

"  Heard  not  Heaven  th'  accusing  cries 
Of  the  blood  that  smoked  around, 

W^hile  the  life-warm  sacrifice 
Palpitated  on  the  ground  ?" 


580 


MONTGOMERY. 


WANDERER. 

"Wrath  in  silence  heaps  his  store, 
To  confound  the  guilty  foe ; 

But  the  thunder  will  not  roar 

Till  the  flash  has  struck  the  blow. 

"  Vengeance,  vengeance  will  not  stay : 
It  shall  burst  on  Gallia's  head, 

Sudden  as  the  judgment-day 
To  the  unexpecting  dead. 

"  From  the  Revolution's  flood 

Shall  a  fiery  dragon  start ; 
He  shall  drink  his  mother's  blood, 

He  shall  eat  his  father's  heart. 

"  Nurst  by  anarchy  and  crime, 

He but  distance  mocks  my  sight, 

0  thou  great  avenger,  Time  ! 

Bring  thy  strangest  birth  to  light." 

SHEPHERD. 

"  Prophet !  thou  hast  spoken  well, 
And  I  deem  thy  words  divine: 

Now  the  mournful  sequel  tell 

Of  thy  country's  woes  and  thine." 

WANDERER. 

"Though  the  moon's  bewilder'd  bark, 
By  the  midnight  tempest  tost, 

In  a  sea  of  vapours  dark, 
In  a  gulf  of  clouds  was  lost ; 

"  Still  my  journey  I  pursued, 
Climbing  many  a  weary  steep, 

Whence  the  closing  scene  I  view'd 
With  an  eye  that  could  not  weep. 

"  Stantz — a  melancholy  pyre — 
And  her  hamlets  blazed  behind, 

With  ten  thousand  tongues  of  fire 
Writhing,  raging  in  the  wind.* 

"  Flaming  piles,  where'er  I  turn'd. 
Cast  a  grim  and  dreadful  light ; 

Like  funereal  lamps  they  burn'd 
In  the  sepulchre  of  night ; 

"  While  the  red  illumined  flood. 
With  a  hoarse  and  hollow  roar, 

Seem'd  a  lake  of  living  blood, 
Wildly  weltering  on  the  shore. 

«  Midst  the  mountains  far  away 
Soon  I  spied  the  sacred  spot. 

Whence  a  slow  consuming  ray 
Glimmer'd  from  my  native  cot. 

"  At  the  sight  my  brain  was  fired. 
And  afresh  my  heart's  wounds  bled ; 

Still  I  gazed: the  spark  expired— 

Nature  seem'd  extinct : — I  fled. 


♦  The  town  of  Stantz,  and  the  surrounding  villages, 
were  burnt  by  the  French  on  the  night  after  the  battle  of 
Underwalden,  and  the  beautifv  valley  was  converted 
^to  a  wildernees. 


"  Fled ;  and,  ere  the  noon  of  day, 
Reach'd  the  lonely  goat-herd's  nest. 

Where  my  wife,  my  children  lay- 
Husband — father think  the  rest." 


PART    VI. 


The  Wanderer  inform^  the  shepherd  that,  after  the  i 
pie  of  many  of  his  countrymen  flying  from  the  tyranny 
of  France,  it  is  his  intention  to  settle  in  some  remote 
province  of  America. 

SHEPHERD. 

"  Wanderer,  whither  wouldst  thou  roam 

To  what  region  far  away 
Bend  thy  steps  to  find  a  home. 

In  the  twilight  of  thy  day  ?" 

WANDERER. 

'=  In  the  twilight  of  my  day, 

I  am  hastening  to  the  West ; 
There  my  weary  limbs  to  lay. 

Where  the  sun  retires  to  rest. 

"  Far  beyond  th'  Atlantic  floods, 
Stretch'd  beneath  the  evening  sky. 

Realms  of  mountains,  dark  with  woods 
In  Columbia's  bosom  lie. 

"  There,  in  glens  and  caverns  rude. 

Silent  since  the  world  began, 
Dwells  the  virgin  Solitude, 

Unbetray'd  by  faithless  man  ; 

*'  Where  a  tyrant  never  trod. 
Where  a  slave  was  never  known, 

But  where  Nature  worships  God 
In  the  wilderness  alone : 

"  — Thither,  thither  would  I  roam  ; 

There  my  children  may  be  free ; 
I  for  them  will  find  a  home, 

They  shall  find  a  grave  for  me. 

"  Though  my  fathers'  bones  afar 

In  their  native  land  repose, 
Yet  beneath  the  twilight  star 

Soft  on  mine  the  turf  shall  close. 

"  Though  the  mould  that  wraps  my  clay 

When  this  storm  of  life  is  o'er, 
Never  since  creation  lay 

On  a  human  breast  before ; — 

"  Yet  in  sweet  communion  there, 

When  she  follows  to  the  dead. 
Shall  my  bosom's  partner  share 

Her  poor  husband's  lowly  bed. 

"  Albert's  babes  shall  deck  our  grave 
And  my  daughter's  duteous  tears 

Bid  the  flowery  verdure  wave 

Through  the  winter  waste  of  years  * 

SHEPHERD. 

"  Long  before  thy  sun  descend. 

May  thy  woes  and  wanderings  ceas>e, 

Late  and  lovely  be  thine  end  ; 

Hope  and  triumph,  joy  and  peace ! 


THE    WANDERER    OF    SWITZERLAND. 


581 


**As  our  lakes,  at  day's  decline, 

Brighten  through  the  gathering  gloom, 

May  thy  latest  moments  shine 

Through  the  nightfall  of  the  tomb," 

WANDERER. 

"  Though  our  parents  perish'd  here, 

Like  the  phoenix  on  her  nest, 
Lo  !  new-fledged  her  wings  appear, 

Hovering  in  the  golden  West. 

"  Thither  shall  her  sons  repair, 

And  beyond  the  roaring  main 
Find  their  native  country  there. 

Find  their  Switzerland  again. 

"  Mountains,  can  ye  chain  the  will  ? 

Ocean,  canst  thou  quench  the  heart  i 
No;  I  feel  my  country  still, 

Liberty  !  where'er  thou  art. 

«  Thus  it  was  in  hoary  time. 

When  our  fathers  sallied  forth, 
Full  of  confidence  sublime, 

From  the  famine-wasted  North.* 

"'Freedom,  in  a  land  of  rocks 

Wild  as  Scandinavia,  give. 
Power  Eternal !  where  our  flocks 

And  our  little  ones  may  live.' 

"  Thus  they  pray'd ; a  sacred  hand 

Led  them  by  a  path  unknown. 
To  that  dear  delightful  land 

Which  I  yet  must  call  my  own. 

**  To  the  vale  of  Switz  they  came, 

Soon  their  meliorating  toil 
Gave  the  forests  to  the  flame. 

And  their  ashes  to  the  soil. 

'*  Thence  their  ardent  labours  spread, 

Till  above  the  mountain  snows 
Towering  beauty  show'd  her  head, 

And  a  new  creation  rose  ! 

"  So,  in  regions  wild  and  wide, 
W^e  will  pierce  the  savage  woods, 

Clothe  the  rocks  in  purple  pride. 
Plough  the  valleys,  tame  the  floods ; 

"  Till  a  beauteous  inland  isle. 

By  a  forest  sea  embraced. 
Shall  make  desolation  smile 

In  the  depth  of  his  own  waste. 

♦  There  is  a  tradition  among  the  Swiss,  that  they  are 
iescendedfrom  the  ancient  Scandinavians;  among  whom, 
in  a  remote  age,  there  arose  so  grievous  a  famine,  that  it 
was  determined  in  the  assembly  of  the  nation,  that  every 
•^nth  man  and  his  family  should  quit  their  country,  and 
seek  a  new  possession.  Six  thousand,  chosen  by  lot,  thus 
emigrated  at  once  from  the  North.  They  prayed  to  God 
to  conduct  them  to  a  land  like  their  own,  where  they 
asight  dwell  in  freedom  and  quiet,  finding  food  for  their 
families,  and  pasture  iot  their  cattle,  God,  says  the  tradi- 
tion, led  them  lo  a  valley  among  the  Alps,  where  they 
cleared  away  the  forests,  built  the  town  of  Switz,  and 
afterwards  peopled  and  cultivated  the  cantons  of  Uri  and 
(Jnderwalden. 


"  There,  unenvied  and  unknown. 
We  shall  dwell  secure  and  free. 

In  a  country  all  our  own. 
In  a  land  of  liberty." 

shepherd. 
"  Yet  the  woods,  the  rocks,  the  streams, 

Unbeloved,  shall  bring  to  mind. 
Warm  with  evening's  purple  beams. 

Dearer  objects  left  behind ; 

"  And  thy  native  country's  song, 

Caroll'd  in  a  foreign  clime, 
When  new  echoes  shall  prolong, — 

Simple,  tender,  and  sublime  ; 

*'  How  will  thy  poor  cheek  turn  pale, 
A.id,  before  thy  banish'd  eyes, 

Underwalden's  charming  vale 

And  thine  own  sweet  cottage  rise !" 

wanderer. 
"By  the  glorious  ghost  of  Tell  ; 

By  Mogarthen's  awful  fray  $ 
By  the  field  where  Albert  fell 

In  thy  last  and  bitter  day ; 

"  Soul  of  Switzerland,  arise  ! 

Ha!  the  spell  has  waked  tje  dt«4: 

From  her  ashes  to  the  skies 

Switzerland  exalts  her  head. 

"  See  the  queen  of  mountains  stand 

In  immortal  mail  complete. 
With  the  lightning  in  her  hand, 

And  the  Alps  beneath  her  feet. 

«  Hark !  her  voice : — '  My  sons,  awake : 
Freedom  dawns,  behold  the  day : 

From  the  bed  of  bondage  break, 
'Tis  your  mother  calls, — obey.' 

"  At  the  sound,  our  fathers'  graves, 

On  each  ancient  battle-plain. 
Utter  groans,  and  toss  like  waves 

When  the  wild  blast  sweeps  the  main. 

"  Rise,  my  brethren  !  cast  away 
All  the  chains  that  bind  you  slaves: 

Rise, — your  mother's  voice  obey. 
And  appease  your  fathers'  graves^ 

"  Strike ! — the  conflict  is  begun  ; 

Freemen,  soldiers,  follow  me. 
Shout !  the  victory  is  won, — 

Switzerland  and  liberty  !" 

shepherd. 

"  Warrior,  warrior,  stay  thine  arm  ! 
Sheathe,  0  sheathe  thy  frantic  sword!' 

WANDERER. 

"  Ah  !  I  rave — I  faint — the  charm 
Flies, and  memory  is  restored. 

"  Yes,  to  agony  restored 

From  the  too  transporting  charm  :— 
Sleep  for  ever,  O  my  sword  ! 

Be  thou  wither'd,  0  nine  arm ! 


582 


MONTGOMERY. 


"  Switzerland  is  but  a  name : 
Yet  I  feel,  where'er  I  roam, 

Tliat  my  heart  is  still  the  same, 
Switzerland  is  still  my  home.'* 


THE  GRAVE. 


There  is  a  calm  for  those  who  weep, 
A  rest  for  weary  pilgrims  foimd. 
They  softly  lie  and  sweetly  sleep 

Low  in  the  ground. 

The  storm  that  wrecks  the  winter  sky 
No  more  disturbs  their  deep  repose, 
Than  summer  evening's  latest  sigh 

That  shuts  the  rose. 

I  long  to  lay  this  painful  head 
And  aching  heart  beneath  the  soil, 
To  slumber  in  that  dreamless  bed 

From  all  my  toil. 

For  misery  stole  me  at  my  birth, 
And  cast  me  helpless  on  the  wild  : 
I  perish  ; — 0  my  mother  earth. 

Take  home  thy  child. 

On  thy  dear  lap  these  limbs  reclined. 
Shall  gently  moulder  into  thee  : 
Nor  leave  one  wretched  trace  behind 
Resembling  me. 

Hark  ! — a  strange  sound  affrights  mine  ear ; 
My  pulse, — my  brain  runs  wild, — I  rave; 
— Ah  !  who  art  thou  whose  voice  I  hear  ? 

^"  I  am  THE  GRAVE  !" 

"  The  GRAVE,  that  never  spake  before, 
Hath  found  at  length  a  tongue  to  chide  : 
0  listen  ! — I  will  speak  no  more  :— 
Be  silent,  pride  ! 

"  Art  thou  a  wretch  of  hope  forlorn. 
The  victim  of  consuming  care  ? 
Is  thy  distracted  conscience  torn 

By  fell  despair  ? 

"  Do  foul  misdeeds  of  former  times 
Wring  with  remorse  thy  guilty  breast  ? 
And  ghosts  of  unforgiven  crimes 

Murder  thy  rest ! 

«*Lash'd  by  the  furies  of  the  mind. 
From  wrath  and  vengeance  wouldst  thou  flee  ? 
Ah  !  think  not,  hope  not,  fool,  to  find 
A  friend  in  me. 

«  By  all  the  terrors  of  the  tomb, 
Beyond  the  power  of  tongue  to  tell ; 
By  the  dread  secrets  of  my  womb ; 

By  death  and  hell ; 

"  I  charge  thee  live  ! — repent  and  pray. 
In  dust  thine  infamy  deplore ; 
There  yet  is  mercy — go  thy  way. 

And  sin  no  more. 


•'  Art  thou  a  mourner  ? — Hast  thou  known 
The  joy  of  innocent  delights, 
Endearing  days  for  ever  flown. 

And  tranquil  nights  ? 

"  0  LIVE  ! — and  deeply  cherish  still 
The  sweet  remembrance  of  the  past : 
Rely  on  Heaven's  unchanging  will 

For  peace  at  last. 

"  Art  thou  a  wanderer  ? — Hast  thou  seen 
O'erwhelming  tempests  drown  thy  bark  ? 
A  shipwreck'd  sufferer,  hast  thou  been 
Misfortune's  mark  ? 

"  Though  long  of  winds  and  waves  the  sport, 
Condemn'd  in  wretchedness  to  roam. 
Live  ! — thou  shalt  reach  a  sheltering  port, 
A  quiet  home. 

"  To  FRIENDSHIP  didst  thou  trust  thy  fame, 
And  was  thy  friend  a  deadly  foe, 
Who  stole  into  thy  breast  to  aim 

A  surer  blow  ? 

"  Live  ! — and  repine  not  o'er  his  loss, 
A  loss  unworthy  to  be  told : 
Thou  hast  mistaken  sordid  dross 

For  friendship's  gold. 

"  Seek  the  true  treasure,  seldom  found. 
Of  power  the  fiercest  griefs  to  calm, 
And  soothe  the  bosom's  deepest  wound 

With  heavenly  balm. 

«  Did  woman's  charms  thy  youth  beguile, 
And  did  the  fair  one  faithless  prove  ? 
Hath  she  betray'd  thee  with  a  smile. 

And  sold  thy  love  ? 

"  Live  !     'Twas  a  false  bewildering  fire: 
Too  often  love's  insidious  dart 
Thrills  the  fond  soul  with  wild  desire. 
But  kills  the  heart. 

"  Thou  yet  shalt  know,  how  sweet,  how  deai 
To  gaze  on  listening  beauty's  eye ; 
To  ask, — and  pause  in  hope  and  fear 
Till  she  reply. 

«'  A  nobler  flame  shall  warm  thy  breast, 
A  brighter  maiden  faithful  prove ; 
Thy  youth,  thine  age,  shall  yet  be  blest 
In  woman's  love. 

«  — ^Whate'er  thy  lot, — whoe'er  thou  be,— 
Confess  thy  folly,  kiss  the  rod. 
And  in  thy  chastening  sorrows  see 

The  hand  of  God. 

*•  A  bruised  reed  he  will  not  break ; 
Afflictions  all  his  children  feel ; 
He  wounds  them  for  his  mercy's  sake. 
He  wounds  to  heal. 

"  Humbled  beneath  his  mighty  hand. 
Prostrate  his  providence  adore : 
'Tis  done  I — Arise  !  He  bids  thee  stand 
To  fall  no  more. 


ODE    TO    THE    VOLUNTEERS- OF    BRITAIN. 


583 


"  Now,  traveller  in  the  vale  of  tears, 
To  realms  of  everlasting  light. 
Through  time's  dark  wilderness  of  years, 
Pursue  thy  flight. 

**  There  is  a  calm  for  those  who  weep, 
A  rest  for  weary  pilgrims  found ; 
Aid  while  the  mouldering  ashes  sleep 
Low  in  the  ground, 

*'  The  soul,  of  origin  divine, 
God's  glorious  image,  freed  from  clay, 
In  heaven's  eternal  sphere  shall  shine 
A  star  of  day. 

"  The  SUN  is  but  a  spark  of  fire, 
A  transient  meteor  in  the  sky 
The  SOUL,  immortal  as  its  Sire, 

Shall  nevi:&  die." 


ODE  TO  THE  VOLUNTEERS  OF  BRITAIN, 

ON   THE   PROSPECT   OF   INVASION. 

0  FOR  the  death  of  those 
Who  for  their  country  die. 
Sink  on  her  bosom  to  repose, 
And  triumph  where  they  lie  ! 

How  beautiful  in  death 
The  warrior's  corpse  appears, 
Embalm'd  by  fond  affection's  breath, 
And  bathed  in  woman's  tears  ! 

Their  loveliest  native  earth 
Enshrines  the  fallen  brave  ; 
In  the  dear  land  that  gave  them  birth 
They  find  their  tranquil  grave. 

— But  the  wild  waves  shall  sweep 
Britannia's  foes  away. 
And  the  blue  monsters  of  the  deep 
Be  surfeited  with  prey. — 

No  ! — they  have  'scaped  the  waves, 
'Scaped  the  sea-monsters'  maws  ; 
They  come !  but  0,  shall  Gallic  slaves 
Give  English  freemen  laws  ? 

By  Alfred's  spirit,  No  ! 

— Ring,  ring  the  loud  alarms ; 

Ye  drums,  awake, — ye  clarions,  blow, 

Ye  heralds,  shout  "  To  arms  I" 

To  arms  our  heroes  fly ; 
And,  leading  on  their  lines. 
The  British  banner,  in  the  sky, 
The  star  of  conquest  shines. 

The  lowering  battle  forms 

Its  terrible  array ; 

Like  clashing  clouds  in  mountain  storms. 

That  thunder  on  their  way. 

The  rushing  armies  meet ; 
And  while  they  pour  their  breath. 
The  strong  earth  shudders  at  their  feet, 
The  day  grows  dim  with  death. 


—Ghosts  of  the  mighty  dead  ! 
Your  children's  hearts  inspire ; 
And  while  they  on  your  ashes  tread. 
Rekindle  all  your  fire. 

The  dead  to  life  return ; 

Our  fathers*  spirits  rise ; 

— My  brethren,  in  your  breasts  they  burn, 

They  sparkle  in  your  eyes. 

Now  launch  upon  the  foe 
The  lightning  of  your  rage  ; 
Strike,  strike  th'  assailing  giants  low. 
The  Titans  of  the  age. 

They  yield, — they  break, — they  fly, 

The  victory  is  won  ; 

Pursue  ! — they  faint — they  fall,-«-they  die— 

O  stay  ! — the  vrk  is  done. 

Spirit  of  vengefjice !  rest : 

Sweet  mercy  cries,  "  Forbear !" 

She  clasps  the  vanquish'd  to  her  breast ; 

Thou  wilt  not  pierce  them  there  ? 

— Thus  vanish  Britain's  foes 
From  her  consuming  eye  ; 
But  rich  be  the  reward  of  those 
Who  conquer, — those  who  die. 

O'ershadowing  laurels  deck 

The  living  hero's  brows  ; 

But  lovelier  wreaths  entwine  his  neck. 

His  children  and  his  spouse. 

Exulting  o'er  his  lot. 

The  dangers  he  has  braved, 

He  clasps  the  dear  ones,  hails  the  cot, 

Which  his  own  valour  saved. 

Daughters  of  Albion,  weep : 

On  this  triumphant  plain 

Your  fathers,  husbands,  brethren  sleep 

For  you  and  freedom  slain. 

O  gently  close  the  eye 
That  loved  to  look  on  you  ; 
0  seal  the  lip  whose  earliest  sigh, 
Whose  latest  breath  was  true  j 

With  knots  of  sweetest  flowers 

Their  wmding-sheet  perfume  ; 

And  wash  their  wounds  with  true-love  showen 

And  dress  them  for  the  tomb. 

For  beautiful  in  death 
The  warrior's  corpse  appears, 
Embalm'd  by  fond  affection's  breath, 
And  bathed  in  woman's  tears. 

— Give  me  the  death  of  those 
Who  for  their  country  die  ; 
And  O  be  mine  like  their  repose. 
When  cold  and  low  they  lie  ! 

Their  loveliest  mother  earth, 
Enshrines  the  fallen  brave ; 
In  her  sweet  lap  who  gave  them  birth 
They  find  their  tranquil  grave. 


684 


MONTGOMERY. 


HANNAH. 

At  fond  sixteen  my  roving  heart 
Was  pierced  by  love's  delightful  dart: 
Keen  transport  throbb'd  through  every  vein, 
— I  never  felt  so  sweet  a  pain .' 

Where  circling  woods  embower'd  the  glade, 
I  met  the  dear  romantic  maid  : 
I  stole  her  hand, — it  shrunk, — but  no ; 
I  would  not  let  my  captive  go. 

With  all  the  fervency  of  youth. 
While  passion  told  the  tale  of  truth, 
I  mark'd  my  Hannah's  downcast  eye, 
Twas  kind,  but  beautifully  shy. 

Not  with  a  warmer,  purer  ray. 
The  sun,  enamour 'd,  woos  young  May ; 
Nor  May,  with  softer  maiden  grace. 
Turns  from  the  sun  her  blushing  face  ; 

But,  swifter  than  the  frighted  dove. 
Fled  the  gay  morning  of  my  love  ; 
Ah  !  that  so  bright  a  morn,  so  soon, 
Should  vanish  in  so  dark  a  noon. 

The  angel  of  affliction  rose, 
And  in  his  grasp  a  thousand  woes ; 
He  pour'd  his  vial  on  my  head. 
And  all  the  heaven  of  rapture  fled. 

Yet,  in  the  glory  of  my  pride, 

I  stood, — and  all  his  wrath  defied ; 

I  stood, — though  whirlwinds  shook  my  brain. 

And  lightnings  cleft  my  soul  in  twain. 

I  shunn'd  my  nymph ; — and  knew  not  why 
I  durst  not  meet  her  gentle  eye  ; 
I  shunn'd  her — for  I  could  not  bear 
To  marry  her  to  my  despair. 

Yet,  sick  at  heart  with  hope  delay'd. 
Oft  the  dear  image  of  that  maid 
Glanced,  like  the  rainbow,  o'er  my  mind. 
And  promised  happiness  behind. 

The  storm  blew  o'er,  and  in  my  breast 
The  halcyon  peace  rebuilt  her  nest : 
The  storm  blew  o'er,  and  clear  and  inild 
The  sea  of  youth  and  pleasure  smiled. 

'Twas  on  a  merry  morn  of  May, 
To  Hannah's  cot  I  took  my  way : 
My  eager  hopes  were  on  the  wing. 
Like  swallows  sporting  in  the  spring. 

Then  as  I  climb'd  the  mountains  o'er, 
I  lived  my  wooing  days  once  more  ; 
And  fancy  sketch 'd  my  married  lot. 
My  wife,  my  children,  and  my  cot. 

I  saw  the  village  steeple  rise, — 
My  soul  sprang,  sparkling,  in  my  eyes  ; 
The  rural  bells  rang  sweet  and  clear, — 
My  fond  heart  listen'd  in  mine  ear. 

I  leach'd  the  hamlet: — all  was  gay; 
I  lo\e  a  rustic  holiday. 
1  met  a  wedding, — stepp'd  aside  ; 
It  pass'd — my  Hannah  was  the  bride. 


There  is  a  grief  that  cannot  feel ; 

It  leaves  a  wound  that  will  not  heal ; 

My  heart  grew  cold, — it  felt  not  then : 

When  shall  it  cease  to  feel  again  ? 


THE  OCEAN. 

WRITTEN    AT    SCARBOROUGH,  IN    THE    SUMMER    OT 

1805. 

All  hail  to  the  ruins,*  the  rocks  and  the  shores  I 

Thou  wide- rolling  ocean,  all  hail ! 

Now  brilliant  wAh  sunbeams,  and  dimpled  with  oars. 

Now  dark  with  the  fresh  blowing  gale. 

While  fift  o'er  thy  bosom  the  cloud  shadows  sail, 

And  the  silver-wing'd  sea-fowl  on  high. 

Like  meteors  bespangle  the  sky, 

Or  dive  in  the  gulf,  or  triumphantly  ride. 

Like  foam  on  the  surges,  the  swans  of  the  tide. 

From  the  tumult  and  smoke  of  the  city  set  free. 
With  eager  and  awful  delight; 
From  the  crest  of  the  mountain  I  gaze  upon  thee; 
I  gaze, — and  am  changed  at  the  sight ; 
For  mine  eye  is  illumined,  my  genijs  takes  flight. 
My  soul,  like  the  sun,  with  a  glance 
Embraces  the  boundless  expanse. 
And  moves  on  thy  waters,  wherever  they  roll. 
From  the  day-darting  zone  to  the  night-shadow'd 
pole. 

My  spirit  descends  where  xhe  day-spring  is  born. 

Where  the  billows  are  rubies  on  fire. 

And  the  breezes  that  rock  the  light  cradle  of  morr 

Are  sweet  as  the  phoenix's  pyre : 

0  regions  of  beauty,  of  love,  and  desire  ! 

0  gardens  of  Eden  !  in  vain 

Placed  far  on  the  fathomless  main. 

Where  nature  with  innocence  dwelt  in  her  youth, 

When  pure  was  her  heart,  and  unbroken  her  truth. 

But  now  the  fair  rivers  of  Paradise  wind 
Through  countries  and  kingdoms  o'erthrown ; 
Where  the  giant  of  tyranny  crushes  mankind. 
Where  he  reigns, — and  will  soon  reign  alone ; 
For  wide  and  more  wide,  o'er  the  sunbeaming  zone 
He  stretches  his  hundred-fold  arms, 
Despoiling,  destroying  its  charms  ; 
Beneath  his  broad  footstep  the  Ganges  is  dry. 
And  the  mountains  recoil  from  the  flash  of  his  eye. 

Thus  the  pestilent  Upas,  the  demon  of  trees. 
Its  boughs  o'er  the  wilderness  spreads. 
And  with  livid  contagion  polluting  the  breeze. 
Its  mildewing  influence  sheds : 
The  birds  on  the  wing,  and  the  flowers  in  their  tieds, 
Are  slain  by  its  venomous  breath. 
That  darkens  the  noonday  with  death. 
And  pale  ghosts  of  travellers  wander  around. 
While    their    mouldering    skeletons    whiten    the 
ground. 

Ah  !  why  hath  Jehovah,  in  forming  the  world. 

With  the  waters  divided  the  land, 

His  ramparts  of  rocks  round  the  continent  hurl'd. 

And  cradled  the  deep  in  his  hand. 

If  man  may  transgress  his  eternal  command. 


*  Scarborough  Castle. 


THE    OCEAN. 


585 


And  leap  o'er  the  bounds  of  his  birth. 

To  ravage  the  uttermost  earth, 

And  violate  nations  and  realms  that  should  be 

Distinct  as  the  billows,  yet  one  as  the  sea  ? 

There  are,  gloomy  ocean,  a  brotherless  clan, 

Who  traverse  thy  banishing  waves, 

The  poor  disinherited  outcasts  of  man, 

Whom  avarice  coins  into  slaves. 

From  the  homes  of  their  kindred,  their  forefathers' 

graves, 
Love,  friendship,  and  conjugal  bliss, 
They  are  dragg'd  on  the  hoary  abyss ; 
The  shark  hears  their  shrieks,  and  ascending  to-day. 
Demands  of  the  spoiler  his  share  of  the  prey. 

Then  joy  to  the  tempest  that  whelms  them  beneath, 
And  makes  their  destruction  its  sport ; 
But  wo  to  the  winds  that  propitiously  breathe. 
And  waft  them  in  safety  to  port. 
Where  the  vultures  and  vampires  of  Mammon  re- 
sort; 
Where  Europe  exultingly  drains 
The  life-blood  from  Africa's  veins  ; 
Where  man  rules  o'er  man  with  a  merciless  rod. 
And  spurns  at  his  footstool  the  image  of  God. 

The  hour  is  approaching — a  terrible  hour  ! 
And  Vengeance  is  bending  her  bow ; 
Already  the  clouds  of  the  hurricane  lower, 
And  the  rock-rending  whirlwinds  blow : 
Back  rolls  the  huge  ocean,  hell  opens  below: 
The  floods  return  headlong, — they  sweep 
The  slave-cultured  lands  to  the  deep. 
In  a  moment  entomb'd  in  the  horrible  void. 
By  their  Maker  himself  in  his  anger  destroy'd. 

Shall  this  be  the  fate  of  the  cane-planted  isles. 

More  lovely  than  clouds  in  the  west, 

When  the  sun  o'er  the  ocean  descending  in  smiles, 

Sinks  softly  and  sweetly  to  rest  ? 

—No  ! — Father  of  mercy  !  befriend  the  opprest ; 

At  the  voice  of  thy  gospel  of  peace 

May  the  sorrows  of  Africa  cease  ; 

And  slave  and  his  master  devoutly  unite 

To  walk  in  thy  freedom,  and  dwell  in  thy  light  !* 

As  homeward  my  wear3'-wing'd  fancy  extends, 

Her  star-lighted  course  through  the  skies. 

High  over  the  mighty  Atlantic  ascends. 

And  turns  upon  Europe  her  eyes  : 

Ah,  me  !  what  new  prospects,  new  horrors  arise  .' 

I  see  the  war-tempested  flood 

All  foaming,  and  panting  with  blood  ; 

The  panic-struck  ocean  in  agony  roars. 

Rebounds  from  the  battle,  and  flies  to  his  shores. 

For  Britannia  is  wielding  the  trident  to-day 
Consuming  her  foes  in  her  ire. 
And  hurling  her  thunder  with  absolute  sway 
From  her  wave-ruling  chariots  of  fire : 
-She  triumphs ; — the  winds  and  the  waters  con- 
spire. 
To  spread  her  invincible  name ; 
—The  universe  rings  with  her  fame ; 


♦  Alluding  to  the  glorious  successasf  the  Moravian  mis- 
ionaries  among  the  Negroes  in  the  West  Indies. 


— But  the  cries  of  the  fatherless  mix  with  he* 

praise. 
And  the  tears  of  the  widow  are  shed  on  her  bays. 

0  Britain  !  dear  Britain  !  the  land  of  my  birth : 
0  isle,  most  enchantingly  fair  ! 
Thou  pearl  of  the  ocean  !  thou  gem  of  the  earth ! 
O  my  mother  !  my  mother  !  beware ; 
For  wealth  is  a  phantom,  and  empire  a  snare ; 
0  let  not  thy  birthright  be  sold 
For  reprobate  glory  and  gold : 
Thy  distant  dominions  like  wild  graftings  shoot. 
They  weigh  down  thy  trunk, — they  will  tear  up 
thy  root : — 

The  root  of  thine  oak,  0  my  country !  that  stands 

Rock-planted  and  flourishing  free  ; 

Its  branches  are  stretch'd  o'er  the  uttermost  lands 

And  its  shadow  eclipses  the  sea : 

The  blood  of  our  ancestors  noiti.'jh'd  the  tree  ; 

From  their  tombs,  from  their  asices  it  sprung ; 

Its  boughs  with  their  trophies  are  hung ; 

Their  spirit  dwells  in  it: — and,  hark  !  for  it  spoke; 

The  voice  of  our  fathers  ascends  from  their  oak  :— 

"  Ye  Britonr.,  who  dwell  where  we  conquer'd  of  old, 

Who  inherit  our  battle-field  graves  ; 

Though  poor  were  your  fathers, — gigantic  and  bold, 

We  were  not,  we  could  not  be,  slaves ; 

But  firm  as  our  rocks,  and  as  free  as  our  waves. 

The  spears  of  the  Romans  we  broke, 

We  never  stoop'd  under  their  yoke  ; 

In  the  shipwreck  of  nations  we  stood  up  alone, — 

The  world  was  great  Caesar's — but  Britain  our  own. 

"  For  ages  and  ages,  with  barbarous  foes. 

The  Saxon,  Norwegian,  and  Gaul, 

We  wrestled,  were  foil'd,  were  cast  down,  but  we 

rose 
With  new  vigour,  new  life,  from  each  fall : 
By  all  we  were  conquer'd — We  conquer'd  them 

ALL. 

— The  cruel,  and  cannibal  mind, 

We  soften'd,  subdued,  and  refined*. 

Bears,  wolves,  and  sea-monsters,  they  rush'd  from 

their  den ; 
We  taught  them,  we  tamed  them,  we  turn'd  them 

to  men. 

"  Love  led  the  wild  hordes  in  his  flower-woven 

bands, 
The  tenderest,  strongest  of  chains  ; 
Love  married  our  hearts,  he  united  our  hands. 
And  mingled  the  blood  in  our  veins  ; 
One  race  we  became : — on  the  mountains  and  plains. 
Where  the  wounds  of  our  country  were  closed, 
The  ark  of  religion  reposed. 
The  unquenchable  altar  of  liberty  blazed, 
And  the  temple  of  justice  in  mercy  was  raised. 

"  Ark,  altar,  and  temple,  we  left  with  our  breath 

To  our  children,  a  sacred  bequest ; 

0  guard  them,  0  keep  them,  in  life  and  in  death.' 

So  the  shades  of  your  fathers  shall  rest, 

And  your  spirits  with  ours  be  in  Paradise  blest: 

— Let  ambition,  the  sin  of  the  brave. 

And  avarice,  the  soul  of  a  slave. 

No  longer  seduce  your  affections  to  roam 

From  liberty,  justice,  religion,  at  iioasE.'* 


586 


MONTGOMERY. 


THE  COMMON  LOT. 

The  weeping  minstrel  sings. 

And,  while  her  numbers  flow. 

Once  in  the  flight  of  ages  past, 

My  spirit  trembles  with  the  strings. 

There  lived  a  man  ; — and  who  was  he  ? 

Responsive  to  the  notes  of  wo. 

^Mortal  I  howe'er  thy  lot  be  cast, 

That  man  resembled  thee. 

Would  gladness  move  a  sprightlier  strain. 

And  wake  his  wild  harp's  clearest  tones. 

Unknown  the  region  of  his  birth. 

The  chords,  impatient  to  complain. 

The  land  in  which  he  died  unknown : 

Are  dumb,  or  only  utter  moans. 

His  name  has  perish'd  from  the  earth, 
This  truth  survives  alone : — 

And  yet,  to  soothe  the  mind 

With  luxury  of  grief. 

That  joy  and  grief,  and  hope  and  fear. 

The  soul  to  suffering  all  resign'd 

Alternate  triumph'd  in  his  breast: 

In  sorrow's  music  feels  relief. 

His  bliss  and  wo, — a  smile,  a  tear ! 

— Oblivion  hides  the  rest. 

Thus  o'er  the  light  jEolian  lyre 

The  winds  of  dark  November  stray, 

The  bounding  pulse,  the  languid  limb, 

Touch  the  quick  nerve  of  every  wire. 

The  changing  spirits'  rise  and  fall ; 

And  on  its  magic  pulses  play ; 

We  know  that  these  were  felt  by  him. 

For  these  are  felt  by  all. 

Till  all  the  air  around 

Mysterious  murmurs  fill. 

He  suffer'd,— but  his  pangs  are  o'er; 

A  strange  bewildering  dream  of  sound. 

Enjoy'd, — but  his  delights  are  fled  ; 

Most  heavenly  sweet, — yet  mournful  still 

Had  friends, — his  friends  are  now  no  more ; 

And  foes, — his  foes  are  dead. 

0  !  snatch  the  harp  from  Sorrow's  hand. 

Hope  !  who  hast  been  a  stranger  long ; 

He  loved, — but  whom  he  loved,  the  grave 

0  !  strike  it  with  sublime  command. 

Hath  lost  in  its  unconscious  womb  : 

And  be  the  poet's  life  thy  song. 

0  she  was  fair — but  naught  could  save 

Her  beauty  from  the  tomb. 

Of  vanish'd  troubles  sing. 

Of  fears  for  ever  fled. 

He  saw  whatever  thou  hast  seen  ; 

Of  flowers  that  hear  the  voice  of  spring. 

Encounter'd  all  that  troubles  thee ; 

And  burst  and  blossom  from  the  dead: 

He  was — whatever  thou  hast  been  ; 

He  is — what  thou  shall  be. 

Of  home,  contentment,  health,  repose. 

Serene  delights,  while  years  increase  ; 

The  rolling  seasons,  day  and  night. 

And  weary  life's  triumphant  close 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  the  earth  and  main. 

In  some  calm  sunset  hour  of  peace  ; 

Erewhile  his  portion,  life,  and  light, 

To  hira  exist  in  vain. 

Of  bliss  that  reigns  above, 

Celestial  May  of  youth, 

The  clouds  and  sunbeams,  o'er  his  eye 

Unchanging  as  Jehovah's  love. 

That  once  their  shades  and  glory  threw. 

And  everlasting  as  his  truth : 

Have  left  in  yonder  silent  sky 

No  vestige  where  they  flew. 

Sing,  heavenly  Hope  ! — and  dart  thine  hand 

O'er  my  frail  harp,  untuned  so  long ; 

The  annals  of  the  human  race. 

That  harp  shall  breathe,  at  thy  command. 

Their  ruins,  since  the  world  began, 

Immortal  sweetness  through  thy  song. 

Of  HIM  afford  no  other  trace 

Than  this, — There  lived  a  man  ! 

Ah !  then,  this  gloom  control. 

And  at  thy  voice  shall  start 

A  new  creation  in  my  soul, 

A  native  Eden  in  my  heart. 

THE  HARP   OF   SORROW. 

I  GAVE  my  harp  to  Sorrow's  hand. 

And  she  has  ruled  the  chords  so  long. 

POPE'S  WILLOW. 

They  will  not  speak  at  my  command  5 — 

They  warble  only  to  her  song. 

Verses  written  for  an  urn,  made  out  of  the  trunk  of  tho 

Of  dear,  departed  hours. 

weeping  willow,  imported  from  the  East,  and  planted  by 

Too  fondly  loved  to  last, 

Pope  in  his  grounds  at  Twickenham,  where  it  flourished 

The  dew,  the  breath,  the  bloom  of  flowers, 

many  years ;  but,  falling  into  decay,  it  was  lately  cut 

Snapt  in  their  freshness  by  the  blast: 

down. 

Oi  long,  long  years  of  future  care. 

Ere  Pope  resign'd  his  tuneful  breath, 

Till  lingering  nature  yields  her  breath. 

And  made  the  turf  his  pillow. 

And  endless  ages  of  despair. 

The  minstrel  hung  his  harp  in  death 

Beyond  the  judgment-day  of  death : — 

Upon  the  drooping  willow ; 

THE    DIAL. 


58? 


That  willow  !rom  Euphrates'  strand, 
Had  sprung  beneath  his  training  hand. 

Long  as  revolving  seasons  flew, 
From  youth  to  age  it  flourish'd ; 

By  vernal  winds  and  starlight  dew, 
By  showers  and  sunbeams  nourish'd ; 

And  while  in  dust  the  poet  slept. 

The  willow  o'er  his  ashes  wept. 

Old  Time  beheld  his  silvery  head 
With  graceful  grandeur  towering, 

Its  pensile  boughs  profusely  spread. 
The  breezy  lawn  embowering, 

Till  arch'd  around,  there  seem'd  to  shoot 

A  grove  of  scions  from  one  root. 

Thither,  at  summer  noon,  he  view'd 

The  lovely  Nine  retreating, 
Beneath  its  twilight  solitude 

With  songs  their  poet  greeting. 
Whose  spirit  in  the  willow  spoke, 
Like  Jove's  from  dark  Dodona's  oak. 

By  harvest  moonlight  there  he  spied 

The  fairy  bands  advancing; 
Bright  Ariel's  troops,  on  Thames's  side. 

Around  the  willow  dancing ; 
Gay  sylphs  among  the  foliage  play'd, 
And  glow-worms  glitter'd  in  the  shade. 

One  morn,  while  Time  thus  mark'd  the  tree 

In  beauty  green  and  glorious, 
«'  The  hand,"  he  cried,  «  that  planted  thee 

O'er  mine  was  oft  victorious ; 
Be  vengeance  now  my  calm  employ, — 
One  work  of  Pope's  I  will  destroy." 

He  spake,  and  struck  a  silent  blow 
With  that  dread  arm  whose  motion 

Lays  cedars,  thrones,  and  temples  low, 
And  wields  o'er  land  and  ocean 

The  unremitting  axe  of  doom. 

That  fells  the  forest  of  the  tomb. 

Deep  to  the  willow's  root  it  went. 

And  cleft  the  core  asunder. 
Like  sudden  secret  lightning,  sent 

Without  recording  thunder : 
— From  that  sad  moment,  slow  away 
Began  the  willow  to  decay. 

In  vain  did  spring  those  bowers  restore. 
Where  loves  and  graces  revell'd. 

Autumn's  wild  gales  the  branches  tore, 
The  thin  gray  leaves  dishevell'd, 

And  every  wasting  winter  found 

The  willow  nearer  to  the  ground. 

Hoary,  and  weak,  and  bent  with  age. 

At  length  the  axe  assail'd  it : 
It  bow'd  before  the  woodman's  rage  ; 

— The  swans  of  Thames  bewaii'd  it. 
With  softer  tones,  with  sweeter  breath, 
Than  ever  charm 'd  the  ear  of  death. 

O  Pope  !  hadst  thou,  whose  lyre  so  long 
The  wondering  world  enchanted. 

Amidst  thy  paradise  of  song 
This  weeping  willow  planted  ; 


Among  thy  loftiest  laurels  seen. 
In  deathless  verse  for  ever  green — 

Thy  chosen  tree  had  stood  sublime. 

The  storm  of  ages  braving, 
Triumphant  o'er  the  wrecks  of  time 

Its  verdant  banner  waving. 
While  regal  pyramids  decay'd. 
And  empires  perish'd  in  its  shade. 

An  humbler  lot,  0  tree  !  was  thine, 
— Gone  down  in  all  thy  glory  ; 

The  sweet,  the  mournful  task  be  mine, 
To  sing  thy  simple  story ; 

Though  verse  like  m^'\e  in  vain  would  raise 

The  fame  of  thy  departed  days. 

Yet,  fallen  willow  !  if  to  me 
Such  power  of  song  were  given. 

My  lips  should  breathe  a  soul  through  thee, 
And  call  down  fire  from  heaven. 

To  kindle  in  this  hallow'd  urn 

A  flame  that  would  for  ever  burn. 


THL  SWISS  COWHERD'S  SONG  IN  A 
FOREIGN  LAND. 

IMITATED   FROM   THE   FRENCH. 

0,  WHEN  shall  I  visit  the  land  of  my  birth, 
The  loveliest  land  on  the  face  of  the  earth  ? 
When  shall  I  those  scenes  of  affection  explore, 

Our  forests,  our  fountains. 

Our  hamlets,  our  mountains, 
With  the  pride  of  our  mountains,  the  maid  I  adore  i 
O,  when  shall  I  dance  on  the  daisy-white  mead. 
In  the  shade  of  an  elm,  to  the  sound  of  the  reed  ? 

When  shall  I  return  to  that  lowly  retreat. 
Where  all  my  fond  objects  of  tenderness  meet,— 
The  lambs  and  the  heifers  that  follow  iTiy  call. 

My  father,  my  mother. 

My  sister,  my  brother. 
And  dear  Isabella,  the  joy  of  them  all  ? 
0,  when  shall  I  visit  the  land  of  my  birth  ? 
— 'Tis  the  loveliest  land  on  the  face  of  the  earth 


THE  DIAL. 


This  shadow  on  the  dial's  face. 

That  steals  from  day  to  day, 
With  slow,  unseen,  unceasing  pace. 

Moments,  and  months,  and  years  away} 
This  shadow,  which,  in  every  clime. 

Since  light  and  motion  first  began. 
Hath  held  its  course  sublime — 

What  is  it  ? — Mortal  man  ! 
It  is  the  scythe  of  time : 
— A  shadow  only  to  the  eye; 

Yet,  in  its  calm  career. 
It  levels  all  beneath  the  sky; 

And  still,  through  each  succeeding  year 
Right  onward,  with  resistless  power. 
Its  stroke  shall  darken  every  hour, 
Till  nature's  race  be  run. 
And  time's  last  shadow  shall  eclipse  the  sun 


588 


MONTGOMERY. 


Nor  only  o*er  the  dial's  face, 

This  silent  phantom,  day  by  day. 
With  slow,  unseen,  unceasing  pace. 

Steals  moments,  months,  and  years  away; 
From  hoary  rock  and  aged  tree, 

From  proud  Palmyra's  mouldering  walls. 
From  Teneriffe,  towering  o'er  the  sea, 

From  every  blade  of  grass  it  falls. 
For  still,  where'er  a  shadow  sweeps, 

The  =cythe  of  Time  destroys. 
And  man  at  every  footstep  weeps 

O'er  evanescent  joys ; 
Like  flow'rets  glittering  with  the  dews  of  morn 
Fair  for  a  moment,  then  for  ever  shorn. 
— Ah  !  soon,  beneath  th'  inevitable  blow, 
I,  too,  shall  lie  in  dust  and  darkness  low. 

Then  Time,  the  conqueror,  will  suspend 

His  scythe,  a  trophy,  o'er  my  tomb. 
Whose  moving  shadow  sh-all  portend 

Each  frail  beholder's  doom. 
O'er  the  wide  earth's  illumined  space, 

Though  time's  triumphant  flight  be  shown. 
The  truest  index  on  its  face 

Points  from  the  churchyard  stone. 


A  MOTHER'S  LOVE. 

A  mother's  love, — ^how  sweet  the  name  .' 

What  is  a  mother's  love  ? 
—A  noble,  pure,  and  tender  flame, 

Enkindled  from  above, 
To  bless  a  heart  of  earthly  mould ; 
The  warmest  love  that  can  grow  cold ; 

This  is  a  mother's  love. 

To  bring  a  helpless  babe  to  light. 

Then,  while  it  lies  forlorn. 
To  gaze  upon  that  dearest  sight, 

And  feel  herself  new-born. 
In  its  existence  lose  her  own, 
And  live  and  breathe  in  it  alone ; 

This  is  a  mother's  love. 

Its  weakness  in  her  arms  to  bear ; 

To  cherish  on  her  breast, 
Feed  it  from  love's  own  fountain  there. 

And  lull  it  there  to  rest ; 
Then  while  it  slumbers  watch  its  breath. 
As  if  to  guard  from  instant  death  j 

This  is  a  mother's  love. 

To  mark  its  growth  from  day  to  day, 

Its  opening  charms  admire. 
Catch  from  its  eye  the  earliest  ray 

Of  intellectual  fire ; 
To  smile  and  listen  while  it  talks. 
And  lend  a  finger  when  it  walks ; 

This  is  a  mother's  love. 

And  can  a  mother's  love  grow  cold  ? 

Can  sho  forget  her  boy  ? 
His  pleading  innocence  behold. 

Nor  weep  for  grief — for  joy  ! 
A  mother  ^^ay  forget  her  child, 
While  wolves  devour  it  on  the  wild ; 

—Is  this  a  iTiOther's  love  ? 


Ten  thousand  voices  answer,  "  No  !" 

Ye  clasp  your  babes  and  kiss  ; 
Your  bosoms  yearn,  your  eyes  o'erflowj 

Yet,  ah  !  remember  this ; 
The  infant,  rear'd  alone  for  earth, 
May  live,  may  die, — to  curse  his  birth ; 

— 'Is  this  a  mother's  love  ? 

A  parent's  heart  may  prove  a  snare  j 

The  child  she  loves  so  well. 
Her  hand  may  lead,  with  gentlest  care, 

Down  the  smooth  road  to  hell ; 
Nourish  its  frame, — destroy  its  mind; 
Thus  do  the  blind  mislead  the  blind, 

Even  with  a  mother's  love. 

Blest  infant !  whom  his  mother  taught 

Early  to  seek  the  Lord, 
And  pour'd  upon  his  dawning  thought 

The  day-spring  of  the  word ; 
This  was  the  lesson  to  her  son, 
— Time  is  eternity  begun : 

Behold  that  mother's  love.* 

Blest  mother !  who,  in  wisdom's  path, 

By  her  own  parent  trod. 
Thus  taught  her  son  to  flee  the  wrath. 

And  know  the  fear  of  God  : 
Ah  !  youth,  like  him  enjoy  your  prime. 
Begin  eternity  in  time. 

Taught  by  that  mother's  love. 

That  mother's  love  ! — how  sweet  the  name  ? 

What  was  that  mother's  love  ? 
— The  noblest,  purest,  tenderest  flame. 

That  kindles  from  above 
Within  a  heart  of  earthly  mould, 
As  much  of  heaven  as  heart  can  hold. 
Nor  through  eternity  grows  cold: 

This  was  that  mother's  love. 


THE  GLOW-WORM. 

The  male  of  this  insect  is  said  to  be  a  fly,  which  the  femai» 
caterpillar  attracts  in  the  night  by  the  lustre  of  her  train. 

When  evening  closes  nature's  eye, 
The  glow-worm  lights  her  little  spark, 

To  captivate  her  favourite  fly, 

And  tempt  the  rover  through  the  dark. 

Conducted  by  a  sweeter  star 

Than  all  that  deck  the  fields  above, 

He  fondly  hastens  from  afar, 

To  soothe  her  solitude  with  love. 

Thus  in  this  wilderness  of  tears. 

Amidst  the  world's  perplexing  gloom. 

The  transient  torch  of  Hymen  cheers 
The  pilgrim  journeyirjg  to  the  tomb. 

Unhappy  he  whose  hopeless  eye 
Turns  to  the  light  of  love  in  vainj 

Whose  cynosure  is  in  the  sky. 
He  on  the  dark  and  lonely  main. 


*  2  Tim.  i.  5,  and  iii.  14, 15. 


C  O  C  C  «  «   f  c  c  c 

6<C^l  CSCtC 


THE    DAISY    IN   INDIA. 


689 


THE  OAK. 

THE  BIBLE. 

IMITATED   FROM   THE   ITALIAN   OP   METASTASIO. 

What  is  the  world  ?— A  wildering  maze, 

The  tall  oak,  towering  to  the  skies, 

Where  sin  hath  track'd  ten  thousand  ways 

The  fury  of  the  wind  defies, 

Her  victims  to  ensnare ; 

From  age  to  age,  in  virtue  strong. 

All  broad,  and  winding,  and  aslope. 

Inured  to  stand,  and  suffer  wrong. 

All  tempting  with  perfidious  hope. 

All  ending  in  despair. 

O'erwhelm'd  at  length  upon  the  plain, 

It  puts  forth  wings,  and  sweeps  the  main  ; 

Millions  of  pilgrims  throng  those  roads. 

The  selfsame  foe  undaunted  braves. 

Bearing  their  baubles,  or  their  loads. 

And  fights  the  winds  upon  the  waves. 

Down  to  eternal  night: 

— One  humble  path,  that  never  bends. 

Narrow,  and  rough,  and  steep,  ascends 

From  darkness  into  light. 

THE  WIDOW  AND  THE  FATHERLESS. 

Is  there  a  guide  to  show  that  path  ? 

Well,  thou  art  gone,  and  I  am  left: 

The  Bible  :~He  alone,  who  hath 

But  0  !  how  cold  and  dark  to  me 

The  Bible,  need  not  stray : 

This  world,  of  every  charm  bereft. 

Yet  he  who  hath,  and  will  not  give 

Where  all  was  beautiful  with  thee ! 

That  heavenly  guide  to  all  that  live. 

Himself  s.hall  lose  the  way. 

Though  I  have  seen  thy  form  depart 

For  ever  from  my  widow'd  eye, 
I  hold  thee  in  mine  inmost  heart; 

There,  there  at  least  thou  canst  not  die. 

THE  DAISY  IN  INDIA. 

Farewell  on  earth :  Heaven  claim'd  its  own  ; 

Yet,  when  from  me  thy  presence  went. 

Supposed  to  be  addressed  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Carey,  the  learn- 

I was  exchanged  for  God  alone : 

ed  and  illustrious  Baptist  missionary  at  Serampore,  to 

Let  dust  and  ashes  learn  content. 

the  first  plant  of  this  kind,  which  sprang  up  unex- 

pectedly in  his  garden,  out  of  some  English  earth,  in 

Ha  !  those  small  voices,  silver  sweet ! 

which  other  seeds  had  been  conveyed  to  him  from  this 

Fresh  from  the  fields  my  babes  appear ; 
They  fill  my  arms,  they  clasp  my  feet : 

country.    With  great  care  and  nursing,  the  doctor  haa 
been  enabled  to  perpetuate  the  daisy  in  India,  as  &a 
annual  only,  raised  by  seed  preserved  from  season  to 

— «  0 !  could  )'our  father  see  us  here  !" 

season. 

-i— 

Thrice  welcome,  little  English  flower ! 

My  mother  country's  white  and  red. 

HUMAN  LIFE. 

In  rose  or  lily,  till  this  hour. 

Job  xiv. 

Never  to  me  such  beauty  spread : 

Transplanted  from  thine  island-bed, 

How  few  and  evil  are  thy  days. 

A  treasure  in  a  grain  of  earth. 

Man,  of  a  woman  born  ! 

Strange  as  a  spirit  from  the  dead. 

Trouble  and  peril  haunt  thy  ways : 

Thine  embryo  sprang  to  birth. 

— Forth  like  a  flower  at  morn. 

The  tender  infant  springs  to  light, 

Thrice  welcome,  little  English  flower ! 

Youth  blossoms  with  the  breeze, 

Whose  tribes,  beneath  our  natal  skies. 

Age,  withering  age,  is  cropt  ere  night ; 

Shut  close  their  leaves  while  vapours  lower } 

—Man  like  a  shadow  flees. 

But,  when  the  sun's  gay  beams  arise. 

With  unabash'd  but  modest  eyes. 

And  dost  Thou  look  on  such  a  one  ? 

Follow  his  motion  to  the  west, 

Will  God  to  judgment  call 

Nor  cease  to  gaze  till  daylight  dies. 

A  worm,  for  what  a  worm  hath  done 

Then  fold  themselves  to  rect. 

Against  the  Lord  of  all  ? 

As  fail  the  waters  from  the  deep. 

Thrice  welcome,  little  English  flower. 

As  summer  brooks  run  dry. 

To  this  resplendent  hemisphere. 

Man  lieth  down  in  dreamless  sleep ; 

Where  Flora's  giant  offspring  towei 

—Our  life  is  vanity. 

In  gorgeous  liveries  all  the  year; 

Thou,  only  thou,  art  little  here. 

Man  lieth  down,  no  more  to  wake. 

Like  worth  unfriended  and  unknown, 

Till  yonder  arching  sphere 

Yet  to  my  British  heart  more  dear 

Shall  with  a  roll  of  thunder  break, 

Than  all  the  torrid  zone. 

And  nature  disappear. 

— 0  !  hide  me,  till  thy  wrath  be  past,   ^ 

Thrice  welcome,  little  English  flower ! 

Thou,  who  canst  kill  or  save ; 

Of  early  scenes  beloved  by  me, 

Hide  me,  where  hope  may  anchor  fast 

While  happy  in  my  father's  bower, 

In  my  Redeemer's  grave. 

Thou  Shalt  the  blithe  memorial  be  j 

590 


MONTGOMERY. 


The  fairy  sports  of  infancy, 
Youth's  golden  age,  and  manhood's  prime. 
Home,  country,  kindred,  friends, — with  thee, 
1  find  in  this  far  clime. 

Thrice  welcome,  little  English  flower ! 

I'll  rear  thee  with  a  trembling  hand : 

O,  for  the  April  sun  and  shower. 

The  sweet  May  dews  of  that  fair  land. 

Where  daisies,  thick  as  starlight,  stand 

In  every  walk  ! — that  here  may  shoot 

Thy  scions,  and  thy  buds  expand, 

A  hundred  from  one  root.  »-. 

Thrice  welcome,  little  English  flower ! 
To  me  the  pledge  of  hope  unseen ; 
When  sorrow  would  my  soul  o'erpower 
For  joys  that  were,  or  might  have  been, 
I'll  call  to  mind  how,  freshand  green, 
I  saw  thee  waking  from  the  dust ; 
Then  turn  to  heaven  with  brow  serene, 
And  place  in  God  my  trust. 


THE  STRANGER  AND  HIS  FRIEND. 

"  Ye  have  done  it  unto  me."— Matt.  xxv.  40. 

A  POon  wayfaring  man  of  grief 
Hath  often  cross'd  me  on  my  way, 
Who  sued  so  humbly  for  relief, 
That  I  could  never  answer,  "  Nay ;" 
I  had  not  power  to  ask  his  name. 
Whither  he  went,  or  whence  he  came, 
Yet  was  there  something  in  his  eye. 
That  won  my  love,  I  knew  not  why. 

Once,  when  my  scanty  meal  was  spread, 
He  enter 'd ; — not  a  word  he  spake : — 
Just  perishing  for  want  of  bread ; 
I  gave  him  all ;  he  bless'd  it,  brake, 
And  ate, — but  gave  me  part  again ; 
Mine  was  an  angel's  portion  then, 
For  while  I  fed  with  eager  haste. 
That  crust  was  manna  to  my  taste. 

I  spied  him,  where  a  fountain  burst 

Clear  from  the  rock ;  his  strength  was  gone  ; 

The  heedless  water  mock'd  his  thirst. 

He  heard  it,  saw  it  hurrying  on : 

I  ran  to  raise  the  sufferer  up ; 

Thrice  from  the  stream  he  drain'd  my  cup, 

Dipt,  and  return 'd  it  running  o'er ; 

I  drank,  and  never  thirsted  more. 

*Twas  i)ight ;  the  floods  were  out ;  it  blew 

A  winter  hurricane  aloof; 

I  heard  his  voice  abroad,  and  flew 

To  bid  him  welcome  to  my  roof; 

I  warra'd,  I  clothed,  I  cheer'd  my  guest, 

Laid  him  on  my  own  couch  to  rest ; 

Then  made  the  hearth  my  bed,  and  seem'd 

In  Eden's  garden  while  I  dream'd. 

Stript,  wounded,  beaten,  nigh  to  death, 
I  found  him  by  the  highway  side  : 
I  roused  his  pulse,  brought  back  his  breath. 
Revived  his  spirit,  and  supplied 


Wine,  oil,  refreshment ;  he  was  heal'd ; 
I  had  myself  a  wound  conceal'd  ; 
But  from  that  hour  forgot  the  smart. 
And  peace  bound  up  my  broken  heart. 

In  prison  I  saw  him  next,  condemned 
To  meet  a  traitor's  doom  at  morn ; 
The  tide  of  lying  tongues  I  stemm'd. 
And  honoured  him  midst  shame  and  scorn  t 
My  friendship's  utmost  zeal  to  try. 
He  ask'd,  if  I  for  him  would  die ; 
The  flesh  was  weak,  my  blood  ran  chill. 
But  the  free  spirit  cried,  "  I  will." 

Then  in  a  moment  to  my  view 
The  Stranger  darted  from  disguise, 
The  tokens  in  his  hands  I  knew. 
My  Saviour  stood  before  mine  eyes : 
He  spake  ;  and  my  poor  name  He  named ; 
"  Of  me  thou  hast  not  been  ashamed: 
These  deeds  shall  thy  memorial  be ; 
Fear  pot,  thou  didst  them  unto  Me." 


VIA  CRUCIS,  VIA  LUCIS. 

Night  turns  to  day : — 

When  sullen  darkness  lowers. 

And  heaven  and  earth  are  hid  from  sight 

Cheer  up,  cheer  up  ! 

Ere  long  the  opening  flowers. 

With  dewy  eyes,  shall  shine  in  light 

Storms  die  in  calms : — 

When  over  land  and  ocean 

Roll  the  loud  chariots  of  the  wind, 

Cheer  up,  cheer  up  ! 

The  voice  of  wild  commotion 

Proclaims  tranquillity  behind. 

Winter  wakes  spring : — 

When  icy  blasts  are  blowing 

O'er  frozen  lakes,  through  naked  trees 

Cheer  up,  cheer  up  ! 

All  beautiful  and  glowing, 

May  floats  in  fragrance  on  the  breeze. 

War  ends  in  peace  :— 

Though  dread  artillery  rattle. 

And  ghastly  corpses  load  the  ground. 

Cheer  up,  cheer  up ! 

Where  groan 'd  the  field  of  battle. 

The  song,  the  dance,  the  feast  go  round. 

Toil  brings  repose : — 

With  noontide  fervours  beating. 

When  droop  thy  temples  o'er  thy  breast, 

Cheer  up,  cheer  up  ! 

Gray  twilight,  cool  and  fleeting. 

Wafts  on  its  wing  the  hour  of  rest. 

Death  springs  to  life : — 

Though  brief  and  sad  thy  story, 
♦Thy  years  all  spent  in  care  and  gloom. 
Look  up,  look  up  I 
Eternity  and  glory 
Dawn  through  the  portals  of  the  tomb 


THE    ADVENTURE    OF    A    STAR. 


591 


THE  AGES  OF  MAN. 

Youth,  fond  youth  !  to  thee  in  life's  gay  morning, 

New  and  wonderful  are  heaven  and  earth ; 

Health  the  hills,  content  the  fields  adorning, 

Nature  rings  with  melody  and  mirth  ; 

Love  invisible,  beneath,  above, 

Conquers  all  things  ;  all  things  yield  to  iove. 

Time,  swift  time,  from  years  their  motion  stealing, 
Unperceived  hath  sober  manhood  brought : 
Truth,  her  pure  and  humble  forms  revealing. 
Peoples  fancy's  fairy-land  with  thought ; 
Then  the  heart,  no  longer  prone  to  roam. 
Loves,  loves  best,  the  quiet  bliss  of  home. 

Age,  old  age,  in  sickness,  pain,  and  sorrow, 
Creeps  with  lengthening  shadow  o'er  the  scene ; 
Life  was  yesterday,  'tis  death  to-morrow, 
And  to-day  the  agony  between  : 
Then  how  longs  the  weary  soul  for  thee, 
Bright  and  beautiful  eternity  ! 


ASPIRATIONS  OF  YOUTH. 

Higher,  higher  will  we  climb 

Up  the  mount  of  glory. 

That  our  names  may  live  through  time 

In  our  country's  story : 

Happy,  when  her  welfare  calls. 

He  who  conquers,  he  who  falls, 

Deeper,  deeper'let  us  toil 
In  the  mines  of  knowledge — 
Nature's  wealth  and  learning's  spoil 
Win  from  school  and  college  ; 
Delve  we  there  for  richer  gems 
Than  the  stars  of  diadems. 

Onward,  onward  will  we  press 
Through  the  path  of  duty ; 
Virtue  is  true  happiness. 
Excellence  true  beauty : 
Minds  are  of  supernal  birth, 
Let  us  make  a  heaven  of  earth. 

Close  and  closer  then  we  knit 
Hearts  and  hands  together, 
Where  our  fireside  comforts  sit 
In  the  wildest  weather: 
O  !  they  wander  wide,  who  roam 
For  the  joys  of  life,  from  home. 

Nearer,  dearer  bands  of  love 
Draw  our  souls  in  union. 
To  our  Father's  house  above. 
To  the  saints'  communion  ; 
Thither  every  hope  ascend. 
There  may  all  our  labours  end. 


THE  FALLING  LEAF. 

Were  I  a  trembling  leaf, 
On  yonder  stately  tree. 
After  a  season  gay  and  brief, 
Condemn 'd  to  fade  and  flee ; 


I  should  be  loath  to  fall 
Beside  the  common  way, 
Weltering  in  mire,  and  spum'd  by  all. 
Till  trodden  down  to  clay. 

Nor  would  I  choose  to  die 

All  on  a  bed  of  grass. 

Where  thousands  of  my  kindred  lie 

And  idly  rot  in  mass. 

Nor  would  I  like  to  spread 
My  thin  and  wither'd  face 
In  hortus  siccus,  pale  and  dead, 
A  mummy  of  my  race. 

No, — on  the  wings  of  air 
Might  I  be  left  to  fly, 
I  know  not  and  I  heed  not  where, 
A  waif  of  earth  and  sky  ! 

Or  flung  upon  the  stream, 
Curl'd  like  a  fairy-boat. 
As  through  the  changes  of  a  dream. 
To  the  world's  end  to  float ! 

Who  that  hath  ever  been. 

Could  bear  to  be  no  more  ? 

Yet  who  would  tread  again  the  scene 

He  trod  through  life  before  ? 

On,  with  intense  desire, 

Man's  spirit  will  move  on ; 

It  seems  to  die,  yet  like  Heaven's  fire, 

It  is  not  quench'd,  but  gone. 


THE  ADVENTURE  OF  A  STAR. 

ADDRESSED   TO    A   YOUNG   LADY. 

A  STAR  would  be  a  flower  ; 

So  down  from  heaven  it  came, 

And  in  a  honeysuckle  bower 

Lit  up  its  little  flame. 

There  on  a  bank,  beneath  the  shade, 

By  sprays,  and  leaves,  and  blossoms  mac/e 

It  overlook'd  the  garden  ground; 

— A  landscape  stretching  ten  yards  rourd  i 

0  what  a  change  of  place 

From  gazing  through  eternity  of  space ! 

Gay  plants  on  every  side 

Unclosed  their  lovely  blooms. 

And  scatter'd  far  and  wide 

Their  ravishing  perfumes : 

The  butterfly,  the  bee, 

And  many  an  insect  on  the  wing. 

Full  of  the  spirit  of  the  spring. 

Flew  round  and  round  in  endless  glee. 

Alighting  here,  ascending  there. 

Ranging  and  revelling  everywhere. 

Now  all  the  flowers  were  up,  and  drest 
In  robes  of  rainbow-colour'd  light ; 
The  pale  primroses  look'd  their  best, 
Peonies  blush 'd  with  all  their  might ; 
Dutch  tulips  from  their  beds 
Flaunted  their  stately  heads  ; 
Auriculas,  like  belles  and  beaux, 
Glittering  with  birth-night  splendour,  rose  { 


MONTGOMERY. 


And  polyanthuses  displayed 

The  brilliance  of  their  gold  brocade : 

Here  hyacinths  of  heavenly  blue 

Shook  their  rich  tresses  to  the  morn, 

While  rose-buds  scarcely  show'd  their  hue. 

But  coyly  linger'd  on  the  thorn, 

Till  their  loved  nightingale,  who  tarried  long, 

Should  wake  them  into  beauty  with  his  song. 

The  violets  were  past  their  prime. 

Yet  their  departing  breath 

Was  sweeter,  in  the  blast  of  death. 

Than  all  the  lavish  fragrance  of  the  thyme. 

Amidst  this  gorgeous  train, 
Our  truant  star  shone  forth  in  vain ; 
Though  in  a  wreath  of  periwinkle. 
Through  whose  fine  gloom  it  strove  to  twinkle. 
It  seem'd  no  bigger  to  the  view 
Than  the  light-spangle  in  a  drop  of  dew. 
— Astronomers  may  shake  their  polls. 
And  tell  me, — every  orb  that  rolls 
Through  heaven's  sublime  expanse 
Is  sun  or  world,  whose  speed  and  size 
Confound  the.stretch  of  mortal  eyes, 
In  nature's  mystic  dance  : 
It  may  be  so 
For  aught  I  know, 

Or  aught  indeed  that  they  can  show ; 
Yet  till  they  prove  what  they  aver. 
From  this  plain  truth  I  will  not  stir, 
— A  star's  a  star  ! — but  when  I  think 
Of  sun  or  world,  the  star  I  sink  ; 
Wherefore  in  verse,  at  least  in  mine. 
Stars,  like  themselves,  in  spite  of  fate,  shall 
shine. 

Now,  to  return  (for  we  have  wander'd  far) 

To  what  was  nothing  but  a  simple  star; 

— Where  all  was  jollity  around. 

No  fellowship  the  stranger  found. 

Those  lowliest  children  of  the  earth. 

That  never  leave  their  mother's  lap. 

Companions  in  their  harmless  mirth. 

Were  smiling,  blushing,  dancing  there, 

Feasting  on  dew,  and  light,  and  air. 

And  fearing  no  mishap. 

Save  from  the  hand  of  lady  fair, 

Who,  on  her  wonted  walk, 

Pluck'd  one  and  then  another, 

A  sister  or  a  brother. 

From  its  elastic  stalk ; 

Happy,  no  doubt,  for  one  sharp  pang,  to  die 

On  her  sweet  bosom,  withering  in  her  eye. 

Thus  all  day  long  that  star's  hard  lot. 
While  bliss  and  beauty  ran  to  waste. 
Was  but  to  witness  on  the  spot 
Beauty  and  bliss  it  could  not  taste, 
At  length  the  sun  went  down,  and  then 
Its  faded  glory  came  again, 
With  brighter,  bolder,  purer  light, 
It  kindled  through  the  deepening  night. 
Till  the  green  bower,  so  dim  by  day, 
Glow'd  like  a  fairy-palace  with  its  beams ; 
In  vain,  for  sleep  on  all  the  borders  lay. 
The  flowers  were  laughing  in  the  land  of 
dreams. 


Our  star,  in  melancholy  state, 

Still  sigh'd  to  find  itself  alone. 

Neglected,  cold,  and  desolate. 

Unknowing  and  unknown. 

Lifting  at  last  an  anxious  eye. 

It  saw  that  circlet  empty  in  the  sky 

Where  it  was  wont  to  roll. 

Within  a  hair-breadth  of  the  pole : 

In  that  same  instant,  sore  amazed. 

On  the  strange  blank  all  nature  gazed  j 

Travellers,  bevvilder'd  for  their  guide. 

In  glens  and  forests  lost  their  way ; 

And  ships,  on  ocean's  trackless  tide, 

Went  fearfully  astray. 

The  star,  now  wiser  for  its  folly,  knew 

Its  duty,  dignity,  and  bliss  at  home ; 

So  up  to  heaven  again  it  flew. 

Resolved  no  more  to  roam. 

One  hint  the  humble  bard  may  send 

To  her  for  whom  these  lines  are  penn'd: 

— 0  may  it  be  enough  for  her 

To  shine  in  her  own  character  ! 

O  may  she  be  content  to  grace. 

On  earth,  in  heaven,  her  proper  place! 


MAKE  WAY  FOR  LIBERTY. 

On  the  exploit  of  Arnold  Winkelried  at  the  battle  of  Senv 
paeh,  in  which  the  Swiss,  fighting  for  their  independ. 
ence,  totally  defeated  the  Auslrians,  in  the  fourteenlk 
century.  

"  Make  way  for  liberty  !" — he  cried; 
Made  way  for  liberty,  and  died  ! 

In  arms  the  Austrian  phalanx  stood, 
A  living  wall,  a  human  wood  ! 
A  wall,  where  every  conscious  stone 
Seem'd  to  its  kindred  thousands  grown  ; 
A  rampart  all  assaults  to  bear. 
Till  time  to  dust  their  frames  should  wear ; 
A  wood  like  that  enchanted  grove* 
In  which  with  fiends  Rinaldo  strove, 
Where  every  silent  tree  possess'd 
A  spirit  prison 'd  in  its  breast. 
Which  the  first  stroke  of  coming  strife 
Would  startle  into  hideous  life  , 
So  dense,  so  still,  the  Austrians  stood, 
A  living  wall,  a  human  wood ! 
Impregnable  their  front  appears, 
All  horrent  with  projected  spears. 
Whose  polish'd  points  before  them  shine, 
From  flank  to  flank,  one  brilliant  line. 
Bright  as  the  breakers'  splendours  run 
Along  the  billows,  to  the  sun. 

Opposed  to  these  a  hovering  band 
Contended  for  their  native  land  : 
Peasants,  whose  new-found  strength  had  broke 
From  manly  necks  th'  ignoble  yoke. 
And  forged  their  fetters  into  swords. 
On  equal  terms  to  fight  their  lords : 
And  what  insurgent  rage  had  gain'd, 
In  many  a  mortal  fray  maintain 'd  ; 


•  See  Tasso^s  Jerusalem  Delivered,  canto  xviil. 


THE    FIRST    LEAF    OF    AN    ALBUM. 


593 


Marshall'd  once  more  at  freedom's  call. 
They  came  to  conquer  or  to  fall, 
Where  he  who  conquer'd,  he  who  fell. 
Was  deem'd  a  dead,  or  living  Tell ! 
Such  virtue  had  that  patriot  breathed, 
So  to  the  soil  his  soul  bequeathed, 
That  wheresoe'er  his  arrows  flew. 
Heroes  in  his  own  likeness  grew. 
And  warriors  sprang  from  every  sod 
Which  his  awakening  footstep  trod. 

And  now  the  work  of  life  and  death 
Hung  on  the  passing  of  a  breath ; 
The  fire  of  conflict  burnt  within. 
The  battle  trembled  to  begin  ; 
Yet,  while  the  Austrians  held  their  ground. 
Point  for  attack  was  nowhere  found, 
Where'er  the  impatient  Switzers  gazed. 
The  unbroken  line  of  lances  blazed  ; 
That  line  'twere  suicide  to  meet, 
And  perish  at  their  tyrants'  feet, — 
How  could  they  rest  within  their  graves. 
And  leave  their  homes,  the  homes  of  slaves  ? 
Would  they  not  feel  their  children  tread 
With  clanging  chains  above  their  head  ? 

It  must  not  be :  This  day,  this  hour. 
Annihilates  th'  oppressor's  power; 
All  Switzerland  is  in  the  field. 
She  will  not  fly,  she  cannot  yield — 
She  must  not  fall ;  her  better  fate 
Here  gives  her  an  immortal  date. 
Few  were  the  number  she  could  boast ; 
But  every  freeman  was  a  host, 
And  felt  as  though  himself  were  he 
On  whose  sole  arm  hung  victory. 

It  did  depend  on  one,  indeed  ; 
Behold  him, — Arnold  Winkelried  ! 
There  sounds  not  to  the  trump  of  fame 
The  echo  of  a  nobler  name. 
Unmark'd  he  stood  amid  the  throng. 
In  rumination  deep  and  long, 
Till  you  might  see,  with  sudden  grace. 
The  very  thought  come  o'er  his  face, 
And  by  the  motion  of  his  form 
Anticipate  the  bursting  storm  ; 
And  by  th'  uplifting  of  his  brow 
Tell  where  the  bolt  would  strike,  and  how. 

But  'twas  no  sooner  thought  than  done. 
The  field  was  in  a  moment  won  : — 

"Make  way  for  liberty  !"  he  cried, 
Then  ran,  with  arms  extended  wi  .-3, 
As  if  his  dearest  friend  to  clasp  ; 
Ten  spears  he  swept  within  his  grasp. 

"  Make  way  for  liberty  !"  he  cried ; 
Their  keen  points  met  from  side  to  side : 
He  bow'd  amongst  them  like  a  tree. 
And  thus  made  way  for  libert3\ 

Swift  to  the  breach  his  comrades  fly ; 
**  Make  way  for  liberty !"  they  cry, 
And  through  the  Austrian  phalanx  dart. 
As  rush'd  the  spears  through  Arnold's  heart ; 
While,  instantaneous  as  his  fall, 
Rout,  ruin,  panic,  scatter'd  all: 
Vol.  IIL— 38 


An  earthquake  could  not  overthrow 
A  city  with  a  surer  blow. 

Thus  Switzerland  agam  was  free ! 
Thus  death  made  way  for  liberty ! 


FOR  THE  FIRST  LEAF  OF  A  LADY'S 
ALBUM. 

Flower  after  flower  ( omes  forth  in  spring, 

Bird  after  bii-d  begins  to  sing; 

Till  copse  and  field  in  richest  bloom, 

Sparkle  with  dew,  and  breathe  perfume,— 

While  hill  and  valley,  all  day  long, 

And  half  the  night,  resound  with  song, 

So  may  acquaintance,  one  by  one. 

Come  like  spring-flowers  to  meet  the  sun. 

And  o'er  these  pages  pure  and  white. 

Kind  words,  kind  thoughts,  kind  prayers  indits 

Which  sweeter  odour  shall  dispense 

Than  vernal  blossoms  to  the  sense  ; 

Till  woods  and  streams  less  fair  appear 

Than  autographs  and  sketches  here: 

— Or  like  the  minstrels  of  the  grove. 

Pour  strains  of  harmony  and  love, 

The  music  made  by  heart  to  heart. 

In  which  the  least  can  bear  a  part. 

More  exquisite  than  all  the  notes 

Of  nightingales'  and  thrushes'  throats. 

Thus  shall  this  book,  from  end  to  end, 

Show  in  succession  friend  on  friend. 

By  their  own  living  hands  portray'd. 

In  prose  and  verse,  in  light  and  shade. 

By  pen  and  pencil,— till  her  eye, 

Who  owns  the  volume  shall  descry 

On  many  a  leaf  some  lovely  trace, 

Reminding  of  a  lovelier  face  ! 

With  here  and  there  the  humbler  line, 

Recalling  such  a  phiz  as  mine. 


THE  FIRST  LEAF  OF  AN  ALBUM. 

Ut  pictura,  poesis.— i^or.  de  Art.  Poet. 

Two  lovely  sisters  here  unite 

To  blend  improvement  with  delight ; 

Painting  and  poetry  engage 

By  turns  to  deck  the  Album's  page. 

Here  may  each  glowing  picture  be 

The  quintessence  of  poesy, 

With  skill  so  exquisitely  wrought, 

As  if  the  colours  were  pure  thought,— 

Thought  from  the  bosom's  inmost  cell. 

By  magic  tints  made  visible. 

That,  while  the  eye  admires,  the  mind 

Itself,  as  in  a  glass,  may  find. 

And  may  the  poet's  verse,  alike, 
With  all  the  power  of  painting  strike ; 
So  freely,  so  divinely  trace. 
In  every  line  the  line  of  grace ; 
And  beautify,  with  such  sweet  art, 
The  image-chamber  of  the  heart, 


594 


MONTGOMERY. 


That  fancy  here  may  gaze  her  fill, 
Forming  fresh  scenes  and  shapes  at  will. 
Where  silent  words  alone  appear, 
Or,  borrowing  voice,  but  touch  the  ear. 

Yet  humble  prose  with  these  shall  stand, 
Friends,  kindred,  comrades,  hand  in  hand, 
All  in  this  fair  enclosure  meet, 
The  lady  of  the  book  to  greet. 
And,  with  the  pen  or  pencil,  make 
These  leaves  love-tokens,  for  her  sake. 
Sheffield,  1S2,S, 


TIME  EMPLOYED,  TIME  ENJOYED. 

ADDRESSED    TO   A   YOUNG    LADY   FHOJI    WHOBI    THE 

AUTHOR   HAD   RECEIVED   AN   ELEGANTLY 

WROUGHT   WATCH-POCKET. 

Within  this  curious  case 

Time's  sentinel  I  place. 

Who,  while  calm  unconscious  slumber 

Shuts  creation  from  mine  eyes. 

Through  the  silent  gloom  shall  number 

Every  moment  as  it  flies. 

And  record,  at  dawn  of  day. 

Thrice  ten  thousand  pass'd  away. 

On  each  of  these  my  breath. 
May  pause  'twixt  life  and  death ; 
By  a  subtler  line  depending 
Than  the  ray  of  twinkling  light 
Which  the  smallest  star  is  sending 
Every  moment  through  the  night; 
For,  on  films  more  finely  spun, 
All  things  hang  beneath  the  sun. 

Rapt  through  a  wildering  dream, 
Awake  in  sleep  I  seem; 
Sorrow  wrings  my  soul  with  anguish, 
Joy  expands  my  throbbing  breast ; 
Now  overwhelm'd  with  care  I  languish, 
Now  serene  and  tranquil  rest : 
Morning  comes  ;  and  all  between 
Is  as  though  it  ne'er  had  been. 

But  time  has  daylight  hours. 
And  man  immortal  powers  ; 
Waking  joys  and  sleepless  sorrow, 
Worldly  care,  celestial  peace ; 
Life  renewing  every  morrow. 
Not  with  death  itself  shall  cease: 
Man,  through  all  eternity, 
What  he  here  hath  been  shall  be ! 

May  she,  whose  skilful  hand 

This  fairy  net-work  plann'd. 

Still  in  innocent  employment. 

Far  from  vanity  and  vice, 

Seek  the  pearl  of  true  enjoyment. 

On  her  path  to  Paradise : 

Time,  for  earth  or  heaven  employ'd, 

(Both  have  claims,)  is  time  enjoy 'd. 

Every  day  to  her  in  flight 
Bequeath  a  gem  at  night, — 


Some  sweet  hope,  some  hallow'd  pleasure. 
From  remembrance  ne'er  to  part; 
Hourly  blessings  swell  the  treasure 
Hidden  in  her  grateful  heart; 
And  may  every  moment  cast 
Brighter  glory  on  her  last ! 


A  VOYAGE  ROUND  THE  WORLD. 

Emblem  of  eternity, 
Unbeginning,  endless  sea ! 
Let  me  launch  my  soul  on  thee. 

Sail,  nor  keel,  nor  helm,  nor  oar, 

Need  I,  ask  I,  to  explore 

Thine  expanse  from  shore  to  shore. 

By  a  single  glance  of  thought, 

Tliy  whole  realm's  before  me  brought 

Like  the  universe,  from  naught. 

All  thine  aspects  now  I  view. 

Ever  old,  yet  ever  new ; 

Time  nor  tide  thy  powers  subdue. 

All  thy  voices  now  I  hear ; 
Sounds  of  gladness,  grandeur,  fear 
Meet  and  mingle  in  mine  ear. 

All  thy  wonders  are  reveal'd : 
Treasures  hidden  in  thy  field  ! 
From  the  birth  of  nature  seal'd. 

But  thy  depths  I  search  not  now. 
Nor  thy  limpid  surface  plough 
With  a  foam-repelling  prow. 

Eager  fancy,  unconfined, 
In  a  voyage  of  the  mind 
Sweeps  along  thee  like  the  wind. 

Here  a  breeze,  I  skim  thy  plain  ; 
There  a  tempest,  pour  amain 
Thunder,  lightning,  hail,  and  rain. 

Where  the  billows  cease  to  roll. 
Round  the  silence  of  the  pole. 
Thence  set  out  my  venturous  soul  i 

See,  by  Greenland  cold  and  wild 
Rocks  of  ice  eternal  piled ; 
Yet  the  mother  loves  her  child ; 

And  the  wildernesses  drear 
To  the  native's  heart  are  dear ; 
All  life's  charities  dwell  here. 

Next,  on  lonely  Labrador, 

Let  me  hear  the  snow-falls  roar. 

Devastating  all  before. 

Yet  even  here,  in  glens  and  coves, 
Man,  the  heir  of  all  things,  roves. 
Feasts  and  fights,  and  laughs  and  loves. 

But  a  brighter  vision  breaks 
O'er  Canadian  woods  and  lakes ; 
— These  my  spirit  soon  forsakes. 


A    VOYAGE    ROUND    THE    WORLD. 


595 


Land  of  exiled  liberty. 

Where  our  fathers  once  were  free ; 

Brave  New  England,  hail  to  thee  I 

Pennsylvania,  while  thy  flood 
Waters  lields  unbought  with  blood, 
Stand  for  peace  as  thou  hast  stood. 

The  West  Indies  I  behold. 
Like  the  Hesperides  of  old, 
— Trees  of  life,  with  fruits  of  gold. 

No — a  curse  is  on  the  soil. 
Bonds  and  scourges,  tears  and  toil, 
Man  degrade,  and  earth  despoil. 

Horror-struck,  I  turn  away, 
Coasting  down  the  Mexique  bay ; 
Slavery  there  has  lost  the  day. 

Loud  the  voice  of  Freedom  spoke ; 
Every  accent  split  a  yoke, 
Every  word  a  dungeon  broke. 

South  America  expands 
Mountain  forests,  river  lands. 
And  a  nobler  race  demands. 

And  a  nobler  race  arise, 

Stretch  their  limbs,  unclose  their  eyes. 

Claim  the  earth,  and  seek  the  skies. 

Gliding  through  Magellan's  Straits, 
Where  two  oceans  ope  their  gates, 
"What  a  spectacle  awaits  ! 

The  immense  Pacific  smiles 
Round  ten  thousand  little  isles, 
— Haunts  of  violence  and  wiles. 

But  the  powers  of  darkness  yield, 
For  the  cross  is  in  the  field. 
And  the  light  of  life  reveal'd. 

Rays  from  rock  to  rock  it  darts, 
Conquers  adamantine  hearts. 
And  immortal  bliss  imparts. 

North  and  west,  receding  far 
From  the  evening's  downward  star. 
Now  I  mount  Aurora's  car, — 

Pale  Siberia's  deserts  shun. 

From  Kamtschatka's  headlands  run. 

South  and  east,  to  meet  the  sun. 

Jealous  China,  strange  Japan, 
With  bewilder'd  thought  I  scan, 
— They  are  but  dead  seas  of  man. 

Ages  in  succession  find. 

Forms  unchanging,  stagnant  mind ; 

And  the  same  they  leave  behind. 

Lo  !  the  eastern  Cyclades, 
Phoenix  nests,  and  halcyon  seas ; 
But  I  tarry  not  with  these. 

Pass  we  low  New  Holland's  shoals, 
Where  no  ample  river  rolls ; 
— World  of  undiscover'd  souls  ! 


Bring  them  forth — 'tis  Heaven's  decree: 

Man,  assert  thy  dignity  ! 

Let  not  brutes  look  down  on  thee. 

Either  India  next  is  seen. 

With  the  Ganges  stretch'd  between: 

Ah  !  what  horrors  there  have  been  ! 

War,  disguised  as  commerce,  came ; 
Britain,  carrying  sword  and  flame, 
Won  an  empire,  lost  her  name. 

But  that  name  shall  be  restored, 
Law  and  justice  wield  her  sword, 
And  her  God  be  here  adored. 

By  the  Gulf  of  Persia  sail, 
Where  the  true-love  nightingale 
Wooes  the  rose  in  every  vale. 

Though  Arabia  charge  the  breeze 
With  the  incense  of  her  tre€S, 
On  I  press  o'er  southern  seas. 

Cape  of  storms  !  thy  spectre's  fled. 
And  the  angel  hope,  instead, 
Lights  from  heaven  upon  thy  head. 

Where  thy  table  mountain  stands. 
Barbarous  hordes,  from  dreary  sands, 
Bless  the  sight,  with  lifted  hands. 

St.  Helena's  dungeon-keep 
Scowls  defiance  o'er  the  deep — 
There  a  hero's  relics  sleep. 

Who  he  was  and  how  he  fell, 

Europe,  Asia,  Afric,  tell ; 

On  that  theme  all  times  shall  dwell. 

But,  henceforth,  till  nature  dies, 
These  three  simple  words  comprise 
All  the  future—"  Here  he  lies." 

Mammon's  plague-ships  throng  the  waveij 

0  'twere  mercy  to  the  slaves 

Were  the  maws  of  sharks  their  graves ! 

Not  for  all  the  gems  and  gold 

Which  thy  streams  and  mountains  hold, 

Or  for  which  thy  sons  are  sold, — 

Land  of  negroes  !  would  I  dare 
In  this  felon  trade  to  share, 
Or  its  infamy  to  spare. 

Hercules,  thy  pillars  stand. 
Sentinels  of  sea  and  land ; 
Cloud-capt  Atlas  towers  at  hand. 

Where,  at  Cato's  word  of  fate, 
Fell  the  Carthaginian  state. 
And  where  exiled  Marius  sate, — 

Mark  the  dens  of  caitiff  Moors  j 
Ha !  the  pirates  seize  the  oars — 
Fly  the  desecrated  shores. 

Egypt's  hieroglyphic  realm 

Other  floods  than  Nile's  o'erwhelm — 

Slaves  turn'd  despots  hold  the  helm. 


596 


MONTGOMERY. 


Judah's  cities  are  forlorn, 
Lebanon  and  Carmel  shorn, 
Zion  trampled  down  with  scorn. 

Lusitania !  from  the  dust 
Shake  thy  locks ;  thy  cause  is  just- 
Strike  for  freedom,  strike  and  trust. 

Greece !  thine  ancient  lamp  is  spent ; 
Thou  art  thine  own  monument; 
But  the  sepulchre  is  rent, 

France !  I  hurry  from  thy  shore ; 
Thou  art  not  the  France  of  yore ; 
Thou  art  new-born  France  no  more. 

And  a  wind  is  on  the  wing, 

At  whose  breath  new  heroes  spring, 

Sages  teach,  and  poets  sing. 

Great  thou  wact,  and  who  like  thee  ? 
Then  mad-drunk  with  liberty ; 
Now,  thou'rt  neither  great  nor  free. 

Italy,  thy  beauties  shroud 
In  a  gorgeous  evening  cloud : 
Thy  refulgent  head  is  bow'd.  ^ 

Sweep  by  Holland,  like  the  blast ; 
One  quick  glance  at  Denmark  cast, 
Sweden,  Russia ;— all  is  past. 

Rome,  in  ruins,  lovely  still. 

From  her  Capitolian  hill 

Bids  thee,  mourner !  weep  thy  fill. 

Elbe  nor  Weser  tempt  my  stay ; 

Germany  !  beware  the  day 

When  thy  schoolmen  bear  the  sway. 

Yet  where  Roman  genius  reigns, 
Roman  blood  must  warm  the  veins ; 
— Look  well,  tyrants !  to  your  chains. 

Now  to  thee,  to  thee  I  fly, 
Fairest  isle  beneath  the  sky. 
To  my  heart  as  in  mine  eye  ! 

Feudal  realm  of  old  romance ! 
Spain,  thy  lofty  front  advance. 
Grasp  thy  shield,  and  couch  thy  lance. 

I  have  seen  them  one  by  one, 
Every  shore  beneath  the  sun. 
And  my  voyage  now  is  done. 

At  the  fire-flash  of  thine  eye 

Giant  bigotry  shall  fly  ; 

At  thy  voice,  oppression  die- 

While  I  bid  them  all  be  bless'd, 
Britain  !  thou'rt  my  home — my  restj 
My  own  land,  I  love  thee  best. 

SIR  WALTER  SCOTT. 


Walter  Scott  was  born  iu  Edinburgh,  on  the 
15th  of  August,  1771.  His  father  was  a  writer  to 
the  signet,  and  of  ancient  and  honourable  descent. 
Almost  from  his  birth  until  the  age  of  sixteen,  he 
was  afflicted  with  ill  health ;  and  either  from  the 
weakness  of  his  constitution,  or,  as  some  assert,  from 
an  accident  occasioned  by  the  carelessness  of  his 
Qurse,  his  right  foot  was  injured,  and  he  was  lame 
during  his  life.  His  early  days  were  passed  among 
the  hills  and  dales  of  the  borders — "  famous  in 
war  and  verse" — "  where,"  we  quote  from  Allan 
Cunningham, «  almost  every  stone  that  stands  above 
the  ground  is  the  record  of  some  skirmish,  or  single 
combat;  and  every  stream,  although  its  waters  be 
w  so  inconsiderable  as  scarcely  to  moisten  the  pasture 
through  which  they  run,  is  renowned  in  song  and  in 
ballad."  Perhaps  to  the  happy  chance  of  his  re- 
sidence in  a  district  so  fertile  in  legendary  lore,  the 
world  is  indebted  for  the  vast  legacy  of  wealth  he 
bequeathed  to  it.  In  1783,  he  entered  the  Univer- 
sity of  Edinburgh  ;  and  in  1792,  became  an  advocate 
at  the  Scottish  bar:  but  after  a  few  years'  attend- 
ance at  the  courts,  quitted  it,  in  order  to  devote 
himself  to  literature.  He  had,  however,  reached 
his  25th  year,  before  he  manifested  any  desire,  or 
rather  intention,  to  contend  for  fame  in  a  path  so 
intricate ;  and  as  he  himself  states,  his  first  attempt 
ended  in  a  transfer  of  his  printed  sheets  to  the  ser- 
vice of  the  trunk-maker.  Though  discouraged,  he 
was  not  disheartened.  In  1802,  "  The  Minstrelsy 
of  the  Scottish  Border"  obtained  a  more  fortunate 
destiny ;  and  about  three  years  afterwards  the  pub- 
lication of  The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel  completely 
established  the  fame  of  the  writer.  From  the  ap- 
pearance of  this  poem,  the  life  of  the  poet,  until 
towards  the  close  of  it,  is  little  else  than  a  history 
of  his  writings.  Marmion  issued  from  the  press  in 
1808 ;  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  in  1810  ;  Don  Rode- 
rick, in  1811 ;  Rokeby,  in  1813;  The  Lord  of  the 
Isles,in  1814;  The  Bridal  of  Triermain,  and  Harold 
the  Dauntless,  appeared  anonymously ;  the  former, 
in  1813,  and  the  latter,  in  1817.  The  publication 
of  his  novels  and  romances  commenced  with 
Waverley,  in  1814.  In  1820,  Walter  Scott  was 
created  a  baronet  of  the  United  Kingdom.  In  Ja- 
nuary, 1826,  his  publishers  became  bankrupts  ;  it 
produced  a  feeling  of  the  deepest  sorrow, — not  only 
in  Edinburgh,  but  throughout  the  kingdom,  when  it 
was  ascertained  that,  through  their  failure,  he  was 
jivolved  in  pecuniary  respansibilities  to  a  ruinous 


extent.  He  encountered  adversity  with  manlj 
fortitude  ;  asked  and  obtained  from  his  creditors  no 
other  boon  than  time  ;  and  in  about  four  years  had 
actually  paid  off  nearly  £70,000  of  the  debt.  The 
price  of  almost  superhuman  labour  was,  however, 
to  be  exacted.  In  1831  he  was  attacked  with  gra- 
dual paralysis:  in  the  autumn  of  that  year  he  was 
prevailed  upon  to  visit  the  more  genial  climate  of 
the  south  of  Europe; — the  experiment  was  unsuc- 
cessful in  restoring  him  to  health :  he  returned  to 
Abbotsford,  and  died  there  on  the  2 1  st  of  September, 
1832.  His  loss  was  mourned,  not  only  by  his  own 
country,  but  in  every  portion  of  the  civilized  globe; 
for  his  fame  had  spread  throughout  all  parts  of  it: 
and  there  is  scarcely  a  language  into  which  his 
works  have  not  been  translated.  The  kindness  of 
his  heart,  the  benevolence  of  his  disposition,  the 
thorough  goodness  of  his  nature,  were  appreciated 
by  all  who  had  the  privilege  of  his  acquaintance ; 
but  his  genius  is  the  vast  and  valuable  propertj'  of 
mankind. 

In  person,  he  was  tall,  and  had  the  appearance 
of  a  powerful  and  robust  man.  His  countenance 
has  be#n  rendered  familiar  by  artists  in  abundance ; 
the  justest  notion  of  it  is  conveyed  by  the  bust 
of  Chantry.  Its  expression  was  peculiarly  benevo- 
lent; his  forehead  was  broad,  and  remarkably 
high. 

We  have  left  ourselves  but  little  space  to  com- 
ment upon  the  poetry  of  Sir  Walter  Scott ;  his 
fame  as  a  poet  was  eclipsed  by  his  reputation  as  a 
novelist ;  and  the  appearance  of  a  star  of  greater 
magnitude  drew  from  him,  by  degrees,  the  popularity 
he  ha'l  so  long  engrossed.  Yet  we  venture  to 
hazard  an  opinion,  that  if  it  be  possible  for  either 
to  be  forgotten,  his  poems  will  outlive  his  prose ; 
and  that  Waverley  and  Ivanhoe  will  perish  before 
Marmion  and  The  Lady  of  the  Lake.  We  can  find 
no  rare  and  valuable  quality  in  the  former  that  we 
may  not  find  in  the  latter.  A  deeply  interesting 
and  exciting  story,  glorious  and  true  pictures  of 
scenery,  fine  and  accurate  portraits  of  character, 
clear  and  impressive  accounts  of  ancient  customs, 
details  of  battles — satisfying  to  the  fancy;  yet 
capable  of  enduring  the  sternest  test  of  truth — are 
to  be  found  in  the  one  class  as  well  as  in  the  other. 
In  addition,  we  have  the  most  graceful  and  harmo- 
nious verse ;  and  the  style  is  undoubtedly  such  as 
equally  to  delight  those  who  possess  and  those  who 
are  without  a  refined  poetical  taste. 
597 


698 


SCOTT. 


THE 

LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


Dum  relego,  scripsisse,  pudei,  quia  plurima  cerno, 
Me  quoque,  qui  feci,  judice,  dlgna  limi. 


TO  THE  RIGHT  HONOURABLE  CHARLES,  EARL 
OF  DALKEITH, 

THIS    POEM   IS    INSCRIBED,   BY   THE   AUTHOR. 


The  poem,  now  offered  to  the  public,  is  intended 
to  illustrate  the  customs  and  manners  which  an- 
ciently prevailed  on  the  borders  of  England  and 
Scotland.  The  inhabitants,  living  in  a  state  partly 
pastoral  and  partly  warlike,  and  combining  habits 
of  constant  depredation  with  the  influence  of  a  rude 
spirit  of  chivalry,  were  often  engaged  in  scenes 
highly  susceptible  of  poetical  ornament.  As  the 
description  of  scenery  and  manners  was  more  the 
object  of  the  author,  than  a  combined  and  regular 
narrative,  the  plan  of  the  ancient  Metrical  Romance 
was  adopted,  which  allows  greater  latitude  in  this 
respect  than  would  be  consistent  with  the  dignity 
of  a  regular  poem.  The  same  model  offered  other 
facilities,  as  it  permits  an  occasional  alteration  of 
measure,  which,  in  some  degree,  authorizes  the 
change  of  rhythm  in  the  text.  The  machinery 
also,  adopted  from  popular  belief,  would  have 
seemed  puerile  in  a  poem  which  did  not  partake 
of  the  rudeness  of  the  old  ballad,  or  Metrical  Ro- 
mance. 

For  these  reasons,  the  poem  was  put  into  the 
mouth  of  an  ancient  minstrel,  the  last  of  tHfe  race, 
who,  as  he  is  supposed  to  have  survived  the  Revo- 
lution, might  have  caught  somewhat  of  the  refine- 
ment of  modern  poetry,  without  losing  the  sim- 
plicity of  his  original  model.  The  date  of  the  tale 
itself  is  about  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century, 
when  most  of  the  personages  actually  flourished. 
The  time  occupied  by  the  action  is  three  nights  and 
three  days. 

INTRODUCTION. 

The  way  was  long,  tho  -wind  was  cold 
The  minstrel  was  infirm  and  old; 
His  wither'd  cheek,  and  tresses  gray, 
Seem'd  to  have  known  a  better  day; 
The  harp,  his  sole  remaining  joy, 
Was  carried  by  an  orphan  boy. 
The  last  of  all  the  bards  was  he, 
Who  sung  of  Border  chivalry ; 
For,  well-a-day  !  their  date  was  fled, 
His  tuneful  brethren  all  were  dead ; 
'    And  he,  neglected  and  oppress'd, 
Wish'd  to  be  with  them,  and  at  rest. 
No  more,  on  prancing  palfrey  borne, 
He  caroll'd,  light  as  lark  at  morn; 
No  longer  courted  and  caress'd. 
High  placed  in  hall,  a  welcome  guest. 
He  pour'd,  to  lord  and  lady  gay 
The  unpremeditated  lay  : 
Old  times  were  changed,  old  manners  gone; 
A  stranger  fill'd  the  Stuart's  throne ; 


The  bigots  of  the  iron  time 
Had  call'd  his  harmless  art  a  crime. 
A  wandering  harper,  scorn 'd  and  poor. 
He  begg'd  his  bread  from  door  to  door ; 
And  tuned,  to  please  a  peasant's  ear, 
The  harp  a  king  had  loved  to  hear. 

He  pass'd  where  Newark's  stately  tower 
Looks  out  from  Yarrow's  birchen  bower : 
The  minstrel  gazed  with  wishful  eye- 
No  humbler  resting  place  was  nigh. 
With  hesitating  step,  at  last. 
The  embattled  portal-arch  he  pass'd. 
Whose  ponderous  grate  and  massy  bar 
Had  oft  roll'd  back  the  tide  of  war, 
But  never  closed  the  iron  door 
Against  the  desolate  and  poor. 
The  dutchess*  mark'd  his  weary  pace, 
His  timid  mien,  and  reverend  face, 
And  bade  her  page  the  menials  tell. 
That  they  should  tend  the  old  man  well : 
For  she  had  known  adversity, 
Though  born  in  such  a  high  degreee ; 
In  pride  of  power,  in  beauty's  bloom. 
Had  wept  o'er  Monmouth's  bloody  tomb. 

When  kindness  had  his  wants  supplied, 
And  the  old  man  was  gratified. 
Began  to  rise  his  minstrel  pride : 
And  he  began  to  talk  anon, 
Of  good  Earl  Francis,t  dead  and  gone. 
And  of  Earl  Walter,!  rest  him  God ! 
A  braver  ne'er  to  battle  rode : 
And  how  full  many  a  tale  he  knew 
Of  the  old  warriors  of  Buccleuch ; 
And,  would  the  noble  dutchess  deign 
To  listen  to  an  old  man's  strain. 
Though  stiff  his  hand,  his  voice  though  weak 
He  thought,  e'en  yet,  the  sooth  to  speak, 
That  if  she  loved  the  harp  to  hear, 
He  could  make  music  to  her  ear. 

The  humble  boon  was  soon  obtain'd ; 
The  aged  minstrel  audience  gain'd. 
But,  when  he  reach 'd  the  room  of  state. 
Where  she,  with  all  her  ladies,  sate. 
Perchance  he  wish'd  his  boon  denied* 
For,  when  to  tune  his  harp  he  tried, 
His  trembling  hand  had  lost  the  ease, 
Which  marks  security  to  please : 
And  scenes,  long  past,  of  joy  and  pain. 
Came  wildering  o'er  his  aged  brain — 
He  tried  to  tune  his  harp  in  vain. 
The  pitying  duchess  praised  its  chime, 
And  gave  him  heart,  and  gave  him  time, 
Till  every  string's  according  glee 
Was  blended  into  harmony. 
And  then,  he  said,  he  would  full  fain 
He  could  recall  an  ancient  strain. 
He  never  thought  to  sing  again. 


*  Anne,  Dutchess  of  Buccleuch  and  Monmouth,  repr» 
sentalive  of  the  ancient  lords  of  Buccleuch,  and  widow  ol 
the  unfortunate  James,  Duke  of  Monmouth,  who  was  ]» 
headed  in  1685. 
t  Francis  Scott,  Earl  of  Buccleuch,  fatherto  the  duichesa 
t  Walter,  Earl  of  Buccleuch,  grandfather  to  the  dutchess 
and  a  celebrated  warrior. 


THE    LAY    OF    THE    LAST    MINSTREL. 


599 


It  was  not  framed  for  village  churls, 

But  for  high  dames  and  mighty  earls  ; 

He  had  play'd  it  to  King  Charles  the  good, 

When  he  kept  court  in  Holyrood ; 

And  much  he  wish'd,  yet  fear'd,  to  try 

The  long  forgotten  melody. 

Amid  the  strings  his  fingers  stray'd, 

And  an  uncertain  warbling  made, 

And  oft  he  shook  his  hoary  head. 

But  when  he  caught  tlie  measure  wild, 

The  old  man  raised  his  face  and  smiled ; 

And  lighten'd  up  his  faded  eye. 

With  all  a  poet's  ecstasy ! 

In  varying  cadence,  soft  or  strong, 

He  swept  the  sounding  chords  along: 

The  present  scene,  the  future  lot. 

His  toils,  his  wants,  were  all  forgot ; 

Cold  diffidence,  and  age's  frost, 

In  the  full  tide  of  song  were  lost ; 

Each  blank,  in  faithless  memory  void, 

The  poet's  glowing  thought  supplied ; 

And,  while  his  harp  responsive  rung, 

'Twas  thus  the  latest  minstrel  sung. 

Canto  I 
I. 

The  feast  wae  over  in  Branksome  tower, 

And  the  ladye  had  gone  to  her  secret  bower ; 

Her  bower  that  was  guarded  by  word  and  by  spell, 

Deadly  to  hear,  and  deadly  to  tell — 

Jesu  Maria,  shield  us  well ! 

No  living  wight,  save  the  ladye  alone. 

Had  dared  to  cross  the  threshold  stone. 

II. 
The  tables  were  drawn,  it  was  idlesse  all; 

Knight,  and  page,  and  household  squire, 
Loiter'd  through  the  lofty  hall. 

Or  crowded  round  the  ample  fire ; 
The  stag  hounds,  weary  with  the  chase. 

Lay  stretch'd  upon  the  rushy  floor. 
And  urged,  in  dreams,  the  forest  race. 

From  Teviotstone  to  Eskdale-moor. 

III. 

Nine-and-twenty  knights  of  fame 

Hung  their  shields  in  Branksome  hall ; 
Nine-and-twenty  squires  of  name 
Brought  them  their  steeds  from  bower  to  stall ; 
Nine-and-twenty  yeomen  tall 
Waited  duteous  on  them  all: 
They  were  all  knights  of  metal  true, 
Kinsmen  to  the  bold  Buccleuch; 

IV. 
fen  of  them  were  sheathed  in  steel, 
With  belted  sword,  and  spur  on  heel: 
Tjiey  quitted  not  their  harness  bright, 
Neither  by  day,  nor  yet  by  night: 

They  lay  down  to  rest, 

With  corslet  laced, 
Pillow'd  on  buckler  cold  and  hard; 

They  carved  at  the  meal 

With  gloves  of  steel. 
And  they  drank  the  red  wine  through  the  helmet 

bair'd. 


V. 
Ten  squires,  ten  yeomen,  mailclad  men, 
Waited  the  beck  of  the  warders  ten ; 
Thirty  steeds,  both  fleet  and  wight. 
Stood  saddled  in  stable  day  and  night. 
Barbed  with  frontlet  of  steel,  I  trow. 
And  with  Jedwood  axe  at  saddle  bow, 
A  hundred  more  fed  free  in  stall : 
Such  was  the  custom  of  Branksome  hall. 

VI. 

Why  do  these  steeds  stand  ready  dight  ? 

Why  watch  these  warriors,  arm'd,  by  night  ? 

They  watch  to  hear  the  bloodhound  baying ; 

They  watch  to  hear  the  warhorn  braying ; 

To  see  Saint  George's  red  cross  streaming; 

To  see  the  midnight  beacon  gleaming ; 

They  watch  'gainst  Southern  force  and  guile; 
Lest  Scroop,  or  Howard,  or  Percy's  powers, 
Threaten  Branksome's  lordly  towers. 

From  Warkworth,  or  Naworth,  or  merry  Carlisle. 

VII. 
Such  is  the  custom  of  Branksome  hall. — 

Many  a  valiant  knight  is  here  ; 
But  he,  the  chieftain  of  them  all, 
His  sword  hangs  rusting  on  the  wall 

Beside  his  broken  spear. 
Bards  long  shall  tell, 
How  Lord  Walter  fell ! 
When  startled  burghers  fled  afar. 
The  furies  of  the  border  war ; 
When  the  streets  of  high  Dunedin 
Saw  lances  gleam,  and  falchions  redden, 
And  heard  the  slogan's*  deadly  yell — 
Then  the  chief  of  Branksome  fell. 

VIH. 

Can  piety  the  discord  heal, 

Or  stanch  the  death-feud's  enmity  ? 
Can  Christian  lore,  can  patriot  zeal, 

Can  love  of  blessed  charity  ? 
No  !  vainly  to  each  holy  shrine. 

In  mutual  pilgrimage  they  drew. 
Implored,  in  vain,  the  grace  divine 

For  chiefs  their  own  red  falchions  slew ; 
While  Cessford  owns  the  rule  of  Car, 

While  Ettrick  boasts  the  line  of  Scott, 
The  slaughter'd  chiefs,  the  mortal  jar. 
The  havoc  of  the  feudal  war. 

Shall  never,  never  be  forgot ! 

IX. 

In  sorrow  o'er  Lord  Walter's  bier 

The  warlike  foresters  had  bent; 
And  many  a  flower,  and  many  a  tear, 

Old  Teviot's  maids  and  matrons  lent; 
But  o'er  her  warrior's  bloody  bier 
The  ladye  dropp'd  nor  flower  nor  tear ; 
Vengeance  deep  brooding  o'er  the  slain. 

Had  lock'd  the  source  of  softer  wo ; 
And  burning  pride  and  high  disdain, 

Forbade  the  rising  tear  to  flow ; 


*  The  war  cry,  or  gathering  word  of  a  Border  clan. 


coo                                                          SCOTT. 

Until,  amid  his  sorrowing  clan. 

XIV. 

Her  son  lisp'd  from  the  nurse's  knee — 

From  the  sound  of  Teviot's  tide. 

«*  And  if  I  live  to  be  a  man, 

Chafing  with  the  mountain's  side, 
From  the  groan  of  the  windswung  oak, 
From  the  sullen  echo  of  the  rock, 

My  father's  death  revenged  shall  be  !" 
Then  fast  the  mother's  tears  did  seek 

To  dew  the  infant's  kindling  cheek. 

From  the  voice  of  the  coming  storm, 

X. 

The  lady  knew  it  well ! 

All  loose  her  negligent  attire, 
All  loose  her  golden  hair. 

It  was  the  spirit  of  the  flood  that  spoke, 
And  he  call'd  on  the  spirit  of  the  fell. 

Hung  Margaret  o'er  her  slaughter'd  sire, 

XV. 

And  wept  in  wild  despair. 

But  not  alone  the  bitter  tear 

RIVER   SPIRIT. 

Had  filial  grief  supplied ; 

«  Sleep'st  thou,  brother  ?" 

For  hopeless  love,  and  anxious  fear. 

Had  lent  their  mingled  tide : 

MOUNTAIN   SPIRIT. 

Nor  in  her  mother's  alter'd  eye 

«  Brother,  nay- 

Dared  she  to  look  for  sympathy. 

On  my  hills  the  moonbeams  play. 

Her  lover,  'gainst  her  father's  clan. 

From  Craig-cross  to  Skelfhillpen, 

With  car  in  arms  had  stood. 

By  every  rill,  in  every  glen. 

When  Mathouse-burn  to  Melrose  ran 

Merry  elves  their  morrice  pacing. 

All  purplewith  their  blood  ; 

To  aerial  minstrelsy. 

And  well  she  knew,  her  mother  dread. 

Emerald  rings  on  brown  heath  tracing. 

Before  Lord  Cranstoun  she  would  wed, 

Trip  it  deft  and  merrily. 

Would  see  her  on  her  dying  bed. 

Up,  and  mark  their  nimble  feet  1 

XI. 

Up,  and  list  their  music  sweet !" 

Of  noble  race  the  ladye  came  ; 

XVI. 

Her  father  was  a  clerk  of  fame. 

RIVER   SPIRIT. 

Of  Bethune's  line  of  Picardie  ; 

"Tears  of  an  imprison'd  maiden 

He  learn'd  the  art  that  none  may  name. 

In  Padua,  far  beyond  the  sea. 
Men  said  he  changed  his  mortal  frame 

Mix  with  my  polluted  stream  ; 
Margaret  of  Branksome,  sorrow  laden. 
Mourns  beneath  the  moon's  pale  beam. 

By  feat  of  magic  mystery ; 

Tell  me,  thou,  who  view'st  the  stars. 

For  when,  in  studious  mood,  he  paced 

When  shall  cease  these  feudal  jars. 
What  shall  be  the  maiden's  fate  ? 

Saint  Andrew's  cloister'd  hall. 

His  form  no  darkening  shadow  traced 

Who  shall  be  the  maiden's  mate  ?" 

Upon  the  sunny  wall ! 

XII. 

xvn. 

And  of  his  skill,  as  bards  avow, 

MOUNTAIN   SPIRIT. 

He  taught  that  ladye  fair. 

«  Arthur's  slow  wain  his  course  doth  roll 

Till  to  her  bidding  she  could  bow 

In  utter  darkness  round  the  pole ; 

The  viewless  forms  of  air. 

The  northern  bear  lowers  black  and  grim ; 

And  now  she  sits  in  secret  bower, 

Orion's  studded  belt  is  dim : 

In  old  Lord  David's  western  tower. 

Twinkling  faint,  and  distant  far, 

And  listens  to  a  heavy  sound. 

Shimmers  through  mist  each  plaiiet  star; 

That  moans  the  mossy  turrets  round. 

111  may  I  read  their  high  decree  ! 

Is  it  the  roar  of  Teviot's  tide, 

But  no  kind  influence  deign  they  shower 

That  chafes  against  the  scaur's*  red  side  ? 

On  Teviot's  tide,  and  Branksome's  tower. 

Is  it  the  wind  that  swings  the  oaks  ? 

Till  pride  be  quell'd,  and  love  be  free." 

Is  it  the  echo  from  the  rocks  ? 

xvin. 

What  may  it  be,  the  heavy  sound. 

That  moans  old  Branksome's  turrets  round  ? 

The  unearthly  voices  ceased. 

And  the  heavy  so'.ind  was  still 

XIII. 

It  died  on  the  river's  breast. 

At  the  sullen  moaning  sound. 

It  died  on  the  side  of  the  hill, 

The  bandogs  bay  and  howl ; 

But  round  Lord  David's  tower 

And,  from  the  turrets  round, 

The  sound  still  floated  near ; 

Loud  whoops  the  startled  owl. 

For  it  rung  in  the  ladye's  bower. 

In  the  hall,  both  squire  and  knight 

And  it  rung  in  the  ladye's  ear.' 

Swore  that  a  storm  was  nea-r, 

She  raised  her  stately  head, 

And  looked  forth  to  view  the  night. 

And  her  hear*,  throbb'd  high  with  pride  :- 

But  the  night  was  still  and  clear ! 

"Your  mountains  shall  bend. 

And  your  streams  ascend. 

♦  Scaur,  a  precipitous  bank  of  earth. 

Ere  Margaret  be  our  foeman's  bride  ! 

THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


601 


XIX. 

The  ladye  sought  the  lofty  hall, 

Where  many  a  bold  retainer  lay, 
And,  with  jocund  din,  among  them  all, 

Her  son  pursued  his  infant  play, 
A.  fancied  mosstrooper,  the  boy 

The  truncheon  of  a  spear  bestrode, 
And  round  the  hall,  right  merrily. 

In  mimic  foray*  rode. 
E'en  bearded  knights,  in  arms  grown  old. 

Share  in  his  frolic  gambols  bore. 
Albeit  their  hearts,  of  rugged  mould. 

Were  stubborn  as  the  steel  they  wore. 
For  the  gray  warriors  prophesied. 

How  the  brave  boy,  in  future  war, 
Should  tame  the  unicorn's  pride. 

Exalt  the  crescent  and  the  star. 

XX. 

The  ladye  forgot  her  purpose  high. 

One  moment,  and  no  more ; 
One  moment  gazed  with  a  mother's  eye, 

As  she  paused  at  the  arched  door ; 
Then,  from  amid  the  armed  train. 
She  call'd  to  her  William  of  Deloraine. 

XXL 

A  stark  mosstrooping  Scott  was  he. 

As  e'er  couch 'd  border  lance  by  knee ; 

Through  Solway  sands,  through  Tarras  moss. 

Blindfold  he  knew  the  paths  to  cross  ; 

By  wily  turns,  by  desperate  bounds. 

Had  baffled  Percy's  best  bloodhounds; 

In  Eske,  or  Liddel,  fords  were  none. 

But  he  v/ould  ride  them  one  by  one ; 

Alike  to  him  was  time  or  tide, 

December's  snow,  or  July's  pride ; 

Alike  to  him  was  tide  or  time, 

Moonless  midnight,  or  matin  prime : 

Stead}''  of  heart,  and  stout  of  hand. 

As  ever  drove  prey  from  Cumberland  ; 

Five  times  outlawed  had  he  been. 

By  England's  king,  and  Scotland's  queea. 

XXII. 
"  Sir  William  of  Deloraine,  good  at  need 
Mount  thee  on  the  wightest  steed ; 
Spare  not  to  spur,  nor  stint  to  ride, 
Until  you  come  to  fair  Tweed  side ; 
And  in  Melrose's  holy  pile 
Seek  thou  the  monk  of  St.  Mary's  aisle. 

Greet  the  father  well  from  me  ; 
Say  that  the  fated  hour  is  come. 

And  to-night  he  shall  watch  with  thee. 
To  win  the  treasure  of  the  tomb : 
For  this  will  be  Saint  Michael's  night. 
And,  though  stars  be  dim,  the  moon  is  bright ; 
And  the  cross  of  bloody  red, 
Will  point  to  the  grave  of  the  mighty  dead. 

XXIII. 
'*  What  he  gives  thee,  see  thou  keep ; 
Stay  not  thou  for  food  or  sleep ; 
Be  it  scroll,  or  be  it  book. 
Into  it,  knight,  thou  must  not  look ; 


♦  Foray,  a  predatory  inroad. 


If  thou  readest,  thou  art  lorn  ! 
Better  thou  hadst  ne'er  been  born." 

XXIV. 
"  0  swiftly  can  speed  my  dapplegray  ^teed, 

Which  drinks  of  the  Teviot  clear ; 
Ere  break  of  day,"  the  warrior  *gan  say, 

"  Again  will  I  be  here : 
And  safer  by  none  may  thy  errand  be  done. 

Than,  noble  dame,  by  me  ; 
Letter  nor  line  know  I  never  a  one, 
Wer't  ray  neck-verse  at  Haribee."* 

XXV. 

Soon  in  his  saddle  sate  he  fast, 
And  soon  the  deep  descent  he  pass'd. 
Soon  cross'd  the  sounding  barbican,t 
And  soon  the  Teviot's  side  he  won. 
Eastward  the  wooded  path  he  rode. 
Green  hazels  o'er  his  basnet  nod :         , 
He  pass'd  the  peel^  of  Goldiland, 
And  cross'd  old  Borthwick's  roaring  strand 
Dimly  he  view'd  the  moathill's  mound. 
Where  Drui4  shades  still  flitted  round  : 
In  Hawick  twinkled  many  a  light; 
Behind  him  soon  they  set  in  night ; 
And  soon  he  spurr'd  his  courser  keen 
Beneath  the  tower  of  Hazeldean. 

XXVI. 

The  clattering  hoofs  the  watchmen  mark;— 
"  Stand,  ho  !  thou  courier  of  the  dark." 
"  For  Branksome,  ho  !"  the  knight  rejoin'd. 
And  left  the  friendly  tower  behind. 

He  turn'd  him  now  from  Teviot  side. 
And,  guided  by  the  tinkling  rill, 

Northward  the  dark  ascent  did  ride. 
And  gain'd  the  moor  at  Horslie  hill; 
Broad  on  the  left  before  him  lay, 
For  many  a  mile  the  Roman  way.§ 

XXVII. 
A  moment  now  he  slack'd  his  speed, 
A  moment  breathed  his  panting  steed ; 
Drew  saddle-girth  and  corslet-band. 
And  loosen 'd  in  the  sheath  his  brand. 
On  Mintocrags  the  moonbeams  glint, 
W^here  Barnhill  hew'd  his  bed  of  flint; 
Who  flung  his  outlaw'd  limbs  to  rest. 
Where  falcons  hang  their  giddy  nest, 
'Mid  cliffs,  from  whence  his  eagle  eye, 
For  many  a  league,  his  prey  could  spy ; 
Cliffs  doubling,  on  their  echoes  borne. 
The  terrors  of  the  robber's  horn  ; 
Cliffs,  which,  for  many  a  later  year. 
The  warbling  Doric  reed  shall  hear, 
When  some  sad  swain  shall  teach  the  grove. 
Ambition  is  no  cure  for  love. 


*  Haribee,  the  place  of  executing  the  Border  marauderg 
at  Carlisle.  The  neck-verse  is  the  beginning  of  the  fiftjr 
first  psalm,  Miserere  tnei,  «J-c.  anciently  read  by  criminals, 
cJaiming  the  benefit  of  clergy. 

t  Barbican,  the  defence  of  the  outer  gate  of  a  feudal 
castle. 

t  Peel,  a  Border  tower. 

§  An  ancient  Roman  road,  crossing  through  part  of 
Roxburghshire. 


603 


SCOTT. 


XXVIIT. 

Unchallenged,  thence  past  Deloraine 
To  ancient  Riddell's  fair  domain, 

Where  Aill,  from  mountains  freed, 
Down  from  the  lakes  did  raving  come, 
Cresting  each  wave  with  tawny  foam, 

Like  the  mane  of  a  chestnut  steed. 
In  vain  !  no  torrent,  deep  or  broad, 
Might  bar  the  bold  mosstrooper's  road. 

XXIX. 

At  the  first  plange  the  horse  sunk  low, 

And  the  water  broke  o'er  the  saddle-bow: 

Above  the  foaming  tide,  I  ween, 

Scarce  half  the  charger's  neck  was  seen  j 

For  he  was  barded*  from  counter  to  tail, 

And  the  rider  was  arm'd  complete  in  mail ; 

Never  heavier  man  and  horse 

Stemmed  a  midnight  torrent's  force. 

The  warrior's  very  plume,  I  say, 

Was  daggled  by  the  dashing  spray ; 

Yet,  through  good  heart,  and  our  ladye's  grace, 

At  length  he  gain'd  the  landing  place. 

XXX. 

Now  Bowden  moor  the  marchman  won, 

And  sternly  shook  his  plumed  head, 
As  glanced  his  eye  o'er  Halidon, 

For  on  his  soul  the  slaughter  red 
Of  that  unhallow'd  morn  arose. 
When  first  the  Scott  and  Car  were  foes ; 
When  royal  James  beheld  the  fray, 
Prize  to  the  victor  of  the  daj' ; 
When  Home  and  Douglas,  in  the  van, 
Bore  down  Buccleuch's  retiring  clan. 
Till  gallant  Cessford's  heartblood  dear 
Reek'd  on  dark  Elliot's  border  spear. 

XXXI. 

In  bitter  mood  he  spurred  fast, 

And  soon  the  hated  heath  was  past ; 

And  far  beneath,  in  lustre  wan, 

Old  Melros'  rose,  and  fair  Tweed  ran ; 

Like  some  tall  rock,  with  lichens  gray, 

Rose,  dimly  huge,  the  dark  abbaye. 

W^hen  Hawick  he  pass'd,  had  curfew  rung, 

Now  midnight  laudsf  were  in  Melrose  sung. 

The  sound  upon  the  fitful  gale 

In  solemn  wise  did  rise  and  fail. 

Like  that  wild  harp  whose  magic  tone 

Is  waken'd  by  the  winds  alone. 

But  when  Melrose  he  reach'd,  'twas  silence  all; 

He  meetly  stabled  his  steed  in  stall. 

And  sought  the  convent's  lonely  wall. 

Here  paused  the  harp  ;  and  with  its  swell 
The  master's  fire  and  courage  fell: 
Dejectedly,  and  low,  he  bow'd. 
And,  gazing  timid  on  the  crowd, 
He  seem'd  to  seek,  in  every  eye. 
If  they  approved  his  minstrelsy : 


*  Barded,  or  barbed,  applied  to  a  horse  accoutred  with 
defensive  armour. 
t  Lauds,  the  midnight  service  of  the  Catholic  church. 


And,  diffident  of  present  praise. 
Somewhat  he  spoke  of  former  days. 
And  how  old  age,  and  wandering  long, 
Had  done  his  hand  and  harp  some  wrong. 

The  dutchess  and  her  daughters  fair, 
And  every  gentle  ladye  there. 
Each  after  each,  in  due  degree. 
Gave  praises  to  his  melody ; 
His  hand  was  true,  his  voice  was  clear. 
And  much  they  longed  the  rest  to  I  ear. 
Encouraged  thus,  the  aged  man, 
After  meet  rest,  again  began. 

Canto  II. 

I. 
If  thou  wouldst  view  fair  Melrose  aright. 
Go  visit  it  by  the  pale  moonlight ; 
For  the  gay  beams  of  lightsome  day 
Gild,  but  to  flout,  the  ruins  gray. 
When  the  broken  arches  are  black  in  night 
And  each  shafted  oriel  glimmers  white  ; 
When  the  cold  light's  uncertain  shower 
Streams  on  the  ruin'd  central  tower: 
When  buttress  and  buttress,  alternately, 
Seem'd  framed  of  ebon  and  ivory : 
When  silver  edges  the  imagery. 
And  the  scrolls  that  teach  thee  to  live  and  die; 
When  distant  Tweed  is  heard  to  rave, 
And  the  owlet  to  hoot  o'er  the  dead  man's  grava 
Then  go — but  go  alone  the  while — 
Then  view  Saint  David's  ruin'd  pile ; 
And,  hon:e  returning,  soothly  swear 
Was  never  scene  so  sad  and  fair .' 

II- 

Short  halt  did  Deloraine  make  there ; 
Little  reek'd  he  of  the  scene  so  fair : 
With  dagger's  hilt,  on  the  wicket  strong. 
He  struck  full  loud,  and  struck  full  long. 
The  porter  hurried  to  the  gate — 
"  Who  knocks  so  loud,  and  knocks  so  late  ?" 
«  From  Branksome  I,"  the  warrior  cried  ; 
And  straight  the  wicket  open'd  wide: 
For  Branksome's  chiefs  had  in  battle  stood. 

To  fence  the  rights  of  fair  Melrose  ; 
And  lands  and  livings,  many  a  rood. 

Had  gifted  the  shrine  for  their  soul's  repose. 

IIL 
Bold  Deloraine  his  errand  said  ; 
The  porter  bent  his  humble  head  ; 
With  torch  in  hand,  and  feet  unshod, 
And  noiseless  step,  the  path  he  trod  ; 
The  arched  cloisters,  far  and  wide, 
Rang  to  the  warrior's  clanking  stride ; 
Till,  stooping  low  his  lofty  crest. 
He  enter'd  the  cell  of  the  ancient  priest. 
And  lifted  his  barred  aventayle,* 
To  hail  the  monk  of  St.  Mary's  aisle. 

IV. 

"  The  Ladye  of  Branksome  greets  thee  by  me ; 
Says  that  the  fated  hour  is  come. 


♦  Aventayle,  visor  of  the  helmed 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


603 


And  that  to-night  I  shall  watch  with  thee, 

To  win  the  treasure  of  the  tomb." 
From  sackcloth  couch  the  monk  arose, 

With  toil  his  stiffen  M  limbs  he  rear'd; 
A  hundred  years  had  flung  their  snows 

On  his  thin  locks  and  floating  beard. 

V. 

And  strangely  on  the  knight  look'd  he, 

And  his  blue  eyes  gleam'd  wild  and  wide; 
"  And,  darest  thou,  warrior  !  seek  to  see 

What  heaven  and  hell  alike  would  hide  ? 
My  breast,  in  belt  of  iron  pent, 

W^ith  shirt  of  hair  and  scourge  of  thorn : 
For  threescore  years,  in  penance  spent, 

My  knees  those  flinty  stones  have  worn  ; 
Yet  all  too  little  to  atone 
For  knowing  what  should  ne'er  be  known 
Wouldst  thou  thy  every  future  year 

In  ceaseless  prayer  and  penance  drie. 
Yet  wait  thy  latter  end  with  fear — 

Then,  daring  warrior,  follow  me  !" 

VI. 
"  Penance,  father,  will  I  none ; 
Prayer  know  I  hardly  one  ; 
For  mass  or  prayer  can  I  rarely  tarry. 
Save  to  patter  an  Ave  Mary, 
When  I  ride  on  a  Border  foray : 
Other  prayer  can  I  none  ; 
So  speed  me  my  errand,  and  let  me  be  gone." 

VII. 

Again  on  the  knight  look'd  the  churchman  old, 

And  again  he  sigh'd  heavily ; 
For  he  had  himself  been  a  warrior  bold. 

And  fought  in  Spain  and  Italy. 
And  he  thought  on  the  days  that  were  long  since  by. 
When  his  limbs  were  strong,  and  his  courage  was 

high  :— 
Now,  slow  and  faint,  he  led  the  way. 
Where,  cloister'd  round,  the  garden  lay : 
The  pillard  arches  were  over  their  head, 
And  beneath  their  feet  were  the  bones  of  the  dead. 

VIII. 

Spreading  herbs,  and  flow'rets  bright, 
Glisten'd  with  the  dew  of  night ; 
Nor  herb,  nor  flow'ret,  glisten'd  there, 
But  was  carved  in  the  cloister'd  arches  as  fair. 
The  monk  gazed  long  on  the  lovely  moon. 

Then  into  the  night  he  look'd  forth ; 
And  red  and  bright  the  streamers  light 
Were  dancing  in  the  glowing  north. 
So  had  he  seen,  in  fair  Castile, 

The  youth  in  glitt'ring  squadrons  start; 
Sudden  the  flying  gennet  wheel, 
And  hurl  the  unexpected  dart. 
He  knew,  by  the  streamers  that  shot  so  bright. 
That  spirits  were  riding  the  northern  light. 

IX. 

By  a  steel-clench'd  postern  door. 

They  enter'd  now  the  chancel  tall : 
The  darken'd  roof  rose  high  aloof 

On  pillars,  lofty,  and  light,  and  small ; 


The  keystone,  that  lock'd  each  ribbed  aisle. 
Was  a  fleur-de-lys,  or  a  quatre-feuille : 
The  corbells*  were  carved  grotesque  and  grim  ; 
And  the  pillars,  with  cluster'd  shafts  so  trim. 
With  base  and  with  capital  flourish'd  around, 
Seem'd  bundles  of  lances  which  garlands  had  bound« 

X. 

Full  many  a  scutcheon  and  banner  riven, 
Shook  to  the  cold  night  wind  of  heaven, 

Around  the  screened  altar's  pale ; 
And  there  the  dying  lamps  did  burn. 
Before  thy  low  and  lonely  urn, 
0  gallant  chief  of  Otterburne  ! 

And  thine,  dark  knight  of  Liddesdale  ! 
0  fading  honours  of  the  dead  ! 
O  high  ambition,  lowly  laid  ! 

XI. 

The  moon  on  the  east  oriel  shone 
Through  slender  shafts  of  shapely  stone, 

By  foliaged  tracery  combined : 
Thou  would'st  have  thought  some  fairy's  hand 
'Twixt  poplars  straight  the  osier  wand. 

In  many  a  freakish  knot  had  twined  ; 
Then  framed  a  spell,  when  the  work  was  done, 
And  changed  the  willow  wreaths  to  stone. 
The  silver  light,  so  pale  and  faint, 
Show'd  many  a  prophet,  and  many  a  saint, 

Whose  image  on  the  glass  was  died ; 
Full  in  the  midst,  his  cross  of  red 
Triumphant  Michael  brandished. 

And  trampled  the  apostate's  pride. 
The  moonbeam  kiss'd  the  holy  pane. 
And  threw  on  the  pavement  a  bloody  stain. 

XII. 
They  sate  them  down  on  a  marble  stone ; 

(A  Scottish  monarch  slept  below:) 
Thus  spoke  the  monk,  in  solemn  tone; 

"  I  was  not  always  a  man  of  wo  ; 
For  Paynim  countries  I  have  trod. 
And  fought  beneath  the  cross  of  God: 
Now,  strange  to  my  eyes  thine  arms  appear, 
And  their  iron  clang  sounds  strange  to  my  ear. 

XIII. 
"  In  these  far  climes,  it  was  my  lot 
To  meet  the  wondrous  Michael  Scott ; 

A  wizard  of  such  dreaded  fame, 
That  when,  in  Salamanca's  cave. 
Him  listed  his  magic  wand  to  wave. 

The  bells  would  ring  in  Notre  Dame  ! 
Some  of  his  skill  he  taught  to  me ; 
And,  warrior,  I  could  say  to  thee 
The  words  that  cleft  Eildon  hills  in  three. 

And  bridled  the  Tweed  with  a  curb  of  stone ; 
But  to  speak  them  were  a  deadly  sin  ; 
And  for  having  but  thought  them  my  heart  within, 

A  treble  penance  must  be  done. 

XIV. 

'«  When  Michael  lay  on  his  dying  bed, 
His  conscience  was  awakened  ; 


*  CarbellSfihe  projections  from  which  the  arches  spring, 
usually  cut  in  a  fantastic  face  or  mask. 


604 


SCOTT. 


He  bethought  him  of  his  sinful  deed, 
And  he  gave  me  a  sign  to  come  with  speed  j 
I  was  in  Spain  when  the  morning  rose, 
But  I  stood  by  his  bed  ere  evening  close. 
The  words  may  not  again  be  said. 
That  he  spoke  to  me,  on  death-bed  laid : 
They  would  rend  this  abbaye's  massy  nave, 
And  pile  it  in  heaps  above  his  grave. 

XV. 

"  I  swore  to  bury  his  mighty  book. 

That  never  mortal  might  therein  look ; 

And  never  to  tell  where  it  was  hid. 

Save  at  the  chief  of  Branksome's  need ; 

And  when  that  need  was  past  and  o'er, 

Again  the  volume  to  restore. 

I  buried  him  on  Saint  Michael's  night. 

When  the  bell  tolled  one, and  the  moon  rose  bright; 

And  I  dug  his  chamber  among  the  dead. 

When  the  floor  of  the  chancel  was  stain'd  red. 

That  his  patron's  cross  might  o'er  him  wave. 

And  scare  the  fiends  from  the  wizard's  grave. 

XVI. 
"  It  was  a  night  of  wo  and  dread. 
When  Michael  in  the  tomb  I  laid  ! 
Strange  sounds  along  the  chancel  past ; 
The  banners  waved  without  a  blast:" — 
— Still  spoke  the  monk,  when  the  bell  toll'd  one. 
I  tell  you,  that  a  braver  man 
Than  William  of  Deloraine,  good  at  need, 
Against  a  foe  ne'er  spurr'd  a  steed  ; 
Yet  somewhat  was  he  chill'd  with  dread, 
And  his  hair  did  bristle  upon  his  head. 

XVII. 

"  Lo,  warrior*!   now,  the  cross  of  red 

Points  to  the  grave  of  the  mighty  dead ; 

Within  it  burns  a  wondrous  light, 

To  chase  the  spirits  that  love  the  night ; 

That  lamp  shall  burn  unquenchably. 

Until  the  eternal  doom  shall  be." 

Slow  moved  the  monk  to  the  broad  flag-stone. 

Which  the  bloody  cross  was  traced  upon  ; 

He  pointed  to  a  secret  nook ; 

An  iron  bar  the  warrior  took  ; 

And  the  monk  made  a  sign  with  his  wither'd  hand. 

The  grave's  huge  portal  to  expand. 

XVIII. 

With  beating  heart,  to  the  task  he  went ; 

His  sinewy  frame  o'er  the  grave-stone  bent. 

With  bar  of  iron  heaved  amain, 

Till  the  toil  drops  fell  from  his  brows,  like  rain. 

It  was  by  dint  of  passing  strength. 

That  he  moved  the  massy  stone  at  length. 

I  would  you  had  been  there,  to  see 

How  the  light  broke  forth  so  gloriously, 

Stream'd  upward  to  the  chancel  roof. 

And  through  the  galleries  far  aloof ! 

No  earthly  flame  blazed  e'er  so  bright ; 

It  shone  like  heaven's  own  blessed  light; 

And,  issuing  from  the  tomb, 
Show'd  the  monk's  cowl  and  visage  pale. 
Danced  on  the  dark  brow'd  warrior's  mail, 

And  kiss'd  his  waving  plume. 


XIX. 

Before  their  eyes  the  wizard  lay, 
As  if  he  had  not  been  dead  a  day. 
His  hoary  beard  in  silver  roll'd, 
He  seem'd  some  seventy  winters  old ; 
A  palmer's  amice  wrapp'd  him  round, 
With  a  wrought  Spanish  baldric  bound, 

Like  a  pilgrim  from  beyond  the  sea ; 
His  left  hand  held  his  book  of  might ;  / 

A  silver  cross  was  in  his  right ; 

The  lamp  was  placed  beside  his  knee; 
High  and  majestic  was  his  look ; 
At  which  the  fellest  fiends  had  shook. 
And  all  unruffled  was  his  face — 
They  trusted  his  soul  had  gotten  grace. 

XX. 

Often  had  William  of  Deloraine 

Rode  through  the  battle's  bloody  plain, 

And  trampled  down  the  warriors  slain, 

And  neither  known  remorse  nor  awe ; 
Yet  now  remorse  and  awe  he  own'd : 
His  breath  came  thick,  his  head  swam  round. 

When  this  strange  scene  of  death  he  saw. 
Bewilder'd  and  unnerved  he  stood, 
And  the  priest  pray'd  fervently  and  loud: 
With  eyes  averted,  prayed  he  ; 
He  might  not  endure  the  sight  to  see. 
Of  the  man  he  had  loved  so  brotherly. 

XXI. 

And  when  the  priest  his  death-prayer  had  pray'c^ 

Thus  unto  Deloraine  he  said  ; — 

"  Now,  speed  thee  what  thou  hast  to  do. 

Or,  warrior,  we  may  dearly  rue  ; 

For  those,  thou  may'st  not  look  upon. 

Are  gathering  fast  round  the  yawning  stone  !'*— « 

Then  Deloraine,  in  terror,  took 

From  the  cold  hand  the  mighty  book, 

With  iron  clasp'd,  and  with  iron  bound ; 

He  thought,  as  he  took  it,  the  dead  man  frown*d : 

But  the  glare  of  the  sepulchral  light, 

Perchance,  had  dazzled  the  warrior's  sight. 

XXII. 
When  the  huge  stone  sunk  o'er  the  tomb. 
The  night  return'd  in  double  gloom ; 
For  the  moon  had  gone  down,  and  the  stars  were 

few: 
And,  as  the  knight  and  priest  withdrew. 
With  wavering  steps  and  dizzy  brain, 
They  hardly  might  the  postern  gain. 
'Tis  said,  as  through  the  aisles  they  pass'd. 
They  heard  strange  noises  on  the  blast ; 
And  through  the  cloister-galleries  small. 
Which  at  mid-height  thread  the  chancel  wall 
Loud  sobs,  and  laughter  louder,  ran, 
And  voices  unlike  the  voice  of  man  ; 
As  if  the  fiends  kept  holiday, 
Because  these  spells  were  brought  to  day. 
I  cannot  tell  how  the  truth  may  be ; 
I  say  the  tale  as  'twas  said  to  me. 

XXIII. 
«  Now,  hie  thee  hence,"  the  father  said  ; 
«  And,  when  we  are  on  death-bed  laid, 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


605 


O  may  our  dear  Ladye,  and  sweet  Saint  John, 
Forgive  our  souls  for  the  deed  we  have  done  !" 
The  monk  return'd  him  to  his  cell, 

And  many  a  prayer  and  penance  sped ; 
When  the  convent  met  at  the  noontide  bell, 

The  monk  of  Saint  Mary's  aisle  was  dead  ! 
Before  the  cross  was  the  body  laid, 
With  hands  clasp'd  fast,  as  if  still  he  pray'd 

XXIV. 

The  knight  bieath'd  free  in  the  morning  wind, 

And  strove  his  hardihood  to  find  ; 

He  was  glad  when  he  pass'd  the  tombstones  gray 

Which  girdle  round  the  fair  Abbaye ; 

For  the  mystic  book,  to  his  bosom  prest. 

Felt  like  a  load  upon  his  breast ; 

And  his  joints,  with  nerves  of  iron  twined, 

Shook,  like  the  aspen  leaves  in  wind. 

Full  fain  was  he  when  the  dawn  of  day 

Began  to  brighten  Cheviot  gray  ; 

He  joy'd  to  see  the  cheerful  light, 

And  he  said  Ave  Mary,  as  well  as  he  might. 

XXV. 

The  sun  had  brighten'd  Cheviot  gray. 

The  sun  had  brighten'd  the  Carter's*  side. 
And  soon  beneath  the  rising  day 

Smiled  Branksome  towers  and  Teviot  tide. 
The  wild  birds  told  their  warbling  tale  ; 

And  awaken'd  every  flower  that  blows  j 
And  peep'd  forth  the  violet  pale. 

And  spread  her  breast  the  mountain  rose  ; 
And  lovelier  than  the  rose  so  red, 

Yet  paler  than  the  violet  pale. 
She  early  left  her  sleepless  bed. 

The  fairest  maid  of  Teviotdale. 

XXVI. 

Why  does  fair  Margaret  so  early  awake, 

And  don  iier  kirtle  so  hastilie  : 
And  the  silken  knots,  which  in  hurry  she  would 
make. 

Why  tremble  her  slender  fingers  to  tie  ? 
Why  does  she  stop,  and  look  often  around, 

As  she  glides  down  the  secret  stair; 
And  why  does  she  pat  the  shaggy  bloodhound. 

As  he  rouses  him  up  from  his  lair: 
And,  though  she  passes  the  postern  alone, 
Why  is  not  the  watchman's  bugle  blown? 

XXVII. 

The  ladye  steps  in  doubt  and  dread. 

Lest  her  watchful  mother  hear  her  tread ; 

The  ladye  caresses  the  rough  bloodhound. 

Lest  his  voice  should  waken  the  castle  round ; 

The  watchman's  bugle  is  not  blown, 

For  he  was  her  foster-father's  son ; 

And  she  glides  through  the  greenwood  at  dawn  of 

light, 
To  meet  baron  Henry,  her  own  true  knight. 

XXVIII. 

The  knight  and  ladye  fair  are  met. 

And  under  the  hawthorn's  boughs  are  set. 


A.  mountain  on  the  border  of  England,  above  Jedburgh. 


A  fairer  pair  were  never  seen 

To  meet  beneath  the  hawthorn  green. 

He  was  stately,  and  j'oung,  and  tall. 

Dreaded  in  battle,  and  loved  in  hall : 

And  she,  when  love,  scarce  told, -scarce  hid 

Lent  to  her  cheek  a  livelier  red  ; 

When  the  half  sigh  her  swelling  breast 

Against  the  silken  riband  prest ; 

When  her  blue  eyes  their  secret  told. 

Though  shaded  by  her  locks  of  gold, — 

Where  would  you  find  the  peerless  fair 

With  Margaret  of  Branksome  might  compare ! 

XXIX. 
And  now,  fair  dames,  methinks  I  see 
You  listen  to  my  minstrelsy: 
Your  waving  locks  ye  backward  throw, 
And  sidelong  bend  your  necks  of  snow: 
Ye  ween  to  hear  a  melting  tale 
Of  two  true  lovers  in  a  dale  ; 

And  how  the  knight,  with  tender  fire. 
To  paint  his  faithful  passion  strove; 

Swore  he  might  at  her  feet  expire. 
But  never,  never  cease  to  love  ; 
And  how  she  blush'd,  and  how  she  sigh'd 
And,  half  consenting,  half  denied, 
•And  said  that  she  would  die  a  maid ; 
Yet,  might  the  bloody  feud  be  stay'd, 
Henry  of  Cranstoun,  and  only  he, 
Margaret  of  Branksome 's  choice  should  be 

XXX. 

Alas  !  fair  dames,  your  hopes  are  vain  ! 
My  harp  has  lost  th'  enchanting  strain; 

Its  lightness  would  my  age  reprove: 
My  hairs  are  gray,  my  limbs  are  old. 
My  heart  is  dead,  my  veins  are  cold  ;^ 

I  may  not,  must  not,  sing  of  love. 

XXXL 

Beneath  an  oak,  moss'd.o'er  by  eld, 
The  baron's  dwarf  his  courser  held. 

And  held  his  crested  helm  and  spear: 
That  dwarf  was  scarce  an  earthly  man. 
If  the  tales  were  true,  that  of  him  ran 

Through  all  the  Border,  far  and  near. 
'Twas  said,  when  the  baron  a  hunting  rode. 
Through  Redesdale's  glen,  but  rarely  troa. 
He  heard  a  voice  cry,  "  Lost  I  lost  I  lost  I" 
And,  like  a  tennis-ball  by  racquet  tost, 

A  leap,  of  thirty  feet  and  three. 
Made  from  the  gorse  this  elfin  shape, 
Distorted  like  some  dwarfish  ape. 

And  lighted  at  Lord  Cranstoun's  knee. 
Lord  Cranstoun  was  somewhit  dismay'd  ; 
'Tis  said  that  five  good  miles  he  rade 

To  rid  him  of  his  company ; 
But  wiiere  he  rode  one  mile,  the  dwarf  ran  lour. 
And  the  dwarf  was  first  at  the  castle  doer. 

XXXII. 
Use  lessens  marvel,  it  is  said: 
This  elfish  dwarf  with  the  baron  staid ; 
Little  he  ate,  and  less  he  spoke, 
Nor  mingled  with  the  menial  flock : 
And  oft  apart  his  arms  he  toss'd, 
And  often  murmur'd,  "  Lost !  lost  I  lost  I" 


S06 


SCOTT. 


He  was  waspish,  arch,  and  litherlie, 
But  well  Lord  Cranstoun  served  he ; 
And  he  of  his  service  was  full  fain ;, 
For  once  he  had  been  ta'en  or  slain, 
An'  had  it  not  been  his  ministry. 
All,  between  home  and  and  hermitage, 
Talk'd  of  Lord  Cranstoun's  goblin  page. 

XXXIIL 

For  the  baron  went  on  pilgrimage, 
And  took  with  him  this  elfish  page, 

To  Mary's  chapel  of  the  Lowes  ; 
For  there,  beside  our  lady's  lake. 
An  offering  he  had  sworn  to  make, 

And  he  would  pay  his  vows. 
But  the  ladye  of  Branksome  gather'd  a  band 
Of  the  best  that  would  ride  at  her  command ; 

The  trysting  place  was  Newark  Lee. 
Wat  of  Harden  came  thither  amain. 
And  thither  came  John  of  Thirlestane, 
And  thither  came  William  of  Deloraine  ; 

They  were  three  hundred  spears  and  three. 
Thrtjugh  Douglas-burn,  up  Yarrow  stream, 
Their  horses  prance,  their  lances  gleam. 
They  came  to  Saint  Mary's  lake  ere  day ; 
But  the  chapel  was  void,  and  the  baron  away. 
They  burn'd  the  chapel  for  very  rage. 
And  cursed  Lord  Cranstoun's  goblin  page. 

XXXIV. 

And  now,  in  Branksome's  good  green  wood. 
As  under  the  aged  oak  he  stood. 
The  baron's  courser  pricks  his  ears. 
As  if  a  distant  noise  he  hears  ; 
The  dwarf  waves  his  long  lean  arm  on  high. 
And  signs  to  the  lovers  to  part  and  fly ; 
No  time  was  then  to  vow  or  sigh. 
Fair  Margaret,  through  the  hazel  grove. 
Flew  like  the  startled  cushat  dove  ;* 
The  dwarf  the  stirrup  held  and  rein  ; 
Vaulted  the  knight  on  his  steed  amain. 
And,  pondering  deep  that  morning's  scene. 
Rode  eastward  through  the  hawthorns  green. 

While  thus  he  pour'd  the  lengthen'd  tale, 
The  minstrel's  voice  began  to  fail ; 
Full  slyly  smiled  the  observient  page, 
And  gave  the  wither'd  hand  of  age 
A  goblet,  crown'd  with  mighty  wine. 
The  blood  of  Velez'  scorched  vine. 
He  raised  the  silver  cup  on  high. 
And,  while  the  big  drop  fill'd  his  eye, 
Pray'd  God  to  bless  the  dutchess  long. 
And  all  who  cheer'd  a  son  of  song. 
The  attending  maidens  smiled  to  see. 
How  long,  how  deep,  how  zealously, 
The  precious  juice  the  minstrel  quafTd ; 
And  he,  embolden'd  by  the  draught, 
Look'd  gayly  back  to  thfem  and  laugh'd. 
The  cordial  nectar  of  the  bowl 
Swell'd  his  old  veins,  and  cheer'd  his  soul; 
A  lighter,  livelier  prelude  ran, 
Ere  thus  his  tale  again  began. 


Wood  pigeon. 


Canto  III. 
I. 

And  said  I  that  my  limbs  were  old ; 
And  said  I  that  my  blood  was  cold. 
And  that  my  kindly  fire  was  fled, 
And  my  poor  wither'd  heart  was  dead 

And  that  I  might  not  sing  of  love  ? 
How  could  I,  to  the  dearest  theme 
That  ever  warm'd  a  minstrel's  dream. 

So  foul,  so  false  a  recreant  prove  ! 
How  could  I  name  love's  very  name. 
Nor  wake  ray  harp  to  notes  of  flame  ! 

IL 

In  peace,  love  tunes  the  shepherd's  reed, 

In  war,  he  mounts  the  warrior's  steed ; 

In  halls,  in  gay  attire  is  seen ; 

In  hamlets,  d&rces  on  the  green. 

Love  rules  the  court,  the  camp,  the  grove, 

And  men  below  and  saints  above ; 

For  love  is  heaven,  and  heaven  is  love. 

in. 

So  thought  Lord  Cranstoun,  as  I  ween. 
While  pondering  deep  the  tender  scene. 
He  rode  through  Branksome's  hawthorn  ^o^n. 
But  the  page  shouted  wild  and  shrill,- 

And  scarce  his  hemlet  could  he  don> 
When  downward  frum  the  shady  hill 

A  stately  knight  came  pricking  on. 
That  warrior's  steed,  so  dapple-gray. 
Was  dark  with  sweat,  and  splash'd  with  clayt 

His  armour  red  with  many  a  stain : 
He  scem'd  in  such  a  weary  plight, 
As  if  he  had  ridden  the  livelong  mght ; 

For  it  was  William  of  Deloraine. 

IV. 
But  no  whit  weary  did  he  seem, 
When,  dancing  in  the  sunny  beam, 
He  mark'd  the  crane  on  the  baron's  crest ; 
For  his  ready  spear  was  in  hia  rest. 
Few  were  the  words,  and  stern,  and  high, 

That  mark'd  the  foeman's  feudal  hate  ; 
For  question  fierce,  and  proud  reply. 

Gave  signal  soon  of  dire  debate. 
Their  very  coursers  seem'd  to  know. 
That  each  was  other's  mortal  foe  ; 
And  snorted  fire,  when  wheel'd  around. 
To  give  each  knight  his  vantage  ground. 

V. 

In  rapid  round  the  baron  bent ; 

He  sigh'd  a  sigh,  and  pray'd  a  prayer: 
The  prayer  was  to  his  patron  saint. 

The  sigh  wao  to  his  ladye  fair. 
Stout  Deloraine  nor  sigh'd,  nor  pray'd, 
Nor  saint  nor  ladye  call'd  to  aid ; 
But  he  stoop'd  his  head,  and  couch'd  his  spearj 
And  spurr'd  his  steed  to  full  career. 
The  meeting  of  these  champions  proud 
Seem'd  like  the  bursting  thunder  cloud. 

VL 

Stern  was  the  dint  the  borderer  lent; 
The  stately  baron  backwards  bent ; 


THE    LAY    OF    THE    LAST    MINSTREL. 


ecn 


Sent  backwards  to  his  horse's  tail, 

And  his  plumes  went  scattering  on  the  gale ; 

The  tough  ash  spear,  so  stout  and  true, 

Into  a  thousand  flinders  flew. 

But  Cranstoun's  lance,  of  more  avail, 

Pierced  through,  like  silk,  the  Borderer's  mail: 

Through  shield,  and  jack,  and  acton  past, 

Deep  in  his  bosom,  broke  at  last. 

Still  sate  the  warrior  saddle  fast, 

Till  stumbling  in  the  mortal  shock, 

Down  went  the  steed,  the  girthing  broke, 

Kurl'd  on  a  heap  lay  man  and  horse. 

The  baron  onward  pass'd  his  course ; 

Nor  knew,  so  giddy  roll'd  his  brain, 

His  foe  lay  stretch'd  upon  the  plain. 

VII. 
But  when  he  rein'd  his  courser  round. 
And  saw  his  foeman  on  the  ground 

Lie  senseless  as  the  bloody  clay, 
Be  bade  his  page  to  staunch  the  wound, 

And  there  beside  the  warrior  stay, 
And  tend  him  in  his  doubtful  state. 
And  lead  him  to  Branksome  castle-gate. 
His  noble  mind  was  inly  moved 
For  the  kinsman  of  the  maid  he  loved. 
"  This  Shalt  thou  do  without  delay; 
No  longer  here  myself  may  stay  ; 
Unless  the  swifter  I  speed  away, 
Short  shrift  will  be  at  my  dying  day." 

VIII. 
Away  in  speed  Lord  Cranstoun  rode  ; 
The  goblin  page  behind  abode  : 
His  lord's  commands  he  ne'er  withstood, 
Though  small  his  pleasure  to  do  good. 
As  the  corslet  off  he  took, 
The  dwarf  espied  the  mighty  book ! 
Much  he  marvell'd,  a  knight  of  pride, 
Like  a  book-bosom'd  priest  should  ride: 
He  thought  not  to  search  or  stanch  the  wound. 
Until  the  secret  he  had  found. 

IX. 

The  iron  band,  the  iron  clasp, 

Resisted  long  the  elfin  grasp  ; 

For  when  the  first  he  had  undone, 

It  closed  as  he  the  next  begun. 

Those  iron  clasps,  that  iron  band. 

Would  not  yield  to  unchristen'd  hand. 

Till  he  smear'd  the  cover  o'er 

With  the  Borderer's  ci-rdled  gore ; 

A  moment  then  the  volume  spread. 

And  one  short  spell  therein  he  read. 

It  had  much  of  glamour  might. 

Could  make  a  ladye  seem  a  knight ; 

The  cobwebs  on  a  dungeon  wall. 

Seem  tapestry  in  lordly  hall ; 

A  nutshell  seem  a  gilded  barge, 

A  sheeling*  seem  a  palace  large. 

And  youth  seem  age,  and  age  seem  youth ; — 

All  was  delusion,  naught  was  truth. 

X. 

He  had  not  read  another  spell. 
When  on  his  cheek  a  buffet  fell, 


*  A  shepherd's  hut. 


So  fierce,  it  stretch'd  him  on  the  plain, 

Beside  the  wounded  Deloraine. 

From  the  ground  he  rose  dismay'd, 

And  shook  his  huge  and  matted  head ; 

One  word  he  mutter'd,  and  no  more- 

"  Man  of  age,  thou  smitest  sore  !" — 

No  more  the  elfin  page  durst  try 

Into  the  wondrous  book  to  pry ; 

The  clasps,  though  smear'd  with  Christian  gore. 

Shut  faster  than  (Tiey  were  before. 

He  hid  it  underneath  his  cloak. — 

Now,  if  you  ask  who  gave  the  stroke, 

I  cannot  tell,  so  mot  I  thrive  ; 

It  was  not  given  by  man  alive. 

XL 

Unwillingly  himself  he  address'd. 

To  do  his  master's  high  behest : 

He  lifted  up  the  living  corse,  « 

And  laid  it  on  the  weary  horse  ; 

He  led  him  into  Branksome  hall, 

Before  the  beards  of  the  warders  all ; 

And  each  did  after  swear  and  say. 

There  only  pass'd  a  wain  of  hay. 

He  took  him  to  Lord  David's  tower. 

E'en  to  the  ladye's  secret  bower: 

And,  but  that  stronger  spells  were  spread. 

And  the  door  might  not  be  opened. 

He  laid  him  on  her  very  bed. 

Whate'er  he  did  of  gramarye,* 

Was  always  done  maliciously ; 

He  flung  the  warrior  on  the  ground. 

And  the  blood  well'd  freshly  from  the  wound. 

XII. 

As  he  repass'd  the  outer  court. 

He  spied  the  fair  young  child  at  sport ; 

He  thought  to  train  him  to  the  wood; 

For,  at  a  word,  be  it  understood. 

He  was  always  for  ill,  and  never  for  good. 

Seem'd  to  the  boy  some  comrade  gay. 

Led  him  forth  to  the  woods  to  play ; 

On  the  drawbridge  the  warders  stout 

Saw  a  terrier  and  lurcher  passing  out 

xin. 

He  led  the  boy  o'er  bank  and  fell. 

Until  they  came  to  a  woodland  brook ; 
The  running  stream  dissolved  the  spell, 

And  his  own  elvish  shape  he  took. 
Could  he  have  had  his  pleasure  vilde. 
He  had  crippled  the  joints  of  the  noble  child ; 
Or,  with  his  finger  long  and  lean. 
Had  strangled  him  in  fiendish  spleen : 
But  his  awful  mother  he  had  in  dread. 
And  also  his  power  was  limited  : 
So  he  but  scowl'd  on  the  startled  child. 
And  darted  through  the  forest  wild ; 
The  woodland  brook  he  bounding  cross'd. 
And  laugh'd,  and  shouted,  "  Lost !  lost !  lost ! 

XIV. 
Full  sore  amazed  at  the  wondrous  change, 

And  frighten'd,  as  a  child  might  be. 
At  the  wild  yell,  and  visage  strange. 

And  the  dark  words  of  gramarye, 

•  Magic. 


608 


SCOTT. 


The  child,  amidst  the  forest  bower. 
Stood  rooted  like  a  lily  flower; 

And  when  at  length,  with  trembling  pace, 
He  sought  to  find  where  Branksome  lay, 

He  fear'd  to  see  that  grisly  face 

Glare  from  some  thicket  on  his  way. 
Thus,  starting  oft,  he  journey'd  on. 
And  deeper  in  the  wood  is  gone, — 
For  aye  the  more  he  sought  his  wty^ 
The  farther  still  he  went  astray. 
Until  he  heard  the  mountains  round 
Ring  to  the  baying  of  a  hound. 

XV. 
And  hark  !  and  hark  !  the  deep-mouth'd  bark 

Comes  nigher  still,  and  nigher; 
Bursts  on  the  path  a  dark  bloodhound. 
His  tawny  muzzle  track'd  the  ground. 

And  his  red  eye  shot  fire. 
Soon  as  the  wilder'd  child  saw  he, 
He  flew  at  him  right  furiouslie. 
I  ween,  you  would  have  seen  with  joy 
The  bearing  of  the  gallant  boy. 
When,  worthy  of  his  noble  sire. 
His  wet  cheek  glow'd  'twixt  fear  and  ire ! 
He  faced  the  bloodhound  manfully. 
And  held  his  little  bat  on  high  ; 
So  fierce  he  struck,  the  dog,  afraid, 
At  cautious  distance  hoarsely  bay'd, 

But  still  in  act  to  spring; 
When  dash'd  an  archer  through  the  glade, 
And  when  he  saw  the  hound  was  stay'd. 

He  drew  his  tough  bowstring : 
But  a  rough  voice  cried,  "  Shoot  not,  hoy  ! 
Ho  !  shoot  not,  Edward — 'tis  a  boy !" 

XVI. 
The  speaker  issued  from  the  wood. 
And  check'd  his  fellow's  surly  mood. 

And  quell'd  the  ban-dog's  ire  ; 
He  was  an  English  yeoman  good. 

And  born  in  Lancashire. 
Well  could  he  hit  a  fallow  deer. 

Five  hundred  feet  him  fro ; 
With  hand  more  true,  and  eye  more  clear, 
No  archer  bended  bow. 
His  coal-black  hair,  shorn  round  and  close. 

Set  off  his  sunburn'd  face  ; 
Old  England's  sign,  Saint  George's  cross. 
His  barret-cap  did  grace ; 
His  bugle^horn  hung  by  his  side. 
All  in  a  wolf-skin  baldric  tied : 
And  his  short  falchion,  sharp  and  clear, 
Had  pierced,  the  throat  of  many  a  deer. 

xvn. 

His  kirtle,  made  of  forest  green, 

Reach'd  scantly  to  his  knee ; 
And,  at  his  belt,  of  arrows  keen 
A  furbish'd  sheaf  bore  he  : 
His  buckler  scarce  in  breadth  a  span, 

No  larger  fence  had  he : 
He  never  counted  him  a  man 

Would  strike  below  the  knee; 
His  slacken'd  bow  was  in  his  hand. 
And  tne  leash,  that  was  his  bloodhound's  band. 


xvnr. 

He  would  not  do  the  fair  child  harm. 
But  held  him  with  his  powerful  arm, 
That  he  might  neither  fight  nor  flee ; 
For  when  the  red  cross  spied  he. 
The  boy  strove  long  and  violently. 
«  Now,  by  Saint  George,"  the  archer  erics, 
"  Edward,  methinks  we  have  a  prize ! 
This  boy's  fair  face,  and  courage  free, 
Show  he  is  come  of  high  decree." 

XIX. 
"  Yes,  I  am  come  of  high  decree. 

For  I  am  the  heir  of  bold  Bnccleuch ; 
And,  if  thou  dost  not  set  me  free. 

False  southron  thou  shalt  dearly  rue  ! 
For  Walter  of  Harden  shall  come  with  speed, 
And  William  of  Deloraine,  good  at  need. 
And  every  Scott  from  Esk  to  tweed ; 
And,  if  thou  dost  not  let  me  go. 
Despite  thy  arrows  and  thy  bow, 
I'll  have  thee  hang'd  to  feed  the  crow  I?' 

XX. 

"  Gramercy,  for  thy  good  will,  fair  boy  I 
My  mind  was  never  set  so  high  ; 
But  if  thou  art  chief  of  such  a  clan, 
And  art  the  son  of  such  a  man. 
And  ever  comest  to  thy  command, 

Our  wardens  had  need  to  keep  good  order; 
My  bow  of  yew  to  a  hazel  wand, 

Thou'lt  make  them  work  upon  the  border. 
Meantime  be  pleased  to  come  with  me. 
For  good  Lord  Dacre  shalt  thou  see. 
I  think  our  work  is  well  begun. 
When  we  have  taken  thy  father's  son.'* 

XXI. 

Although  the  child  was  led  away. 
In  Branksome  still  he  seem'd  to  stay. 
For  so  the  dwarf  his  part  did  play ; 
And,  in  the  shape  of  that  young  boy, 
He  wrought  the  castle  much  annoy. 
The  comrades  of  the  young  Buccleuch 
He  pinch'd,  and  beat,  and  overthrew  ; 
Nay,  some  of  them  he  well  nigh  slew. 
He  tore  dame  Maudlin's  silken  tire. 
And  as  Sym  Hall  stood  by  the  fire. 
He  lighted  the  match  of  his  bandelier,* 
And  wofully  scorch'd  the  hackbutteer  ;t 
It  may  be  hardly  thought  or  said. 
The  mischief  that  the  urchin  mad?. 
Till  many  of  the  castle  guess'd. 
That  the  young  baron  was  possess'd ! 

xxn. 

Well,  I  ween,  the  charm  he  held 
The  noble  ladye  had  soon  dispell'd ; 
But  she  was  deeply  busied  then 
To  tend  the  wounded  Deloraine. 
Much  she  wonder'd  to  find  him  lie. 

On  the  stone  threshold  stretch'd  along 
She  thought  some  spirit  of  the  sky 
Had  done  the  bold  mosstrooper  wrong : 


♦  Bandelier,  belt  for  carrying  ammunition, 
t  Hackbutteer,  musketeer. 


THE    LAY    OF    THE    LAST    MINSTREL. 


609 


Because,  despite  her  precept  dread, 
Perchance  he  in  the  book  had  read ; 
But  the  broken  lance  in  his  bosom  stood, 
And  it  was  earthly  steel  and  wood. 

XXIII. 

She  drew  the  splinter  from  the  wound, 
And  with  a  charm  she  stanch'd  the  blood : 

She  bade  the  gash  be  cleansed  and  bound ; 
No  longer  by  his  couch  she  stood; 

But  she  has  ta'en  the  broken  lance, 
And  wash'd  it  from  the  clotted  gore. 
And  salved  the  splinter  o'er  and  o'er. 

William  of  Deloraine,  in  trance, 

Whene'er  she  turn'd  it  round  and  round, 
Twisted,  as  if  she  gall'd  his  wound. 
Then  to  her  maidens  she  did  say. 
That  he  should  be  whole  man  and  sound. 
Within  the  course  of  a  night  and  day. 

Full  long  she  toil'd  ;  for  she  did  rue 

Mishap  to  friend  so  stout  and  true. 

XXIV. 

So  pass'd  the  day — the  evening  fell, 
'Twas  near  the  time  of  curfew  bell ; 
The  air  was  mild,  the  wind  was  calm, 
The  stream  was  smooth,  the  dew  was  balm ; 
E'en  the  rude  watchman,  on  the  tower, 
Enjoy'd  and  bless'd  the  lovely  hour ; 
Far  more  fair  Margaret  loved  and  bless'd 
The  hour  of  silence  and  of  rest. 
On  the  high  turret  sitting  lone. 
She  waked  at  times  the  lute's  soft  tone; 
Touch'd  a  wild  note,  and,  all  between. 
Thought  of  the  bovver  of  hawthorns  green. 
Her  golden  hair  stream'd  free  from  band, 
Her  fair  cheek  rested  on  her  hand, 
Her  blue  eyes  sought  the  west  afar, 
For  lovers  love  the  western  star. 

XXV. 

Is  yon  the  star,  o'er  Penchryst  Pen. 

That  rises  slowly  to  her  ken, 

And,  spreading  broad  its  wavering  light, 

Shakes  its  loose  tresses  on  the  r  ight  ? 

Is  yon  red  glare  the  western  star  ? — 

O,  'tis  the  beacon  blaze  of  war  ! 

Scarce  could  she  draw  her  tighten'd  breath, 

For  well  she  knew  the  fire  of  death ! 

XXVI. 

The  warder  view'd  it  blazing  strong. 
And  blew  his  war  note  loud  and  long. 
Till,  at  the  high  and  haughty  sound. 
Rock,  wood,  and  river  rung  around. 
The  blast  alarm'd  the  festal  hall. 
And  startled  forth  the  warriors  all ; 
Far  downward,  in  the  castle-yard. 
Full  many  a  torch  and  cresset  glared; 
And  helms  and  plumes,  confusedly  toss*d, 
Were  in  the  blaze  half  seen,  half  lost ; 
And  spears  in  wild  disorder  shook. 
Like  reeds  beside  a  frozen  brook. 

XXVII. 

The  seneschal,  whose  silver  hair 
Was  redden'd  by  the  torches'  glare. 
Vol.  IIL— 39 


stood  in  the  midst,  with  gesture  proud, 

And  issued  forth  his  mandates  loud. 

"  On  Penchryst  glows  a  bale  of  fire, 

And  three  are  kindling  on  Priesthaughswire ; 

Ride  out,  ride  ©ut. 

The  foe  to  scout. 
Mount,  mount,  for  Branksome,*  every  t.an  ! 
Thou,  Todrig,  warn  the  Johnstone  clan 

That  ever  are  true  and  stout. 
Ye  need  net  send  to  Liddesdale ; 
For,  when  they  see  the  blazing  bale, 
Elliots  and  Armstrongs  never  fail. — 
Ride,  Alton,  ride,  for  death  and  life  ! 
And  warn  the  warden  of  the  strife. 
Young  Gilbert,  let  our  beacon  blaze. 
Our  kin,  and  clan,  and  friends  to  raise^'' 

XXVIII. 
Fair  Margaret,  from  the  turret  head. 
Heard  far  below,  the  coursers'  tread. 

While  loud  the  harness  rang. 
As  to  their  seats,  with  clamour  dread. 

The  ready  horsemen  sprang ; 
And  trampling  hoofs,  and  iron  coats. 
And  leaders'  voices,  mingled  notes. 
And  out!  and  out! 
In  hasty  route, 

The  horsemen  gallop'd  forth  ; 
Dispersing  to  the  south  to  scout. 

And  east,  and  west,  and  north. 
To  view  their  coming  enemies. 
And  warn  their  vassals  and  allies. 

XXIX. 

The  ready  page,  with  hurried  hand 
Awaked  the  need-fire'sf  slumbering  brand, 

And  ruddy  blush'd  the  heaven  : 
For  a  sheet  of  flame,  from  the  turret  high. 
Waved  like  a  blood-flag  on  the  sky. 

All  flaring  and  uneven. 
And  soon  a  score  of  fires,  I  ween. 
From  height,  and  hill,  and  cliff  were  seen  ; 
Each  with  warlike  tidings  fraught; 
Each  from  each  the  signal  caught; 
Each  after  each  they  glanced  to  sight. 
As  stars  arise  upon  the  night. 
They  gleam'd  on  many  a  dusky  tarn,^ 
Haunted  by  the  lonely  earn  ;§ 
On  many  a  cairn's  gray  pyramid, 
Where  urns  of  mighty  chiefs  lie  hid 
Till  high  Dunedin  the  blazes  saw, 
From  Soltra  and  Dumpender  law ; 
And  Lothian  heard  the  regent'o  order. 
That  all  should  bowne|l  them  for  the  Border. 

XXX. 

The  livelong  night  in  Branksome  rang 

The  ceaseless  sound  of  steel : 
The  castle-bell,  with  backward  clang, 

S^nt  forth  the  larum  peel ; 
Was  frequent  heard  the  heavy  jar 
Where  massy  stone  and  iron  bar 


*  Mount  for  Branksome  was  the  gathering  word  of  the 
Scolts.  t  A^«ccZ:^rc,  beacon. 

t  Tarn,  a  mountain  lake.    §  Earn,  the  Scottish  eagla 
(I  Dovone,  make  ready 


610 


SCOTT. 


Were  piled  on  echoing  keep  and  tower, 
To  whelm  the  foe  with  deadly  shower ; 
Was  frequent  heard  the  changing  guard, 
And  watchword  from  the  sleepless  ward ; 
While,  wearied  by  the  endless  din, 
Bloodhound  and  ban-dog  yell'd  within, 

XXXI. 

The  noble  dame,  amid  the  broil, 
Shared  the  gray  seneschal's  high  toil, 
And  spoke  of  danger  with  a  smile  ; 
Cheer'd  the  young  knights,  and  council  sage 
Held  with  the  chiefs  of  riper  age. 
No  tidings  of  the  foe  were  brought, 
Nor  of  his  numbers  knew  they  aught. 
Nor  in  what  time  the  truce  he  sought. 

Some  said  that  there  were  thousands  ten, 
And  others  ween'd  that  it  was  naught. 

But  Leven  clans,  or  Tynedale  men, 
Who  came  to  gather  in  black  mail,* 
And  Liddesdale,  with  small  avail. 

Might  drive  them  lightly  back  agen. 
So  pass'd  the  anxious  night  away. 
And  welcome  was  the  peep  of  day. 

Ceased  the  high  sound — the  listening  throng 

Applaud  the  master  of  the  song  ; 

And  marvel  much,  in  helpless  age, 

So  hard  should  be  his  pilgrimage. 

Had  he  no  friend,  no  daughter  dear, 

His  wandering  toil  to  share  and  cheer  j 

No  son,  to  be  his  father's  stay. 

And  guide  him  on  the  rugged  way  ? 

••  Ay,  once  he  had — but  he  was  dead !" — 

Upon  the  harp  he  stoop'd  his  head. 

And  busied  himself  the  strings  withal, 

To  hide  the  tear  that  fain  would  fall. 

In  solemn  measure,  soft  and  slow, 

Arose  a  father's  notes  of  wo. 

Canto  IV. 
I. 

Sweet  Teviot !  on  thy  silver  tide 

The  glaring  bale-fires  blaze  no  more  j 
No  longer  steel-clad  warriors  ride 

Along  thy  wild  and  willow'd  shore: 
Where'er  thou  wind'st,  by  dale  or  hill, 
All,  all  is  peaceful,  all  is  still. 

As  if  thy  waves,  since  time  was  born, 
Since  first  they  roll'd  their  way  to  Tweed, 
Had  only  heard  the  shepherd's  reed, 

Nor  started  at  the  bugle-horn. 

II. 
Unlike  the  tide  of  human  time. 

Which,  though  it  change  in  ceaseless  flow, 
Retains  each  grief,  retains  each  crime, 

Its  earliest  course  was  doom'd  to  know 
And,  darker  as  it  downward  bears, 
Is  stain 'd  with  past  and  present  tears. 

Low  as  that  tide  has  ebb'd  with  me, 
It  still  reflects  to  memory's  eye 
The  hour  my  brave,  my  only  boy, 

Fell  by  the  side  of  great  Dundee. 


•  Protection  money  exacted  by  freebooters. 


Why  !  when  the  volleying  musket  play'd 
Against  the  bloody  Highland  blade, 
Why  was  I  not  beside  him  laid  ? — 
Enough— he  died  the  death  of  fame ; 
Enough — he  died  with  conquering  Graeme  ! 

III. 

Now  over  border,  dale,  and  fell. 

Full  wide  and  far  was  terror  spread ; 
For  pathless  march  and  mountain  cell, 

The  peasant  left  his  lowly  shed. 
The  frighten'd  flocks  and  herds  were  pent 
Beneath,  the  peel's  rude  battlement ; 
And  maids  and  matrons  dropt  the  tear. 
While  ready  warriors  seized  the  spear. 
From  Branksome's  towers  the  watchman's  eye 
Dun  wreaths  of  distant  smoke  can  spy. 
Which,  curling  in  the  rising  sun, 
bhow'd  southern  ravage  was  begun. 

IV. 

Now  loud  the  heedful  gateward  cried — 
"  Prepare  ye  all  for  blows  and  blood  ! 
Wat  Tinlinn,  from  the  Liddel-side, 
Comes  wading  through  the  flood. 
Full  oft  the  Tynedale  snatchers  knock 
At  his  lone  gate,  and  prove  the  lock  ; 
It  was  but  last  Saint  Barnabright 
They  sieged  him  a  whole  summer  night. 
But  fled  at  morning ;  well  they  knew, 
In  vain  he  never  twang'd  the  yew. 
Right  sharp  has  been  the  evening  shower, 
That  drove  him  from  his  Liddel  tower ; 
And,  by  my  faith,"  the  gateward  said, 
"  I  think  'twill  prove  a  warden-raid."* 

V. 

While  thus  he  spoke,  the  bold  yeoman 
Enter'd  the  echoing  barbican. 
He  led  a  small  and  shaggy  nag, 
That  through  a  bog,  from  hag  to  hagt 
Could  bound  like  any^ilhope  stag. 
It  bore  his  wife  and  children  twain. 
A  half-clothed  serf|:  was  all  their  train  : 
His  wife,  stout,  ruddy,  and  dark-brow'd, 
Of  silver  brooch  and  bracelet  proud, 
Laugh'd  to  her  friends  among  the  crowd. 
He  was  of  stature  passing  tall. 
But  sparely  form'd,  and  lean  withal ; 
A  batter'd  morion  on  his  brow ; 
A  leathern  jack,  as  fence  enow. 
On  his  broad  shoulders  loosely  hung ; 
A  border  axe  behind  was  slung ; 

His  spear,  six  Scottish  ells  in  length, 
Seem'd  newly  died  with  gore  ; 

His  shafts  and  bow,  of  wondrous  strength, 
His  hardy  partner  bore. 

VI. 

Thus  to  the  ladye  did  Tinlinn  show 
The  tidings  of  the  English  foe. — 
"  Belted  W^ill  Howard  is  marching  here. 
And  hot  lord  Dacre,  with  many  a  spear, 
And  all  the  German  hagbut-men. 
Who  long:  have  lain  at  Askerten: 


*  An  inroad  comanded  ty  the  warden  in  person, 
t  The  Iroken  ground  in  a  bog.  J  Bondjma 


THE    LAY    OF    THE    LAST    MINSTREL. 


614 


They  cross'd  the  Liddel  at  cuifew  hour. 

And  burn'd  my  little  lonely  tower ; 

The  fiend  receive  their  souls  therefor  ! 

It  had  not  been  burn'd  this  year  and  more. 

Barn-yard,  and  dwelling,  blazing  bright, 

Served  to  guide  me  on  my  flight : 

Bat  I  was  chased  the  livelong  night. 

Black  John  of  Akeshaw,  and  Fergus  Graeme, 

Full  fast  upon  my  traces  came, 

Until  I  turn'd  at  Pries thaughscrogg, 

And  shot  their  horses  in  the  bog, 

Slew  Fergus  with  my  lance  outright — 

I  had  him  long  at  high  despite : 

He  drove  my  cows  last  Fastern's  night." 

VII. 
Now,  weary  scouts  from  Liddesdale, 
Fast  hurrying  in,  confirm'd  the  tale: 
As  far  as  they  could  judge  by  ken, 

Three  hours  would  bring  to  Teviot's  strand 
Three  thousand  armed  Englishmen. 

Meanwhile,  full  many  a  warlike  band. 
From  Teviot,  Aill,  and  Ettrick  shade. 
Came  in  their  chief's  defence  to  aid. 
There  was  saddling  and  mounting  in  haste. 

There  was  pricking  o'er  moor  and  lee ; 
He  that  was  last  at  the  trysting  place 

Was  but  lightly  held  of  his  gay  ladye. 

vni. 

From  fair  Saint  Mary's  silver  wave, 

From  dreary  Gamescleugh's  dusky  height. 
His  ready  lances  Thirlestane  brave 

Array'd  beneath  a  banner  bright. 
The  treasured  fleur-de-luce  he  claims 
To  wreath  his  shield,  since  royal  James, 
Encamp'd  by  Fala's  mossy  wave, 
The  proud  distinction  grateful  gave. 

For  faith  mid  feudal  jars  ; 
What  time  save  Thirlestane  alone, 

Would  march  to  southern  wars ; 
And  hence  in  fair  remembrance  worn 
Yon  sheaf  of  spears  his  crest  has  borne  ; 
Hence  his  high  motto  shines  revea   i — 
«  Ready,  aye  ready,"  for  the  fiel. 

IX. 
An  aged  knight,  to  danger  steel'd, 

With  many  a  mosstrooper  came  on : 
And  azure  in  a  golden  field, 
The  stars  and  crescent  graced  his  shield. 

Without  the  bend  of  Murdieston. 
Wide  lay  his  hands  round  Oakwood  tower. 
And  wide  round  haunted  Castle  Ower ; 
High  over  Borthwick's  mountain  flood. 
His  wood-embosom'd  mansion  stood  ; 
In  the  dark  glen  so  deep  below, 
The  herds  of  plunder'd  England  low. 
His  bold  retainers'  daily  food, 
And  bought  with  danger,  blows,  and  blood. 
Marauding  chief !  his  sole  delight 
The  moonlight  raid,  the  morning  fight ; 
Not  even  the  flower  of  Yarrow's  charms 
In  youth  might  tame  his  rage  for  arms  ; 
And  still,  in  age,  he  spurn'd  at  rest, 
And  still  his  brows  the  helmet  press'd. 


Albeit  the  blanch'd  locks  below 
Were  white  as  Dinlay's  spotless  snow : 
Five  stately  warriors  drew  the  sword 

Before  their  father's  band  ; 
A  braver  knight  than  Harden's  lord 

Ne'er  belted  on  a  brand. 


Scotts  of  Eskdale,  a  stalwart  band, 

Came  trooping  down  the  Todshawhill; 
By  the  sword  they  won  their  land. 

And  by  the  sword  they  hold  it  still, 
Hearken,  ladye,  to  the  tale, 
How  thy  sires  won  fair  Eskdale. — 
Earl  Morton  was  lord  of  that  valley  fair. 
The  Beattisons  were  his  vassals  there. 
The  earl  was  gentle  and  mild  of  mood. 
The  vassels  were  warlike,  and  fierce,  and  rude ; 
High  of  heart,  and  haughty  of  word, 
Little  they  reck'd  of  a  tame  liege  lord. 
The  earl  to  fair  Eskdale  came. 
Homage  and  seignory  to  claim  t 
Of  Gilbert  the  Galliard,  a  heriot*  he  sought. 
Saying,  "  Give  thy  best  steed,  as  a  vassel  ought 
— "  Dear  to  me  is  my  bonny  white  steed, 
Oft  has  he  help'd  me  at  pinch  of  need ; 
Lord  and  earl  though  thou  be,  I  trow 
I  can  rein  Bucksfoot  better  than  thou." 
Word  on  word  gave  fuel  to  fire. 
Till  so  highly  blazed  the  Beattisons'  ire. 
But  that  the  earl  to  flight  had  ta'en, 
The  vassals  there  their  lord  had  slain. 
Sore  he  plied  both  whip  and  spur, 
As  he  urged  his  steed  through  Eskdale  muir  j 
And  it  fell  down  a  dreary  weight, 
Just  on  the  threshold  of  Branksome  gate. 

XL 
The  earl  was  a  wrathful  man  to  see. 
Full  fain  avenged  would  he  be. 
In  haste  to  Branksome's  lord  he  spoke. 
Saying — "  Take  these  traitors  to  thy  yoke : 
For  a  cast  of  hawks,  and  a  purse  of  gold ; 
All  Eskdale  I'll  sell  thee,  to  have  and  hold  : 
Beshrew  thy  heart,  of  the  Beattisons'  clan 
If  thou  leavest  on  Esk  a  landed  man  : 
But  spare  Woodkerrick's  lands  alone. 
For  he  lent  me  his  horse  to  escape  upon." — 
A  glad  man  then  was  Branksome  bold, 
Down  he  flung  him  the  purse  of  gold  ; 
To  Eskdale  soon  he  spurr'd  amain. 
And  with  him  five  hundred  riders  has  ta'en. 
He  left  his  merryman  in  the  midst  of  the  hill. 
And  bade  them  hold  them  close  and  still ; 
And  alone  he  wended  to  the  plain. 
To  meet  with  the  Galliard  and  all  his  train. 
To  Gilbert  the  Galliard  thus  he  said : 
"  Know  thou  me  for  thy  liege  lord  and  head 
Deal  not  with  me  as  with  Morton  tame. 
For  Scots  play  best  at  the  roughest  game. 
Give  me  in  peace  my  heriot  due. 
Thy  bonny  white  steed,  or  thou  shalt  rue. 


♦  The  feudal  superior,  in  certain  cases,  was  entitled  to 
the  best  horse  of  the  vassal,  in  name  of  Heriot,  or  Here- 
zeld. 


612 


SCOT'T^. 


If  my  horn  I  three  times  wind, 

Eskdale  shall  long  have  the  sound  m  mind." 

XII. 

Loudly  the  Beattison  laugh'd  in  scorn  : — 

"  Little  care  we  for  thy  winded  horn. 

Ne'er  shall  it  be  the  Galliard's  lot. 

To  yield  his  steed  to  a  haughty  Scott. 

Wend  thou  to  Branksome  back  on  foot, 

With  rusty  spur  and  miry  boot." — 

He  blew  his  bugle  so  loud  and  hoarse, 

That  the  dun  deer  started  at  far  Craikcross  ; 

He  blew  again  so  loud  and  clear. 

Through  the  gray  mountain  mist  there  did  lances 

appear ; 
And  the  third  blast  wrung  with  such  a  din. 
That  the  echoes  answer'd  from  Pentoun-linn, 
And  all  his  riders  came  lightly  in. 
Then  had  you  seen  a  gallant  shock, 
When  saddles  were  emptied,  and  lances  broke ! 
For  each  scornful  word  the  Galliard  had  said, 
A  Beattison  on  the  field  was  laid. 
His  own  good  sword  the  chieftain  drew. 
And  he  bore  the  Galliard  through  and  through ; 
Where  the  Beattisons'  blood  mix'd  with  the  rill. 
The  Galliard's  Haugh,  men  call  it  still. 
The  Scotts  have  scatter'd  the  Beattison  clan. 
In  Eskdale  they  left  but  one  landed  man. 
The  valley  of  Esk,  from  the  mouth  to  the  source. 
Was  lost  and  won  for  that  bonny  white  horse. 

XIIL 

Whitslade  the  Hawk,  and  Headshaw  came. 
And  warriors  more  than  I  may  name ; 
From  Yarrow-cleuch  to  Hindhaug-swair, 

From  Woodhouselie  to  Chester-glen, 
Troop'd  man  and  horse,  and  bow  and  spear; 

Their  gathering  word  was  Bellenden. 
And  better  hearts  o'er  Border  sod 
To  siege  or  rescue  never  rode. 

The  ladye  mark'd  the  aids  come  in, 
And  high  her  heart  of  pride  arose : 
She  bade  her  youthful  son  attend, 
That  he  might  know  his  father's  friend, 

And  learn  to  face  his  foes. 
"  The  boy  is  ripe  to  look  on  war ; 

I  saw  him  draw  a  cross-bow  stiff. 
And  his  true  arrow  struck  afar 

The  raven's  nest  upon  the  cliff; 
The  red  cross  on  a  southern  breast, 
Is  broader  than  the  raven's  nest :  [wield, 

Thou,  Whitslade,  shall  teach  him  his  weapon  to 
And  over  him  hold  his  father's  shield." 

XIV. 
Well  may  you  think,  the  wily  page 
Cared  not  to  face  the  ladye  sage. 
He  counterfeited  childish  fear,  - 

And  shriek 'd,  and  shed  full  many  a  tear, 

And  moan'd  and  plain'd  in  manner  wild. 
The  attendants  to  the  ladye  told. 

Some  fairy,  sure,  had  changed  the  child, 
That  wont  to  be  so  free  and  bold. 
Then  wrathful  was  the  noble  dame  ; 
She  blush'd  blood-red  for  very  shame: — 
'  Hence  !  eie  the  clan  his  faintness  view ; 
Hence  with  tht  weakling  to  Buccleuch  ! — 


Wat  Tinlinn,  thou  shalt  be  his  guide 
To  Rangleburn's  lonely  side — 
Sure  some  fell  fiend  has  cursed  our  line, 
That  coward  should  e'er  be  son  of  mine !" 

XV. 

A  heavy  task  Wat  Tinlinn  had, 
To  guide  the  counterfeited  lad. 
Soon  as  the  palfrey  felt  the  weight 
Of  that  ill-omen'd  elfish  freight. 
He  bolted,  sprung,  and  rear'd  amain. 
Nor  heeded  bit,  nor  curb,  nor  rein. 
It  cost  Wat  Tinlinn  mickle  toil 
To  drive  him  but  a  Scottish  mile  ; 

But,  as  a  shallow  brook  they  cross'd. 
The  elf,  amid  the  running  stream. 
His  figure  changed,  like  form,  in  dream. 

And  fled,  and  shouted,  "  Lost !  lost !  lost !" 
Full  fast  the  urchin  ran  and  laugh'd, 
But  faster  still  a  cloth  yard  shaft 
Whistled  from  startled  Tinlinn's  yew. 
And  pierced  his  shoulder  through  and  through. 
Although  the  imp  might  not  be  slain. 
And  though  the  wound  soon  heal'd  again. 
Yet,  as  he  ran,  he  yell'd  for  pain  ; 
And  Wat  of  Tinlinn,  much  aghast. 
Rode  back  to  Branksome  fiery  fast. 

XVL 

Soon  on  the  hill's  steep  verge  he  stood. 

That  looks  o'er  Branksome's  towers  and  woodi 

And  martial  murmurs  from  below, 

Proclaim'd  the  approaching  southern  foe. 

Through  the  dark  wood,  in  mingled  tone, 

Were  Border  pipes  and  bugles  blown : 

The  coursers's  neighing  he  could  ken. 

And  measured  tread  of  marching  men  ; 

While  broke  at  times  the  solemn  hum, 

The  Almayn's  sullen  kettle-drum  ; 

And  banners  tall,  of  crimson  sheen. 

Above  the  copse  appear ; 
And,  glistening  through  the  hawthorns  green. 

Shine  helm,  and  shield,  and  spear. 

XVII. 

Light  forayers  first,  to  view  the  ground, 
Spurr'd  their  fleet  coursers  loosely  round ; 

Behind,  in  close  array  and  fast. 
The  Kendal  archers,  all  in  green, 

Obedient  to  the  bugle  blast, 
Advancing  from  the  wood  were  seen. 
To  back  and  guard  the  archer  band. 
Lord  Dacre's  bill-men  were  at  hand: 
A  hardy  race,  on  Irthing  bred, 
With  kirtles  white,  and  crosses  red, 
Array'd  beneath  the  banners  tall. 
That  stream'd  o'er  Acre's  conquer'd  walL 
And  minstrels  as  they  march'd  in  order, 
Play'd,  "  Noble   Lord   Dacre,  he  dwells  oi    the 
Border." 

XVIIL 

Behind  the  English  bill  and  bow, 
The  mercenaries,  firm  and  slow. 

Moved  on  to  fight  in  dark  array. 
By  Conrad  led  of  Wolfenst  in. 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


613 


Who  brought  the  band  from  distant  Rhine, 

And  sold  their  blood  for  foreign  pay ; 
The  camp  their  home,  their  law  the  sword, 
They  knew  no  country,  own'd  no  lord. 
They  were  not  arm'd  like  England's  sons, 
But  bore  the  levin-darting  guns ; 
Buflf  coats,  all  frounced  and  'broider'd  o'er, 
And  morsing-horns*  and  scarfs  they  wore  ; 
Each  better  knee  was  bared,  to  aid 
The  warriors  in  the  escalade : 
And,  as  they  march'd  in  rugged  tongue, 
Songs  of  Teutonic  feuds  they  sung. 

XIX. 

But  louder  still  the  clamour  gew, 

And  louder  still  the  minstrels  blew. 

When,  from  beneath  the  greenwood  tree, 

Rode  forth  Lord  Howard's  chivalry  ; 

His  men  at  arms,  with  glaive  and  spear. 

Brought  up  the  battle's  glittering  rear. 

There  many  a  youthful  knight,  full  keen 

To  gain  his  spurs,  in  arms  was  seen ; 

With  favour  in  his  crest,  or  glove. 

Memorial  of  his  ladye-love. 

So  rode  they  forth  in  fair  array, 

Till  full  their  lengthen'd  lines  display; 

Then  call'd  a  halt,  and  made  a  stand, 

And  cried,  "  Saint  George  for  merry  England  !' 

XX. 

Now  every  English  eye,  intent, 
On  Branksome's  armed  towers  was  bent : 
So  near  they  were,  that  they  might  know 
The  straining  harsh  of  each  cross  bow ; 
On  battlement  and  bartizan 
Gleam'd  axe,  and  spear,  and  partizan  ; 
Falcon  and  culver,t  on  each  tower, 
Stood  prompt  their  deadly  hail  to  shower; 
And  flashing  armour  frequent  broke 
From  eddying  whirls  of  sable  smoke. 
Where,  upon  tower  and  turret  head. 
The  scathing  pitch  and  molten  lead 
Reek'd,  like  a  witch's  cauldron  red. 
While  yet  they  gaze,  the  bridges  fall, 
The  wicket  opes,  and  from  the  wall 
Rides  forth  the  hoary  seneschal. 

XXL 

Armed  he  rode,  all  save  the  head. 

His  white  beard  o'er  his  breastplate  spread ; 

Unbroke  by  age,  erect  his  seat, 

He  ruled  his  eager  courser's  gait ; 

Forced  him,  with  chasten'd  fire,  to  prance. 

And,  high  curvetting,  slow  advance : 

In  sign  of  truce,  his  better  hand 

Display'd  a  peeled  willow  wand; 

His  squire,  attending  in  the  rear. 

Bore  high  a  gauntlet  on  a  spear. 

When  they  espied  him  riding  out, 

Lord  Howard  and  Lord  Dacre  stout 

Sped  to  the  front  of  their  array, 

To  hear  what  this  old  knight  should  say. 


*  Powder  flasks. 

t  Ancient  pieces  of  Artillery. 


XXIL 

"  Ye  English  warden  lords,  of  you 
Demands  the  ladye  of  Buccleuch, 
Why,  'gainst  the  truce  of  Border  tide, 
In  hostile  guise  ye  dare  to  ride. 
With  Kendal  bow,  and  Gilsland  brand,. 
And  all  yon  mercenary  band. 
Upon  the  bounds  of  fair  Scotland  ? 
My  ladye  redes  you  swithe  return ; 
And,  if  but  one  poor  straw  you  burn, 
Or  do  our  towers  so  much  molest. 
As  scare  one  swallow  from  her  nest, 
Saint  Mary  !  but  we'll  light  a  brand. 
Shall  warm  your  hearths  in  Cumberland." 

XXIIL 
A  wrathful  man  was  Dacre's  lord. 
But  calmer  Howard  took  the  word : 
"  May't  please  thy  danre,  sir  seneschal. 
To  seek  the  castle's  outward  wall. 
Our  pursuivant-at-arms  shall  show, 
Both  why  we  came,  and  when  we  go." 
The  message  sped,  the  noble  dame 
To  the  wall's  outward  circle  came  ; 
Each  chief  around  lean'd  on  his  spear 
To  see  the  pursuivant  appear. 
All  in  Lord  Howard's  livery  dress'd, 
The  lion  argent  deck'd  his  breast; 
He  led  a  boy  of  blooming  hue — 
O  sight  to  meet  a  mother's  view  ! 
It  wasthe  heir  of  great  Buccleuch. 
Obeisance  meet  the  herald  made. 
And  thus  his  master's  will  he  said: 

XXIV. 
"  It  irks,  high  dame,  my  noble  lords, 
'Gainst  ladye  fair  to  draw  their  swords ; 
But  yet  they  may  not  tamely  see. 
All  through  the  western  wardenry, 
Your  law-contemning  kinsmen  ride, 
And  burn  and  spoil  the  Border-side ; 
And  ill  beseems  your  rank  and  birth 
To  make  your  towers  a  flemen's  firth.* 
We  claim  from  thee  William  of  Deloraine, 
That  he  may  suffer  march-treason  pain  ; 
It  was  but  last  Saint  Cuthbert's  even 
He  prick'd  to  Stapleton  on  Leven, 
Harriedf  the  lands  of  Richard  Musgrave, 
And  slew  his  brother  by  dint  of  glaive. 
Then,  since  a  lone  and  widow'd  dame 
These  restless  riders  maj-  not  tame. 
Either  receive  within  thy  towers 
Two  hundred  of  my  master's  powers. 
Or  straight  they  sound  their  warrison  ;^ 
And  storm  and  spoil  thy  garrison; 
And  this  fair  boy,  to  London  led, 
Shall  good  king  Edward's  page  be  bred.'* 

XXV. 

He  ceased : — and  loud  the  boy  did  cry,— 
And  stretch'd  his  little  arms  on  high  ; 
Implored  for  aid  each  well-known  face, 
And  strove  to  seek  the  dame's  embrace. 


*  An  asylum  for  outlaws. 
t  Note  of  assault. 


t  Plundered. 


614 


SCOTT 


A  moment  changed  that  ladj^e's  cheer ; 
Gush'd  to  her  eye  the  unbidden  tear; 
She  gazed  upon  the  leaders  round, 
And  dark  and  sad  each  warrior  frown 'd ; 
Then  deep  within  her  sobbing  breast 
She  lock'd  the  struggling  sigl^  to  rest; 
Unalter'd  and  collected  stood, 
And  thus  replied  in  dauntless  mood : — 

XXVI. 

"  Say  to  your  lords  of  high  emprise, 

Who  war  on  women  and  on  boys 

That  either  William  of  Deloraine 

Will  cleanse  him,  by  oath,  of  march-treason  stain. 

Or  else  he  will  the  combat  take 

'Gainst  Musgrave,  for  his  honour's  sake. 

No  knight  in  Cumberland  so  good. 

But  William  may  count  with  him  kin  and  blood. 

Knighthood  he  took  of  Douglas'  sword, 

When  English  blood  swell'd  Ancram  ford; 

And  but  that  Lord  Dacre's  steed  was  wight, 

And  bore  him  ably  in  the  flight, 

Himself  had  seen  him  dubb'd  a  knight. 

For  the  young  heir  of  Branksome's  line, 

God  be  his  aid,  and  God  be  mine; 

Through  me  no  friend  shall  meet  his  doom ; 

Here,  while  I  live,  no  foe  finds  room. 

Then,  if  thy  lords  their  purpose  urge, 
Take  our  defiance  loud  and  high  ; 

Our  slogan  is  their  lyke-wake*  dirge. 
Our  moat,  the  grave  where  they  shall  lie." 

xxvn. 

Proud  she  look'd  round,  applause  to  claim — 
Then  lighten'd  Thirlestane's  eye  of  flame ; 

His  bugle  Wat  of  Harden  blew : 
Pensils  and  pennons  wide  were  flung, 
To  heaven  the  Border  slogan  rung, 

"  Saint  Mary  for  the  young  Buccleuch  !" 
The  English  war-cry  answered  wide. 

And  forward  bent  each  southern  spear; 
Each  Kendal  archer  made  a  stride. 

And  drew  the  bow-string  to  his  ear ; 
Each  minstrel's  war-note  loud  was  blown : — 
But,  ere  a  gray  goose  shaft  had  flown, 

A  horseman  gallop'd  from  the  rear. 

xxvni. 

"  Ah  !  noble  lords  !"  he,  breathless,  said, 
"  What  treason  has  your  march  betray'd  ? 
What  make  you  here,  from  aid  so  far. 
Before  you  walls,  around  you  war? 
Your  foemen  triumph  in  the  thought. 
That  in  the  toils  the  lion's  caught. 
Already  on  dark  Ruberslaw 
The  Douglas  holds  his  weapon-schaw,t 
The  lances,  waving  in  his  train, 
Clothe  the  dun  heap  like  autumn  grain  ; 
And  on  the  Liddel's  northern  strand. 
To  bar  retreat  to  Cumberland, 
Lord  Maxwell  ranks  his  merry  men  good, 
Beneath  the  eagle  and  the  rood ; 


♦  Lyke-wake,  the  watching  a  corpse  previous  to  inter, 
ment. 

t  Weapon-schau},  the  military  array  of  a  country. 


And  Jedwood,  Esk,  and  Teviotdale, 

Have  to  proud  Angus  come ; 
And  all  the  Merse  and  Lauderdale 

Have  risen  with  haughty  Home 
An  exile  from  Northumberland, 

In  Liddesdale  I've  wander'd  long; 
But  still  my  heart  was  with  merry  England 

And  cannot  brook  my  country's  wrong  ; 
And  hard  I've  spurr'd  all  night  to  show 
The  mustering  of  the  coming  foe." 

XXIX. 

"  And  let  them  come  !"  fierce  Dacre  cried ; 
"  For  soon  yon  crest,  my  father's  pride. 
That  swept  the  shores  of  Judah's  seas, 
And  waved  in  gales  of  Galilee, 
From  Branksome's  highest  towers  display'd, 
Shall  mock  the  rescue's  lingering  aid  !" — 
Level  each  harquebuss  on  row ; 
Draw,  merry  archers,  draw  the  bow ; 
Up,  bill-men,  to  the  walls,  and  cry, 
Dacre,  for  England,  win  or  die  !" 

XXX. 

"  Yet  hear,"  quoth  Howard, "  calmly  hear, 

Nor  deem  my  words  the  words  of  fear : 

For  who,  in  field  or  foray  slack. 

Saw  the  blanche  lion  e'er  fall  back  ? 

But  thus  to  risk  our  Border  flower 

In  strife  against  a  kingdom's  power. 

Ten  thousand  Scots  'gainst  thousands  three 

Certes,  were  desperate  policy. 

Nay,  take  the  terms  the  ladye  made. 

Ere  conscious  of  the  advancing  aid  ; 

Let  Musgrave  meet  fierce  Deloraine 

In  single  fight,  and  if  he  gain. 

He  gains  for  us  ;  but  if  he's  cross'd, 

'Tis  but  a  single  warrior  lost : 

The  rest,  retreating  as  they  came. 

Avoid  defeat,  and  death,  and  shame." 

XXXL 

111  could  the  haughty  Dacre  brook 
His  brother-warden's  sage  rebuke: 
And  yet  his  forward  step  he  stay'd, 
And  slow  and  sullenly  obey'd. 
But  ne'er  again  the  Border-side 
Did  these  two  lords  in  friendship  ride ; 
And  this  slight  discontent,  men  say, 
Cost  blood  upon  another  day. 

XXXIL 

The  pursuivant-at-arms  again 

Before  the  castle  took  his  stand ; 
His  trumpet  call'd,  with  parleying  strain. 

The  leaders  of  the  Scottish  band ; 
And  he  defied,  in  Musgrave's  right. 
Stout  Deloraine  to  single  fight ; 
A  gauntlet  at  their  feet  he  laid. 
And  thus  the  terms  of  fight  he  said : — 
"  If  in  the  lists  good  Musgrave's  sword 

Vanquish  the  knight  of  Deloraine, 
Your  youthful  chieftain,  Branksome's  lord. 

Shall  hostage  for  his  clan  remain : 
If  Deloraine  foil  good  Musgrave, 
The  boy  his  liberty  shall  have. 


THE    LAY    OF    THE    LAST    MINSTREL. 


CIS 


Howe'er  it  falls,  the  English  band, 
Unharming  Scots,  by  Scots  unhaim'd. 
In  peaceful  march,  like  men  unarm'd, 

Shall  straight  retreat  to  Cumberland.'' 

XXXIII. 
Unconscious  of  the  near  relief, 
The  pr  JTer  pleased  each  Scottish  chief, 

Though  much  their  ladye  sage  gainsay'd, 
For  though  their  hearts  were  brave  and  true, 
From  Jedwood's  recent  sack  they  knew, 

How  tardy  was  the  regent's  aid : 
•AncI  you  may  guess  the  noble  dame 

Durst  not  the  secret  prescience  own. 
Sprung  from  the  art  she  might  not  name. 

By  which  the  coming  help  was  known. 
Closed  was  the  compact,  and  agreed, 
That  lists  should  be  enclosed  with  speed, 

Beneath  a  castle,  on  a  lawn  : 
They  fix'd  the  morrow  for  the  strife. 
On  foot,  with  Scottish  axe  and  knife. 

At  the  fourth  hour  from  peep  of  dawn  ; 
When  Deloraine,  from  sickness  freed, 
Or  else  a  champion  in  his  stead, 
Should  for  himself  and  chieftain  stand. 
Against  stout  Musgrave,  hand  to  hand. 

XXXIV. 

I  know  right  well,  that,  in  their  lay. 
Full  many  minstrels  sing  and  cay. 

Such  combat  should  be  made  on  horse, 
On  foaming  steed,  in  full  career, 
With  brand  to  aid,  when  as  the  spear 

Should  shiver  in  the  course: 
But  he,  the  jovial  harper,  taught 
Me,  yet  a  youth,  how  it  was  fought. 

In  guise  which  now  I  say  ; 
He  knew  each  ordinance  and  clause 
Of  black  Lord  Archibald's  battle  laws. 

In  the  old  Douglas'  day. 
He  brook'd  not,  he,  that  scoffing  tongue 
Should  tax  his  minstrelsy  with  wrong. 

Or  call  his  song  untrue  ; 
For  this,  when  they  the  goblet  plied, 
And  such  rude  taunt  had  chafed  his  pride, 

The  bard  of  Reull  he  slew. 
On  Teviot's  side,  in  fijht  they  stood. 
And  tuneful  hands  were  stain'd  with  blood ; 
Where  still  the  thorn's  white  branches  wave 
Memorial  o'er  his  rival's  grave. 

XXXV. 

Why  should  I  tell  the  rigid  doom, 
That  dragg'd  my  master  to  his  tomb ; 

How  Ousenam's  maidens  tore  their  hair. 
Wept  till  their  eyes  were  dead  and  dim. 
And  wrung  their  hands  for  love  of  him 

Who  died  at  Jedwood  Air  ? 
He  died  ! — His  scholars,  one  by  one. 
To  the  cold  silent  grave  are  gone; 
And  I,  alas  !  survive  alone, 
To  muse  o'er  rivalries  of  yore. 
And  grieve  that  I  shall  hear  no  more 
The  strains,  with  envy  heard  before; 
/or,  with  my  minstrel  brethren  fled, 
Mv  ealousy  of  song  is  dead. 


He  paused  :  the  listening  dames  again 

Applaud  the  hoary  minstrel's  strain  ; 

With  many  a  word  of  kindly  cheer, — 

In  pity  half,  and  half  sincere, —  — 

Marvell'd  the  dutchess  how  so  well 

His  legendary  song  could  tell, — 

Of  ancient  deeds,  so  long  forgot ; 

Of  feuds,  whose  memory  was  not ; 

Of  forests,  now  laid  waste  and  bare ; 

Of  towers,  which  harbour  now  the  hare ; 

Of  manners,  long  since  changed  and  gonei 

Of  chiefs,  who  under  their  gray  stone 

So  long  had  slept,  that  fickle  fame 

Had  blotted  from  her  rolls  their  name. 

And  twined  round  some  new  minion's  head 

The  fading  wreath  for  which  they  bled  ; 

In  sooth,  'twas  strange,  this  old  man's  verse 

Could  call  them  from  their  marble  hearse. 

The  harper  smiled,  well  pleased  ;  for  ne'er 
Was  flattery  lost  on  poet's  ear. 
A  simple  race  I  they  waste  their  toil 
For  the  vain  tribute  of  a  smile  ; 
E'en  when  in  age  their  flame  expires. 
Her  dulcet  breath  can  fan  its  fires : 
Their  drooping  fancy  wakes  at  praise, 
And  strives  to  trim  the  shortlived  blaze. 

Smiled  then,  well  pleased,  the  aged  man. 
And  thus  his  tale  continued  ran. 

Canto  V. 
I. 
Call  it  not  vain  : — they  do  not  err. 
Who  say,  that  when  the  poet  dies. 
Mute  nature  mourns  her  worshipper. 
And  celebrates  his  obsequies  ; 
Who  say  tall  cliff,  and  cavern  lone, 
For  the  departed  bard  make  moan  ; 
That  mountains  weep  in  crystal  rill ; 
That  flowers  in  tears  of  balm  distil ; 
Through  his  loved  groves  that  breezes  sigh 
And  oaks,  in  deeper  groan,  reply; 
And  rivers  teach  their  rushing  wave 
To  murmur  dirges  round  his  grave. 

Not  that,  in  sooth,  o'er  mortal  urn 
Those  things  inanimate  can  mourn  ; 
But  that  the  stream,  the  wood,  the  gale, 
Is  vocal  with  the  plaintive  wail 
Of  those,  who,  else  forgotten  long, 
Lived  in  the  poet's  faithful  song. 
And,  with  the  poet's  parting  breath, 
Whose  memory  feels  a  second  dcatii. 
The  maid's  pale  shade,  who  wails  her  lot, 
That  love,  true  love,  should  be  forgot, 
From  rose  and  hawthorn  shakes  the  tear 
Upon  the  gentle  minstrel's  bier: 
The  phantom  knight,  his  glory  fled, 
Mourns  o'er  the  field  he  heap'd  with  dead 
Mounts  the  wild  blast  that  sweeps  amain, 
And  shrieks  along  the  battle-plain  : 
The  chief,  whose  antique  crownlet  long 
Still  sparkled  in  the  feudal  song. 
Now,  from  the  mountain's  misty  throne. 
Sees,  in  the  thanedom  once  his  own, 


616 


SCOTT. 


His  ashes  undistinguish'd  lie, 

His  place,  his  power,  his  memory  die : 

His  groans  the  lonely  caverns  fill, 

His  tears  of  rage  impel  the  rill ; 

All  mourn  the  minstrel's  harp  unstrung, 

Their  name  unknown,  their  praise  unsung. 

HI. 
Scarcely  the  hot  assault  was  staid. 
The  terms  of  truce  were  scarcely  made. 
When  they  could  spy,  from  Branksome's  towers, 
The  advancing  march  of  martial  powers  ; 
Thick  clouds  of  dust  afar  appear'd. 
And  trampling  steeds  were  faintly  heard ; 
Bright  spears,  above  the  column's  dun. 
Glanced  momentary  to  the  sun  ; 
And  feudal  banners  fair  display 'd 
The  bands  that  moved  to  Branksome's  aid. 

IV. 
Vails  not  to  tell  each  hardy  clan, 

From  the  fair  Middle  Marches  came ; 
The  Bloody  Heart  blazed  in  the  van. 

Announcing  Douglas'  dreaded  name ! 
Vails  not  to  tell  what  steeds  did  spurn, 
Where  the  Seven  Spears  of  Wedderburne 

The  men  in  battle-order  set ; 
And  Swinton  laid  the  lance  in  rest. 
That  tamed  of  yore  the  sparkling  crest 

Of  Clarence's  Plantagenet. 
Nor  lists,  I  say  what  hundreds  more. 
From  the  rich  Merse  and  Lamraermore, 
And  Tweed's  fair  borders,  to  the  war. 
Beneath  the  crest  of  Old  Dunbar, 

And  Hepburn's  mingled  banners  come, 
Down  the  steep  mountain  glittering  far, 

And  shouting  still,  «  a  home  !  a  home  !" 

V. 

Now  squire  and  knight,  from  Branksome  tent, 

On  many  a  courteous  message  went ; 

To  every  chief  and  lord  they  paid 

Meet  thanks  for  prompt  and  powerful  aid  ; 

And  told  them, — how  a  truce  was  made, 

And  how  a  day  of  fight  was  ta'en 

'Twixt  Musgrave  and  stout  Deloraine  ; 
And  how  the  ladye  pray'd  them  dear. 

That  all  would  stay  the  fight  to  see. 

And  deign,  in  love  and  courtesy. 
To  taste  of  Branksome  cheer. 
Nor,  while  they  bade  to  feast  each  Scot, 
Were  England's  noble  lords  forgot ; 
Himself,  the  hoary  seneschal. 
Rode  forth,  in  seemly  terms  to  call 
Those  gallant  foes  to  Branksome  hall. 
Accepted  Howard,  than  whom  knight 
Was  never  dubb'd  more  bold  in  fight ; 
Nor,  when  from  war  and  armour  free. 
More  famed  for  stately  courtesy. 
But  angry  Dacre  rather  chose 
In  his  pavilion  to  repose. 

VI. 

Now,  noble  dame,  perchance  you  ask, 

How  these  two  hostile  armies  met  ? 
Deeming  it  were  no  easy  task 

To  keep  the  truce  which  here  was  set  j 


Where  martial  spirits,  all  on  fire, 
Breathed  only  blood  and  mortal  ire. 
By  mutual  inroads,  mutual  blows, 
By  habit,  and  by  nation,  foes. 

They  met  on  Teviot's  strand : 
They  met,  and  sate  them  mingled  down. 
Without  a  threat,  without  a  frown. 

As  brothers  meet  in  foreign  land : 
The  hands,  the  spear  that  lately  grasp'd, 
Still  in  the  mailed  gauntlet  clasp'd; 

Were  interchanged  in  greeting  dear ; 
Visors  were  raised,  and  faces  shown. 
And  many  a  friend,  to  friend  made  known, 

Partook  of  social  cheer. 
Some  drove  the  jolly  bowl  about ; 

With  dice  and  draughts  some  chased  the  day; 
And  some,  with  many  a  merry  shout. 
In  riot,  revelry,  and  rout. 

Pursued  the  foot-ball  play, 

VII. 

Yet,  be  it  known,  had  bugles  blown, 

Or  sign  of  war  been  seen. 
Those  bands,  so  fair  together  ranged. 
Those  hands,  so  frankly  interchanged. 

Had  died  with  gore  the  green. 
The  merry  shout  by  Teviot  side 
Had  sunk  in  war-cries  wild  and  wide. 

And  in  the  groan  of  death  ; 
And  whingers,*  now  in  friendship  bare. 
The  social  meal  to  part  and  share. 

Had  found  a  bloody  sheath. 
'Twixt  truce  and  war,  such  sudden  change 
Was  not  infrequent,  nor  hejd  strange. 

In  the  old  Border-day  ; 
But  yet  on  Branksome's  towers  and  town, 
In  peaceful  merriment  sunk  down 

The  sun's  declining  ray. 

VIII. 

The  blithsome  signs  of  wassel  gay 
Decay'd  not  with  the  dying  day ; 
Soon  through  the  latticed  windows  tall 
Of  lofty  Branksome's  lordly  hall, 
Divided  square  by  shafts  of  stone, 
Huge  flakes  of  ruddy  lustre  shone ; 
Nor  less  the  gilded  rafters  rang 
With  merry  harp  and  beaker's  clang: 
And  frequent,  on  the  darkening  plain. 

Loud  hollo,  whoop,  or  whistle  ran, 
As  bands,  their  stragglers  to  regain, 

Give  the  shrill  watchword  of  their  clan ; 
And  revellers  o'er  their  bowl-,  proclaim 
Douglas  or  Dacre's  conquering  name. 


IX. 
Less  frequent  heard,  and  fainter  still. 

At  length,  the  various  clamours  died ; 
And  you  might  hear,  from  Branksome  hill, 

No  sound  but  Teviot's  rushing  tide  j 
Save,  when  the  changing  sentinel 
The  challenge  of  his  watch  could  tell ; 
And  save,  where,  through  the  dark  profound, 
The  clanging  axe  and  hammer's  sound 


A  sort  of  knife,  or  poniard. 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


6!7 


Rung  from  the  nether  lawn  ; 
For  many  a  busy  hand  toil'd  there, 
Strong  pales  to  shape,  and  beams  to  square, 
The  lists'  dread  barriers  to  prepare 

Against  the  morrow's  dawn. 

X. 

Margaret  from  hall  did  soon  retreat, 

Despite  the  dame's  reproving  eye ; 
Nor  mark'd  she,  as  she  left  her  seat, 

Full  many  a  stifled  sigh : 
For  many  a  noble  warrior  strove 
To  win  the  flower  of  Teviot's  love. 

And  many  a  bold  ally.— 
With  throbbing  head  and  anxious  heart. 
All  in  her  lonely  bower  apart, 

In  broken  sleep  she  lay  ; 
By  times,  from  silken  couch  she  rose ; 
While  yet  the  banner'd  hosts  repose. 

She  view'd  the  dawning  day : 
Of  all  the  hundreds  sunk  to  rest,  / 

First  woke  the  loveliest  and  the  best. 

XI. 

She  gazed  upon  the  inner  court. 

Which  in  the  tower's  tall  shadow  lay ; 
Where  coursers'  clang,  and  stamp,  and  .viort. 

Had  rung  the  livelong  yesterday ; 
Now  still  as  death  ;  till,  stalking  slow, — 

The  jingling  spurs  announced  his  tread, — 
A  stately  warrior  pass'd  below  ; 

But  when  he  raised  his  plumed  head- 
Blessed  Mary  !  can  it  be  ? — 
Secure,  as  if  in  Ousenam  bowers, 
He  walks  through  Branksome's  hostile  towers, 

With  fearless  step  and  free. 
She  dared  not  sign,  she  dared  not  speak — 
O  !  if  one  page's  slumbers  break. 

His  blood  the  price  must  pay ! 
Not  all  the  pearls  queen  Mary  wears. 
Not  Margaret's  yet  more  precious  tears. 

Shall  buy  his  life  a  day. 

XII. 
Yet  was  his  hazard  small ;  for  well 
You  may  bethink  you  of  the  spell 

Of  that  sly  urchin  page  ; 
This  to  his  lord  he  did  impart, 
And  made  him  seem,  by  glamour  art, 

A  knight  from  hermitage. 
Unchallenged,  thus,  the  warder's  post, 
The  court,  unchallenged,  thus  he  cross'd. 

For  all  the  vassalage : 
But,  O  !  what  magic's  quaint  disguise 
Could  blind  fair  Margaret's  azure  eyes  ! 

She  started  from  her  seat ; 
While  with  surprise  and  fear  she  strove, 
And  both  could  scarcely  master  love — 

Lord  Henry's  at  her  feet. 

XIII. 
Oft  have  I  mused,  what  purpose  bad 
That  foul  malicious  urchin  had 

To  bring  this  meeting  round 
For  happy  love's  a  heavenly  sight, 
Vnd  by  a  vile  malignant  sprite 

In  such  no  joy  is  found ; 


And  oft  I've  deem'd,  perchance  he  thought 
Their  erring  passion  might  have  wrought 

Sorrow,  and  sin,  and  shame  ; 
And  death  to  Cranstoun's  gallant  knight,  ' 
And  to  the  gentle  ladye  bright, 

Disgrace,  and  loss  of  fame. 
But  earthly  spirit  could  not  tell 
The  heart  of  them  that  love  so  well. 
True  love's  the  gift  which  God  has  given 
To  man  alone  beneath  the  heaven. 

It  is  not  fantasy's  hot  fire. 
Whose  wishes,  soon  as  granted,  fly  j 

It  liveth  not  in  fierce  desire. 

With  dead  desire  it  doth  not  die ; 
It  is  the  secret  sympathy. 
The  silver  link,  the  silken  tie. 
Which  heart  to  heart,  and  mind  to  mind. 
In  body  and  in  soul  can  bind. — 
Now  leave  we  Margaret  and  her  knight. 
To  tell  you  of  the  approaching  fight. 

XIV. 

Their  warnii.g,  olast  the  bugles  blew, 

The  pipe's  shrill  port*  aroused  each  cam 
In  haste,  the  deadly  strife  to  view. 
The  trooping  warriors  eager  ran : 
Thick  round  the  lists  their  lances  stood, 
Like  blasted  pines  in  Ettrick  wood  ; 
To  Branksome  many  a  look  they  threw, 
The  combatants'  approach  to  view. 
And  bandied  many  a  word  of  boast, 
About  the  knight  each  favour'd  most. 

XV. 
Meantime  full  anxious  was  the  dame  ; 
For  now  arose  disputed  claim. 
Of  who  should  fight  for  Deloraine, 
'Twixt  Harden  and  'twixt  Thirlestane: 
They  'gan  to  reckon  kin  and  rent. 
And  frowning  brow  on  brow  was  bent ; 

But  yet  not  long  the  strife — for,  lo  ! 
Himself,  the  knight  of  Deloraine, 
Strong,  as  it  seem'd,  and  free  from  pain. 
In  armour  sheath'd  from  top  to  toe, 
Appear'd,  and  craved  the  combat  due. 
The  dame  her  charm  successful  knew,t 
And  the  fierce  chiefs  their  claims  withdrew. 

XVL 
When  for  the  lists  they  sought  the  plain, 
The  stately  ladye's  silken  rein 

Did  noble  Howard  hold  ; 
Unsirmed  by  her  side  he  walk'd. 
And  much  in  courteous  phrase  they  talk*d 

Of  feats  of  arms  of  old. 
Costly  his  garb — his  Flemish  ruff 
Fell  o'er  his  doublet,  shaped  of  buff, 

With  satin  slash'd  and  lined  ; 
Tawny  his  boot,  and  gold  his  spur, 
His  cloak  was  all  of  Poland  fur, 

His  hose  with  silver  twined ; 
His  Bilboa  blade,  by  Marchmen  felt, 
Hung  in  a  broad  and  studded  belt; 


*  A  martial  piece  of  music,  adapted  to  the  bagpipes, 
t  See  p.  609,  stanza  XXIII. 


618 


SCOTT. 


Hence,  in  rude  phrase,  the  Borderers  still 
Call'd  noble  Howard,  belted  Will. 

XVII. 
Behind  Lord  Howard  and  the  dame. 
Fair  Margaret  on  her  palfrey  came. 

Whose  foot-cloth  swept  the  ground  ; 
White  was  her  wimple  and  her  veil, 
And  her  loose  locks  a  chaplet  pale 

Of  whitest  roses  bound. 
The  lordly  Angus,  by  her  side, 
In  courtesy  to  cheer  her  tried  ; 
Without  his  aid  her  hand  in  vain 
Had  strove  to  guide  her  broider'd  rein. 
He  deem'd  she  shudder'd  at  the  sight 
Of  warriors  met  for  mortal  fight ; 
But  cause  of  terror,  all  unguess'd. 
Was  fluttering  in  her  gentle  breast. 
When,  in  their  chair  of  crimson  placed. 
The  dame  and  she  the  barriers  graced. 

XVIII. 
Prize  of  the  field,  the  young  Buccleuch, 
An  English  knight  led  forth  to  view ; 
Scarce  rued  the  boy  his  present  plight, 
So  much  he  long'd  to  see  the  fight. 
Within  the  lists,  in  knightly  pride, 
High  Home  and  haughty  Dacre  ride  ; 
Their  leading  staffs  of  steel  they  wield, 
As  marshals  of  the  mortal  field  ; 
While  to  each  knight  their  care  assign'd 
Like  vantage  of  the  sun  and  wind. 
Then  heralds  hoarse  did  loud  proclaim, 
In  king  and  queen,  and  warden's  name, 

That  none,  while  lasts  the  strife. 
Should  dare,  by  look,  or  sign,  or  word, 
Aid  to  a  champion  to  afford, 

On  peril  of  his  life  ; 
And  not  a  breath  the  silence  broke. 
Till  thus  the  alternate  heralds  spoke : — 

XIX. 

ENGLISH    HERALD. 

Here  standeth  Richard  of  Musgrave, 

Good  knight,  and  true,  and  freely  born, 
Amends  from  Deloraine  to  crave. 

For  foul  despiteous  scathe  and  scorn: 
He  sayeth,  that  William  of  Deloraine 

Is  traitor  false  by  Border  laws  ; 
This  with  his  sword  he  will  maintain. 

So  help  him  God,  and  his  good  cause  ! 

XX. 

SCOTTISK    HERALD. 

Here  stan-Ieth  William  of  Deloraine, 
Good  knight,  and  true,  of  noble  strain. 
Who  sayeth,  that  foul  treason's  stain. 
Since  he  bore  arms,  ne'er  soil'd  his  coat; 
And  that,  so  help  him  God  above  ! 
He  will  on  Musgrave's  body  prove. 
He  lies  most  foully  in  his  throat. 

LORD    DACRE. 

Forward,  brave  champions  to  the  fight ! 
Bound  trumpets ! 

LORD   HOME. 

«  God  defend  the  right !" 


Then,  Teviot !  how  thine  echoes  rang, 
When  bugle  sound,  and  trumpet  clang 

Let  loose  the  martial  foes. 
And  in  'mid  list,  with  shield  poised  high. 
And  measured  step,  and  wary  eye, 

The  combatants  did  close. 

XXL 

111  would  it  suit  your  gentle  ear. 

Ye  lovely  listeners,  to  hear 

How  to  the  axe  the  helms  did  sound, 

And  blood  pour'd  down  from  many  a  wouna ; 

For  desperate  was  the  strife  and  long, 

And  either  warrior  fierce  and  strong. 

But,  were  each  dame  a  listening  knight, 

I  well  could  tell  how  warriors  fight ; 

For  I  have  seen  war's  lightning  flashing. 

Seen  the  claymore  with  bayonet  clashing. 

Seen  through  red  blood  the  war-horse  dashing. 

And  scorn'd,  amid  the  reeling  strife. 

To  yield  a  step  for  death  or  life. 

XXII. 
'Tis  done,  'tis  done  !  that  fatal  blow 

Has  stretch'd  him  on  the  bloody  plain ; 
He  strives  to  rise — Brave  Musgrave,  no  ; 

Thence  never  shalt  thou  rise  again  ! 
He  chokes  in  blood — some  friendly  hand 
Undo  the  visor's  barred  band. 
Unfix  the  gorget's  iron  clasp, 
And  give  him  room  for  life  to  gasp  ! 
0,  bootless  aid  ! — Haste,  holy  friar, 
Haste,  ere  the  sinner  shall  expire  ! 
Of  all  his  guilt  let  him  be  shriven, 
And  smooth  his  path  from  earth  to  heaven  ? 

xxin. 

In  haste  the  holy  friar  sped,— 
His  naked  foot  was  died  with  red 

As  through  the  lists  he  ran : 
Unmindful  of  the  shouts  on  high, 
That  hail'd  the  conqueror's  victory, 

He  raised  the  dyin^  man  ; 
Loose  waved  his  silver  beard  and  hair, 
As  o'er  him  he  kneel'd  down  in  prayer ; 
And  still  the  crucifix  on  high 
He  holds  before  his  darkening  eye; 
And  still  he  bends  an  anxious  ear, 
His  faltering  penitence  to  hear ; 

Still  props  him  from  the  bloody  sod; 
Still,  even  when  soul  and  body  part. 
Pours  ghostly  comfort  on  his  heart. 

And  bids  him  trust  in  God  i 
Unheard  he  prays  ; — the  death-pang's  o'er . 
Richard  of  Musgrave  breathes  no  more. 

XXIV. 

As  if  exhausted  in  the  fight, 
Or  musing  o'er  the  piteous  sight. 

The  silent  victor  stands : 
His  beaver  did  he  not  unclasp, 
Mark'd  not  the  shouts,  felt  not  the  grasp 

Of  gratulating  hands. 
When,  lo  !  strange  cries  of  wild  surprise, 
Mingled  with  seeming  terror,  rise 

Among  the  Scottish  bands  j 


THE    LAY    OF   THE    LAST    MINSTREL. 


61d 


And  all,  amid  the  thiong'd  array, 

But  well  she  thought,  ere  midnight  came. 

In  panic  haste  gave  open  way 

Of  that  strange  page  the  pride  to  tame, 

To  a  half-naked  ghastly  man. 

From  his  foul  hands  the  book  to  save. 

Who  downward  from  the  castle  ran : 

And  send  it  back  to  Michael's  grave.— 

He  cross'd  the  barriers  at  a  bound. 

Needs  not  to  tell  each  tender  word 

And  wild  and  haggard  look'd  around, 

'Twixt  Margaret  and  'twixt  Cranstoun's  lord  j 

As  dizzy,  and  in  pain  ; 

Now  how  she  told  of  former  woes, 

And  all  upon  the  armed  ground, 

And  how  her  bosom  fell  and  rose. 

Knew  William  of  Deloraine  ! 

While  he  and  Musgrave  bandied  blows. — 

Each  ladye  sprung  from  seat  with  speed; 

Needs  not  these  lovers'  joys  to  tell ; 

Vaulted  each  marshal  from  his  steed ; 

One  day,  fair  maids,  you'll  know  them  well. 

"  And  who  art  thou,"  they  cried, 

'  Who  hast  this  battle  fought  and  won  ?" 

XXVIII.* 

His  plumed  helm  was  soon  undone — 

William  of  Deloraine,  some  chance 

«  Cranstoun  of  Teviotside  ! 

Had  waken'd  from  his  deathlike  trance ; 

For  this  fair  prize  I've  fought  and  won:" — 

And  taught  that,  in  the  listed  plain. 

And  to  the  ladye  led  her  son. 

Another,  in  his  arms  and  shield. 

Against  fierce  Musgrave  axe  did  wield. 

XXV. 

Under  the  name  of  Deloraine. 

Full  oft  the  rescued  boy  she  kiss'd. 

Hence,  to  the  field,  unarm'd,  he  ran, 

And  often  press'd  him  to  her  breast; 

And  hence  his  presence  scared  the  clan. 

For,  under  all  her  dauntless  show. 

Who  held  him  for  some  fleeting  wraith,* 

Her  heart  had  throbb'd  at  every  blow  ; 

And  not  a  man  of  blood  and  breath. 

Yet  not  Lord  Cranstoun  deign'd  she  greet. 

Not  much  this  new  ally  he  loved. 

Though  low  he  kneeled  at  her  feet. 

Yet,  when  he  saw  what  hap  had  proved, 

Me  list  not  tell  what  words  were  made. 

He  greeted  him  right  heartilie : 

What  Douglas,  Home,  and  Howard  said— 

He  would  not  waken  old  debate, 

— For  Howard  was  a  generous  foe — 

For  he  was  void  of  rancorous  hate. 

And  how  the  clan  united  pray'd, 

Though  rude,  and  scant  of  courtesy. 

The  ladye  would  the  feud  forego, 

In  raids  he  spilt  but  seldom  blood, 

And  deign  to  bless  the  nuptial  hour 

Unless  when  men  at  arms  withstood. 

Of  Cranstoun's  lord  and  Teviot's  flower. 

Or,  as  was  meet,  for  deadly  feud. 

He  ne'er  bore  grudge  for  stalwart  blow, 

XXVI. 

Ta'eu  in  fair  fight  from  gallant  foe: 

She  look-d  to  river,  look'd  to  hill, 

And  so  'twas  seen  of  him,  e'en  now. 

Thought  on  the  spirit's  prophesy. 

When  on  dead  Musgrave  he  look'd  down ; 

Then  broke  her  silence  stt-rn  and  still, — 

Grief  darken 'd  on  his  rugged  brow. 

"  Not  you,  but  fate,  has  vanquish 'd  me  ; 

Though  half  disguised  with  a  frown  ; 

Their  influence  kindl>    ^ars  may  shower 

And  thus,  while  sorrow  bent  his  head. 

On  Teviot's  tide  and  Branksome's  tower. 

His  foeman's  epitaph  he  made. 

For  pride  is  quell'd,  and  love  is  free." 

She  took  fair  Margaret  by  the  hand, 

XXIX. 

Who,  breathless,  trembling,  scarce  might  stand ; 

«  Now,  Richard  Musgrave,  liest  thou  here  .  ^ 

That  hand  to  Cranstoun's  lord  gave  she:— 

I  ween,  my  deadly  enemy ; 

«  As  I  am  true  to  thee  and  thine. 

For,  if  I  slew  thy  brother  dear. 

Do  thou  be  true  to  me  and  mine  ! 

Thou  slewest  a  sister's  son  to  me  ; 

This  clasp  of  love  our  bond  shall  be, 

And  when  I  lay  in  dungeon  dark. 

For  this  is  your  betrothing  day. 

Of  Naworth  Castle,  long  months  three, 

And  all  these  noble  lords  shall  stay. 

Till  ransom'd  for  a  thousand  mark. 

To  grace  it  with  their  company. 

Dark  Musgrave,  it  was  long  of  thee. 

And,  Musgrave,  could  our  fight  be  tried. 

XXVII. 

And  thou  wert  now  alive,  as  I, 

All  as  they  left  the  listed  plain. 

No  mortal  man  should  us  divide, 

Much  of  the  story  she  did  gain  : 

Till  one  or  both  of  us  did  die. 

How  Cranstoun  fought  with  Deloraine, 

Yet  rest  thee,  God  !  for  well  I  know 

And  of  his  page,  and  of  the  book 

I  ne'er  shall  find  a  nobler  foe. 

Which  from  the  wounded  knight  he  took ; 

In  all  the  northern  counties  here, 

And  how  he  sought  her  castle  high. 

Whose  word  is  snafle,  spur,  and  spear,t 

That  mAn  by  help  of  gramarye  ; 

Thou  wert  the  best  to  follow  gear. 

How,  in  Sir  William's  armour  dight. 

'Twas  pleasure,  as  we  look'd  behind. 

Stolen  by  his  page,  while  slept  the  knight, 

To  see  how  thou  the  chase  couldst  wind. 

He  took  on  him  the  single  fight. 

But  half  his  tale  he  left  unsaid. 

♦  The  spectral  apparition  of  a  living  person. 

ind  linger'd  till  he  join'd  the  maid.— 

t  The  lands  ;hal  over  Ouse  to  Berwick  foTlh  do  bear, 

Cared  not  the  ladye  to  betray 

Have  for  their  blazon  had,  the  snafle,  spur,  and  spear 

Her  mystie  arts  in  view  of  day ; 

Poly-Albion^  song  xiii. 

630 


SCOTT. 


Cheer  the  dark  bloodhound  on  his  way, 
And  with  the  bugle  rouse  the  frav ! 
I'd  give  the  lands  of  DeV)raine, 
Dark  Musgrave  were  zuve  again."— 

XXX. 

So  mourn'd  he,  till  Lord  Dacre's  band 
Were  bowning  back  to  Cumberland. 
They  raised  brave  Musgrave  from  the  field. 
And  laid  him  on  his  bloody  shield ; 
On  levell'd  lances  four  and  four. 
By  turns,  the  noble  burden  bore. 
Before,  at  times,  upon  the  gale, 
Was  heard  the  minstrel's  plaintive  wail ; 
Behind,  four  priests,  in  sable  stole, 
Sung  requiem  for  the  warrior's  soul : 
Around,  the  horsemen  slowly  rode ; 
With  trailing  pikes  the  spearmen  trode ; 
And  thus  the  gallant  knight  they  bore. 
Through  Liddesdale,  to  Leven's  shore ; 
Thence  to  Holme  Coltrame's  lofty  nave, 
And  laid  him  in  his  father's  grave. 

The  harp's  wild  notes,  though  hush'd  the  song, 
The  mimic  march  of  death  prolong ; 
Now  seems  it  far,  and  now  anear. 
Now  meets,  and  now  eludes  the  ear; 
Now  seems  some  mountain  side  to  sweep. 
Now  faintly  dies  in  valley  deep  ; 
Seems  now  as  if  the  minstrel's  wail. 
Now  the  sad  requiem  loads  the  gale  t 
Last,  o'er  the  warrior's  closing  grave, 
Rung  the  full  choir  in  choral  stave. 
After  due  pause,  they  bade  him  tell. 
Why  he  who  touch'd  the  harp  so  well, 
Should  thus,  with  ill-rewarded  toil. 
Wander  a  poor  and  thankless  soil. 
When  the  more  generous  southern  land 
Would  well  requite  his  skilful  hand. 

The  aged  harper,  howsoe'er 
His  only  friend,  his  harp,  was  dear. 
Liked  not  to  hear  it  rank'd  so  high 
Above  his  flowing  poesy  ; 
Less  liked  he  still  that  scornful  jeer 
Misprized  the  land  he  loved  so  dear; 
High  was  the  sound,  as  thus  again 
The  bard  resumed  his  minstrel  strain. 

Canto  VI. 

I. 
Breathes* there  the  man,  with  soul  so  dead, 
Who  never  to  himself  hath  said, 

This  is  my  own,  my  native  land  ! 
Whose  heart  hath  ne'er  within  him  burn'd^ 
As  home  his  footsteps  he  hath  turn'd. 

From  wandering  on  a  foreign  strand  ? 
If  such  there  breathe,  go,  mark  him  well; 
For  him  no  minstrel's  raptures  swell ; 
High  though  his  titles,  proud  his  name. 
Boundless  his  wealth  as  wish  can  claim ; 
Despite  those  titles,  power,  and  pelf, 
The  wretch,  concentred  all  in  self, 
Living,  shall  forfeit  fair  renown. 
And,  doubly  dying,  shall  go  down 


To  the  vile  dust,  from  whence  he  sprung. 
Unwept,  unhonour'd,  and  unsung. 

n. 

O  Caledonia  !  stern  and  wild. 

Meet  nurse  for  a  poetic  child ! 

Land  of  brown  heath  and  shaggy  wood. 

Land  of  the  mountain  and  the  flocd 

Land  of  my  sires  !  what  mortal  nand 

Can  e'er  untie  the  filial  band. 

That  knits  me  to  thy  rugged  strand  ! 

Still,  as  I  view  each  well  known  scene. 

Think  what  is  now,  and  what  hath  been. 

Seems  as,  to  me,  of  all  bereft, 

Sole  friends  thy  woods  and  streams  are  left* 

And  thus  I  love  them  better  still. 

Even  in  extremity  of  ill. 

By  Yarrow's  stream  still  let  me  stray. 

Though  none  should  guide  my  feeble  way ; 

Still  feel  the  breeze  down  Ettrick  break. 

Although  it  chill  ray  wither'd  cheek ; 

Still  lay  my  head  by  Teviot's  stone, 

Though  there,  forgotten  and  alone, 

The  bard  may  draw  his  parting  groan. 

IIL 
Not  scorn'd  like  me !  to  Branksome  Hall 
The  minstrels  came,  at  festive  call : 
Trooping  they  came,  from  near  and  far, 
The  jovial  priests  of  mirth  and  war ; 
Alike  for  feast  and  fight  prepared, 
Battle  and  banquet  both  they  shared. 
Of  late,  before  each  martial  clan. 
They  blew  their  death-note  in  the  van. 
But  now,  for  every  merry  mate, 
Rose  the  portcullis'  iron  grate  ; 
They  sound  the  pipe,  they  strike  the  string. 
They  dance,  they  revel,  and  they  sing. 
Till  the  rude  turret?  shake  and  ring. 

IV. 

Me  lists  not  at  this  tide  declare 
The  splendour  of  the  spousal  rite. 
How  muster'd  in  the  chapel  fair 
Both  maid  and  matron,  squire  and  knight; 
Me  lists  not  tell  of  owches  rare. 
Of  mantles  green,  and  braided  hair, 
And  kirtles  furr'd  with  miniver ; 
What  plumage  waved  the  altar  round. 
How  spurs, and  ringing  chainlets  sounds 
And  hard  it  were  for  bard  to  speak 
The  changeful  hue  of  Margaret's  cheek ; 
That  lovely  hue  which  comes  and  flies 
As  awe  and  shame  alternate  rise. 

V. 

Some  bards  have  sung,  the  ladye  high 
Chapel  or  altar  came  not  nigh  ; 
Nor  durst  the  rites  of  spousal  grace. 
So  much  she  fear'd  each  holy  place. 
False  slanders  these;.-.!  trust  right  well. 
She  wrought  not  by  forbidden  spell ; 
For  mighty  words  and  signs  have  power 
O'er  sprites  in  planetary  hour: 
Yet  scarce  I  praise  their  venturous  part, 
Who  tamper  with  such  dangerous  art: 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  LAST  MINSTREL. 


621 


But  this  for  faithful  truth  I  say, 
The  ladj'e  by  the  allar  stood, 
Of  sable  velvet  her  array, 
And  on  her  head  a  crimson  hood, 
With  pearls  embroider'd  and  entvsrined, 
Guarded  with  gold,  with  ermine  lined ; 
A  merlin  sat  upon  her  wrist, 
Held  by  a  leash  of  silken  twist. 

VI. 

The  spousal  rites  were  ended  soon : 

'Twas  now  the  merry  of  noon, 

And  in  the  lofty  arched  hall 

Was  spread  the  gorgeous  festival. 

Steward  and  squire,  with  heedful  haste, 

Marshall'd  the  rank  of  every  guest ; 

Pages,  with  ready  blade,  were  there. 

The  mighty  meal  to  carve  and  share : 

O'er  capon,  heron-shew,  and  crane. 

And  princely  peacock's  gilded  train, 

And  o'er  the  boar-head,  garnish'd  brave, 

And  cygnet  from  St.  Mary's  wave ; 

O'er  ptarmigan  and  venison. 

The  priest  had  spoke  his  benison ; 

Then  rose  the  riot  and  the  din. 

Above,  beneath,  without,  within  ! 

For,  from  the  lofty  balcony. 

Rung  trumpet,  shalm,  and  psaltery  ; 

Their  changing  bowls  old  warriors  quaflfd. 

Loudly  they  spoke,  and  loudly  laugh 'd ; 

Whisper'd  young  knights,  in  tone  more  mild. 

To  ladies  fair,  and  ladies  smiled. 

The  hooded  hawks,  high  perch'd  on  beam. 

The  clamour  join'd,  with  whistling  scream, 

And  flapp'd  their  wings,  and  shook  their  bells, 

In  concert  with  the  staghounds'  yells. 

Round  go  the  flasks  of  ruddy  wine. 

From  Bordeaux,  Orleans,  or  the  Rhine, 

Their  tasks  the  busy  sewers  ply. 

And  all  is  mirth  and  revelry. 

VII. 

The  goblin  page,  omitting  still 

No  opportunity  of  ill. 

Strove  now,  while  blood  ran  hot  and  high, 

To  rouse  debate  and  jealousy ; 

Till  Conrad,  Lord  of  Wolfenstein, 

By  nature  fierce,  and  warm  with  wine, 

And  now  in  humour  highly  cross'd. 

About  some  steeds  his  band  had  lost, 

High  words  to  words  succeeding  still. 

Smote,  with  his  gauntlet,  stout  Hunthil ; 

A  hot  and  haughty  Rutherford, 

Whom  men  call'd  Dickon  Draw-the-sword. 

He  took  it  on  the  page's  saye, 

Hunthil  had  driven  tllese  steeds  away. 

Then  Howard,  Home,  and  Douglas  rose. 

The  kindling  discord  to  compose: 

Stern  Rutherford  right  little  said. 

But  bit  his  glove  and  shook  his  head. — 

A  fortnight  thence,  in  Inglewood, 

Stout  Conrad,  cold,  and  drench'd  in  bloody 

His  bosom  gored  with  many  a  wound. 

Was  by  a  woodman's  lyme-dog  found; 

Unknown  the  manner  of  his  death, 

3one  V3S  his  brand,  both  sword  and  sheath ; 


But  ever  from  that  time,  'twas  said, 
That  Dickon  wore  a  Cologne  blade. 

vin. 

The  dwarf,  who  fear'd  his  master's  eye 

Might  his  foul  treachery  espie. 

Now  sought  the  castle  buttery. 

Where  many  a  yeoman,  bold  and  free, 

Revell'd  as  merrily  and  well 

As  those  that  sat  in  lordly  selle. 

Wat  Tinlinn,  there,  did  frankly  raise 

The  pledge  to  Arthur  Firtfcthe-braes  ; 

And  he,  as  by  his  breeding  bound. 

To  Howard's  merrry  men  sent  it  round. 

To  quit  them,  on  the  English  side. 

Red  Roland  Forster  loudly  cried, 

"  A  deep  cart)use  to  yon  fair  bride  !" 

At  every  pledge,  from  vat  and  pail, 

Foam'd  forth,  in  floods,  the  nut-brown  ale. 

While  shout  the  riders  every  one, 

Such  day  of  mirth  ne'er  cheer'd  their  clan, 

Since  old  Buccleuch  the  name  did  gain. 

When  in  the  cleuch  the  buck  was  ta'en. 

IX 

The  wily  page,  with  vengeful  thought, 
Remember'd  him  of  Tinlinn's  yew. 

And  swore,  it  should  be  dearly  bought, 
That  ever  he  the  arrow  drew. 

First,  he  the  yeoman  did  molest. 

With  bitter  gibe  and  taunting  jest ; 

Told  how  he  fled  at  Solway  strife, 

And  how  Hob  Armstrong  cheer'd  his  wife; 

Then,  shunning  still  his  powerful  arm. 

At  unawares  he  wrought  him  harm ; 

From  trencher  stole  his  choicest  cheer, 

Dash'd  from  his  lips  his  can  of  beer ; 

Then,  to  his  knee  sly  creeping  on. 

With  bodkin  pierced  him  to  the  bone ; 

The  venom'd  wound,  and  festering  joint. 

Long  after  rued  that  bodkin's  point. 

The  startled  yeoman  swore  and  spurn'd. 

And  board  and  flagons  overturn'd. 

Riot  and  clamour  wild  began  ; 

Back  to  the  hall  the  urchin  ran  ; 

Took  in  a  darkling  nook  his  post. 

And  grinn'd,  and  muttcr'd,  «  Lost !  lost  1  lost  I" 

X. 

By  this,  the  dame,  lest  farther  fray 

Should  mar  the  concord  of  the  day. 

Had  bid  the  minstrels  tune  their  lay. 

And  first  stept  forth  old  Albert  Graeme, 

The  minstrel  of  that  ancient  name : 

Was  none  who  struck  the  harp  so  welly 

Within  the  Land  Debateable  ; 

Well  friended,  too,  his  hardy  kin. 

Whoever  lost  were  sure  to  win  ; 

They  sought  the  beeves,  that  made  their  brotn, 

In  Scotland  and  in  England  both. 

In  homely  guise,  as  nature  bade. 

His  simple  song  the  Borderer  said. 

XL 

ALBERT   GRJEHE. 

It  was  an  English  ladye  bright, 

(The  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall,) 


SCOTT. 


And  she  would  marry  a  Scottish  knight. 
For  love  will  still  be  lord  of  all. 

Blithly  they  saw  the  rising  sun, 

When  he  shone  fair  on  Carlisle  wall, 

But  they  were  sad  ere  day  was  done, 
Though  love  was  stilt  the  lord  of  all; 

Her  sire  gave  brooch  and  jewel  fine, 

Where  the  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall  s 

Her  brother  gave  but  a  flask  of  wine. 
For  ire  that  love  was^ord  of  all. 

For  she  had  lands,  both  meadow  and  lea. 
Where  the  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall. 

And  he  swore  her  death,  ere  he  would  see 
A  Scottish  knight  the  lord  of  all !     • 

XII. 

That  wine  she  had  not  tasted  well, 

(The  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall,) 
'When  dead,  in  her  true  love's  arms,  she  fell, 
Foi  love  was  still  the  lord  of  all. 

He  pierced  her  brother  to  the  heart, 

Where  the  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall ; 

So  perish  all,  would  true  love  part. 
That  love  may  still  be  lord  of  all. 

And  then  he  took  the  cross  divine, 

Where  the  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall. 

And  he  died  for  her  sake  in  Palestine, 
So  love  was  still  the  lord  of  all. 

Now  all  ye  lovers,  that  faithful  prove," 
(The  sun  shines  fair  on  Carlisle  wall,) 

Pray  for  their  souls  who  died  for  love, 
For  love  shall  still  be  lord  of  all  ! 

XIII. 
As  ended  Albert's  simple  lay, 
Arose  a  bard  of  loftier  port ; 
For  sonnet,  rhyme,  and  roundelay, 

Renown'din  haughty  Henry's  court: 
There  rung  thy  harp  unrivall'd  long, 
Fitztraver  of  the  silver  song  ! 

The  gentle  Surrey  loved  his  lyre— 

Who  has  not  heard  of  Surrey's  fame  ? 
His  was  the  hero's  soul  of  fire. 

And  his,  the  bard's  immortal  name. 
And  his  was  love  esalted  high 
By  all  the  glow  of  cnivalry. 

,  XIV. 

They  sought  together,  climes  afar. 

And  oft  within  some  olive  grove. 
When  evening  came,  with  twinkling  star. 

They  sung  of  Surrey's  absent  love. 
His  step  th'  Italian  peasant  stay'd. 

And  deem'd,  that  spirits  from  on  high. 
Round  where  some  hermit  saint  was  laid, 

Were  breathing  heavenly  melody 
So  sweet  did  harp  and  voice  combine. 
To  praise  the  name  of  Geraldine. 

XV. 

Fitztraver  !     O  what  tongue  may  say 
The  pangs  thy  faithful  bosom  knew. 


When  Surrey  of  the  deathless  lay, 

Ungrateful  Tudor's  sentence  slew  ! 
Regardless  of  the  tyrant's  frown, 
His  harp  called  wrath  and  vengeance  down. 
He  left,  for  Naworth's  iron  towers, 
Windsor's  green  glades,  and  courtly  bowers. 
And,  faithful  to  his  patron's  name, 
With  Howard  still  Fitztraver  came  ; 
Lord  William's  foremost  favourite  he. 
And  chief  of  all  his  minstrelsy. 

XVI. 

FITZTRAVER. 

'Twas  All-soul's  eve,  anvi  Surrey's  heart  beat  high 

He  heard  the  midnight  bell  with  anxious  stait, 
Which  told  the  mystic  hour,  approaching  nigh. 

When  wise  Cornelius  promised,  by  his  art. 
To  show  to  him  the  ladye  of  his  heart, 

Albeit  betwixt  them  roar'd  the  ocean  rum  ; 
Yet  so  the  sage  had  hight  to  play  his  part, 

That  he  should  see  her  form  in  life  and  limb, 
And  mark,  if  still  she  loved,  and  still  she  though 
of  him. 

XVII. 
Dark  was  the  vaulted  room  of  gramarye. 

To  which  the  wizard  led  the  gallant  knight. 
Save  that  before  a  mirror,  huge  and  high, 

A  hallow'd  taper  shed  a  glimmering  light 
On  mystic  implements  of  magic  might ; 

On  cross,  and  character,  and  talisman. 
And  almagest,  and  altar, — nothing  bright 

For  fitful  was  the  lustre,  pale  and  wan, 
As  watch-light  by  the  bed  of  some  departing  man 

XVIII. 
But  soon,  within  that  mirror  huge  and  high. 

Was  seen  a  self-emitted  light  to  gleam  ; 
And  forms  upon  its  breast  the  earl  'gan  spy, 

Cloudy  and  indistinct,  as  feverish  dream  ; 
Till,  slow  arranging,  and  defined,  they  seem 

To  form  a  lordly  and  a  lofty  room. 
Part  lighted  by  a  lamp  with  silver  beam. 

Placed  by  a  couch  of  Agra's  silken  loom, 
And  part  by  moonshine  pale,  and  part  was  hid  in 
gloom. 

XIX. 

Fair  all  the  pageant — but  how  passing  fair 

The  slender  form,  which  lay  on  couch  of  Ind  ! 
O'er  her  white  bosom  stray'd  her  hazel  hair. 

Pale  her  dear  cheek,  as  if  for  love  she  pined  ; 
All  in  her  night-robe  loose  she  lay  reclined. 

And,  pensive,  read  from  tablet  eburnine 
Some  strain  that  seem'd  her  inmost  soul  to  find  :  — 

That  favour'd  strain  was  Surrey's  rapturec  ]line, 
That  fair  and  lovely  form,  the  Ladye  Geraldine. 

XX. 

Slow  roll'd  the  clouds  upon  the  lovely  form. 
And  swept  the  goodly  vision  all  away — 

So  royal  envy  roll'd  the  murky  storm 
O'er  my  beloved  master's  glorious  day 

Thou  jealous,  ruthless  tyrant !     Heaven  repa> 
On  thee,  and  on  thy  children's  latest  line. 

The  wild  caprice  of  thy  despotic  sway, 


THE    LAY    OF    THE    LAST    MINSTREL. 


623 


The  gory  bridal  bed,  the  plundei'd  shrine. 
The  murder'd  Surrey's  blood,  the  tears  of  Geraldine ! 

XXI. 

Both  Scots,  and  Southern  chiefs  prolong 

Applauses  of  Fitztraver's  song: 

These  hated  Henry's  name  as  death. 

And  those  still  held  the  ancient  faith. — 

Then,  from  his  seat  with  lofty  air, 

Rose  Harold,  bard  of  brave  St.  Clair  ; 

St.  Clair,  who,  feasting  high  at  Home 

Had  with  that  lord  to  battle  come. 

Harold  was  born  where  restless  seas 

Howl  round  the  storm-swept  Orcades  ; 

Where  erst  St.  Clairs  held  princely  sway 

O'er  isle  and  islet,  strait  and  bay ; — 

Still  nods  their  palace  to  its  fall. 

Thy  pride  and  sorrow  fair  Kirkwall ! 

Thence  oft  he  mark'd  fierce  Pentland  rave. 

As  if  grim  Odin  rode  her  wave  ; 

And  watch'd,  the  whilst,  with  visage  pale. 

And  throbbing  heart,  the  struggling  sail ; 

For  all  of  wonderful  and  wild 

Had  rapture  for  the  lonely  child.  '  « 

XXII. 

And  much  of  wild  and  wonderful 

In  these  rude  isles  mighty  Fancy  cull  j 

For  thither  came,  in  times  afar. 

Stern  Lochlin's  sons  of  roving  war, 

The  Norseman,  train 'd  to  spoil  and  blood, 

SkiU'd  to  prepare  the  raven's  food  ; 

Kings  of  the  main  their  leaders  brave. 

Their  barks  the  dragons  of  the  wave. 

And  there  in  many  a  stormy  vale. 

The  scald  had  told  his  wondrous  tale, 

And  many  a  Runic  column  high 

Had  witness 'd  grim  idolatry. 

And  thus  had  Harold,  in  his  youth, 

Learn'd  many  a  saga's  rhyme  uncouth, — 

Of  that  sea-snake  tremendous  curl'd. 

Whose  monstrous  circle  girds  the  world : 

Of  those  dread  Maids;  whose  hideous  yell 

Maddens  the  battle's  bloody  swell : 

Of  chiefs,  who,  guided  through  the  gloom 

By  the  pale-death  like  of  the  tomb, 

Ransack 'd  the  graves  of  warriors  old, 

Their  falchions  wrench'd  from  corpses'  hold, 

Waked  the  deaf  tomb  with  war's  alarms, 

And  bade  the  dead  arise  to  arms  ' 

With  war  and  wonder  all  on  flame, 

To  Roslin's  bowers  young  Harold  came. 

Where,  by  sweet  glen  and  greenwood  tree, 

He  learn'd  a  milder  minstrelsy ; 

Yet  something  of  the  northern  spell 

Mix'd  with  the  softei  numbers  well. 

XXIII. 

HAROLD. 

O  listen,  listen,  ladies  gay  ! 

No  haughty  feat  of  arms  I  tell ; 
Soft  is  the  note,  and  sad  the  lay, 

That  mourns  the  lovely  Rosabelle. 

*  Moor,  moor  the  barge,  ye  gallant  crew  ; 
And,  gentle  ladye,  deign  to  stay ! 


Rest  thee  in  castle  Ravensheuch, 
Nor  tempt  the  stormy  firth  to-day. 

"  The  blackening  wave  is  edged  with  white  ; 

To  inch*  and  rock  the  sea-mews  fly ; 
The  fishers  have  heard  the  water  sprite, 

Whose  screams  forbode  that  wreck  is  nigh. 

"  Last  night  the  gifted  seer  did  view 
A  wet  shroud  swathe  a  ladye  gay  ; 

Then  stay  thee.  Fair,  in  Ravensheuch  : 
Why  cross  the  gloomy  firth  to-day  ?" 

"  'Tis  not  because  lord  Lindesay's  heir 

To-night  at  Roslin  leads  the  ball, 
But  that  my  ladye-mother  there 

Sits  lonely  in  her  castle  hall. 

"  'Tis  not  because  the  ring  they  ride, 
And  Lindesay  at  the  ring  nJes  well, 

But  that  my  sire  the  wine  will  chide, 
If  'tis  not  fill'd  by  Rosabelle." 

O'er  Roslin  all  that  dreary  night 

A  wondrous  blaze  was  seen  to  gleam ; 

'Twas  broader  than  the  watch-fire  light, 
And  redder  than  the  bright  moonbeam. 

It  glared  on  Roslin's  castled  rock, 
It  ruddied  all  the  copse-wood  glen  : 

'Twas  seen  from  Dryden's  groves  of  oak, 
And  seen  from  cavern'd  Hawthornden. 

Seem'd  all  on  fire,  that  chapel  proud. 
Where  Roslin's  chiefs  uncoffin'd  lie  ; 

Each  baron,  for  a  sable  shroud, 
Sheath'd  in  his  iron  panoply. 

Seem'd  all  on  fire,  within,  around. 

Deep  sacristy  and  altar's  pale : 
Shone  every  pillar  foliage  bound, 

And  glimmer'd  all  the  dead  men's  mail. 

Blazed  battlement  and  pinnet  high. 

Blazed  every  rose-carved  buttress  fair — 

So  still  they  blaze,  when  fate  is  nigh 
The  lordly  line  of  high  St.  Clair. 

There  are  twenty  of  Roslin's  barons  bold 
Lie  buried  within  that  proud  chapelle : 

Each  one  the  holy  vault  doth  hold — 
But  the  sea  holds  lovely  Rosabelle ! 

And  each  St.  Clair  was  buried  there, 

With  candle,  with  book,  and  with  knell ; 

But  the  sea-caves  rung,  and  the  wild  winds  sung 
The  dirge  of  lovely  Rosabelle. 

XXIV. 

So  sweet  was  Harold's  piteous  lay. 

Scarce  mark'd  the  guests  the  darken'd  halj, 

Though,  long  before  the  sinking  day, 
A  wondrous  shade  involved  them  all ; 

It  was  not  eddying  mist  or  fog, 

Drain'd  by  the  sun  from  fen  or  bog  5 
Of  no  eclipse  had  sages  told  ; 

And  yet,  as  it  came  on  apace. 


♦  Inch,  Isle. 


6S4 


SCOTT. 


Each  one  could  scarce  his  neighbour's  face, 

Could  scarce  his  own  stretch'd  hand  behold. 
A  secret  horror  check'd  the  feast, 
And  chill'd  the  soul  of  every  guest : 
Even  the  high  dame  stood  half  aghast. 
She  knew  some  evil  on  the  blast ; 
The  elfish  page  fell  to  the  ground, 
And,   shuddering,   mutter'd,   "  Found,    found, 
•  found!" 

XXV 

Then  sudden  through  the  darken'd  air 

A  flash  of  lightning  came  ; 
So  broad,  so  bright,  so  red  the  glare, 

The  castle  seem'd  on  flame  ; 
Glanced  every  rafter  of  the  hall. 
Glanced  ever}''  shield  upon  the  wall ; 
Each  trophied  beam,  each  sculptured  stone 
Were  instant  seen,  and  instant  gone  ; 
Full  through  the  guests'  bedazzled  band 
Resistless  flash'd  the  levinbrand, 
And  fill'd  the  hall  with  smouldering  smoke, 
As  on  the  elfish  page  it  broke. 

It  broke,  with  thunder  long  and  loud, 

Dismay'd  the  brave,  appall'd  the  proud. 
From  sea  to  sea  the  larum  rung ; 

On  Berwick  wall,  and  at  Carlisle  withal. 
To  arms  the  startled  warders  sprung. 
When  ended  was  the  dreadful  roar. 
The  elfish  dwarf  was  seen  no  more  ! 

XXVI. 

Some  heard  a  voice  in  Branksome  Hall,. 
Some  saw  a  sight,  not  seen  by  all  5 
That  dreadful  voice  was  heard  by  some. 
Cry,  with  loud  summons,  "  Gylbin,  come  !" 
And  on  the  spot  where  burst  the  brand. 

Just  where  the  page  had  flung  him  down, 
Some  saw  an  arm,  and  some  a  hand. 
And  some  the  waving  of  a  gown. 
The  guests  in  silence  pray'd  and  shook, 
And  terror  dimm'd  each  lofty  look. 
But  none  of  all  the  astonish'd  train 
Was  so  dismay'd  as  Deloraine : 
His  blood  did  freeze,  his  brain  did  burn, 
*Twas  fear'd  his  mind  would  ne'er  return  j 
For  he  was  speechless,  ghastly,  wan, 
Like  him  of  whom  the  story  ran. 
Who  spoke  the  spectre-hound  in  Man. 
At  length  by  fits,  he  darkly  told. 
With  broken  hint,  and  shuddering  cold — 
That  he  had  seen,  right  certainly, 
A  shape  with  amice  wrapped  around, 
With  a  wrought  Spanish  baldrick  bound, 

Like  pilgrim  from' beyond  the  sea; 
And  knew — but  how  it  matter'd  not — 
It  was  the  wizard,  Michael  Scott ! 

XXVII. 

The  anxious  crowd,  with  horror  pale. 
All  trembling,  heard  the  wondrous  tale. 

No  sound  was  made,  no  word  was  spoke, 

Till  noble  Angus  silence  broke: 
And  he  a  solemn  sacred  plight 


Did  to  St.  Bride  of  Douglas  make. 
That  he  a  pilgrimage  would  take. 
To  Melrose  Abbey,  for  the  sake 
Of  Michael's  restless  sprite. 
Then  each,  to  ease  his  troubled  breast. 
To  some  bless'd  saint  his  prayers  address'd  j 
Some  to  St.  Modan  made  their  vows, 
Some  to  St.  Mary  of  the  Lowes, 
Some  to  the  holy  Rood  of  Lisle, 
Some  to  our  lady  of  the  Isle  ; 
Each  did  his  patron  witness  make,  , 

That  he  such  pilgrimage  would  take. 
And  monks  should  sing,  and  bells  should  toll. 
All  for  the  weal  of  Michael's  soul. 
While  vows  were  ta'en,  and  prayers  wert 

pray'd, 
Tis  said  the  noble  dame,  dismay'd, 
Renounced,  for  aye,  dark  magic's  aid. 

XXVIIL 

Nought  of  the  bridal  will  I  tell, 
Which  after  in  short  space  befell ; 
Nor  how  brave  sons  and  daughters  fair 
Bless'd  Teviot's  flower,  and  Cranstoun's  heirt 
After  such  dreadful  scene,  'twere  vain. 
To  wake  the  note  of  mirth  again. 
More  meet  it  were  to  mark  the  day 

Of  penitence  and  prayer  divine. 
When  pilgrim  chiefs,  in  sad  array, 

Sought  Melrose'  holy  shrine. 

XXIX. 

With  naked  foot,  and  sackloth  vest. 
And  arms  enfolded  on  his  breast. 

Did  every  pilgrim  go ; 
The  standers-by  might  hear  uneath. 
Footstep,  or, voice,  or  highdrawn  breath, 

Through  all  the  lengthen'd  row  : 
No  lordly  look,  nor  martial  stride. 
Gone  was  their  glory,  sunk  their  pride. 

Forgotten  their  renown ; 
Silent  and  slow,  like  ghosts,  they  glide 
To  the  high  altar's  hallow'd  side, 

And  there  they  knelt  them  down ; 
Above  the  suppliant  chieftains  wave 
The  banners  of  departed  brave  ; 
Beneath  the  letter'd  stones  were  laid 
The  ashes  of  their  fathers  dead ; 
From  many  a  garnish'd  niche  around. 
Stern  saints,  and  tortured  martyrs  frown'4 

XXX. 

And  slow  up  the  dim  aisle  afjy:; 
With  sable  shroud  and  scapular. 
And  snow-white  stoles,  in  order  due. 
The  holy  fathers,  two  and  two, 

In  long  procession  came  ; 
Taper,  and  host,  and  book  they  bare. 
And  holy  banner,  flourish'd  fair 

With  the  Redeemer's  name  : 
Above  the  prostrate  pilgrim  band 
The  mitred  abbot  stretch'd  his  hand. 

And  bless'd  them  as  they  kneel'd  j 


•    ;•       •••• 


I 


TIHITE     C^STJLE 


MARMION. 


625 


With  holy  cross  he  sign'd  them  all, 
And  pray'd  they  might  be  sage  in  hall. 

And  fortunate  in  field. 
The  mass  was  sung,  and  prayers  were  said, 
And  solemn  requiem  for  the  dead ; 
And  bells  toll'd  out  their  mighty  peal 
For  the  departed  spirit's  weal ; 
And  ever  in  the  office  close 
The  hymn  of  intercession  ro«!e  ; 
And  far  the  echoing  aisles  prolong 
The  awful  burthen  of  the  song, — - 
Dies  iRiE,  dies  illa, 

SOLVET  S.5:CLUM  IN  FAVILLA  ! 

While  the  pealing  organ  rung ; 
Were  it  meet  with  sacred  strain 
To  close  my  lay,  so  light  and  vain. 

Thus  the  holy  fathers  sung. 

XXXI. 

HYMN  FOR  THE  DEAD.       , 

That  day  of  wrath,  that  dreadful  day, 
When  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away, 
What  power  shall  be  the  sinners  stay  ? 
How  shall  he  meet  that  dreadful  day? 

When,  shrivelling  like  a  parched  scroll, 
The  flaming  heavens  together  roll ; 
When  louder  yet,  and  yet  more  dread, 
Swells  the  high  trump  that  wakes  the  dead: 

O  !  on  that  day,  that  wrathful  day. 
When  man  from  judgment  wakes  from  clay, 
Be  Thou  the  trembling  sinnner's  stay. 
Though  heaven  and  earth  shall  pass  away ! 


Hush'd  is  the  harp — the  minstrel  gone. 
And  did  he  wander  forth  alone. 
Alone,  in  indigence  and  age. 
To  linger  out  his  pilgrimage  ? 
No : — close  beneath  proud  Newark's  tower 
Arose  the  minstrel's  lowly  bower: 
A  simple  hut ;  but  there  was  seen 
The  little  garden  hedged  with  green, 
The  cheerful  hearth,  and  lattice  clean. 
There  shelter 'd  wanderers,  by  the  blaze, 
Oft  heard  the  tale  of  other  days  ; 
For  much  he  loved  to  ope  his  door. 
And  give  the  aid  he  begg'd  before. 
So  pass'd  the  winter's  day ;  but  still. 
When  summer  smiled  on  sweet  Bowhill, 
And  July's  eve,  with  balm  r  breath. 
Waved  the  blue  bells  on  Ps  .nvark  heath  ; 
When  throstles  sun  in  Hare-head  shaw. 
And  corn  was  green  on  Carterhaugh, 
And  flourish'd,  broad,  Blackandro's  oak, 
The  aged  harper's  soul  awoke  ! 
Then  would  he  sing  achievements  high, 
And  circumstance  of  chivalry, 
Till  the  rapt  traveller  would  stay. 
Forgetful  of  the  closing  day ; 
And  noble  youths,  the  strain  to  hear, 
Forsook  the  hunting  of  the  deer; 
And  Yarrow,  as  he  roll'd  along, 
Oiire  burden  to  the  minstrel's  song. 
Vol.  hi.— 40 


MARMION. 

A  TALE   OF  FLODDEN   FIELD. 


Alas!  that  Scottish  maid  should  sing 
The  combat  where  her  lover  fell ! 

That  Scottish  bard  should  wake  the  string. 
The  triumph  of  our  foes  to  \.G\\.—Leydtn. 


TO  THE    RIGHT    HONOURABLE   HENRY, 
LORD   MONTAGUE,  &c; 

this   ROMANCE   IS   INSCRIBED,   BY   THE   AUTHOR. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 
It  is  hardly  to  be  expected  that  an  author,  whom 
the  public  has  honoured  with  some  degree  of  ap- 
plause, should  not  be  again  a  trespasser  on  their 
kindness.  Yet  the  author  of  Marmion  must  be 
supposed  to  feel  some  anxiety  concerning  its  suc- 
cess, since  he  is  sensible  that  he  hazards,  by  this 
second  intrusion,  any  reputation  which  his  first 
poem  may  have  procured  him.  The  present  story 
turns  upon  the  private  adventures  of  a  fictitious 
character;  but  is  called  a  Tale  of  Flodden  Field, 
because  the  hero's  fate  is  connected  with  that  me- 
morable defeat,  and  the  causes  which  led  to  it. 
The  design  of  the  author  was,  if  possible,  to  apprise 
his  readers,  at  the  outset,  of  the  date  of  his  story, 
and  to  prepare  them  for  the  manners  of  the  age  iu 
which  it  is  laid.  Any  historical  narrative,  far 
more  an  attempt  at  epic  composition,  exceeds  his 
plan  of  a  romantic  tale  ;  yet  he  may  be  permitted 
to  hope  from  the  popularity  of  The  Lay  of  the  Last 
Minstrel,  that  an  attempt  to  paint  the  manners  of 
the  feudal  times  upon  a  broader  scale,  and  in  the 
course  of  a  more  interesting  history,  will  not  be 
unacceptable  to  the  public. 

The  poem  opens  about  the  commencement  of 
August,  and  concludes  with  the  defeat  of  Flodden, 
9th  September,  1513. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  1. 
TO   WILLIAM    STEWART    ROSE,    ESQ. 

Jshestiel,  Ettrick  Forest. 
November's  sky  is  chill  and  drear, 
November's  leaf  is  red  and  sear; 
Late,  gazing  down  the  steepy  linn, 
That  hems  our  little  garden  in. 
Low  in  its  dark  and  narrow  glen. 
You  scarce  the  rivulet  might  ken. 
So  thick  the  tangled  greenwood  grew, 
So  feeble  trill'd  the  streamlet  through: 
Now,  murmuring  hoarse,  and  frequent  seen 
Though  bush  and  brier,  no  longer  green. 
An  angry  brook,  it  sweeps  the  glade. 
Brawls  over  rock  and  wild  cascade, 
And,  foaming  brown  with  double  speed, 
Hurries  its  waters  to  the  Tweed. 

No  longer  Autumn's  glowing  red 
Upon  our  forest  hills  is  shed  ; 
No  more,  beneath  the  evening  beam. 
Fair  Tweed  reflects  their  purple  gleam ; 


SCOTT. 


Away  hath  pass'd  the  hether-bell, 
That  blootn'd  so  rich  on  Needpath-fell, 
Sallow  his  brow,  and  russet  bare 
A.re  now  the  sister-heights  of  Yare. 
The  sheep,  before  the  pinching  heaven. 
To  shelter'd  dale  and  down  are  driven, 
Where  yet  some  faded  herbage  pines. 
And  yet  a  watery  sunbeam  shines } 
[n  meek  despondency  they  eye 
The  wither'd  sward  and  wintry  sky. 
And  far  beneath  their  summer  hill, 
Stray  sadly  by  Glenkinnon's  rill: 
The  shepherd  shifts  his  mantle's  fold 
And  wraps  him  closer  from  the  cold  ; 
His  dogs  no  mcrrj'^  circles  wheel, 
But,  shivering,  follow  at  his  heel : 
A  cowering  glance  they  often  cast, 
As  deeper  moans  the  gathering  blast. 

My  imps,  though  hardy,  bold,  and  wild 
As  best  befits  the  mountain  child, 
Feels  the  sad  influence  of  the  hour. 
And  wail  the  daisy's  vanish'd  flower; 
Their  summer's  gambols  tell,  and  mourn, 
And  anxious  ask, — Will  spring  return, 
And  birds  and  lambs  again  be  gay. 
And  blossoms  clothe  the  hawthorn  spray  ? 
Yes,  prattlers,  yes.     The  daisy's  flower 
Again  shall  paint  your  summer  bower; 
Again  the  hawthorn  shall  supply 
The  garlands  you  delight  to  tie  ; 
The  lambs  upon  the  lea  shall  bound. 
The  wild  birds  carol  to  the  round. 
And  while  you  frolic,  light  as  they, 
Too  short  shall  seem  the  summer  day. 

To  mute  and  to  material  things 
New  life  revolving  summer  brings  ; 
The  genial  call  dead,  nature  hears, 
And  in  her  glory  reappears. 
But  0  !  my  country's  wintry  state 
What  second  spring  shall  renovate  ? 
What  powerful  call  shall  bid  arise 
The  buried  warlike  and  the  wise  ? 
The  mind,  that  thought  for  Britain's  weal. 
The  hand,  that  grasp'd  the  victor  steel  ? 
The  vernal  sun  new  life  bestows 
E'en  on  the  meanest  flower  that  blows ; 
But  vainly,  vainly  may  he  shine, 
Where  glory  weeps  o'er  Nelson's  shrine  ; 
And  vainly  pierce  the  solemn  gloorii 
That  shrav.is,  0  Pitt,  thy  hallow'd  tomb! 

Deep  graved  in  every  British  heart, 
0  never  let  those  names  depart ! 
Say  to  your  sons, — Lo,  here  his  grave. 
Who  victor  died  on  Gadite  wave ; 
To  him,  as  to  the  burning  levin. 
Short,  bright,  resistless  course  was  given, 
Whero'er  his  country's  foes  were  found. 
Was  heard  the  fated  thunder's  sound. 
Till  burst  the  bolt  on  yonder  shore, 
Roll'd,  blazed,  destroy'd, — and  was  no  more. 

Nor  mourn  ye  less  his  perish'd  worth. 
Who  bade  the  conqueror  go  forth, 
And  launch'd  that  thunderbolt  of  war 
On  Egypt,  Hafnia,*  Trafalgar  ; 


♦  Copenhagen. 


Who,  born  to  guide  such  high  emprise. 
For  Britain's  weal  was  early  wise ; 
Alas  !  to  whom  the  Almighty  gave, 
For  Britain's  sins,  an  early  grave  ; 
His  worth,  who,  in  his  mightiest  hour, 
A  bauble  held  the  pride  of  power, 
Spurn'd  at  the  sordid  lust  of  pelf. 
And  served  his  Albion  for  herself; 
Who,  when  the  frantic  crov/d  amain 
Strain'd  at  subjection's  bursting  rein. 
O'er  their  wild  mood  full  conquest  gain'd. 
The  pride,  he  would  not  crush,  restrain'd, 
Show'd  their  fierce  zeal  a  worthier  cause. 
And  brought  the  freeman's  arm  to  aid  the  free' 
man's  laws. 

Hadst  thou  but  lived,  though  stripp'd  of  power 
A  watchman  on  the  lonely  tower. 
Thy  thrilling  trump  had  roused  the  land, 
When  fraud  or  danger  were  at  hand  ; 
By  thee,  as  by  the  beacon  light. 
Our  pilots  had  kept  course  aright ; 
As  some  proud  column,  though  alone. 
Thy  strength  had  propp'd  the  tottering  throne. 
Now  is  the  stately  column  broke. 
The  beacon  light  is  quench'd  in  smoke, 
The  trumpet's  silver  sound  is  still. 
The  warder  silent  on  the  hill ! 

O,  think,  how  to  his  latest  day. 
When  death,  just  hovering,  claim'd  his  prey 
With  Palinure's  unalter'd  mood. 
Firm  at  his  dangerous  post  he  stood : 
Each  call  for  needful  rest  repell'd. 
With  dying  hand  the  rudder  held. 
Till,  in  his  fall,  with  fateful  sway. 
The  steerage  of  the  helm  gave  way  ! 
Then,  while  on  Britain's  thousand  plains 
One  unpolluted  church  remains, 
Whose  peaceful  bells  ne'er  sent  around 
The  bloody  tocsin's  maddening  sound. 
But  still,  upon  the  hallow'd  day. 
Convoke  the  swains  to  praise  and  pray; 
While  faith  and  civil  peace  are  dear, 
Grace  this  cold  marble  with  a  tear, — 
He,  who  preserved  them,  Pitt,  lies  here! 

Nor  yet  suppress  the  generous  sigh. 
Because  his  rival  slumbers  nigh; 
Nor  be  thy  requiescat  dumb. 
Lest  it  be  said  o'er  Fox's  tomb. 
For  talents  mourn,  untimely  lost, 
When  best  employ'd,  and  wanted  most; 
Mourn  genius  high,  and  lore  profound. 
And  wit  that  loved  to  play,  not  wound; 
And  all  the  reasoning  powers  divine. 
To  penetrate,  resolve,  combine  ; 
And  feelings  keen,  and  fancy's  glow, — 
They  sleep  with  him  who  sleeps  below; 
And,  if  thou  mourn 'st  they  could  not  save 
From  error  him  who  owns  this  grave. 
Be  every  harsher  thought  suppress'd. 
And  sacred  be  the  last  long  rest. 
Hei-e,  where  the  end  of  earthly  things 
Lays  heroes,  patriots,  bards,  and  kings  j 
Where  stiff  the  hand,  and  still  the  tongue. 
Of  those  who  fought,  and  spoke,  and  sung. 
Here,  where  the  fretted  aisles  prolong 
The  distant  notes  of  holy  song. 


MARMION. 


62? 


As  if  some  angel  spoke  agen, 

And  all  the  keener  rush  of  blood. 

All  peace  on  earth,  good  will  to  men  ; 

That  throbs  through  bard  in  bardlike  mood. 

If  ever  from  an  English  heart, 

Were  here  a  tribute  mean  and  low. 

0  here  let  prejudice  depart, 

Though  all  their  mingled  streams  could  flow— 

And,  partial  feeling  cast  aside, 

Wo,  wonder,  and  sensation  high. 

Record,  that  Fox  a  Britain  died  ! 

In  one  springtide  of  ecstasy  ! 

When  Europe  crouch'd  to  France's  yoke, 

It  will  not  be — it  may  not  last— 

And  Austria  bent,  and  Prussia  broke. 

The  vision  of  enchantment's  past: 

And  the  firm  Russian's  purpose  brave 

Like  frost-work  in  the  morning  ray, 

Was  barter'd  by  a  timorous  slave, 

The  fancied  fabric  melts  away ; 

Even  then  dishonour's  peace  he  spurn'd. 

Each  Gothic  arch,  memorial  stone. 

The  sullied  olive-branch  return'd. 

And  long,  dim,  lofty  aisle  are  gone. 

Stood  for  his  country's  glory  fast. 

And,  lingering  last,  deception  dear. 

And  nail'd  her  colours  to  the  mast! 

The  choirs  high  sounds  die  on  my  ear. 

Heaven,  to  reward  his  firmness,  gave 

Now  slow  return  the  lonely  down. 

A  portion  in  this  honour'd  grave  ; 

The  silent  pastures  bleak  and  brown, 

And  ne'er  held  marble  in  its  trust 

The  farm  begirt  with  copsewood  wild. 

Of  two  such  wondrous  men  the  dust. 

The  gambols  of  each  frolic  child, 

With  more  than  mortal  powers  endow'd, 

Mixing  their  shrill  cries  with  the  tones 

How  high  they  soar'd  above  the  crowd  I 

Of  Tweed's  dark  waters  rushing  on. 

Theirs  was  no  common  party  race. 

Prompt  on  unequal  tasks  to  run,  . 

Jostling  by  dark  intrigue  for  place  ; 

Thus  Nature  disciplines  her  son  t 

Like  fabled  gods,  their  mighty  war 

Meeter,  she  says,  for  me  to  stray, 

Shook  realms  and  nations  in  its  jar; 

And  waste  the  solitary  daj'. 

Beneath  each  banner  proud  to  stand, 

In  plucking  from  yon  fen  the  reed. 

Look'd  up  the  noblest  of  the  land. 

And  watch  it  floating  down  the  Tweed ; 

Till  through  the  British  world  were  known 

Or  idly  list  the  shrilling  lay 

The  names  of  Pitt  and  Fox  alone. 

With  which  the  milk-maid  cheers  her  way 

Spells  of  such  force  no  wizard  grave 

Marking  its  cadence  rise  and  fail, 

E'er  framed  in  dark  Thessalian  cave, 

As  from  the  field,  beneath  her  pail, 

Though  his  could  drain  the  ocean  dry, 

She  trips  it  down  the  uneven  dale: 

And  force  the  planets  from  the  sky. 

Meeter  for  me,  by  yonder  cairn, 

These  spells  are  spent,  and,  spent  with  these, 

The  ancient  shepherd's  tale  to  learn. 

The  wine  of  life  is  on  the  lees. 

Though  oft  he  stop  in  rustic  fear, 

Genius,  and  taste,  and  talent  gone. 

Lest  his  old  legends  tire  the  ear 

Forever  tomb'd  beneath  the  stone. 

Of  one,  who,  in  his  simple  mind. 

Where — taming  thought  to  human  pride  ! 

May  boast  of  book-learn'd  taste  refined. 

The  mighty  chiefs  sleep  side  by  side. 

But  thou,  my  friend,  canst  fitly  tell. 

Drop  upon  Fox's  grave  the  tear, 

(For  few  have  read  romance  so  well,) 

'Twill  trickle  to  his  rival's  bier ; 

How  still  the  legendary  lay 

O'er  Pitt's  the  mournful  requiem  sound, 

O'er  poet's  bosom  holds  its  swaj' ; 

And  Fox's  shall  the  notes  rebound. 

How  on  the  ancient  minstrel  strain 

The  solemn  echo  seems  to  cry, — 

Time  lays  his  palsied  hand  in  vain  ; 

"  Here  let  their  discord  with  them  die ; 

And  how  our  hearts  at  doughty  deeds, 

Speak  not  for  those  a  separate  doom. 

By  warriors  wrought  in  steely  weeds. 

Whom  fate  made  brothers  in  the  tomb, 

Still  throb  for  fear  and  pity's  sake  ; 

But  searc:  the  land  of  living  men, 

As  when  the  champion  of  the  lake 

Where  wilt  thou  find  their  like  agen  ?" 

Enters  Morgana's  fated  house. 

Rest,  ardent  spirits  !   till  the  cries 

Or  in  the  Chapel  perilous. 

Of  dying  nature  bids  you  rise ; 

Despising  spells  and  demons'  force, 

Not  even  your  Britain's  groans  can  pierce 

Hold  converse  with  the  unburied  corse. 

The  leaden  silence  of  your  hearse : 

0  when,  dame  Gamore's  grace  to  move, 

Then,  0  how  impotent  and  vain 

(Alas !  that  lawless  was  their  love,) 

This  grateful  tributary  strain  ! 

He  sought  proud  Tarquin  in  his  den, 

Though  not  unmark'd  from  northern  clime, 

And  freed  full  sixty  knights;  or  when. 

Yc  heard  the  Border  minstrel's  rhyme : 

A  sinful  man,  and  unconfess'd. 

His  gothic  harp  has  o'er  you  rung  ; 

He  took  the  Sangeal's  holy  quest. 

The  bard  you  deign'd  to  praise,  your  death  names 

And,  slumbering,  saw  the  vision  high. 

has  sung. 

He  might  not  view  with  waking  eye. 

Stay  yet  illusion,  stay  awhile. 

The  mightiest  chiefs  of  British  song 

My  wilder'd  fancy  still  beguile  ! 

Scorn'd  not  such  legends  to  prolong: 

From  this  high  theme  how  can  I  part, 

They  gleam  through  Spencer's  elfin  dreaio' 

Ere  half  unloaded  is  my  heart ! 

And  mix  in  Milton's  heavenly  theme; 

For  all  the  tears  e'er  sorrow  drew. 

And  Dryden,  in  immortal  strain, 

\nd  all  the  raptures  fancy  knew, 

Had  raised  the  Table  Round  again. 

628 


SCOTT. 


But  that  a  ribald,  king  and  court 
Bade  him  toil  on,  to  make  them  sport ; 
Demanded  for  their  nig:gard  pay, 
Fit  for  their  souls,  a  looser  lay, 
Licentious  satire,  song,  and  play  : 
The  world  defrauded  of  the  high  design, 
Profaned  the  God-given  strength,  and  marr'd  the 
lofty  line. 

Warm'd  by  such  names  well  may  we  then, 
Though  dwindled  sons  of  little  men. 
Essay  to  break  a  feeble  lance 
In  the  fair  fields  of  old  romance  ; 
Or  seek  the  moated  castle's  cell 
Where  long  through  talisman  and  spell. 
While  tyrants  ruled,  and  damsels  wept, 
Thy  genius,  chivalry,  hath  slept: 
There  sound  the  harpings  of  the  north, 
Till  he  awake  and  sally  forth, 
On  venturous  quest  to  prick  again, 
In  all  his  arms,  with  all  his  train, 
Shield,  lance,  and  brand,  and  plume,  and  scarf. 
Fay,  giant,  dragon,  squire,  and  dwarf, 
And  wizard,  with  his  wand  of  might, 
And  errant  maid  on  palfrey  white. 
Around  the  genius  weave  their  spells,     . 
Pure  love,  who  scarce  his  passion  tells; 
Mystery,  half  veil'd  and  half  reveal'd ; 
And  honour,  with  his  spotless  shield ; 
Attention,  with  fix'd  eye  ;  and  fear, 
That  loves  the  tale  he  shrinks  to  hear ; 
And  gentle  courtesy ;  and  faith. 
Unchanged  by  sufTerings,  time,  or  death ; 
And  valour,  lion-melted  lord, 
Leaning  upon  his  own  good  sword. 

Well  has  thy  fair  achievement  shown, 
A  worthy  meed  may  thus  be  won ; 
Ytene's*  oaks — beneath  whose  shade. 
Their  theme  the  merry  minstrels  made. 
Of  Ascapart,  and  Be  vis  bold. 
And  that  red  king,t  who,  while  of  old. 
Though  Bold  re  wood  the  chase  he  led, 
By  his  loved  huntsman's  arrow  bled — 
Ytene's  oaks  have  heard  again 
Renew'd  such  legendary  strain  ; 
For  thou  hast  sung,  how  he  of  Gaul, 
That  Amadis,  so  famed  in  hall. 
For  Oriana,  foil'd  in  fight 
The  necromancer's  felon  might ; 
And  well  in  modern  verse  hast  wove 
Partenopex's  mystic  love : 
Hear  then,  attentive  to  my  lay, 
A  knightly  tale  of  Albion's  elder  day. 


Canto  I. 

THE   CASTLE. 
I. 

Day  set  on  Norham's  castled  steep. 
And  Tweed's  fair  river,  broad  and  deep, 

And  Cheviot's  mountains  lone. 
The  battled  towers,  the  donjon  keep. 


♦  The  new  forest  in  Hampshire,  anciently  so  called. 
t  William  Rufus. 


The  loop-hole  grates  where  captives  wetjj, 
The  flanking  walls  that  round  it  sweep, 

In  yellow  lustre  shone. 
The  warriors  on  the  turrets  high. 
Moving  athwart  the  evening  sky, 

Seem'd  forms  of  giant  height : 
Their  armour,  as  it  caught  the  rays 
Flash'd  back  again  the  western  blaze. 

In  lines  of  dazzling  light- 

II. 
St.  George's  banner,  broad  and  gay. 
Now  faded,  as  the  fading  ray 

Less  bright,  and  less,  was  flung; 
The  evening  gale  had  scarce  the  pow» 
To  wave  it  on  the  donjon  tower, 

So  heavily  it  hung. 
The  scouts  had  parted  on  their  scare?-. 

The  castle  gates  were  barr'd ; 
Above  the  gloomy  portal  arch, 
Timing  his  footsteps  to  a  march, 

The  warder  kept  his  guard  ; 
Low  humming  as  he  paced  along. 
Some  ancient  border-gathering  fcong. 

in. 

A  distant  trampling  sound  he  hears ; 
He  looks  abroad,  and  soon  appears, 
O'er  Horncliff  hill,  a  plump*  of  spear* 

Beneath  a  pennon  gay  : 
A  horseman,  darting  from  the  crowd, 
Like  lightning  from  a  summer  cloud. 
Spurs  on  his  mettled  courser  proud, 

Before  the  dark  array. 
Beneath  the  sable  palisade. 
That  closed  the  castle  barricade, 

His  bugle  horn  he  blew  ; 
The  warder  hasted  from  the  wall, 
And  warn'd  the  captain  in  the  hall. 

For  well  the  blast  he  knew ; 
And  joyfully  thai  knight  did  call 
To  sewer,  squire,  and  seneschal. 

IV. 

"Now  broach  ye  a  pipe  of  Malvoisie, 

Bring  pasties  of  the  doe. 
And  quickly  make  the  entrance  free, 
And  bid  my  heralds  ready  be, 
And  every  minstrel  sound  his  glee. 

And  all  our  trumpets  blow  ; 
And  from  the  platform,  spare  ye  not 
To  fire  a  noble  salvo-shot ; 

Lord  Marmion  waits  below  !" 
Then  to  the  castle's  lower  ward 

Sped  forty  yeomen  tall. 
The  iron-studded  gates  unbarr'd. 
Raised  the  portcullis'  ponderous  guard. 
The  lofty  palisade  unsparr'd. 

And  let  the  drawbridge  fall. 


*  This  word  propei'.y  applies  toa  flight  of  water-fowl 
bi  t  is  applied,  by  analogy,  to  a  body  of  horse. 
There  is  knighl  of  ihe  North  Country, 
'A'tich  leads  a  lusiy  plump  of  spears. 

Battle  ofFlodden, 


MARMION. 


629 


V. 

Along  the  bridge  Lord  Marmion  rode, 
Proudly  his  red-roan  charger  trod. 
His  helm  hung  at  the  saddle  ^ow  ; 
Well,  by  his  visage,  you  mignt  know 
He  was  a  stalworth  knight,  and  keen, 
And  had  in  many  a  battle  been  : 
The  scar  on  his  brown  cheek  re  veal 'd 
A  token  true  of  Bosvvorth  field ; 
His  eyebrow  dark,  and  eye  of  fire, 
Show'd  spirit  proud,  and  prompt  to  ire : 
Yet  lines  of  thought  upon  his  cheek 
Did  deep  design  and  counsel  speak. 
His  forehead,  by  his  casque  worn  bare, 
His  thin  mustache,  and  curly  hair, 
Coal-black,  and  grizzled  here  and  there. 
But  more  through  toil  than  age  ; 
His  square  turn'd  joints,  and  strength  of  limb, 
Show'd  him  no  carpet  knight  so  trim, 
But,  in  close  fight,  a  champion  grim, 
In  camps,  a  leader  sage. 

VI. 

Well  was  he  arm'd  from  head  to  heel. 

In  mail  and  plate  of  Milan  steel ; 

But  his  strong  helm,  of  mighty  cost. 

Was  all  with  burnish'd  gold  emboss'd; 

Amid  the  plumage  of  the  crest 

A  falcon  hover'd  on  her  nest. 

With  wings  outspread,  and  forward  breast ; 

E'en  such  a  falcon,  on  his  shield, 

Soar'd  sable  in  an  azure  field : 

The  golden  legend  bore  aright, 

«  Who  checks  at  me,  to  death  is  dight.'* 

Bluf  was  the  charger's  broider'd  rein  ; 

Blue  ribands  deck'd  his  arching  mane; 

The  knightly  housing's  ample  fold 

Was  velvet  blue,  and  trapp'd  with  gold. 

VII. 
Behind  him  rode  two  gallant  squires. 
Of  noble  name,  and  knightly  sires  ; 
They  burn'd  the  gilded  spurs  to  claim; 
For  well  could  each  a  war-horse  tame. 
Could  draw  the  bow,  the  sword  could  sway, 
And  lightly  bear  the  ring  away  ; 
Nor  less  with  courteous  precepts  stored, 
Could  dance  in  hall,  and  carve  at  board, 
And  frame  love-ditties  passing  rare, 
And  sing  them  to  a  ladye  fair. 

VIII. 
Four  men-at-arms  came  at  their  backs. 
With  halbert,  bill,  and  battle-axe : 
They  bore  Lord  Marmion's  lance  so  strong, 
And  led  his  sumpter-mules  along, 
And  ambling  palfrey,  when  at  need 
Him  listed  ease  his  battle-steed. 
The  last,  and  trustiest  of  the  four. 
On  high  his  forky  pennon  bore ; 
Like  swallow's  tail,  in  shape  and  hue, 
Flutter'd  the  streamer  glossy  blue, 
Where,  blazon 'd  sable,  as  before, 
The  towering  falcon  seem'd  to  soar. 
Last,  twenty  yeomen,  two  and  two, 
In  hosen  black,  and  jerkin  blue. 


With  falcons  broider'd  on  each  breast. 
Attended  on  their  lord's  behest. 
Each,  chosen  for  an  archer  good. 
Knew  hunting-craft  by  lake  or  wood ; 
Each  one  a  six  foot  bow  could  bend, 
And  far  a  clothyard  shaft  could  send ; 
Each  held  a  boar-spear  tough  and  strong, 
And  at  their  belts  their  quivers  rung. 
Their  dusty  palfreys,  and  array, 
Show'd  they  had  march'd  a  weary  way. 

IX. 
'Tis  meet  that  I  should  tell  you  now. 
How  fairly  arm'd,  and  order'd  how. 

The  soldiers  of  the  guard. 
With  musket,  pipe,  ai  d  morion, 
To  welcome  noble  Marmion, 

Stood  in  the  castleyard  ; 
Minstrels  and  trumpeters  were  there. 
The  gunner  held  his  linstock  yare. 

For  welcome  shot  prepared — 
Enter'd  the  train,  and  such  a  clang, 
As  then  through  all  his  turrets  rang, 

Old  Norham  never  heard. 

X. 

The  guards  their  morrice-pikes  advanced, 

The  trumpets  flourish'd  brave. 
The  cannon  from  the  ramparts  glanced, 

And  thundering  welcome  gave. 
A  blithe  salute,  in  martial  sort, 

The  minstrels  well  might  sound. 
For,  as  Lord  Marmion  cross'd  the  court, 

He  scatter'd  angels  round. 
"  Welcome  to  Norham,  Marmion, 

Stout  heart,  and  open  hand  I 
Well  dost  thou  brook  thy  gallant  roan. 

Thou  flower  of  English  land  I" 

XL 

Two  pursuivants,  whom  tabards  deck. 
With  silver  scutcheon  round  their  neck, 

Stood  on  the  steps  of  stone, 
By  which  you  reach  the  donjon  gate, 
And  there,  with  herald  pomp  and  state. 

They  hail'd  Lord  Marmion: 
They  hail'd  him  Lord  of  Fontenaye, 
Of  Lutterward  and  Scrivelbaj-e, 

Of  Tam worth  tower  and  town  ; 
And  he,  their  courtesy  to  requite, 
Gave  them  a  chain  of  twelve  marks  weight 

All  as  he  lighted  down. 
«  Now,  largesse;*  largesse.  Lord  Marmion, 

Knight  of  the  crest  of  gold  ! 
A  blazon'd  shield  in  battle  won. 

Ne'er  guarded  heart  so  bold." 

XII. 
They  marshall'd  him  to  the  castle  hall. 

Where  the  guests  stood  all  aside, 
And  loudly  flourish'd  the  trumpet  call, 

And  the  heralds  loudly  cried, 
— «  Room,  lordings,  room,  for  Lord  Marmion, 

With  the  crest  and  helm  of  gold  ! 


*  The  cry  by  which  the  heralds  express  lUeir  th 
for  the  bounty  of  the  nobler. 


630 


SCOTT. 


Full  well  we  know  the  trophies  won 

In  the  lists  at  Cottiswold : 
There,  vainly  Ralph  de  Wilton  strove 

'Gainst  Marmion's  force  to  stand; 
To  him  he  lost  his  ladye  love. 

And  to  the  king  his  land. 
Ourselves  beheld  the  listed  field, 

A  sight  both  sad  and  fair ; 
We  saw  Lord  Marmion  pierce  his  shield, 

And  saw  his  saddle  bare ; 
We  saw  the  victor  win  the  crest 

He  wears  with  worthy  pride ; 
And  on  the  gibbet  tree,  reversed. 

His  foeman's  scutcheon  tied. 
Place,  nobles,  for  the  Falcon-knight ! 

Room,  room,  ye  gentles  gay, 
For  him  who  conquer'd  in  the  right, 

Marmion  of  Fontenaye  !" 

•xin. 

Then  stepp'd  to  meet  that  noble  lord. 

Sir  Hugh,  the  Heron  bold. 
Baron  of  Twisell,  and  of  Ford, 

And  captain  of  the  Hold. 
He  led  Lord  Marmion  to  the  deas, 

Raised  o'er  the  pavement  high. 
And  placed  him  in  the  upper  place — 

They  feasted  full  and  high  : 
The  whiles  a  northern  harper  rude. 
Chanted  a  rhyme  of  deadly  feud, 

«  How  the  fierce  Thirl  walls,  and  Ridley  s  ally 
.  Stout  Willimondswick, 
And  Hard-riding  Dick, 

And  Hughie  of  Hawden,  and  Will  o'  the  Wall, 
Have  set  on  Sir  Albany  Feather stonhaugh. 
And  taken  his  life  at  the  deadman's  shaw.'* 
Scantly  Lord  Marmion's  ear  could  brook 

The  harper's  barbarous  lay  ; 
Yet  much  he  praised  the  pains  he  took. 

And  well  those  pains  did  pay  ; 
For  ladye's  suit  and  minstrel's  strain. 
By  knight  should  ne'er  be  heard  in  vain. 

XIV. 

"  Now,  good  Lord  Marmion,"  Heron  says, 

"  Of  you''  fair  courtesy, 
I  pray  you  bide  some  little  space 

In  this  poor  tower  with  me. 
Here  may  you  keep  your  arms  from  rust. 

May  breathe  your  war-horse  well ; 
Seldom  hath  pass'd  a  week,  but  giust 

Or  feat  of  arms  befel : 
The  Scots  can  rein  a  mettled  steed. 

And  love  to  couch  a  spear ; — 
St.  George  !  a  stirring  life  they  lead. 

That  have  such  neighbours  near. 
Then  stay  with  us  a  little  space. 

Our  northern  wars  to  learn  ; 
I  pray  you  for  your  ladye's  grace." — 

Lord  Marmion's  brow  grew  stern. 

XV. 

The  captain  mark'd  his  alter'd  look, 

And  gave  a  squire  the  sign  ; 
A  mighty  wassail  bowl  he  took, 

And  crown'd  it  high  with  wine. 


"  Now  pledge  me  here.  Lord  Marmion : 

But  first,  I  pray  thee  fair. 
Where  hast  thou  left  that  page  of  thine. 
That  used  to  serve  thy  cup  of  wine. 

Whose  beauty  was  so  rare  ? 
When  last  in  Raby  towers  we  met. 

The  boy  I  closely  eyed. 
And  often  mark'd  his  cheeks  were  wet 

With  tears  he  fain  would  hide : 
His  was  no  rugged  horse-boy's  hand. 
To  burnish  shield,  or  sharpen  brand. 

Or  saddle  battle  steed ; 
But  meeter  seem'd  for  lady  fair. 
To  fan  her  cheeks,  or  curl  her  hair. 
Or  through  embroidery,  rich  and  rare, 

The  slender  silk  to  lead  : 
His  skin  was  fair,  his  ringlets  gold. 

His  bosom — when  he  sigh'd. 
The  russet  doublet's  rugged  fold 

Could  scarce  repel  its  pride  ! 
Say,  hast  thou  given  that  lovely  youth 

To  serve  in  ladye's  bower  ? 
Or  was  the  gentle  page,  in  sooth, 

A  gentle  paramour's  ?" 

XVI. 

Lord  Marmion  ill  could  brook  such  jest  5 

He  roll'd  his  kindling  eye, 
With  pain  his  rising  wrath  suppress'd. 

Yet  made  a  calm  reply  : 
"  That  boy  thou  thought'st  so  goodly  fair, 
He  might  not  brook  the  northern  air. 
More  of  his  fate  if  thou  wouldst  learn, 
I  left  him  sick  in  Lindisfarn : 
Enough  of  him. — But,  Heron,  say. 
Why  does  thy  lovely  lady  gay 
Disdain  to  grace  the  hall  to-day  ? 
Or  has  that  dame,  so  fair  and  sage. 
Gone  on  some  pious  pilgrimage."^ 
He  spoke  in  covert  scorn,  for  fame 
Whisper'd  light  tales  of  Heron's  dame. 

xvn. 

Unmark'd,  at  least  unreck'd,  the  taunt 

Careless  the  knight  replied, 
"  No  bird  whose  feathers  gayly  flaunt, 

Delights  in  cage  to  bide  : 
Norham  is  grim,  and  grated  close, 
Hemm'd  in  by  battlement  and  fosse. 

And  many  a  darksome  tower ; 
And  better  loves  my  lady  bright. 
To  sit  in  liberty  and  light. 

In  fair  queen  Margaret's  bower. 
We  hold  our  greyhound  in  our  hand, 

Our  falcon  on  our  glove  ; 
But  where  shall  we  find  leash  or  band. 

For  dame  that  loves  to  rove  ? 
Let  the  wild  falcon  soar  her  swing 
She'll  stoop  when  she  has  tired  her  wing  ' 

XVIII. 
"  Nay,  if  with  royal  James's  bride. 
The  lovely  lady  Heron  bide, 
Behold  me  here  a  messenger, 
Your  tender  greetings  prompt  to  bear ; 
For,  to  the  Scottish  court  address'd, 
I  journey  at  our  king's  beJiest 


MARMION. 


631 


And  pray  you,  of  your  grace,  provide 
For  me,  and  mine,  a  trusty  guide. 
I  have  not  ridden  in  Scotland  since 
James  back'd  the  cause  of  that  mock  prince, 
Warbeck,  that  Flemish  counterfeit, 
Who  on  the  gibbet  paid  the  cheat. 
Then  did  I  march  with  Surrey's  power 
What  time  we  razed  old  Ayton  tower." — 

XIX. 

**  For  suck  like  need,  my  lord,  I  trow, 
Norham  can  find  you  guides  enow ; 
For  here  be  some  have  prick'd  as  far, 
On  Scottish  ground,  as  to  Dunbar; 
Have  drunk  the  monks  of  St.  Bothan's  ale. 
And  driven  the  beeves  of  Lauderdale ; 
Harried  the  wives  of  Greenlaw's  goods, 
And  given  them  light  to  set  their  hoods." — 

XX. 

»*Now,  in  good  sooth,"  Lord  Marmion  cried, 

"  Were  I  in  warlike-wise  to  ride 

A  better  guard  I  would  not  lack, 

Than  your  stout  forayers  at  my  back  ; 

But,  as  in  form  of  peace  I  go, 

A  friendly  messenger,  to  know. 

Why,  through  all  Scotland,  near  and  far, 

Their  king  is  mustering  troops  for  war. 

The  sight  of  plundering  border  spears 

Might  justify  suspicious  fears, 

And  deadly  feud,  or  thirst  of  spoil. 

Break  out  in  some  unseemly  broil: 

A  herald  were  my  fitting  guide  ; 

Or  friar,  sworn  in  peace  to  bide ; 

Or  pardoner,  or  travelling  priest, 

Or  strolling  pilgrim,  at  the  least.'* 

XXI. 

The  captain  mused  a  little  space, 

And  pass'd  his  hand  across  his  face. 

— "  Fain  would  I  find  the  guide  you  vrant, 

But  ill  may  spare  a  pursuivant. 

The  only  men  that  safe  can  ride 

Mine  errands  on  the  Scottish  side: 

And,  though  a  bishop  built  this  fort. 

Few  holy  brethren  here  resort ; 

E'en  our  good  chaplain,  as  I  ween, 

Since  our  last  siege,  we  have  not  seen  j 

The  mass  he  might  not  sing  or  say. 

Upon  one  stinted  meal  a  day ; 

So,  safe  he  sat  in  Durham  aisle. 

And  pray'd  for  our  success  the  while. 

Our  Norham  vicar,  wo  betide. 

Is  all  too  well  in  case  to  ride. 

The  priest  of  Shoreswood — he  could  rein 

The  wildest  warhorse  in  your  train  ; 

But  then,  no  spearman  in  the  hall 

Will  sooner  swear,  or  stab,  or  brawl. 

Friar  John  of  Tillmouth  were  the  man  ; 

A  blithsome  brother  at  the  can, 

A  welcome  guest  in  hall  and  bower. 

He  knows  each  castle,  town,  and  tower, 

In  which  the  wine  and  ale  are  good, 

*Twixt  Newcastle  and  Holy-Rood. 

But  that  good  man,  as  ill  befalls. 

Hath  seldom  left  our  castle  walls. 


Since,  on  the  vigil  of  St.  Bede, 

In  evil  hour,  he  cross'd  the  Tweed, 

To  teach  dame  Alison  her  creed. 

Old  Bughtrig  found  him  with  his  wife ; 

And  John,  an  enemy  to  strife, 

Sans  frock  and  hood,  fled  for  his  life. 

The  jealous  churl  hath  deeply  swore, 

That,  if  again  he  venture  o'er, 

He  shall  shrieve  penitent  no  more. 

Little  he  loves  such  risks,  I  know; 

Yet,  in  your  guard,  perchance,  will  go."— 

xxn. 

Young  Selby,  at  the  fair  hall-board, 
Carved  to  his  uncle,  and  that  lord. 
And  reverently  took  up  the  word. 
*'  Kind  uncle,  wo  were  we  each  one, 
If  harm  should  hap  to  brother  John. 
He  is  a  man  of  mirthful  speech. 
Can  many  a  game  and  gambol  teach  ; 
Full  well  at  tables  can  he  play. 
And  sweep,  at  bowls,  the  stake  away. 
None  can  a  lustier  carol  bawl. 
The  needfullest  among  us  all. 
When  time  hangs  heav}'  in  the  hall. 
And  snow  comes  thick  at  Christmas  tide. 
And  we  can  neither  hunt,  nor  ride 
A  foray  on  the  Scottish  side. 
The  vow'd  revenge  of  Bughtrig  rude. 
May  end  in  worse  than  loss  of  hood. 
Let  Friar  John,  in  safety,  still 
In  chimney-corner  snore  his  fill. 
Roast  hissing  crabs,  or  flagons  swill : 
Last  night  to  Norham  there  came  one 
Will  better  guide  Lord  Marmion." 
"Nephew,"  quoth  Heron,  "  by  my  fay. 
Well  hast  thou  spoke  ;  say  forth  thy  say." 

xxin. 

"  Here  is  a  holy  palmer  come. 

From  Salem  first,  and  last  from  Rome ; 

One,  that  hath  kiss'd  the  blessed  tomb, 

And  visited  each  holy  shrine, 

In  Araby  and  Palestine  ; 

On  hills  of  Armenie  hath  been. 

Where  Noah's  ark  may  yet  be  seen ; 

By  that  Red  Sea,  too,  hath  he  trod. 

Which  parted  at  the  prophet's  rod ; 

In  Sinai's  wilderness  he  saw 

The  mount,  where  Israel  heard  the  law, 

Mid  thunder-dint,  and  flashing  levin. 

And  shadows,  mists,  and  darkness,  given. 

He  shows  Saint  James's  cockle  shell. 

Of  fair  Montserrat,  too,  can  tell ; 

And  of  that  grot  where  olives  nod. 
Where,  darling  of  each  heart  and  eye, 
From  all  the  youth  of  Sicily, 

Saint  Rosalie  retired  to  God. 

XXIV. 

"  To  stout  Saint  George  of  Norwich  merry 
Saint  Thomas,  too,  of  Canterbury, 
Cuthbert  of  Durham,  and  Saint  Bede, 
For  his  sins'  pardon  hath  he  pray'd. 
He  knows  the  passes  of  the  North, 
And  seeks  far  shrines  beyond  the  Forth ; 


633 


SCOTT. 


Little  he  eats,  and  long  will  wake, 
And  drinks  but  of  the  streams  or  lake. 
This  were  a  guide  o'er  moor  and  dale  ; 
But,  when  our  John  hath  quafPd  his  ale, 
As  little  as  the  wind  that  blows, 
And  warms  itself  against  his  nose. 
Kens  he,  or  cares,  which  way  he  goes." — 

XXV. 
«  Gramercy  !"  quoth  Lord  Marmion, 
"  Full  loth  were  I,  that  friar  John, 
That  venerable  man,  for  me, 
Were  placed  in  fear  or  jeopardy : 

If  this  same  palmer  will  me  lead 
From  hence  to  Holj'-Rood,    . 

Like  his  good  saint,  I'll  pay  his  meed, 

Instead  of  cockle  shell  or  bead, 
With  angels  fair  and  good. 
I  love  such  holy  ramblers  ;  still 
They  know  to  charm  a  weary  hill, 

With  song,  romance,  or  lay : 
Some  jovial  tale,  or  glee,  or  jest, 
Some  lying  legend,  at  the  least. 

They  bring  to  cheer  the  way."— 

XXVL 

'*  Ah  !  noble  sir,"  young  Selby  said, 

And  finger  on  his  lip  he  laid, 

"  This  man  knows  much,  perchance,  e'en  more 

Than  he  could  learn  by  holy  lore. 

Still  to  himself  he's  muttering, 

And  shrinks,  as  at  some  unseen  thing. 

East  night  we  listen 'd  at  his  cell ; 

Strange  sounds  we  heard,  and,  soooth  to  tell, 

He  murmur'd  on  till  morn,  howe'er. 

No  living  mortal  could  be  near. 

Sometimes  I  thought  I  heard  it  plain. 

As  other  voices  spoke  again. 

I  cannot  tell— I  like  it  not— 
Friar  John  hath  told  us  it  is  wrote, 
No  conscience  clear  and  void  of  wrong, 
Can  rest  awake,  and  pray  so  long. 
Himself  still  sleeps  before  his  beads 
Have  mark'd  ten  aves,  and  two  creeds.'"'' — 

XXVII. 
"  Let  pass,"  quoth  Marmion  ;  "by  my  fa/ 
This  man  shall  guide  me  on  my  way, 
Although  the  great  arch  fiend  and  he 
Had  sworn  themselves  of  company ; 
So  please  you,  gentls  youth,  to  call 
This  palmer  to  the  castle  hall." 
The  summon'd  palmer  came  in  place ; 
His  sable  cowl  o'erhung  his  face: 
In  his  black  mantle  was  he  clad, 
With  Peter's  keys,  in  cloth  of  red, 
On  his  broad  shoulders  wrought ; 
The  scallop  shell  his  cap  did  deck ; 
The  crucifix  around  his  neck 
Was  from  Loretto  brought; 
Ills  sandals  were  with  travel  tore, 
StaflF,  budget,  bottle,  scrip,  he  wore : 
The  faded  palm  branch  in  his  hand, 
Show'd  pilgrim  from  the  Holy  Land. 

XXVIIL 
When  as  the  palmer  came  in  hall. 
Nor  lord,  nor  knight,  was  there  more  tall, 


Or  had  a  statelier  step  withal. 

Or  look'd  more  high  and  keen 
For  no  saluting  did  he  wait. 
But  strode  across  the  hall  of  state, 
And  fronted  Marmion  where  he  sate. 

As  he  his  peer  had  been. 
But  his  gaunt  frame  was  worn  with  toil. 
His  cheek  was  sunk,  alas,  the  while .' 
And  when  he  struggled  at  a  smile. 

His  eye  look'd  haggard  wild : 
Poor  wretch  !  the  mother  that  him  bare. 
If  she  had  been  in  presence  there. 
In  his  wan  face,  and  sunburn 'd  hair. 

She  had  not  known  her  child. 
Danger,  long  travel,  want,  or  wo, 
Soon  change  the  form  that  best  we  know — 
For  deadly  fear  c>rn  time  outgo. 

And  blanch  at  once  the  hair  ; 
Hard  toil  can  roughen  form  and  face. 
And  want  can  quench  the  eye's  bright  grace  { 
Nor  does  old  age  a  wrinkle  trace, 

More  deeply  than  despair. 
Happy  whom  none  of  these  befall. 
But  this  poor  palmer  knew  them  all. 

XXIX. 

Lord  Marmion  then  his  boon  did  ask ; 
The  palmer  took  on  him  the  task, 
So  he  would  march  with  morning  tide, 
To  Scottish  court  to  be  his  guide. 
— "  But  I  have  solemn  vows  to  pay. 
And  may  not  linger  by  the  way. 

To  fair  Saint  Andrew's  bound, 
Within  the  ocean-cave  to  pray. 
Where  good  Saint  Rule  his  holy  laji 
From  midnight  to  the  dawn  of  day. 

Sung  to  the  billows'  sound  ; 
Thence  to  Saint  Fillan's  blessed  well. 
Whose  spring  can  fren'zied  dreams  dispel. 
And  the  crazed  brain  restore : — 
Saint  Mary  grant,  that  cave  or  spring 
Could  back  to  peace  my  bosom  bring. 

Or  bid  it  throb  no  more  !" 

XXX. 

And  now  the  midnight  draught  of  sleep. 
Where  wine  and  spices  richly  steep, 
In  massive  bowl  of  silver  deep. 

The  page  presents  on  knee. 
Lord  Marmion  drank  a  fair  good  rest. 
The  captain  pledged  his  noble  guest. 
The  cup  went  through  among  the  rest. 

Who  drain'd  it  merrily: 
Alone  the  palmer  pass'd  it  by. 
Though  Selby  press'd  him  courteously. 

This  was  the  sign  the  feast  was  o'er: 

It  hush'd  the  merry  wassel-roar. 
The  minstrels  ceased  to  sound. 

Soon  in  the  castle  naught  was  heard. 

But  the  slow  footsteps  of  the  guard. 
Pacing  his  sober  round. 

XXXL 

With  early  dawn  Lord  Marmion  rose : 
And  first  the  chapel  doors  unclose  \ 
Then,  after  morning  rites  were  done, 
(A  hasty  mass  from  friar  John,) 


MARMION. 


C3j 


And  knight,  and  squire  had  broke  their  fast. 

On  rich  substantial  repast, 

Lord  Marmion's  bugles  blew  to  horse: 

Then  came  the  stirrup  cup  in  course, 

Between  the  baron  and  his  host. 

No  point  of  courtesy  was  lost ; 

High  thanks  were  by  Lord  Marmion  paid, 

Solemn  excuse  the  captain  m*de, 

Till,  filing  from  the  gate  had  past 

That  noble  train,  their  lord  the  last. 

Then  loudly  rung  the  trumpet  call ; 

Thunder'd  the  cannon  from  the  wall, 
And  shook  the  Scottish  shore  ; 

Around  the  castle  eddied  slow, 

"Volumes  of  smoke  as  white  as  snow, 
And  hid  its  turret's  hoar ; 
Till  they  roll'd  forth  upon  the  air, 
And  met  the  river  breezes  there, 
Which  gave  again  the  prospect  fair. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  11. 
TO   THE    REV.  JOHN    MARRIOT,  M.  A. 

Ashestld,  Ettrick  Forest. 
The  scenes  are  desert  now,  and  bare. 
Where  flourish'd  once  a  forest  fair. 
When  these  waste  glens  with  copse  were  lined. 
And  peopled  with  the  hart  and  hind. 
Yon  thorn — perchance,  whose  prickly  spears 
Have  fenced  him  for  three  hundred  years, 
While  fell  around  his  green  compeers — 
Yon  lonely  thorn,  would  he  could  tell 
The  changes  of  his  parent  dell, 
Since  he,  so  gray  and  stubborn  now. 
Waved  in  each  breeze  a  sappling  bough; 
Would  he  could  tell  how  deep  the  shade, 
A  thousand  mingled  branches  made  ; 
How  broad  the  shadows  of  the  oak. 
How  clung  the  rowan*  to  the  rock. 
And  through,  the  foliage  show'd  his  head, 
With  narrow  leaves,  and  berries  red ; 
What  pines  on  every  mountain  sprung. 
O'er  every  dell  what  birches  hung. 
In  every  breeze  what  aspens  shook. 
What  alders  shaded  every  brook  ! 

"  Here,  in  my  shade,"  methinks  he'd  say, 
"  The  mighty  stag  at  noontide  lay : 
The  wolf  I've  seen,  a  fiercer  game, 
(The  neighbouring  dingle  bears  his  name,) 
With  lurching  step  around  me  prowl. 
And  stop  against  the  moon  to  howl ; 
The  mountain-boar,  on  battle  set, 
His  tusks  upon  my  stem  would  whet , 
While  doe  and  roe,  and  red-deer  good. 
Have  bounded  by  through  gay  greenwood. 
Then  oft,  from  Newark's  riven  tower. 
Sallied  a  Scottish  monarch's  power: 
A  thousand  vassals  muster'd  round. 
With  horse,  and  hawk,  and  horn,  and  hound ; 
And  I  might  see  the  youth  intent. 
Guard  every  pass  with  crossbow  bent ; 
And  through  the  brake  the  rangers  stalk, 
And  falconers  hold  the  ready  hawk  ; 


♦  Mountain-ash. 


And  foresters,  in  greenw  sod  trim, 
Lead  in  the  leash  the  gs/zehounds  grim. 
Attentive,  as  the  bratchet's*  ba- 
From  the  dark  covert  drove  the  prey. 
To  slip  them  as  he  broke  away. 
The  startled  quarry  bounds  amain. 
As  fast  the  gallant  greyhounds  strain  : 
Whistles  the  arrow  from  the  bow, 
Answers  the  harquebuss  below; 
While  all  the  rocking  hills  reply, 
To  hoof-clang,  hound,  and  hunters'  cry 
And  bugles  ringing  lightsomely." — 

Of  such  proud  huntings,  many  tales 
Yet  linger  in  our  lonely  dales, 
Up  pathless  Ettrick,  and  on  Yarrow, 
Where  erst  the  Outlaw  drew  his  arrow. 
But  not  more  blith  that  sylvan  court. 
Than  we  have  been  at  humbler  sport; 
Though  small  our  pomp  and  mean  our  g*me, 
Our  mirth,  dear  Marriot,  was  the  same, 
Rememberest  thou  my  greyhounds  true  .'' 
O'er  holt,  or  hill,  there  never  flew. 
From  slip,  or  leash,  there  never  sprang. 
More  fleet  of  foot  or  sure  of  fang. 
Nor  dull,  between  each  merry  chase, 
Pass'd  by  the  intermitted  space  ; 
For  we  had  fair  resource  in  store. 
In  classic,  and  in  Gothic  lore ; 
We  mark'd  each  memorable  scene. 
And  held  poetic  talk  between  ; 
Nor  hill,  nor  brook,  we  paced  along, 
But  had  its  legend  or  its  song. 
All  silent  now — for  now  are  still 
Thy  bowers  untenanted  Bowhill ! 
No  longer,  from  th}'  mountains  dun. 
The  yeoman  bears  the  well-known  gun. 
And,  while  his  honest  heart  grows  warm. 
At  thought  of  his  paternal  farm, 
Round  to  his  mates  a  brimmer  fills. 
And  drinks,  "  The  chieftain  of  the  hills !'» 
No  fairy  forms,  in  Yarrow's  bowers. 
Trip  o'er  the  walks,  or  tend  the  flowers. 
Fair  as  the  elves  whom  Janet  saw. 
By  moonlight,  dance  on  Carterhaugh ; 
No  youthful  baron's  left  to  grace 
The  forest-sherifTs  lonely  chased. 
And  ape,  in  manly  step  and  tone. 
The  majesty  of  Oberon  ; 
And  she  is  gone,  whose  lovely  face 
Is  but  her  least  and  lowest  grace ; 
Though  if  to  Sylphid  queen  'twere  given. 
To  show  our  earth  the  charms  of  heaven. 
She  could  not  glide  along  the  air. 
With  form  more  light,  or  face  more  fair. 
No  more  the  widow's  deafen 'd  ear 
Grows  quick,  that  lady's  step  to  hear; 
At  noontide  she  expects  her  not. 
Nor  busies  her  to  trim  the  cot ; 
Pensive  she  turns  her  humming  wheel. 
Or  pensive  cooks  her  orphan's  meal ; 
Yet  blesses,  ere  she  deals  their  bread, 
The  gentle  hand  by  which  they're  fed. 

From  Yair — which  hills  so  closely  bind. 
Scarce  can  the  Tweed  his  passage  find, 

•  Slow-hound. 


6S4 


SCOTT. 


Though  much  he  fret,  and  chafe,  and  toil. 
Till  all  his  eddying  currents  boil, — 
Her  long-descended  lord  is  gone, 
And  left  us  by  the  stream  alone. 
And  much  I  miss  those  sportive  boys. 
Companions  of  my  mountain  joys, 
Just  at  the  age  'twixt  boy  and  youth. 
When  thought  is  speech,  and  speech  is  truth. 
Close  to  my  side  with  what  delight. 
They  press 'd  to  hear  of  Wallace  wight. 
When,  pointing  to  his  airy  mound, 
£  call'd  his  ramparts  holy  ground  !* 
Kindled  their  brows  to  hear  me  speak; 
And  I  have  smiled,  to  feel  my  cheek, 
Despite  the  difference  of  our  years. 
Return  again  the  glow  of  theirs. 
Ah !  happy  boys  !  such  feelings  pure, 
They  will  not,  cannot  long  endure  ; 
Condemn'd  to  stem  the  world's  rude  tide. 
Yon  may  not  linger  by  the  side  ; 
For  fate  shall  thrust  you  from  the  shore, 
\nd  passion  ply  the  sail  and  oar. 
Yet  cherish  the  remembrance  still, 
Ol  the  lone  mountain,  and  the  rill ; 
For  trust,  dear  boys,  the  time  will  come 
When  f  ercer  transports  shall  be  dumb. 
And  you  vill  think,  right  frequently. 
But,  well  I  hope,  without  a  sigh. 
On  the  free  hours  that  we  have  spent. 
Together,  on  the  brown  hill's  bent. 

When,  musing  on  companions  gone, 
We  doubly  feel  ourselves  alone, 
Something,  my  friend,  we  yet  may  gain, — 
There  is  a  pleasure  in  this  pain : 
It  soothes  the  love  of  lonely  rest. 
Deep  in  each  gentler  heart  impress'd. 
*Tis  silent,  amid  worldly  toils, 
And  stifled  soon  by  mental  broils ; 
But,  in  a  bosom  thus  prepared, 
Its  still  small  voice  is  often  heard. 
Whispering  a  mingled  sentiment, 
Twixt  resignation  and  content. 
Oft  in  my  mind  such  thoughts  awake, 
By  lone  St.  Mary's  silent  lake  : 
Thou  know'st  it  well, — nor  fen,  nor  sedge, 
Pollute  the  pure  lake's  crystal  edge  ; 
Abrupt  and  sheer,  the  mountains  sink 
At  once  upon  the  level  brink ; 
And  just  a  trace  of  silver  sand 
Marks  where  the  water  meets  the  land. 
Far  in  the  mirror  bright  and  blue. 
Each  hill's  huge  outline  you  may  view; 
Shaggy  with  heath,  but  lonely  bare. 
Nor  tree,  nor  bush,  nor  brake  is  there, 
Save  where,  of  land,  yon  slender  line 
Bears  thwart  the  lake  the  scatter'd  pine. 
Yet  e'en  this  nakedness  has  power. 
And  aids  the  feeling  of  the  hour ; 
Nor  thicket,  dell,  nor  copse  you  spy. 
Where  living  thing  conceal'd  might  lie ; 
Nor  point,  retiring,  hides  a  dell. 
Where  swain,  or  woodman  lone,  might  dwell ; 


•  There  is  on  a  high  mountainous  range  above  the  farm 
»f  Aflhestiel,  a  fcsse  called  Wallace's  Trench. 


There's  nothing  left  to  fancy's  guess. 
You  see  that  all  is  loneliness : 
And  silence  aids — though  the  steep  hills 
Send  to  the  lake  a  thousand  rills ; 
In  summer  tide,  so  soft  they  weep. 
The  sound  but  lulls  the  ear  asleep ; 
Your  horse's  hoof-tread  sounds  too  rude. 
So  stilly  is  the  solitude. 

Naught  living  meets  the  eye  or  ear, 
But  well  I  ween  the  dead  are  neaii 
For  though,  in  feudal  strife,  a  foe 
Hath  laid  Our  Lady's  chapel  low, 
Yet  still  beneath  the  hallow'd  soil. 
The  peasant  rests  him  from  his  toil. 
And,  dying,  bids  his  bones  be  laid. 
Where  erst  his  simple  fathers  pray'd. 

If  age  had  tamed  the  passion's  life. 
And  fate  had  cut  my  ties  to  strife. 
Here,  have  I  thought,  'twere  sweet  to  dweJ 
And  rear  again  the  chaplain's  cell. 
Like  that  same  peaceful  hermitage. 
Where  Milton  long'd  to  spend  his  age. 
'Twere  sweet  to  mark  the  setting  day 
On  Bourhope's  lonely  top  decay ; 
And,  as  it  faint  and  feeble  died, 
On  the  broad  lake  and  mountain's  side, 
To  say,  "Thus  pleasures  fade  away; 
Youth,  talents,  beauty,  thus  decay. 
And  leave  us  dark,  forlorn,  and  gray  ."* 
Then  gaze  on  Dryhope's  ruin'd  tower. 
And  think  on  Yarrow's  faded  flower: 
And  when  that  mountain-sound  I  hear^ 
Which  bids  us  be  for  storm  prepared. 
The  distant  rustling  of  his  wings. 
As  up  his  force  the  tempest  brings, 
'Twere  sweet,  ere  yet  his  terrors  rav« 
To  sit  upon  the  wizard's  grave; 
That  wizard  priest's,  whose  bones  are  mnm 
From  company  of  holy  dus<' ; 
On  which  no  sunbeams  ever  shines — 
(So  superstition's  creed  divines,)  * 
Thence  view  the  lake  with  sullen  roar, 
Heave  her  broad  billows  to  the  shore  ; 
And  mark  the  wiia  swans  mount  the  gale. 
Spread  wide  through  mist  their  snowy  sail, 
And  ever  stoop  again,  to  lave 
Their  bosoms  on  the  surging  wave  ; 
Then,  when  against  the  driving  hail. 
No  longer  might  my  plaid  avail. 
Back  to  my  lonely  home  retire. 
And  light  my  lamp,  and  trim  my  fire; 
There  ponder  o'er  some  mystic  lay. 
Till  the  wild  tale  had  all  its  sway. 
And,  in  the  bittern's  distant  shriek, 
I  heard  unearthly  voices  speak. 
And  thought  the  wizard  priest  was  come, 
To  claim  again  his  ancient  home  ! 
And  bade  my  busy  fancy  range 
To  frame  him  fitting  shape  and  strange, 
Till  from  the  task  my  brow  I  clear'd. 
And  smiled  to  think  that  I  had  fear'd. 

But  chief,  'twere  sweet  to  think  such  life 
(Though  but  escape  from  fortune's  strife,) 
Something  most  matchless,  good,  and  wise, 
A  great  and  grateful  sacrifice ; 


MARMION. 


635 


And  deem  each  hour  to  musing  given, 
A  step  upon  the  road  to  heaven. 

Yet  hin:,  whose  heart  is  ill  at  ease 
Such  peaceful  solitudes  displease : 
He  loves  to  drown  his  bosom's  jar 
Amid  the  elemental  war: 
And  my  black  palmer's  choice  had  been 
Some  ruder  and  more  savage  scene, 
Like  that  which  frowns  round  dark  Lochskene. 
There  eagles  scream  from  isle  to  shore ; 
Down  all  the  rocks  the  torrents  roar ; 
O'er  the  black  waves  incessant  driven. 
Dark  mists  infest  the  summer  heaven  ; 
Through  the  rude  barriers  of  the  lake, 
Away  its  hurrying  waters  break, 
Faster  and  whiter  dash  and  curl, 
Till  down  yon  dark  abyss  they  hurl. 
Rises  the  fog-smoke  white  as  snow, 
Thunders  the  viewless  stream  below, 
Diving,  as  if  condemn'd  to  lave 
Some  demon's  subterranean  cave, 
Who,  prison'd  by  enchanter's  spell. 
Shakes  the  dark  rock  with  groan  and  yell. 
And  well  that  palmer's  form  and  mien 
Had  suited  with  the  stormy  scene. 
Just  on  the  edge,  straining  his  ken, 
To  view  the  bottom  of  the  den. 
Where,  deep,  deep  down,  and  far  within, 
Toils  with  the  rocks  the  roaring  linn : 
Then,  issuing  forth  one  foamy  wave. 
And  wheeling  round  the  Giant's  Grave, 
White  as  the  snowy  charger's  tail. 
Drives  down  the  pass  of  MofFatdale. 

Harriot,  thy  harp,  on  Isis  strung, 
To  many  a  Border  theme  has  rung: 
Then  list  to  me,  and  thou  shall  know 
Of  this  mysterious  man  of  wo. 


Canto  II. 

THE    CONVENT. 
I. 

The  breeze,  which  swept  away  the  smoke 

Round  Norham  Castle  roll'd. 
When  all  the  loud  artillery  spoke. 
With  lightning-flash,  and  thunder  stroke, 

As  Marmion  left  the  Hold. 
It  curl'd  not  Tweed  alone,  that  t'-?eze. 
For,  far  upon  Northumbrian  seas 

It  freshly  blew,  and  strong, 
Where,  from  high  Whitby's  cloister'd  pile, 
Bound  to  saint  Cuthbert's  Holy  Isle, 

It  bore  a  bark  along. 
Upon  the  gale  she  stopp'd  her  side, 
And  bounded  o'er  the  swelling  tide. 

As  she  were  dancing  home  ; 
The  merry  seamen  laugh'd,  to  see 
Their  gallant  ship  so  lustily 

Furrow  the  green  sea-foam. 
Much  joy'd  they  in  their  honour'd  freight; 
For,  on  the  deck,  in  chair  of  state, 
The  abbess  of  Saint  Hilda  placed. 
With  five  fair  nuns,  the  galley  graced. 


II. 

'Twas  sweet  to  see  these  holy  maids, 
Liked  birds  escaped  to  green  wood  shades. 

Their  first  flight  from  the  cage. 
How  timid,  and  how  curious,  too. 
For  all  to  them  was  strange  and  new. 
And  all  the  common  sights  they  view. 

Their  wonderment  engage. 
One  eyed  the  shrouds  and  swelling  sail, 

With  many  a  benedicite  ; 
One  at  the  rippling  surge  grew  pale. 

And  would  for  terror  pray ; 
Then  shriek'd,  because  the  sea-dog,  nigh. 
His  round  black  head,  and  sparkling  eye, 

Rear'd  o'er  the  foaming  spray ; 
And  one  would  still  adjust  her  veil, 
Disorder'd  by  the  summer  gale. 
Perchance  lest  some  more  worldly  eye 
Her  dedicated  charms  might  spy ; 
Perchance,  because  such  action  graced 
Her  fair  turn'd  arm  and  slender  waist. 
Light  was  each  simple  bosom  there. 
Save  two,  who  ill  might  pleasure  share,— 
The  abbess,  and  the  novice  Clare. 

in. 

The  abbess  was  of  noble  blood. 
But  early  took  the  veil  and  hood. 
Ere  upon  life  she  cast  a  look. 
Or  knew  the  world  that  she  forsook. 
Fair,  too,  she  was,  and  kind  had  been 
As  she  was  fair,  but  ne'er  had  seen 
For  her  a  timid  lover  sigh. 
Now  knew  the  influence  of  her  eye. 
Love,  to  her  ear,  was  but  a  name. 
Combined  with  vanity  and  shame; 
Her  hopes,  her  fears,  her  joys,  were  all 
Bounded  within  the  cloister  wall : 
The  deadliest  sin  her  mind  ceuld  reach, 
Was  of  monastic  rule  the  breach  ; 
And  her  ambition's  highest  aim, 
To  emulate  Saint  Hilda's  fame. 
For  this  she  gave  her  ample  dower. 
To  raise  the  convent's  eastern  tower; 
For  this,  with  carving  rare  and  quaint. 
She  deck'd  the  chapel  of  the  saint ; 
And  gave  the  relique  shrine  of  cost. 
With  ivory  and  gems  embost. 
The  poor  her  convent's  bounty  blest, 
The  pilgrim  in  its  halls  found  rest. 

IV. 
Black  was  her  garb,  her  rigid  rule 
Reform 'd  on  Benedictine  school ; 
Her  check  was  pale,  her  form  was  spare  t 
Vigils,  and  penitence  austere 
Had  early  quench'd  the  light  of  youth. 
But  gentle  was  the  dame  in  sooth ; 
Though,  vain  of  her  religious  sway, 
She  loved  to  see  her  maids  obey, 
Yet  nothing  stern  was  she  in  cell. 
And  the  nuns  loved  their  abbess  well. 
Sad  was  this  voyage  to  the  dame ; 
Summon'd  to  Lindisfarn,  she  came. 
There,  with  Saint  Cuthbert's  abbot  old 
And  Tynemouth's  prioress,  to  hold 


336 


SCOTT. 


A  chapter  of  Saint  Benedict, 

At  Coquet-islc  their  beads  they  tell 

For  inquisition  stern  and  strict. 

To  the  good  saint  who  own'd  the  cell ; 

On  two  apostates  from  the  faith. 

Then  did  the  Alne  attention  claim. 

Atti,  if  need  were,  to  doom  to  death. 

And  Warkworth,  proud  of  Percy's  name ; 

And  next  they  cross'd  themselves,  to  hear 

V. 

The  whitening  breakers  sound  so  near. 

Naught  say  I  here*of  sister  Clare, 

Where,  boiling  through  the  rocks,  they  roar 

Save  this,  that  she  was  young  and  fair ; 

On  Dunstanborough's  cavern 'd  shore : 

As  yet  a  novice  unprofess'd, 

Thy  tower,  proud    Bamborough,  maik'd    tbey 

Lovely  and  gentle,  but  distress'd. 

there ; 

She  was  betroth'd  to  one  now  dead, 

King  Ida's  castle,  huge  and  square. 

Or  worse,  who  had  dishonour'd  fled. 

From  its  tall  rock  look'd  grimly  down. 

Her  kinsman  bade  her  give  her  hand 

And  on  the  swelling  ocean  frown  ; 

To  one,  who  loved  her  for  her  land ; 

Then  from  the  coast  they  bore  away, 

Herself,  almost  heart-broken  now. 

And  reach'd  the  Holy  Island's  bay. 

Was  bent  to  take  the  vestal  vow. 

IX. 

And  shroud,  within  Saint  Hilda's  gloom, 
Her  blasted  hopes  and  wither'd  bloom. 

The  tide  did  now  its  flood-mark  gain, 
And  girdled  in  the  saint's  domain  : 

VI. 

For,  with  the  flow  and  ebb,  the  style 

Varies  from  continent  to  isle; 

She  sate  upon  the  galley's  prow. 

Dryshod,  o'er  sands,  twice  every  day. 

And  seem'd  to  mark  the  waves  below; 

The  pilgrims  to  the  shrine  find  way ; 

Nay,  seem'd  to  fix  her  look  and  eye. 

Twice  every  day,  the  waves  efface 

To  count  them  as  they  glided  by. 

Of  staves  and  sandal) 'd  feet  the  trace. 

She  saw  them  not — 'twas  seeming  all — 

As  to  the  port  the  galley  flew. 

Far  other  scene  her  thoughts  recall, 

Higher  and  higher  rose  to  view 

A.  sun-scorch'd"  desert,  waste  and  |)are, 

The  castle,  with  its  battled  wall. 

Nor  wave  nor  breezes,  murmur'd  there  ; 

The  ancient  monastery's  hall, 

There  saw  she,  where  some  careless  hand 

A  solemn,  rude,  and  dark-red  pile. 

O'er  a  dead  corpse  had  heap'd  the  sand. 

Placed  on  the  margin  of  the  isle. 

To  hide  it  till  the  jackalls  come, 

To  tear  it  from  the  scanty  tomb. — 

X. 

See  what  a  woful  look  was  given. 

In  Saxon  strength  that  abbey  frown'd,         « 

As  she  raised  up  her  eyes  to  heaven  ! 

With  massive  arches  broad  and  round, 

That  rose  alternate,  row  and  row. 

vn. 

On  ponderous  columns,  short  and  low. 

Lovely,  and  gentle,  and  distress'd — 

Built  ere  the  art  was  known. 

These  charms  might  tame  the  fiercest  breast , 

By  pointed  aisle,  and  shafted  stalk. 

Harpers  have  sung,  and  poets  told. 

The  arcades  of  an  alley'd  walk 

That  he,  in  fury  uncontroll'd. 

To  emulate  in  stone. 

The  shaggy  monarch  of  the  wood. 

On  the  deep  walls  the  heathen  Dane 

Before  a  virgin,  fair  and  good. 

Had  pour'd  his  impious  rage  in  vain  ; 

Hath  pacified  his  savage  mood. 

And  needful  was  such  strength  to  these, 

But  passions  m  the  human  frame. 

Exposed  to  the  tempestuous  seas. 

Oft  put  the  lion's  rage  to  shame; 

Scourged  by  the  wind's  eternal  sway. 

And  jealousy,  by  dark  intrigue. 

Open  to  rovers  fierce  as  they. 

With  sordid  avarice  in  league, 

Which  could  twelve  hundred  years  withstap4 

Had  practised,  with  her  bowl  and  knife, 

Winds,  waves,  and  northern  pirates'  hani. 

Against  the  mourner's  harmless  life. 

Not  but  that  portions  of  that  pile. 

This  crime  was  charged  'gainst  those  who  lav 

Rebuilded  in  a  later  style. 

Prison'd  in  Cuthbert's  islet  gray. 

Show'd  where  the  spoiler's  hand  had  bee^  ? 

Not  but  the  wasting  Seabreeze  keen 

VHL 

Had  worn  the  pillar's  carving  quaint. 

And  now  the  vessel  skirts  the  strand 

And  moulder'd  in  his  niche  the  saint. 

Of  mountainous  Northumberland, 

And  rounded,  with  consuming  power. 

Towns,  towers,  and  halls  sucessive  rise, 

The  pointed  angles  of  each  tower : 

And  catch  the  nuns'  delighted  eyes. 

Yet  still  entire  the  abbey  stood. 

Monk  Wearmouth  soon  behind  them  lay. 

Like  veteran,  worn,  but  unsubdued. 

And  Tynemouth's  priory  and  bay ; 

XL 

They  mark'd,  amid  her  trees,  the  hall 

Of  Lofty  Seaton-Delaval ; 

Soon  as  they  near'd  bis  tMrr«»ts  'trong. 

They  saw  the  Blythe  and  Wansbeck  floods 

.The  maidens  raised  Saint  Hilda's  song-. 

Rush  to  the  sea  through  sounding  woods ; 

And  with  the  seawave  and  th*!  wind. 

They  past  the  tower  of  Widderington, 

Their  voices,  sweetly  shrHl,  combinedl. 

Mother  of  many  a  valiant  son  ; 

And  made  harmonious  close  ; 

MARMION. 


637 


Then,  answering  from  the  sandy  shore, 

O'er  northern  mountain,  mar^h,  and  moor. 

Half-drown'd  amid  the  breakers'  roar, 

From  sea  to  sea,  from  shore  to  shore, 

According  choriis  rose. 

Seven  years  Saint  Cuthbert's  corpse  they  bore. 

Down  to  the  haven  of  the  Isle, 

They  rested  them  in  fair  Melrose  ; 

The  monks  and  nuns  in  order  file, 

But  though,  alive,  he  loved  it  well. 

From  Cuthbert's  cloisters  grim  ; 

Not  there  his  relics  might  repose ; 

Banner,  and  cross,  and  reliques  there, 

For,  wondrous  tale  to  tell ! 

To  meet  Saint  Hilda's  maids,  they  bare ; 

In  his  stone  coflin  forth  he  rides, 

And,  as  they  caught  the  sounds  on  air, 

(A  ponderous  bark  for  river  tides,) 

They  echoed  back  the  hymr.. 

Yet  light  as  gossamer  it  glides, 

The  islanders,  in  joyous  mood, 

Downward  to  Tillmouth  cell. 

Rush'd  emulously  through  the  flood. 

Nor  long  was  his  abiding  there. 

To  hale  the  bark  to  land ; 

For  southward  did  the  saint  repair ; 

Conspicuous  by  her  veil  and  hood. 

Chester-le  Street,  and  Rippon,  saw 

Signing  the  cross  the  abbess  stood, 

His  holy  corpse,  ere  Wardilaw 

And  bless'd  them  with  her  hand. 

Hail'd  him  with  joy  and  fear ; 

XII. 

And,  after  many  wanderings  past, 

He  chose  his  lordly  seat  at  last. 

Suppose  we  now  the  welcome  said, 

Where  his  cathedral,  huge  and  vast. 

Suppose  the  convent  banquet  made  ; 

Looks  down  upon  the  Wear. 

All  through  the  holy  dome. 

There,  deep  in  Durham's  Gothic  shade, 

Through  cloister,  aisle,  and  gallery, 

His  relics  are  in  secret  laid  ; 

Wherever  vestal  maid  might  pry, 

But  none  may  know  the  place. 

Nor  risk  to  meet  unhallow'd  eye, 

Save  of  his  holiest  servants  three. 

The  stranger  sisters  roam  ; 

Deep  sworn  to  solemn  secrecy. 

Till  fell  the  evening  damp  with  dew. 

Who  share  that  wondrous  grace. 

And  the  sharp  Seabreeze  coldly  blew, 

For  there,  e'en  summer  night  is  chill. 

XV. 

Then,  having  stray 'd  and  gazed  their  fill. 

Who  may  his  miracles  declare  ! 

They  closed  around  the  fire ; 

E'en  Scotland's  dauntless  king,  and  heir 

And  all,  in  turn,  essay'd  to  paint 

(Although  with  them  they  led 
Galwegians,  wild  as  ocean's  gale, 

The  rival  merits  of  their  saint. 

A  theme  that  ne'er  can  tire 

And  London's  knights,  all  sheathed  in  mail. 

A  holy  maid  ;  for,  be  it  known. 

And  the  bold  men  of  Teviotdale,) 

That  their  saint's  honour  is  their  own. 

Before  his  standard  fled. 

XIII. 

'Twas  he,  to  vindicate  his  reign, 

Then  Whitby's  nuns  exulting  told. 

Edged  Alfred's  falchion  on  the  Dane, 

How  to  their  house  three  baron's  bold 

And  turn'd  the  conqueror  back  again, 

Must  menial  service  do  ; 

When,  with  his  Norman  bowyer  band. 

While  horns  blow  out  a  note  of  shame. 

He  came  to  waste  Northumberland. 

And  monks  cry,  "  Fy  upon  your  name  ! 

XVI. 

In  wrath,  for  loss  of  sylvan  game, 

Saint  Hilda's  priest  ye  slew." 

But  fain  Saint  Hilda's  nuns  Would  learn. 

"  This,  on  Ascension-day,  each  year. 

If,  on  a  rock,  by  Lindisfarn, 

While  labouring  on  our  harbour-pier, 
Must  Herbert,  Bruce,  and  Percy  hear." 

Saint  Cuthbert  sits,  and  toils  to  frame 

The  seaborn  beads  that  bear  his  name: 

They  told  how,  in  their  convent  cell, 
A  Saxon  princess  once  did  dwell. 

Such  tales  had  Whitby's  fishers  told, 

And  said  they  might  his  shape  behold. 

The  lovely  Edelfled ; 

And  hear  his  anvil  sound  ; 

And  how,  of  thousand  snakes,  each  one 

A  dcaden'd  clang,  a  huge  dim  form. 

Was  changed  into  a  coil  of  stone, 

Seen  but,  and  heard,  when  gathering  storm. 

When  holy  Hilda  pray'd. 

And  night  were  closing  round. 

Themselves,  within  their  holy  bound. 

But  this,  as  tale  of  idle  fame, 

Their  stony  folds  had  often  found. 

The  nuns  of  Lindisfarn  disclaim. 

They  told,  how  seafowls'  pinions  fail, 

XVIL 

As  over  Whitby's  towers  they  sail. 

And,  sinking  down,  with  flut'terings  faint. 

While  round  the  fire  such  legends  go. 

They  do  their  homage  to  the  saint. 

Far  different  was  the  scene  of  wo. 

Where,  in  a  secret  aisle  beneath. 

XIV. 

Council  was  held  of  life  and  death. 

Nor  did  Saint  Cuthbert's  daughters  fail 

It  was  more  dark  and  lone,  that  vault. 

To  vie  with  these  in  holy  tale  ; 

Than  the  worst  dungeon  cell ; 

His  body's  resting-place,  of  old. 

Old  Colwulf  built  it,  for  his  fault, 

How  oft  their  patron  changed,  they  told  ; 

In  penitence  to  dwell. 

How,  when  the  rude  Dane  burn'd  their  pile, 

When  he,  for  cowl  and  beads,  laid  down 

The  monks  fled  forth  from  Holy  Isle ; 

The  Saxon  battle-axe  and  crown. 

SCOTT. 


This  den,  which,  chilling  every  sense 

Of  feeling,  hearing,  sight, 
Was  call'd  the  vault  of  penitence, 

Excluding  air  and  light. 
Was,  by  the  prelate  Sexhelm,  made 
A  place  of  burial,  for  such  dead 
As,  having  died  in  mortal  sin. 
Might  not  be  laid  the  church  within. 
*Twas  now  a  place  of  punishment ; 
Whence,  if  so  loud  a  shriek  were  sent, 

As  reach'd  the  upper  air, 
The  hearers  bless'd  themselves,  and  said, 
The  spirits  of  the  sinful  dead 

Bemoan'd  their  torments  there. 

XVIII. 
But  though,  in  the  monastic  pile. 
Did  of  this  penitential  aisle 

Some  vague  tradition  go, 
Few  only,  save  the  abbot,  knew 
Where  the  place  lay ;  and  still  more  few 
Were  those,  who  had  from  him  the  clew 

To  that  dread  vault  to  go. 
Victim  and  executioner 
Were  bhndfold  when  transported  there. 
In  lov;  dark  rounds  the  arches  hung. 
From  the  rude  rock  the  side  walls  sprung ; 
The  gravestones  rudely  sculptured  o'er, 
Half  sunk  in  earth,  by  time  half  wore. 
Were  all  the  pavement  of  the  floor ; 
The  mildew  drops  fell  one  by  one, 
With  tinkling  plash,  upon  the  stone. 
A  cresset,*  in  an  iron  chain. 
Which  served  to  light  this  drear  domain. 
With  damp  and  darkness  seem'd  to  strive. 
As  if  it  scarce  might  keep  alive ; 
And  yet  it  dimly  served  to  show 
The  awful  conclave  met  below. 

XIX. 

•fTiere,  met  to  doom  in  secrecy. 

Were  placed  the  heads  of  convents  three ; 

All  servants  of  Saint  Benedict, 

The  statutes  of  whose  orders  strict 

On  iron  table  lay  ; 
In  long  black  dress,  on  seats  of  stone. 
Behind  were  these  three  judges  show  :, 

By  the  pale  cresset's  ray: 
The  abbess  of  Saint  Hilda,  there. 
Sate  for  a  space  with  visage  bare. 
Until,  to  hide  her  bosom's  swell. 
And  teardrops  that  for  pity  fell, 

She  closely  drew  her  veil  : 
Yon  shrouded  figure,  as  I  guess. 
By  her  proud  mien  and  flowing  dress 
Is  Tynemouth's  haughty  prioress. 

And  she  with  awe  looks  pale : 
And  he,  that  ancient  man,  whose  sight 
Has  long  been  quench'd  by  age's  night. 
Upon  whose  wrinkled  brow  alone. 
Nor  ruth,  nor  mercy's  trace  is  shown. 

Whose  look  is  hard  and  stern, — 
Saint  Cuthbert's  abbot  is  his  style: 
For  sanctity  call'd  through  the  isle, 

The  Saint  of  Lindisfarn. 


*  \nlique  chandelier. 


XX. 

Before  them  stood  a  guilty  pair; 
But,  though  an  equal  fate  they  share, 
Yet  one  alone  deserves  our  care. 
Her  sex  a  page's  dress  belied; 
The  cloke  and  doublet,  loosely  tied, 
Obscured  her  charms,  but  could  not  hide. 

Her  cap  down  o'er  her  face  she  drew ; 
And,  on  her  doublet-breast. 

She  tried  to  hide  the  badge  of  blue, 
Lord  Marmion's  falcon  crest. 
But,  at  the  prioress'  command, 
A  monk  undid  the  silken  band, 

That  tied  her  tresses  fair. 
And  raised  the  bonnet  from  her  head. 
And  down  her  slender  form  they  spread. 

In  ringlets  rich  and  rare. 
Constance  de  Beverly  they  know. 
Sister  profess'd  of  Fontevraud, 
Whom  the  church  number'd  with  the  cead. 
For  broken  vows,  and  convent  fled. 

XXI. 

When  thus  her  face  v/as  given  to  vieAV, 

(Although  so  pallid  was  her  hue. 

It  did  a  ghastly  contrast  bear. 

To  those  bright  ringlets,  glistening  fair,J 

Her  look  composed,  and  steady  eye, 

Bespoke  a  matchless  constancy. 

And  there  she  stood  so  calm,  and  pale. 

That,  but  her  breathing  did  not  fail, 

A  motion  slight  of  eye  and  head, 

And  of  her  bosom,  warranted, 

That  neither  sense  nor  pulse  she  lacks. 

You  might  have  thought  a  form  of  wax, 

Wrought  to  the  very  life,  was  there : 

So  still  she  was,  so  pale,  so  fair. 

XXIt. 

Her  comrade  was  a  sordid  soul. 

Such  as  does  murder  for  a  meed ; 
Who,  but  of  fear,  knows  no  control. 
Because  his  conscience,  sear'd  and  foul. 

Feels  not  the  import  of  his  deed  ; 
One,  whose  brute-feeling  ne'er  aspires 
Beyond  his  own  more  brute  desires. 
Such  tools  the  tempter  ever  needs. 
To  do  the  savagest  of  deeds  ; 
For  them,  no  vision'd  terrors  daunt. 
Their  nights  no  fancied  spectres  haunt; 
One  fear  with  them,  of  all  most  base. 
The  fear  of  death, — alone  finds  place. 
This  wretch  was  clad  in  frock  and  cowl. 
And  shamed  not  loud  to  moan  and  howl. 
His  body  on  the  floor  to  dash. 
And  crouch,  like  hound  beneath  the  lash; 
VV^hile  his  mute  partner,  standing  near. 
Waited  her  doom  without  a  tear. 

XXIII. 
Yet  well  the  luckless  wretch  might  shriek. 
Well  might  her  paleness  terrors  speak. 
For  there  were  seen,  in  that  dark  wall, 
Two  niches,  narrow,  deep,  and  tall ; — 
Who  enters  at  each  griesly  door. 
Shall  ne'er,  I  ween,  find  exit  more. 


MARMION. 


639 


In  each  a  slender  meal  was  laid. 
Of  roots,  of  water,  and  of  bread: 
By  each,  in  Benedictine  dress, 
Two  haggard  monks  stood  motionless; 
Who,  holding  high  a  blazing  torch, 
Show'd  the  grim  entrance  of  the  porch ; 
Reflecting  back  the  smoky  beam, 
The  dark-red  walls  and  arches  gleam. 
Hewn  stones  and  cement  were  display'd, 
And  building  tools  in  order  laid.  * 

XXIV. 

These  executioners  were  chose, 
As  men  who  were  with  mankind  foes. 
And,  with  despite  and  envy  fired. 
Into  the  cloister  had  retired  ; 

Or  who,  in  desperate  doubt  of  grace, 
Strove  by  deep  penance  to  efface 
Of  some  foul  crime  the  stain ; 
For,  as  the  vassals  of  her  will, 
Such  men  the  church  selected  still. 
As  either  joy'd  in  doing  ill. 
Or  thought  more  grace  to  gain, 
If,  in  her  cause,  they  wrestled  down 
Feelings  their  nature  strove  to  own. 
By  strange  device  were  they  brought  there, 
They  knew  not  how,  and  knew  not  where. 

XXV. 

And  now  that  blind  old  abbot  rose. 

To  speak  the  chapter's  doom, 
On  those  the  wall  was  to  enclose. 

Alive,  within  the  tomb  ; 
But  stopp'd  because  that  woful  maid. 
Gathering  her  powers,  to  speak  essay'd. 
Twice  she  essay'd,  and  twice,  in  vain  ; 
Her  accents  might  no  utterance  gain  ; 
Naught  but  imperfect  murmurs  slip 
From  ner  convulsed  and  quivering  lip: 

'Twixt  each  attempt  all  was  so  still. 

You  secm'd  to  hear  a  distant  rill^ 
'Twas  ocean's  swells  and  falls; 
For  though  this  vault  of  sin  and  fear 
AVas  to  the  sounding  surge  so  near, 
A  tempest  there  you  scarce  could  hear; 
So  massive  were  the  walls. 

XXVI. 

At  length,  an  effort  sent  apart 
The  blood  that  curdled  to  her  heart, 

And  light  came  to  her  eye ; 
And  colour  dawn'd  upon  her  cheek. 
A  hectic  and  a  flutter'd  streak. 
Like  that  left  on  the  Cheviot  peak. 

By  autumn's  stormy  sky ; 
And  when  her  silence  broke  at  length. 
Still  as  she  spoke  she  gather'd  strength. 

And  arm'd  herself  to  bear; 
It  was  a  fearful  sight  to  see 
Such  high  resolve  and  constancy. 

In  form  so  soft  and  fair. 

XXVII. 

"  I  speak  not  to  implore  your  grace  j 
Well  know  I,  for  one  minute's  space 
Successless  might  I  sue: 


Nor  do  I  speak  your  prayers  to  gain  ; 

For  if  a  death  of  lingering  pain. 

To  cleanse  my  sins,  be  penance  vain. 

Vain  are  your  masses,  too. — 
I  listen'd  to  a  traitor's  tale, 
I  left  the  convent  and  the  veil. 
For  three  long  years  I  bow'd  my  pride, 
A  horse-boy  in  his  train  to  ride ; 
And  well  my  folly's  meed  he  gave. 
Who  forfeited,  to  be  his  slave, 
All  here,  and  all  beyond  the  grave. — 
He  saw  young  Clara's  face  more  fair. 
He  knew  her  of  broad  lands  the  heir, 
Forgot  his  vows,  his  faith  forswore. 
And  Constance  was  beloved  no  more. 

'Tis  an  old  tale,  and  often  told  ; 
But,  did  my  fate  and  wish  agree, 

Ne'er  had  been  read,  in  story  old, 

Of  maiden  true  betray'd  for  gold, 

That  loved,  or  was  avenged,  like  me! 

XXVIII. 
"  The  king  approved  his  favourite's  aim ; 
In  vain  a  rival  barr'd  his  claim. 

Whose  faith  with  Clare's  was  plight. 
For  he  attaints  that  rival's  fame 
With  treason's  charge — and  on  they  came. 

In  mortal  lists  to  fight. 
Their  oaths  are  said. 
Their  prayers  are  pray'd. 
Their  lances  in  the  rest  are  laid, 

They  meet  in  mortal  shock  ; 
And  hark  !  the  throng,  with  thundering  cry 
Shout '  Marmion,  Marmion,  to  the  sky  ! 

De  Wilton  to  the  block  !' 
Say  ye,  who  preach  Heaven  shall  decide, 
When  in  the  lists  two  champions  ride. 

Say,  was  Heaven's  justice  here  ? 
When,  loyal  in  his  love  and  faith, 
Wilton  found  overthrow  or  death. 

Beneath  a  traitor's  spear. 
How  false  the  charge,  how  true  he  fell. 
This  guilty  packet  best  can  tell," — 
Then  drew  a  packet  from  her  breast. 
Paused,  gather'd  voice,  and  spoke  the  rest. 

XXIX. 

"  still  was  false  Marmion 's  bridal  staid: 
To  Whitby's  convent  fled  the  maid. 

The  hated  match  to  shun. 
*  Ho  I  shifts  she  thus  ?'  King  Henry  cried, 
'  Sir  Marmion,  she  shall  be  thy  bride. 

If  she  were  sworn  a  nun.' 
One  way  remain'd — the  king's  command 
Sent  Marmion  to  the  Scottish  land : 
I  linger'd  here  a  rescue  plann'd 

For  Clara  and  for  me : 
This  caitiff"  monk,  for  gold,  did  swear 
He  would  to  Whitby's  shrine  repair. 
And,  by  his  drugs,  my  rival  fair 

A  saint  in  heaven  should  be. 
But  ill  the  dastard  kept  his  oath. 
Whose  cowardice  has  undone  us  both. 

XXX. 

*'  And  now  my  tongue  the  secret  tells. 
Now  that  remorse  my  bosom  swells. 


€40 


SCOTT. 


But  to  assure  my  soul,  that  none 
Shall  ever  wed  with  Marmion. 
Had  fortune  my  last  hope  betray'd, 
This  packet  to  the  king  convey'd, 
Had  given  him  to  the  headsman's  stroke, 
Although  my  heart  that  instant  broke. — 
Now,  men  of  death,  work  forth  your  will. 
For  I  can  suffer,  and  be  still ; 
And,  come  he  slow,  or  come  he  fast. 
It  is  but  Death  who  comes  at  last. 

XXXI. 

"  Yet  dread  me,  from  my  living  tomb, 

Ye  vassal  slaves  of  bloody  Rome  ! 

If  Marmion 's  late  remorse  should  wake. 

Full  soon  such  vengeance  will  he  take. 

That  you  shall  wish  the  fiery  Dane 

Had  rather  been  j^our  guest  again. 

Behind,  a  darker  hour  ascends  ! 

The  altars  quake,  the  crosier  bends. 

The  ire  of  a  despotic  king 

Rides  forth  upon  destruction's  wing. 

Then  shall  these  vaults,  so  strong  and  deep, 

Burst  open  to  the  sea-wind's  sweep ; 

Some  traveller  then  shall  find  my  bones. 

Whitening  amid  disjointed  stones. 

And,  ignorant  of  priests'  cruelty. 

Marvel  such  relics  here  should  be." 

XXXII. 

Fix'd  was  her  look,  and  stern  her  air ; 
Back  from  her  shoulders  stream 'd  her  hair; 
The  locks,  that  wont  her  brow  to  shade. 
Stared  up  erectly  from  her  head  ; 
Her  figure  seem'd  to  rise  more  high  ; 
Her  voice,  despair's  wild  energy 
Had  given  a  tone  of  prophecy. 
Appall'd  the  astonish'd  conclave  sate; 
With  stupid  eyes,  the  men  of  fate 
Gazed  on  the  late  inspired  form, 
And  listen'd  for  the  avenging  storm  ; 
The  judges  felt  the  victim's  dread ; 
No  hand  was  moved,  no  word  was  said. 
Till  thus  the  abbot's  doom  was  given, 
Raising  his  sightless  balls  to  heaven : — 
"  Sister  let  thy  sorrows  cease  ; 
Sinful,  brother,  part  in  peace  !" 
From  that  dire  dungeon,  place  of  doom 
Of  execution,  too,  and  tomb, 

Paced  forth  the  judges  three  ; 
Sorrow  it  were,  and  shame,  to  tell 
The  butcher-work  that  there  befel. 
When  they  had  glided  from  the  cell 

Of  sin  and  misery. 

XXXIII. 
A  hundred  winding  steps  convey 
That  conclave  to  the  upper  day  ; 
But,  ere  they  breathed  the  fresher  air. 
They  heard  the  shriekings  of  despair, 

And  many  a  stifled  groan : 
With  speed  their  upward  way  they  take, 
(Such  speed  as  age  and  fear  can  make,) 

And  cross'd  themselves  for  terror's  sake, 
As  harrying,  tottering  on  ; 
E'en  in  the  vesper's  heavenly  tone 
They  seem'd  to  hear  a  dying  groan. 


And  bade  the  passing  knell  to  toll 

For  welfare  of  a  parting  soul. 

Slow  o'er  the  midnight  wave  it  swung, 

Northumbrian  rocks  in  answer  rung; 

To  Warkworth  cell  the  echoes  roll'd. 

His  beads  the  wakeful  hermit  told ; 

The  Bamborough  peasant  raised  his  head. 

But  slept  ere  half  his  prayer  he  said ; 

So  far  was  heard  the  mighty  knell, 

The  stag  sprung  up  on  Cheviot  Fell, 

Spread  his  broad  nostrils  to  the  wind. 

Listed  before,  aside,  behind, 

Then  couch'd  him  down  beside  the  hind. 

And  quaked  among  the  mountain  fern. 

To  hear  that  sound  so  dull  and  stern. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  111. 
TO    WILLIAM    ERSKINE,    ESQ. 

Ashestiel,  Ettrick  Forest 
Like  April  morning  clouds,  that  pass. 
With  varying  shadow,  o'er  the  grass, 
And  imitate,  on  field  and  furrow; 
Life  checker'd  scene  of  joy  and  sorrow ; 
Like  streamlet  of  the  mountain  north. 
Now  in  a  torrent  racing  forth. 
Now  winding  slow  its  silver  train,    * 
And  almost  slumbering  on  the  plain  ; 
Like  breezes  of  the  autumn  day, 
Whose  voice  inconstant  dies  away. 
And  ever  swells  again  as  fast. 
When  the  ear  deems  its  murmur  past ; 
Thus  various,  my  romantic  theme 
Flits,  winds,  or  sinks,  a  morning  dream. 
Yet  pleased,  our  eye  pursues  the  trace 
Of  light  and  shade's  inconstant  race ; 
Pleased,  views  the  rivulet  afar, 
Weaving  its  maze  irregular ; 
And  pleased,  we  listen  as  the  breeze 
Heaved  its  wild  sigh  through  autumn  trees ; 
Then  wild  as  cloud,  or  stream,  or  gale. 
Flow  on,  flow  unconfined,  my  tale. 
Need  I  to  thee,  dear  Erskine,  tell, 
I  love  the  license  all  too  well. 
In  sounds  now  lowly,  and  now  strong. 
To  raise  the  desultory  song  ? — 
Oft,  when  'mid  such  capricious  chime. 
Some  transient  fit  of  lofty  rhyme; 
To  thy  kind  judgment  seem'd  excuse 
For  many  an  error  of  the  muse  ; 
Oft  hast  thou  said,  "  If,  still  mis-spent. 
Thine  hours  to  poetry  are  lent : 
Go,  and,  to  tame  thy  wandering  course. 
Quaff  from  the  fountain  at  the  source ; 
Approach  those  masters,  o'er  whose  tomb. 
Immortal  laurels  ever  bloom  : 
Instructive  of  the  feebler  bard. 
Still  from  the  grave  their  voice  is  heard ; 
From  them,  and  from  the  path  they  show'd 
Choose  honour'd  guide  and  practised  road ; 
Nor  ramblfc  on  through  brake  and  maze. 
With  harpers  rude  of  barbarous  day. 

"  Or,  deem'st  thou  not  our  later  time, 
Yields  topic  meet  for  classic  rhyme  ? 


MARMION. 


641 


Hast  thou  no  elegiac  verse 

For  Brunswick's  venerable  hearse  ? 

What !  not  a  line,  a  tear,  a  sigh. 

When  valour  bleeds  for  liberty  ! 

O,  hero  of  that  glorious  time, 

When,  with  unrivall'd  light  sublime, — 

Though  martial  Austria,  and  though  all 

The  might  of  Russia,  and  the  Gaul, 

Though  banded  Europe  stood  her  foes — 

The  star  of  Brandenburgh  arose  ! 

Thou  couldst  not  live  to  see  her  beam 

Forever  quench'd  in  Jena's  stream. 

Lamented  chief! — It  was  not  given, 

To  thee  to  change  the  doom  of  heaven, 

And  crush  that  dragon  in  its  birth. 

Predestined  scourge  of  guilty  earth. 

Lamented  chief ! — not  thine  the  power, 

To  save  in  that  presumptuous  hour. 

When  Prussia  hurried  to  the  field. 

And  snatch'd  the  spear,  but  left  the  shield  ! 

Valour  and  skill  'twas  thine  to  try, 

And,  tried  in  vain,  'twas  thine  to  die. 

Ill  had  it  seem'd  thy  silver  hair 

The  last,  the  bitterest  pang  to  share. 

For  princedoms  reft,  and  scutcheons  riven, 

And  birthrights  to  usurpers  given  ; 

Thy  lands,  thy  children's  wrongs  to  feel, 

And  witness  woes  thou  couldst  not  heal  I 

On  thee  relenting  heaven  bestows 

For  honour'd  life  an  honour'd  close  ; 

And  when  revolves,  in  time's  sure  change, 

The  hour  of  Germany's  revenge. 

When,  breathing  fury  for  her  sake, 

Some  new  Arminius  shall  awake. 

Her  champion,, ere  he  strike,  shall  come 

To  whet  his  sword  on  Brunswick's  tomb. 

"  Or  of  the  Red-Cross  hero  teach. 
Dauntless  in  dungeon  as  on  breach  : 
Alike  to  him  the  sea,  the  shore, 
The  brand,  the  bridal,  or  the  oar ; 
Alike  to  him  the  war  that  calls 
Its  votaries  to  the  shatter'd  walls 
Which  the  grim  Turks  besmear'd  with  blood, 
Against  the  invincible  made  good  ; 
Or  that,  whose  thundering  voice  could  wake 
The  silence  of  the  polar  lake. 
When  stubborn  Russ,  and  metall'd  Swede, 
On  the  warp'd  wave  their  death-game  play'd  : 
Or  that,  where  vengeance  and  affright 
Howl'd  round  the  father  of  the  fight, 
Who  snatch'd,  on  Alexander's  sand. 
The  conqu«  or's  wreath  with  dying  hand. 

"Or,  if  to  touch  such  chord  be  thine. 
Restore  the  ancient  tragic  line. 
And  emulate  the  notes  that  rung 
From  the  wild  harp,  which  silent  hung, 
By  silver  Avon's  holy  shore,  ■ 
Till  twice  an  hundred  years  roli'd  o'er; 
When  she,  the  bold  enchantress,  came, 
With  fearless  hand  and  heart  on  flame  ! 
From  the  pale  willow  snatch'd  the  treasure. 
And  swept  it  with  a  kindred  measure ; 
Till  Avon's  swans,  while  rung  the  grove 
With  Moiitfort's  hate  and  Basil's  love, 
Awakening  at  th'  inspired  strain, 
Deem'd  their  own  Shakspeare  lived  again." 
Vol  III.-41 


Thy  friendship    thus    thy  judgment  wrong- 
ing, 
With  praises  not  to  me  belonging. 
In  task  more  meet  for  mightiest  powers, 
Wouldst  thou  engage  my  thriftless  hours. 
But  say,  my  Erskine,  hast  thou  weigh'd 
That  secret  power  by  all  obey'd. 
Which  warps  not  less  the  passive  mind. 
Its  source  conceal'd  or  undefined ; 
Whether  an  impulse,  that  has  birth 
Soon  as  the  infant  wakes  on  earth, 
One  with  our  feelings  and  our  powers. 
And  rather  part  of  us  than  ours  ; 
Or  whether  fitlier  term'd  the. sway 
Of  habit,  form'd  in  early  day  ? 
Howe'er  derived,  its  force  confess'd 
Rules  with  despotic  sway  the  breast. 
And  drags  us  on  by  viewless  chain, 
W^hile  taste  and  reason  plead  in  vain. 
Look  east,  and  ask  the  Belgian  why. 
Beneath  Batavia's  sultry  sky. 
He  seeks  not,  eager  to  inhale, 
The  freshness  of  the  mountain  z,vlIc 
Content  to  rear  his  whiten'd  wall 
Beside  the  dank  and  dull  canal  ? 
He'll  say,  from  youth  he  loved  to  see 
The  white  sail  gliding  by  the  tree. 
Or  see  yon  weather-beaten  hind, 
Whose  sluggish  herds  before  him  wind. 
Whose  tatter'd  plaid  and  rugged  cheek 
His  northern  clime  and  kindred  speak ; 
Through  England's  laughing  meads  he  goes. 
And  England's  wealth  around  him  flows; 
Ask,  if  it  would  content  him  well. 
At  ease  in  these  gay  plains  to  dwell. 
Where  hedge-rows  spread  a  verdant  screen, 
And  spires  and  forests  intervene. 
And  the  neat  cottage  peeps  between  ? 
No,  not  for  these  will  he  exchange 
His  dark  Lochaber's  boundless  range  ; 
Nor  for  fair  Devon's  meads  forsake 
Bennevis  gray  and  Garry's  lake. 

Thus,  while  I  ape  the  measure  wild 
Of  tales  that  charm'd  me  yet  a  child. 
Rude  though  they  be,  still  with  the  chime. 
Return  the  thoughts  of  early  time  ; 
And  feelings,  roused  in  life's  first  day. 
Glow  in  the  line,  and  prompt  the  lay. 
Then  rise  those  crags,  that  mountain  tower, 
Which  charm'd  my  fancy's  wakening  hour. 
Though  no  broad  river  swept  along 
To  claim,  perchance,  heroic  song ; 
Though  sigh'd  no  groves  in  summer  gale, 
To  prompt  of  love  a  softer  tale  ; 
Though  scarce  a  puny  streamlet's  speed 
Claim'd  homage  from  a  shepherd's  reed; 
Yet  was  poetic  impulse  given, 
By  the  green  hill  and  clear  blue  heaven. 
It  was  a  barren  scene,  and  wild. 
Where  naked  cliffs  were  rudely  piled ; 
But  ever  and  anon  between 
Lay  velvet  tufts  of  loveliest  green  ; 
And  well  the  lonely  infant  knew 
Recesses  where  the  wall-flower  grew. 
And  honeysuckle  loved  to  crawl 
Up  the  low  crag  and  ruin'd  wall. 


642 


SCOTT. 


I  deem'd  such  nooks  the  sweetest  shade 

The  sun  in  all  his  round  survey'd ; 

And  still  I  thought  that  shatter'd  tower 

The  mightiest  work  of  human  power ; 

And  marvell'd,  as  the  aged  hind 

With  some  strange  tale  bewitch'd  my  mind, 

Of  forayers,  who,  with  headlong  force, 

Down  from  that  strength  had  sparr'd  their  horse, 

Their  southern  rapine  to  renew. 

Far  in  the  distant  Cheviot's  blue. 

And  home  returning,  fiU'd  the  hall 

With  revel,  wassel-rout,  and  brawl. — 

Methought  that  still  with  trump  and  clang 

The  gateway's  broken  arches  rang ; 

Methought  grim  features,  seam'd  with  scars, 

Glared  through  the  window's  rusty  bars. 

And  ever,  by  the  winter  hearth. 

Old  tales  I  heard  of  wo  or  mirth. 

Of  lovers'  sleights,  of  ladies'  charms. 

Of  witches'  spells,  of  warriors'  arms ; 

Of  patriot  battles,  won  of  old. 

By  Wallace  wight  and  Bruce  the  bold ; 

Of  later  fields  of  feud  and  fight. 

When,  pouring  from  their  highland  height, 

The  Scottish  clans  in  headlong  sway, 

Had  swept  the  scarlet  ranks  away. 

While,  stretch'd  at  length  upon  the  floor, 

Again  I  fought  each  combat  o'er. 

Pebbles  and  shells,  in  order  laid. 

The  mimic  ranks  of  war  display 'd  ; 

And  onward  still  the  Scottish  lion  bore, 

And  still  the  scatter'd  Southron  fled  before. 

Still,  with  vain  fondness,  could  I  trace. 
Anew,  each  kind  familiar  face. 
That  brighten'd  at  our  evening  fire  ; 
From  the  thatch'd  mansion's  gray-hair'd  sire. 
Wise  without  learning,  plain  and  good, 
And  sprung  of  Scotland's  gentler  blood  ; 
Whose  eye  in  age,  quick,  clear,  and  keen, 
Show'd  what  in  youth  its  glance  had  been  ; 
Whose  doom  discording  neighbours  sought, 
Content  with  equity  unbought; 
To  him  the  venerable  priest, 
Our  frequent  and  familiar  guest. 
Whose  life  and  manners  well  could  paint 
Alike  the  student  and  the  saint; 
Alas  !  whose  speech  too  oft  I  broke 
With  gambol  rude  and  timeless  joke : 
For  I  was  wayward,  bold,  and  wild, 
A  self-will'd  imp,  a  grandame's  child ; 
But,  half  a  plague,  and  half  a  jest, 
Was  still  endured,  beloved,  carest. 

From  me,  thus  nurtured,  dost  thou  ask 
The  classic  poet's  well-conn'd  task  ? 
Nay,  Erskine,  nay, — on  the  wild  hill 
Let  the  wild  heathbell  flourish  still; 
Cherish  the  tulip,  prune  the  vine. 
But  freely  let  the  woodbine  twine. 
And  leave  untrimm'd  the  eglantine: 
Nay,  my  friend,  nay, — since  oft  thy  praise 
Hath  given  fresh  vigour  to  my  lays. 
Since  oft  thy  judgment  could  refine 
My  flatten'd  thought,  or  cumbrous  line, 
Still  kind,  as  is  thy  wont,  attend, 
And  in  the  minstrel  spare  the  friend ; 
Though  wild  as  cloud,  as  stream,  as  gale. 
Flow  forth,  flow  unrestrain'd,  my  tale  ! 


Canto  III. 

THE   HOSTEL,   OR   INN. 
I. 

The  livelong  day  Lord  Marmion  rode. 
The  mountam  path  the  palmer  show'd  j 
By  glen  and  streamlet  winded  still, 
Where  stunted  birches  hid  the  rill. 
They  might  not  choose  the  lowland  road, 
For  the  Merse  forayers  wer«  abroad. 
Who,  fired  wit'h  hate  and  thirst  of  prey, 
Had  scarcely  fail'd  to  bar  their  way. 
Oft  or  the  trampling  band,  from  crown 
Of  some  tall  cliff,  the  deer  look'd  down ; 
On  wing  of  jet,  from  his  repose 
In  the  deep  heath, 'the  black  cock  rose ; 
Sprung  from  the  gorse  the  timid  roe. 
Nor  waited  for  the  bending  bow ; 
And  when  the  stony  path  began. 
By  which  the  naked  peak  they  wan. 
Up  flew  the  snowy  ptarmigan. 
The  noon  had  long  been  past  before 
They  gain'd  the  height  of  Lammermoor; 
Thence  winding  down  the  northern  way, 
Before  them,  at  the  closing  day. 
Old  Gifford's  towers  and  hamlet  lay. 

IL 

No  summons  calls  them  to  the  tower. 
To  spend  the  hospitable  hour. 
To  Scotland's  camp  the  lord  was  gone, 
His  cautious  dame,  in  bower  alone, 
Dreaded  her  castle  to  unclose. 
So  late,  to  unknown  friends  or  foes. 
On  through  the  hamlet  as  they  paced, 
Before  a  porch,  whose  front  was  graced 
With  bush  and  flaggon  trimly  placed, 

Lord  Marmion  drew  his  reign : 
The  village  inn  seem'd  large,  though  rudei 
Its  cheerful  fire  and  hearty  food 
Might  well  relieve  his  train. 
Down  from  their  seats  the  horsemen  sprang, 
With  jingling  spurs  the  court-yard  rang; 
They  bind  their  horses  to  the  stall. 
For  forage,  food,  and  firing  call, 
And  various  clamour  fills  the  hall ; 
Weighing  the  labour  with  the  cost, 
Toils  everywhere  the  bustling  host. 

in. 

Soon,  by  the  chimney's  merry  blaze, 
Through  the  rude  hostel  might  you  gaze  | 
Might  see,  where  in  dark  nook  aloof. 
The  rafters  of  the  sooty  roof 

Bore  wealth  of  winter  cheer; 
Of  sea  fowl  dried,  and  solands  store. 
And  gammons  of  the  tusky  boar. 

And  savoury  haunch  of  deer. 
The  chimney  arch  projected  wide  ; 
Above,  around  it,  and  beside, 

Were  tools  for  housewifes'  hand: 
Nor  wanted,  in  that  martial  day. 
The  implements  of  Scottish  fray, 

The  buckler,  lance,  and  brand. 
Beneath  its  shade,  the  place  of  state. 
On  oaken  settle  Marmion  sate, 


MARMION. 


G43 


And  view'd,  around  the  blazing  hearth. 
His  followers  mix  in  noisy  mirth, 
Whcm  with  brown  ale,  in  jolly  tide, 
From  ancient  vessels  ranged  aside, 
Full  actively  their  host  supplied. 

IV. 

Theirs  was  the  glee  of  martial  breast, 
And  laughter  theirs  at  little  jest ; 
And  oft  Lord  Marmion  deign'd  to  aid, 
And  mingle  in  the  mirth  they  made: 
For  though,  with  men  of  high  degree. 
The  proudest  of  the  proud  was  he, 
Yet,  train 'd  in  camps,  he  knew  the  art 
To  win  the  soldier's  hardy  heart. 
They  love  a  captain  to  obey. 
Boisterous  as  March,  yet  fresh  as  May; 
With  open  hand,  and  brow  as  free. 
Lover  of  wine  and  minstrelsy. 
Ever  the  first  to-  scale  a  tower. 
As  venturous  in  a  ladye's  bower:— 
Such  buxom  chief  shall  lead  his  host 
From  India's  fires  to  Zembla's  frost. 

V. 
Resting  upon  his  pilgrim  staff. 

Right  opposite  the  palmer  stood: 
His  thin  dark  visage  seen  but  half, 

Half  hidden  by  his  hood. 
Still  fix'd  on  Marmion  was  his  look. 
Which  he,  who  ill  such  gaze  could  brook. 

Strove  by  a  frown  to  quell ; 
But  not  for  that,  though  more  than  once 
Full  met  their  stern  encountering  glance, 

The  palmer's  visage  fell. 

VL 

By  fits  less  frequent  from  the  crowd 
Was  heard  the  burst  of  laughter  loud; 
For  still  as  squire  and  archer  stared 
On  that  dark  face  and  matted  beard. 

Their  glee  and  game  declined. 
All  gaze  at  length  in  silence  drear, 
Unbroke,  save  when  in  comrade's  ear 
Some  yeomen,  wondering  in  his  fear. 

Thus  whisper'd  forth  his  mind : 
"  Sail,*.  Mary  !  saw'st  thou  ere  such  sight  ? 
How  pile  his  cheek,  his  eye  how  bright, 
Whene'er  the  firebrand's  fickle  light 

Glances  beneath  his  cowl ! 
Full  on  our  lord  he  sets  his  eye  ; 
For  his  best  palfray,  would  not  I 

Endure  that  sullen  scowl." — 

vn. 

But  Marmion,  as  to  chase  the  awe 

Which  thus  had  quell'd  their  hearts,  who  saw 

The  ever-varying  firelight  show 

That  figure  stern  and  face  of  wo. 

Now  call'd  upon  a  squire : — 
"  Fitz  Eustace,  know'st  thou  not  some  lay, 
To  speed  the  lingering  night  away  ? 

We  slumber  by  the  fire." 

VIIL 

•'  So  please  you,"  thus  the  youth  rejoin'd. 
Our  choicest  minstrel's  left  behind. 


Ill  may  we  hope  to  please  your  ear, 
Accustom'd  Constant's  strains  to  hear. 
The  harp  full  deftly  can  he  strike. 
And  wake  the  lover's  lute  alike ; 
To  dear  Saint  Valentine,  no  thrush 
Sings  livelier  from  a  springtide  bush; 
No  nightingale  her  lovelorn  tune 
More  sweetly  warbles  to  the  moon. 
Wo  to  the  cause,  whate'er  it  be. 
Detains  from  us  his  melody, 
Lavish'd  on  rocks,  and  billows  stern. 
Or  duller  monks  of  Lindisfern. 
Now  must  I  venture,  as  I  may, 
To  sing  his  favourite  roundelay." 

IX. 

A  mellow  voice  Fitz-Eustace  had, 
The  air  he  chose  was  wild  and  sad ; 
Such  have  I  heard,  in  Scottish  land. 
Rise  from  the  busy  harvest  band. 
When  falls  before  the  mountaineer, 
On  lowland  plains,  the  ripen'd  ear. 
Now  one  shrill  voice  the  notes  prolong, 
Now  a  wild  chorus  swells  the  song: 
Oft  have  I  listen'd,  and  stood  sti)l 
As  it  came  soften'd  up  the  hill. 
And  deem'd  it  the  lament  of  men 
Who  languish'd  for  their  native  glen ; 
And  thought  how  sad  would  be  such  sound 
On  Susquehannah's  swampy  ground, 
Kentucky's  wood-encumber'd  brake. 
Or  wild  Ontario's  boundless  lake. 
Where  heart-sick  exiles,  in  the  strain, 
Recall'd  fair  Scotland's  hills  again ! 

X. 

SONG. 
Where  shall  the  lover  rest. 

Whom  the  fates  sever 
From  his  true  maiden's  breast, 

Parted  for  ever  ? 
Where,  through  groves  deep  and  high. 

Sounds  the  far  billow. 
Where  early  violets  die. 

Under  the  willow. 

CHORUS. 

Eleu  loro,  &c.  Soft  shall  be  his  pillow 

There,  through  the  summer  day, 

Cool  streams  are  laving ; 
There  while  the  tempests  sway 

Scarce  are  boughs  waving: 
There,  thy  rest  shalt  thou  take. 

Parted  for  ever. 
Never  again  to  wake. 

Never,  O  never. 

CHORUS. 

Eleu  loro,  &c.  Never,  0  never. 

XL 

Where  shall  the  traitor  rest. 

He,  the  deceiver. 
Who  could  win  maiden's  breast. 

Ruin,  and  leave  her  ? 


644 


SCOTT. 


In  the  lost  battle, 

Borne  down  by  the  flying, 
Where  noingles  war's  rattle 

With  groans  of  the  dying. 

CHORUS. 

Eleu  loro,  &c.  There  shall  he  be  lying. 

Her  wing  shall  the  eagle  flap 

O'er  the  false-hearted. 
His  warm  blood  the  wolf  shall  lap, 

Ere  life  be  parted. 
Shame  and  dishonour  sit 

By  his  grave  ever  ; 
Blessing  shall  hallow  it, — 

Never,  O  never. 

CHORUS. 

Eleu  loro,  &c.  Never,  0  never. 

XII. 

It  ceased,  the  melancholy  sound, 
And  silence  sunk  on  all  around. 
The  air  was  sad  ;  but  sadder  still 

It  fell  on  Marmion's  ear. 
And  plain 'd  as  if  disgrace  and  ill. 
And  shameful  death  were  near. 
He  drew  his  mantle  past  his  face, 

Between  it  and  the  band, 
And  rested  with  his  head  a  space. 
Reclining  on  his  hand. 
His  thoughts  I  scan  not ;  but  I  ween. 
That,  could  their  import  have  been  seen. 
The  meanest  groom  in  all  the  hall. 
That  e'er  tied  courser  to  a  stall. 
Would  scarce  have  wish'd  to  be  their  prey, 
For  Lutterward  and  Fontenaye. 

xiir. 

High  minds,  of  native  pride  and  force, 
Most  deeply  feel  thy  pangs.  Remorse  ! 
Fear,  for  their  scourge,  mean  villains  have — 
Thou  art  the  torturer  of  the  brave ! 
Yet  fatal  strength  they  boast,  to  steel 
Their  minds  to  bear  the  wounds  they  feel. 
E'en  while  they  writhe  beneath  the  smart 
Of  civil  conflict  in  the  heart. 
For  soon  Lord  Marmion  raised  his  head. 
And,  smiling,  to  Fitz-Eustace  said, — 
"Is  it  not  strange,  that,  as  ye  sung, 
Seem'd  in  mine  ear  a  death-peal  rung. 
Such  as  in  nunneries  they  toll 
For  some  departing  sister's  soul  ? 

Say,  what  may  this  portend  I"— 
Then  first  the  palmer  silence  broke 
The  livelong  day  he  had  not  spoke,) 

"  The  death  of  a  dear  friend." 

XIV. 
Marmion,  whose  steady  heart  and  eye 
Ne'er  changed  in  worst  extremity; 
Marmion,  whose  sov.1  could  scantly  brook. 
E'en  from  his  king  a  haughty  look  ; 
Whose  accent  of  command  controU'd, 
In  camps,  the  boldest  of  the  bold — 
Thought,  look,  and  utterance,  fail'd  him  now, 
fallen  was  his  glance,  and  flush'd  his  brow ; 


For  either  in  the  tone, 
Or  something  in  the  palmer's  look, 
So  full  upon  his  conscience  strook, 

That  answer  he  found  none. 
Thus  oft  it  haps,  that  when  within 
They  shrink  at  sense  of  secret  sin, 

A  feather  daunts  the  brave, 
A  fool's  wise  speech  confounds  the  wise. 
And  proudest  princes  veil  their  eyes 

Before  their  meanest  slave. 

XV. 
Well  might  he  falter  ! — ^by  his  aid 
Was  Constance  Beverly  betray'd ; 
Not  that  he  augur'd  of  the  doom. 
Which  on  the  living  closed  the  tomb : 
But,  tired  to  hear  the  desperate  maid 
Threaten  by  turns,  beseech,  upbraid: 
And  wroth,  because,  in  wild  despair. 
She  practised  on  the  life  of  Clare ; 
Its  fugitive  the  church  he  gave. 
Though  not  a  victim,  but  a  slave  ; 
And  deem'd  restraint  in  convent  strange 
Would  hide  her  wrongs  and  her  revenge. 
Himself,  proud  Henry's  favourite  peer. 
Held  Romish  thunders  idle  fear; 
Secure  his  pardon  he  might  hold. 
For  some  slight  mulct  of  penSnce  gold. 
Thus  judging,  he  gave  secret  way. 
When  the  stern  priests  surprised  their  prey  > 
His  train  but  deem'd  the  favourite  page 
Was  left  behind,  to  spare  his  age ; 
Or  other  if  they  deem'd,  none  dared 
To  mutter  what  he  thought  and  heard : 
Wo  to  the  vassal,  who  durst  pry 
Into  Lord  Marmion's  privacy ! 

XVL 

His  conscience  slept — he  deem'd  her  well. 
And  safe  secured  in  distant  cell ; 
But,  waken'd  by  her  favourite  lay. 
And  that  strange  palmer's  boding  say, 
That  fell  so  ominous  and  drear. 
Full  on  the  object  of  his  fear. 
To  aid  remorse's  venom'd  throes. 
Dark  tales  of  convent  vengeance  rose; 
And  Constance,  late  betray'd  and  scorn 'd 
All  lovely  on  his  soul  return 'd ; 
Lovely  as  when,  at  treacherous  call. 
She  left  her  convent's  peaceful  wall. 
Crimson 'd  with  shame,  with  terror  mut<». 
Dreading  alike  escape,  pursuit. 
Till  love,  victorious  o'er  alarms. 
Hid  fears  and  blushes  in  his  arms. 

XVII. 
"  Alas !"  £.e  thought,  "  how  changed  that  mxen 
How  changed  these  timid  looks  have  been. 
Since  years  of  guilt,  and  of  disguise. 
Have  steel'd  her  bvow,  and  arm'd  her  eyesj 
No  more  of  virgin  terror  speaks 
The  blood  that  mantles  in  her  cheeks ; 
Fierce,  and  unfeminine,  are  there, 
Frenzy  for  joy,  for  grief,  despair ; 
And  I  the  cause — for  whom  were  given 
Her  peace  on  earth,  her  hopes  in  heaven .' 


MARMION. 


64i> 


"  Would,"  thought  he,  as  the  picture  grows, 
I  on  its  stalk  had  left  the  rose  I 

0  why  should  man's  success  remove 
The  very  charms  that  wake  his  love  .' 
Her  convent's  peaceful  solitude 

Is  now  a  prison  harsh  and  rude ; 

And,  pent  within  the  narrow  cell, 

How  will  her  spirit  chafe  and  swell ! 

Her  brook  the  stern  monastic  laws  ! 

The  penance  how — and  I  the  cause  ! 

Vigil  and  scourge — perchance,  e'en  worse  !" — 

And  twice  he  rose  to  cry  "  to  horse  !" 

And  twice  his  sovereign's  mandate  came. 

Like  damp  upon  a  kindling  flame ; 

And  twice  he  thought,  "  Gave  I  not  charge 

She  should  be  safe,  though  not  at  large  ? 

They  durst  not,  for  their  island,  shred 

One  golden  ringlet  from  her  head." — 

XVIII. 
While  thus  in  Marmion's  bosom  strove 
Repentance  and  reviving  love. 
Like  whirlwinds,  whose  contending  sway 
I've  seen  Loch  Vennachar  obey. 
Their  host  the  palmer's  speech  had  heard, 
And,  talkative,  took  up  the  word : — 

"  Ay,  reverend  pilgrim,  you,  who  stray 

From  Scotland's  simple  land  away. 
To  visit  realms  afar. 

Full  often  learn  the  art  to  know 

Of  future  weal,  or  future  wo, 
By  word,  or  sign,  or  star. 
Yet  might  a  knight  his  fortune  hear. 
If,  knight  like,  he  despises  fear. 
Not  far  from  hence  ; — if  fathers  old 
Aright  our  hamlet  legend  told." — 
These  broken  words  the  menials  move 
(For  marvels  still  the  vulgar  love ;) 
And,  Marmion  giving  license  cold. 
His  tale  the  host  thus  gladly  told. 

XIX. 

THE   host's    tale. 

"  A  clerk  could  tell  what  years  have  flown 
Since  Alexander  fill'd  our  throne 
(Third  monarch  of  that  warlike  name,) 
And  eke  the  time  when  here  he  came 
To  seek  Sir  Hugo,  then  our  lord : 
A  braver  never  drew  a  sword ; 
A  wiser  never,  at  the  hour 
Of  midnight,  spoke  the  word  of  power ; 
The  same,  whom  ancient  records  call 
The  founder  of  the  Goblin  Hall. 

1  would,  sir  knight,  your  longer  stay 
Gave  you  that  cavern  to  survey. 

Of  lofty  roof,  and  ample  size. 
Beneath  the  castle  deep  it  lies : 
To  hew  the  living  rock  profound. 
The  floor  to  pave,  the  arch  to  round. 
There  never  toil'd  a  mortal  arm,  , 

It  all  was  wrought  by  word  and  charm ; 
And  I  have  heard  my  grandsire  say. 
That  the  wild  clamour  and  affray 
Of  those  dread  artisans  of  hell. 
Who  labour'd  under  Hugo's  spell. 
Bounded  as  loud  as  ocean's  war, 
Among  the  caverns  of  Dunbar. 


XX. 

"The  king  Lord  Gifford's  castle  sought, 

Deep  labouring  with  uncertain  thought 

Even  then  he  muster'd  all  his  host, 

To  meet  upon  the  western  coast ; 

For  Norse  and  Danish  galleys  plied 

Their  oar-;  within  the  Frith  of  Clyde. 

There  floated  Haco's  banner  trim. 

Above  Norweyan  warriors  grim. 

Savage  of  heart,  and  large  of  limb ; 

Threatening  both  continent  and  isle, 

Bute,  Arran,  Cunningham,  and  Kyle. 

Lord  Gilford,  deep  beneath  the  ground, 

Heard  Alexander's  bugle  sound, 

And  tarried  not  his  garb  to  change, 

But,  in  his  wizard  habit  strange, 

Came  forth, — a  quaint  and  fearful  sight ! 

His  mantle  lined  with  foxskins  white  ; 

His  high  and  wrinkled  forehead  bore 

A  pointed  cap,  such  as  of  yore 

Clerks  say  that  Pharoah's  magi  wore  ; 

His  shoes  were  mark'd  with  cross  and  spell 

Upon  his  breast  a  pentacle  ; 

His  zone,  of  virgin  parchment  thin. 

Or,  as  some  tell,  of  dead  man's  skin, 

Bore  many  a  planetary  sign, 

Combust,  and  retrogade,  and  trine ; 

And  in  his  hand  he  held  preparedj 

A  naked  sword  without  a  guard. 

XXL 

"  Dire  dealings  with  the  fiendish  race 
Had  mark'd  strange  lines  upon  his  face  j 
Vigil  and  fast  had  worn  him  grim ; 
His  eyesight  dazzled  seem'd,  and  dim. 
As  one  unused  to  upper  day ; 
E'en  his  own  menials  with  dismay 
Beheld,  sir  knight,  the  griesly  sire. 
In  this  unwonted  wild  attire  ; 
Unwonted, — for  traditions  run, 
He  seldom  thus  beheld  the  sun. 
'  I  know,'  he  said, — his  voice  was  hoarse, 
And  broken  seem'd  its  hollow  force, — 
*I  know  the  cause,  although  untold. 
Why  the  king  seeks  his  vassal's  hold: 
Vainly  from  me  my  liege  would  know 
His  kingdom's  future  weal  or  wo ; 
But  yet  if  strong  his  arm  and  heart. 
His  courage  may  do  more  than  art. 

XXIL 

"*  Of  middle  air  the  demons  proud. 
Who  ride  upon  the  racking  cloud. 
Can  read,  in  fix'd  or  wandering  star. 
The  issue  of  events  afar. 
But  still  their  sullen  aid  withhold. 
Save  when  by  mightier  force  control;  'd. 
Such  late  I  summon'd  to  my  hall ; 
And  though  so  potent  was  the  call. 
That  scarce  the  deepest  nook  of  hell 
I  deem'd  a  refuge  from  the  spell ; 
Yet,  obstinate  in  silence  still. 
The  haughty  demon  mocks  my  skill. 
But  thou, — who  little  knowest  thy  might. 
As  born  upon  that  blessed  night. 


646 


SCOTT. 


When  yawning  graves,  and  dying  groan, 
Proclaim'd  hell's  empire  overthrown, — 
With  untaught  valour  shall  compel! 
Response  denied  to  magic  spell.' — 
*  Gramercy,'  quoth  our  monarch  free, 
'  Place  him  but  front  to  front  with  me. 
And,  by  this  good  and  honour'd  brand. 
The  gift  of  Coeur-de-Lion's  hand, — 
Soothly  I  swear,  that,  tide  what  tide. 
The  demon  shall  a  buffet  bide.' 
His  bearing  bold  the  wizard  view'd. 
And  thus,  well  pleased,  his  speech  renew'd  :— 
'  There  spoke  the  blood  of  Malcolm  ! — mark : 
Forth  pacing  hewce,  at  midnight  dark. 
The  rampart  seek,  whose  circling  crown 
Crests  the  ascent  of  yonder  down : 
A  southern  entrance  shall  thou  find  ; 
There  halt,  and  there  thy  bugle  wind, 
And  trust  thine  elfin  foe  to  see, 
Tn  guise  of  thine  worst  enemy : 
Couch  then  thy  lance,  and  spur  thy  steed— 
Upon  him!  and  Saint  George  to  speed ! 
If  he  go  down,  thou  soon  shalt  know 
Whate'er  these  airy  sprites  can  show  ;— 
If  thy  heart  fail  thee  in  the  strife, 
I  am  no  warrant  for  thy  life.' — 

XXIII. 
"  Soon  as  the  midnight  bell  did  ring. 
Alone,  and  arm'd,  forth  rode  the  king 
To  that  old  camp's  deserted  round ; 
Sir  knight,  you  well  might  mark  the  mound, 
Left  hand  the  town, — the  Pictish  race. 
The  trench,  long  since,  in  blood  did  trace ; 
The  moor  around  is  brown  and  bare. 
The  space  within  is  green  and  fair. 
The  spot  our  village  children  know, 
For  there  the  earliest  wild  flowers  grow  ; 
But  wo  betide  the  wandering  wight,         » 
That  treads  its  circles  in  the  night. 
The  breadth  across  the  bowshot  clear. 
Gives  ample  space  for  full  career ; 
Opposed  to  the  foui"  points  of  heaven. 
By  four  deep  gaps  are  entrance  given. 
The  southernmost  our  monarch  past. 
Halted  and  blew  a  gallant  blast: 
And  on  the  north,  within  the  ring, 
Appear'd  the  form  of  England's  king. 
Who  then,  a  thousand  leagues  afar. 
In  Palestine  waged  holy  war : 
Yet  arms  like  England's  did  he  wield, 
Alike  the  leopards  in  the  shield, 
Alike  his  Syrian  courser's  frame. 
The  rider's  length  of  limb  the  same : 
Long  afterwards  did  Scotland  know, 
Fell  Edward*  was  her  deadliest  foe. 

XXIV. 
"  The  vision  made  our  monarch  start, 
But  soon  he  mann'd  his  noble  heart, 
And,  in  the  first  career  they  ran. 
The  elfin  knight  fell,  horse  and  man ; 
Yet  did  a  splinter  of  his  lance 
Through  Alexandei's  visor  glance, 


*  Edward  I.,  surnamed  Longshanks. 


And  raised  the  skin — a  puny  wound. 
The  king,  light  leaping  to  the  grourti 
With  naked  blade  his  phantom  foe 
Compell'd  the  future  war  to  show. 
Of  Largs  he  saw  the  glorious  plain, 
Where  still  gigantic  bones  remain. 

Memorial  of  the  Danish  war ; 
Himself  he  saw,  amid  the  field, 
On  high  his  brandish'd  war-axe  wielA 

And  strike  proud  Haco  from  his  cai 
While  all  around  the  shadowy  kings 
Denmark's  grim  ravens  cower'd  th»si.  wingfc 
'Tis  said,  that,  in  that  awful  night, 
Remoter  visions  met  his  sight, 
Fore-showing  future  conquests  far. 
When  our  sons'  sons  wage  northern  war; 
A  royal  city,  tower,  and  spire, 
Redden'd  the  midnight  sky  with  fire. 
And  shouting  crews  her  navy  bore 
Triumphant  to  the  victor  shore. 
Such  signs  may  learned  clerks  explain. 
They  pass  the  wit  of  simple  swain. 

XXV. 

"  The  joyful  king  turn'd  home  again. 
Headed  his  host,  and  quell'd  the  Dane ; 
But  yearly,  when  return'd  the  night 
Of  his  strange  combat  with  the  sprite. 

His  wound  must  bleed  and  smart : 
Lord  Gifford  then  would  gibing  say, 
*  Bold  as  ye  were,  my  liege,  ye  pay 

The  penance  of  your  start.' 
Long  since,  beneath  Dunfermline's  nave, 
King  Alexander  fills  his  grave. 

Our  lady  give  him  rest ! 
Yet  still  the  mighty  spear  and  shield 
The  elfin  warrior  doth  wield, 

Upon  the  brown  hill's  breast ; 
And  many  a  knight  hath  proved  his  chance, 
In  the  charm'd  ring  to  break  a  lance, 

But  all  have  foully  sped  ; 
Save  two,  as  legends  tell,  and  they 
Were  Wallace  wight,  and  Gilbert  Hay. — 

Gentles,  my  tale  is  said." — 

XXVL 

The  quaighs*  were  deep,  the  liquor  strong, 
And  on  the  tale  the  yeomen-throng. 
Had  made  a  comment  sage  and  long, 

But  Mannion  gave  a  sign  ; 
And,  with  their  lord,  the  squires  retire ; 
The  rest,  around  the  hostel  fire, 

Their  drowsy  limbs  recline : 
For  pillow,  underneath  each  head. 
The  quiver  and  the  targe  were  laid. 
Deep  slumbering  on  the  hostel  floor, 
Oppress'd  with  toil  and  ale,  they  snore; 
The  dying  flame,  in  fitful  change. 
Threw  on  the  group  its  shadows  strange. 

XXVII. 

Apart,  and  nestling  in  the  hay 
Of  a  waste  loft,  Fitz-Eustace  lay ; 


♦  A  wooden  cup,  composed  of  staves  hooped  together. 


MARMION. 


64? 


Scarce  by  the  pale  moonlight,  were  seen 
The  foldings  of  his  mantle  green : 
Lightly  he  dreamt,  as  youth  will  dream, 
Of  sport  by  thicket,  or  by  stream. 
Of  hawk  or  hound,  of  ring  or  glove, 
Or,  lighter  yet,  of  lady's  love. 
A  cautious  tread  his  slumber  broke, 
And  close  beside  him,  when  he  woke. 
In  mocnbeam  half,  and  half  in  gloom, 
Stood  a  tall  form  with  nodding  plume  j 
But,  ere  his  dagger  Eustace  drew. 
His  master  Marmion's  voice  he  knew. 

XXVIII. 
— -"  Fitz-Eustace  !  rise, — I  cannot  rest, 
Yon  churls  wild  legend  haunts  my  breast, 
And  graver  thoughts  have  chafed  my  mood. 
The  air  must  cool  my  feverish  blood  ; 
And  fain  would  I  ride  forth,  to  see 
The  scene  of  elfin  chivalry. 
Arise,  and  saddle  me  my  steed, 
And,  gentle  Eustace,  take  good  heed 
Thou  dost  not  rouse  the  drowsy  slaves 
I  would  not  that  the  prating  knaves 
Had  cause  for  saying,  o'er  their  ale. 
That  I  could  credit  such  a  tale." 
Then  softly  down  the  steps  they  slid, 
Eustace  tnc  stable  door  undid. 
And,  darkling,  Marmion's  steed  array 'd, 
While,  whispering,  thus  the  baron  said : —  ' 

XXIX. 

♦*  Didst  never,  good  my  youth,  hear  tell 

That  on  the  hour  when  I  was  born, 
St.  George,  who  graced  ray  sire's  chapelle, 
Down  from  his  steed  of  marble  fell, 

A  weary  wight  forlorn  ? 
The  flattering  chaplains  all  agree, 
The  champion  left  his  steed  to  me. 
I  would,  the  omen's  truth  to  show. 
That  I  could  meet  this  elfin  foe ! 
lUithe  would  I  battle  for  the  right 
To  ask  one  question  at  the  sprite : — 
Vain  thought !  for  elves,  if  elves  there  be. 
An  empty  race,  by  fount  or  sea, 
To  dashing  waters  dance  and  sing, 
Or  round  the  green  oak  wheel  they  ring."— 
Thus  speaking,  he  his  steed  bestrode. 
And  from  the  :DStel  slowly  rode. 

XXX. 

Fitz-Eustace  fa.low'd  him  abroad, 
And  mark'd  him  pace  the  village  road. 
And  listen'd  to  his  horse's  tramp. 

Till,  by  the  lessening  sound. 
He  judged  that  of  the  Pictish  camp 

Lord  Marmion  sought  the  round. 
Wonder  it  seem'd,  in  the  squire's  eyes^ 
That  one,  so  wary  held,  and  wise, — 
Of  whom,  'twas  said,  he  scarce  received 
For  gospel  what  the  church  believed. 
Should,  stirr'd  by  idle  tale. 
Ride  forth  in  silence  of  the  night. 
As  hoping  half  to  meet  a  sprite, 

Array'd  in  plate  and  mail. 
For  little  did  Fitz-Eustace  know. 
That  passions,  in  contending  flow 

Unfix  the  strongest  mind : 


Wearied  from  doubt  to  doubt  to  flee, 
We  welcome  fond  credulity. 
Guide  confident,  though  blind. 

XXXI. 

Little  for  this  Fitz-Eustace  cared. 
But,  patient,  waited  till  he  heard, 
At  distance,  prick'd  to  utmost  speed. 
The  foot-tramp  of  a  flying  steed. 

Come  townward  rushing  on  : 
First,  dead,  as  if  on  turf  it  trod, 
Then  clattering  on  the  village  road. 
In  other  pace  than  forth  he  yode,* 

Return'd  Lord  Marmion. 
Down  hastily  he  sprang  from  selle, 
And,  in  his  haste,  well  nigh  he  fell; 
To  the  squire's  hand  the  rein  he  threw 
And  spoke  no  word  as  he  withdrew : 
But  j-et  the  moonlight  did  betray. 
The  falcon  crest  was  soil'd  with  clay; 
And  plainly  might  Fitz-Eustace  see, 
By  stains  upon  the  charger's  knee. 
And  his  left  side,  that  on  the  moor 
He  had  not  kept  his  footing  sure. 
Long  musing  on  these  wondrous  signs. 
At  length  to  rest  the  squire  reclines — 
Broken  and  short ;  for  still  between, 
Would  dreams  of  terror  intervene : 
Eustace  did  ne'er  so  blithely  mark 
The  first  notes  of  the  morning  lark. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  IV. 
TO    JAMES    SKENE,    ESQ. 

Ashestiel,  Ettrick  Forat, 
An  ancient  minstrel  sagely  said, 
«'  Where  is  the  life  which  late  we  led  ?" 
That  motely  clown,  in  Ardenwood, 
Whom  humorous  Jaques  with  envy  view*d, 
Not  e'en  that  clown  could  amplify. 
On  this  trite  text,  so  long  as  I. 
Eleven  years  we  now  may  tell. 
Since  we  have  known  each  other  well ; 
Since,  riding  side  by  side,  our  hand 
First  drew  the  voluntary  brand  ; 
And  sure,  through  many  a  varied  scene, 
Unkindness  never  came  between. 
Away  these  winged  years  have  flown. 
To  join  the  mass  of  ages  gone  ; 
And  though  deep  mark'd,  like  all  below. 
With  checker'd  shades  of  joy  and  wo ; 
Though  thou  o'er  realms,  and  seas  hast  ranged, 
Mark'd  cities  lost,  and  empires  changed, 
While  here,  at  home,  my  narrower  ken 
Somewhat  of  manners  saw,  and  men  ; 
Though  varying  wishes,  hopes,  and  fears, 
Fever'd  the  progress  of  these  years. 
Yet  now  days,  weeks,  and  months,  but  seem 
The  recollection  of  a  dream  ; 
So  still  we  glide  down  to  the  sea 
Of  fathomless  eternity. 
Even  now  it  scarcely  seems  a  day. 
Since  first  I  turn'd  this  idle  lay ; 

*  Used  by  old  poets  for  went. 


448 


SCOTT. 


A  task  so  often  thrown  aside, 
When  leisure  graver  cares  denied, 
That  now,  November's  dreary  gale, 
Whose  voice  inspired  my  opening  tale, 
That  same  November  gale*  once  more 
Whirls  the  dry  leaves  on  Yarrow  shore. 
Their  vex'd  boughs  streaming  to  the  sky. 
Once  more  our  naked  birches  sigh, 
And  Blackhouse  heights,  and  Ettrick  Pen, 
Have  donn'd  their  wintry  shrouds  again ; 
And  mountain  dark,  and  flooded  mead. 
Bid  us  forsake  the  banks  of  Tweed. 
Earlier  than  wont  along  the  sky, 
Mix'd  with  the  rack,  the  snowmists  fly ; 
The  shepherd,  who,  in  summer  sun, 
Has  something  of  our  envy  won. 
As  thou  with  pencil,  I  with  pen. 
The  features  traced  of  hill  and  glen  ; 
He  who,  outstretch'd  the  livelong  day. 
At  ease  among  the  heath-flowers  lay, 
View'd  the  light  clouds  with  vacant  look 
Or  slumber'd  o'er  his  tatter'd  book, 
Or  idly  busied  him  to  guide 
His  angle  o'er  the  lessen'd  tide ; — 
At  midnight  now,  the  snowy  plain 
Finds  sterner  labour  for  the  swain. 

When  red  hath  set  the  beamless  sun, 
Through  heavy  vapours  dank  and  dun  ; 
When  the  tired  ploughman,  dry  and  warm, 
Hears,  half  asleep,  the  rising  storm 
Hurling  the  hail  and  sleeted  rain, 
Against  the  casement's  tinkling  pane : 
The  sounds  that  drive  wild  deer,  and  fox, 
To  shelter  in  the  brake  and  rocks. 
Are  warnings  which  the  shepherd  ask 
To  dismal  and  to  dangerous  task. 
Oft  he  looks  forth,  and  hopes,  in  vain, 
The  blast  may  sink  in  mellowing  rain  ; 
Till,  dark  above  and  v;hite  below. 
Decided  drives  the  flakes  of  snow, 
And  forth  the  hardy  swain  must  go. 
Long,  with  dejected  look  and  whine. 
To  leave  his  hearth  the  dogs  repine ; 
Whistling  and  cheering  them  to  aid. 
Around  his  backs  he  wreathes  the  plaid : 
His  flock  he  gathers,  and  he  guides 
To  open  downs  and  mountain  sides, 
Where  fiercest  though  the  tempest  blow, 
Least  deeply  lies  the  drift  below. 
The  blast,  that  whistles  o'er  the  fells. 
Stiffens  his  locks  to  icicles  ; 
Oft  he  looks  back,  while,  streaming  far. 
His  cottage  window  seems  a  star, — 
Loses  its  feeble  gleam, — and  then 
Turns  patient  to  the  blast  again. 
And,  facing  to  the  tempest's  sweep. 
Drives  through  the  gloom  his  lagging  sheep. 
If  fails  his  heart,  if  his  limbs  fail. 
Benumbing  death  is  in  the  gale ; 
His  paths,  his  landmarks,  all  unknown. 
Close  to  the  hut  no  more  his  own, 
Close  to  the  aid  he  sought  in  vain. 
The  morn  may  find  the  stiffen 'd  swain: 
The  widow  sees,  at  dawning  pale. 
His  orphans  raise  their  feeble  wail: 
And,  close  beside  him,  in  the  snow, 
Poor  Yarrow,  partner  of  their  wo, 


Couches  upon  his  master's  breast, 
And  licks  his  cheek  to  break  his  rest. 
Who  envies  now  the  shepherd's  let, 
His  healthy  fare,  his  rural  cot, 
His  summer  couch  by  greenwood  tree. 
His  rustic  kirn's*  loud  revelry. 
His  native  hill-notes,  tuned  on  high. 
To  Marion  of  the  blithesome  eye  ; 
His  crook,  his  scrip,  his  oaten  reed, 
And  all  Arcadia's  golden  creed  ? 

Changes  not  so  with  us,  my  Skene,  ■ 
Of  human  life  the  varying  scene  ? 
Our  youthful  summer  oft  we  see 
Dance  by  on  wings  of  game  and  glee, 
While  the  dark  storm  reserves  its  rage. 
Against  the  winter  of  our  age : 
As  he,  the  ancient  chief  of  Troy, 
His  manhood  spent  in  peace  and  joy. 
But  Grecian  fires,  and  loud  alarms, 
Call'd  ancient  Priam  forth  to  arms. 
Then  happy  those — since  earth  must  drain 
His  share  of  pleasure,  share  of  pain. 
Then  happy  those,  beloved  of  heaven. 
To  whom  the  mingled  cup  is  given 
Whose  lenient  sorrows  find  relief. 
Whose  joys  are  chasten'd  by  their  grief. 
And  such  a  lot,  my  Skene,  was  thine. 
When  thou  of  late  wert  doom'd  to  twine,— 

Just  when  thy  bridal  hour  was  by, — 

The  cypress  with  the  myrtle  tie. 
Just  on  thy  bride  her  sire  had  smiled, 

And  bless'd  the  union  of  his  child. 

When  love  must  change  its  joyous  cheer,         / 

And  wipe  affection's  filial  tear. 

Nor  did  the  actions,  next  his  end. 

Speak  more  the  father  than  the  friend: 

Scarce  had  lamented  Forbes  paid 

The  tribute  to  his  minstrel's  shade ; 

The  tale  of  friendship  scarce  was  told 

Ere  the  narrator's  heart  was  cold — 

Far  we  may  search  before  we  find 

A  heart  so  manly  and  so  kind  ! 

But  not  around  his  honour 'd  urn 

Shall  friends  alone  and  kindred  mourn ; 

The  thousand  eyes  his  care  had  dried. 

Pour  at  his  name  a  bitter  tide  ; 

An(i  frequent  falls  the  grateful  dew. 

For  benefits  the  world  ne'er  knew. 

If  mortal  charity  dare  claim 

The  Almighty's  attributed  name, 

Inscribe  above  his  mouldering  clay, 

"  The  widow's  shield,  the  orphan's  stay.** 

Nor,  though  it  wake  thy  sorrow,  deem  ' 

My  verse  intrudes  on  this  sad  theme ; 

For  sacred  was  the  pen  that  wrote, 

"  Thy  father's  friend  forget  thou  not." 

And  grateful  title  may  I  plead, 

For  many  a  kindly  word  and  deed. 

To  bring  my  tribute  to  his  grave : — 

»Tis  little — but  'tis  all  I  have. 
To  thee,  perchance,  this  rambling  strain 

Recalls  our  summer  walks  again  ; 

When,  doing  naught, — and,  to  speak  true. 

Not  anxious  to  find  aught  to  do, — 


*  The  Scottish  harvest-homrt 


MARMION. 


64ti 


The  wild  unbounded  hills  we  ranged, 
While  oft  our  talk  its  topic  changed, 
And  desultory  as  our  way, 
Ranged,  unconfined,  from  grave  to  gay. 
Even  when  it  flagg'd,  as  oft  will  chance, 
No  effort  made  to  break  its  trance. 
We  could  right  pleasantly  pursue 
Our  sports  in  social  silence,  too  ; 
Tho'a  gravely  labouring  to  portray 
The  blighted  oak's  fantastic  spray; 
I  spelling  o'er,  with  much  delight. 
The  legend  of  that  antique  knight, 
Tirante  by  name,  ycleped  the  White. 
At  either's  feet  a  trusty  squire, 
Pandour  and  Camp,  with  eyes  of  fire, 
Jealous,  each  other's  motions  view'd, 
And  scarce  suppress'd  their  ancient  feud. 
The  laverock  whistled  from  the  cloud; 
The  stream  was  lively,  but  not  loud  ; 
From  the  white  thorn  the  Mayflower  shed 
Its  dewy  fragrance  round  our  head: 
Not  Ariel  lived  more  merrily 
Under  the  blossom'd  bough,  than  we. 

And  blithesome  nights,  too,  have  been  ours, 
When  winter  stript  the  summer's  bovvers. 
Careless  we  heard,  what  now  I  hear, 
The  wild  blast  sighing  deep  and  drear. 
When  fires  were  bright  and  lamps  beam'd  gay. 
And  ladies  tuned  the  lovely  lay  ; 
And  he  was  held  a  laggard  soul. 
Who  shunn'd  to  quaff  the  sparkling  bowl 
Then  he,  whose  absence  we  deplore. 
Who  breathes  the  gales  of  Devon's  shore, 
The  longer  miss'd,  bewail'd  the  more ; 

And  thou,  and  I,  and  dear  loved  R , 

And  one  whose  name  I  may  not  say, — 

For  not  Mimosa's  tender  tree 

Shrinks  sooner  from  the  touch  than  he, — 

In  merry  chorus  well  combined. 

With  laughter  drown'd  the  whistling  wind. 

Mirth  was  within ;  and  care,  without, 

Might  gnaw  her  nails  to  hear  our  shout. 

Not  but  amid  the  buxom  scene 

Some  grave  discourse  might  intervene— 

Of  the  good  horse  that  bore  him  best. 

His  shoulder,  hoof,  and  arching  crest : 

For,  like  mad  Tom's,*  our  chiefest  care, 

Was  horse  to  ride,  and  weapon  wear. 

Such  nights  we've  had ;  and,  though  the  game 

Of  manhood  be  more  sober  tame. 

And  though  the  field  day,  or  the  drill. 

Seem  less  important  now — yet  still 

Such  may  we  hope  to  share  again. 

The  sprightly  thought  inspires  my  strain  ! 

And  mark,  how,  like  a  horseman  true, 

Lord  Marraion's  march  I  thus  renew. 


Canto  IV. 

THE   CAMP. 
I. 

Eustace,  I  said,  did  blithely  mark 


The  first  notes  of  the  merry  lark. 


♦  See  King  Lear. 


The  lark  sung  shrill,  the  cock  he  crew. 
And  loudly  Marmion's  bugle  blew. 
And,  with  their  light  and  lively  call. 
Brought  groom  and  yeoman  to  the  stall. 

Whistling  they  came,  and  free  of  heart, 
But  soon  their  mood  was  changed; 

Complaint  was  heard  on  every  part 
Of  something  disarranged. 
Some  clamour'd  loud  for  armour  lost ; 
Some  brawl'd  and  wrangled  with  the  host ; 
"  By  Becket's  bones,"  cried  one  "  I  fear 
That  some  false  Scot  has  stolen  my  spear  !" 
Young  Blount,  Lord  Marmion's  second  squire. 
Found  his  steed  wet  with  sweat  and  mire ; 
Although  the  rated  horseboy  sware. 
Last  night  he  dress'd  him  sleek  and  fair. 
While  chafed  the  impatient  squire  like  thunder, 
Old  Hubert  shouts,  in  fear  and  wonder, — 
"  Help  gentle  Blount !  help,  comrades  all! 
Bevis  lies  dying  in  his  stall ; 
To  Marmion  who  the  plight  dare  tell. 
Of  the  good  steed  he  loves  so  well  ?"— ' 
Gaping  for  fear  and  ruth  they  saw 
The  charger  panting  on  his  straw ; 
Till  one,  who  would  seem  wisest  cri^,— 
"  What  else  but  evil  could  betide, 
With  that  cursed  palmer  for  our  guide  ? 
Better  we  had  through  mire  and  bush 
Been  lanternled  by  friar  Rush." 

IL 

Fitz-Eustace,  who  the  cause  but  guess'd. 

Nor  wholly  understood, 
His  comrade's  clamorous  plaints  suppress'd; 

He  knew  Lord  Marmion's  mood. 
Him,  ere  he  issued  forth,  he  sought. 
And  found  deep  plunged  in  gloomy  thought, 

And  did  his  tale  display 
Simply,  as  if  he  knew  of  naught 

To  cause  such  disarray. 
Lord  Marmion  gave  attention  cold. 
Nor  marvell'd  at  the  wonders  told, — 
Pass'd  them  as  accidents  of  course. 
And  bade  his  clarions  sound  to  horse. 

in. 

Young  Henry  Blount,  meanwhile,  the  cost 
Had  reckon'd  with  their  Scottish  host ; 
And  as  the  charge  he  cast  and  paid, 
"  111  thou  deservest  thy  hire,"  he  said  ; 

"  Dost  see,  thou  knave,  my  horse's  plight  f 
Fairies  have  ridden  him  all  the  night. 

And  left  him  in  a  foam  ! 
I  trust  that  soon  a  conjuring  band. 
With  English  cross,  and  blazing  brand, 
Shall  drive  the  devils  from  this  land 

To  their  infernal  home : 
For  in  this  haunted  den,  I  trow, 
All  night  they  trampled  to  and  fro,' 
The  laughing  host  look'd  on  the  hire, — 
"  Gramercy,  gentle  southern  squire. 
And  if  thou  comes t  among  the  rest, 
With  Scottish  broad  sword  to  be  blest, 


•  Alias  Will  o'  the  Wisp. 


G50 


SCOTT. 


Sharp  be  the  brand,  and  sure  the  blow, 
And  short  the  pang  to  undergo." — 
Here  stay'd  their  talk, — for  Marmion 
Gave  now  the  signal  to  set  on. 
The  palmer  showing  forth  the  way, 
They  journey'd  all  the  morning  day. 

IV. 

The  green-sward  way  was  smooth  and  good. 

Through  Humbie's  and  through  Saltoun's  wood  ; 

A  forest  glade  which,  varying  still, 

Here  gave  a  view  of  dale  and  hill ; 

There  narrower  closed,  till  over  head 

A  vaulted  screen  the  branches  made. 

"  A  pleasant  path,"  Fitz-Eustace  said  ; 

"  Such  as  were  errant-knights  might  see 

Adventures  of  high  chivalry ; 

Might  meet  some  damsel  flying  fast. 

With  hair  unbound,  and  looks  aghast ; 

And  smooth  and  level  course  were  here. 

In  her  defence  to  break  a  spear. 

Here,  too,  are  twilight  nooks  and  dells 

And  oft,  in  such,  the  story  tells. 

The  damsel  kind,  from  danger  freed. 

Did  grateful  pay  her  champion's  meed." — 

He  spoke  to  cheer  lord  Marmion's  mind  ; 

Perchance  to  show  his  lore  design 'd  ; 
For  Eustace  much  had  pored 

Upon  a  huge  romantic  tome. 

In  the  hall-window  of  his  home. 

Imprinted  at  the  antique  dome 
Of  Caxton  or  De  Worde. 

Therefore  he  spoke, — but  spoke  in  vain, 

For  Marmion  answer'd  naught  again. 

V. 

Now  sudden,  distant  trumpets  shrill. 
In  notes  prolong'd  by  wood  and  hill, 

Were  heard  to  echo  far ; 
Each  ready  archer  grasp'd  his  bow, 
But  by  the  flourish  soon  they  know. 

They  breathed  no  point  of  war. 
Yet  cautious,  as  in  foeman's  land. 
Lord  Marmion's  order  speeds  the  band 

Some  opener  ground  to  gain  ; 
And  scarce  a  furlong  had  they  rode, 
When  thinner  trees,  receding,  show'd 

A  little  woodland  plain. 
Just  in  that  advantageous  glade 
The  halting  troop  a  line  had  made. 
As  forth  ''om  the  opposing  shade 

Issued  a  gallant  train. 

VI. 

First  came  the  trumpets  at  whose  clang 

So  late  the  forest  echoes  rang  ; 

On  prancing  steeds  they  forward  press'd, 

With  scarlet  mantle,  azure  vest ; 

Each  at  his  trump  a  banner  wore. 

Which  Scotland's  royal  scutcheon- bore  ; 

Heralds  and  pursuivants,  by  name 

Bute,  Islay,  Marchmount,  Rothsay,  came 
In  painted  tabards,  proudly  showing 
Gules,  argent,  or,  and  azure  glowing. 
Attendant  on  a  king-at-arms. 


Whose  hand  the  armorial  truncheon  held. 
That  feudal  strife  had  often  quell'd, 
When  wildest  its  alarms. 

VII. 
He  was  a  man  of  middle  age ; 
In  aspect  manly,  grave,  and  sage, 

As  on  king's  errand  come  ; 
But  in  the  glances  of  his  eye, 
A  penetrating,  keen,  and  sly 

Expression  found  its  home  ; 
The  flash  of  that  satiric  rage. 
Which,  bursting  on  the  early  stage, 
Branded  the  vices  of  the  age, 

And  broke  the  keys  of  Rome. 
On  milk-white  palfrey  forth  he  paced ; 
His  cap  of  maintenance  was  graced 

With  the  proud  heron  plume. 
From  his  steed's  shoulder,  loin  and  breast, 

Silk  housings  swept  the  ground. 
With  Scotland's  arms,  device,  and  crest, 

Embroider'd  round  and  round. 
The  double  treasure  might  you  see, 

Firs^,  by  Achaius  borne. 
The  thistle,  and  the  fleur-de-lis, 

And  gallant  unicorn. 
So  bright  the  kings  armorial  coat. 
That  scarce  the  dazzled  eye  could  note, 
In  living  colours  blazon'd  brave. 
The  lion,  which  his  title  gave. 
A  train,  which  well  beseem'd  his  state. 
But  all  unarm'd,  around  him  wait. 

Still  is  thy  name  in  high  account. 
And  still  thy  verse  has  charms. 

Sir  David  Lindesay  of  the  Mount, 
Lord  lion-king-at-arms  I 

VIIL 
Down  from  his  horse  did  Marmion  spring, 
Soon  as  he  saw  the  lion-king ; 
For  well  the  stately  baron  knew 
To  him  such  courtesy  was  due. 

Whom  royal  James  himself  had  crown'd. 
And  on  his  temples  placed  the  round 

Of  Scotland's  ancient  diadem  ; 
And  wet  his  brow  with  hallow'd  wine. 
And  on  his  finger  given  to  shine 
The  emblematic  gem. 
Their  mutual  greetings  duly  made. 
The  lion  thus  his  message  said : — 
"  Though  Scotland's  king  hath  deeply  swore 
Ne'er  to  knit  faith'  with  Henry  more. 
And  strictly  hath  forbid  resort 
From  England  to  his  royal  court ; 
Yet,  for  he  knows  lord  Marmion's  n2.Tie, 
And  honours  much  his  warlike  fame 
My  liege  hath  deem'd  it  shame,  and  lack 
Of  courtesy,  to  turn  him  back  : 
And,  by  his  order,  I,  your  guide, 
Must  lodging  fit  and  fair  provide. 
Till  finds  king  James  meet  time  to  see 
The  flower  of  English  chivalry." 

IX. 

Though  inly  chafed  at  this  delay 
Lord  Marmion  bears  it  as  he  may. 


MARMION. 


66. 


The  palmer,  his  mysterious  guide, 
Beholding  thus  his  place  supplied, 

Sought  to  take  leave  in  vain  : 
Strict  was  the  lion-king's  command, 
That  none  vfho  rode  in  Marmion's  band 

Should  sever  from  the  train  : 
"  England  has  here  enow  of  spies 
In  lady  Heron's  witching  eyes  :" 
To  Marchmount  thus,  apart,  he  said. 
But  fair  pretext  to  Marmion  made. 
The  right  hand  path  they  now  decline. 
And  trace  against  the  stream  the  Tyne. 

X. 

At  length  up  that  wild  dale  they  wind, 

Where  Critchtoun-castle  crowns  the  bank  i 
For  there  the  lion's  care  assign'd 

A  lodging  meet  for  Marmion's  rank. 
That  castle  rises  on  the  steep 

Of  the  green  vale  of  Tyne  ; 
And  far  beneath,  where  slow  they  creep 
From  pool  to  eddy,  dark  and  deep, 
Where  alders  moist,  and  willows  weep, 

You  hear  her  streams  repine. 
The  towers  in  different  ages  rose  ; 
Their  various  architecture  shows 

The  builders'  various  hands  ; 
A  mighty  mass  that  could  oppose. 
When  deadliest  hatred  fired  its  foes. 

The  vengeful  Douglas  bands.  . 

XI. 

Critchtoun  !  though  now  thy  miry  court 

But  pens  the  lazy  steer  and  sheep. 

Thy  turrets  rude  and  totter'd  keep 
Have  been  the  minstrel's  loved  resort. 
Oft  have  I  traced,  within  thy  fort. 

Of  mouldering  shields  the  mystic  sense, 

Scutcheons  of  honour,  or  pretence, 
Quarter'd  in  old  armorial  sort. 

Remains  of  rude  magnificence. 
Nor  wholly  yet  hath  time  defaced 

Thy  lordly  gallery  fair  ; 
Nor  yet  the  stony  chord  unbraced. 
Whose  twisted  knots,  with  roses  laced. 

Adorn  thy  ruin'd  stair. 
Still  rises  unimpair'd,  below. 
The  court-yard's  graceful  portico  ; 
Above  its  cornice,  row  and  row. 
Of  fairhewn  facets  richly  show 

Their  pointed  diamond  form. 
Though  there  but  homeless  cattle  go 

To  shield  them  from  the  storm. 
And,  shuddering,  still  may  we  explore. 

Where  oft  whilome  were  captives  pent, 
The  darkness  of  thy  massy-more  ;* 

Or,  from  thy  grass-grown  battlement, 
May  trace,  in  undulating  line. 
The  sluggish  mazes  of  the  Tyne. 

XII. 

Another  aspect  Crichtoun  show'd. 
As  through  its  portal  Marmion  rodej 
But  yet  'twas  melancholy  state 
Received  him  at  the  outer  gate  ; 


*  The  pit,  or  prison  vault. 


For  none  were  in  the  castle  then 
But  women,  boys,  or  aged  men. 
With  eyes  scarce  dried,  the  sorrowing  damOi 
To  welcome  noble  Marmion,  came  ; 
Her  son,  a  stripling  twelve  years  old, 
Proffer'd  the  baron's  rein  to  hold  ; 
For  each  man  that  could  draw  a  sword 
Had  march'd  that  morning  with  their  lord, 
Earl  Adam  Hepburn, — he  who  died 
On  Flodden  by  his  sovereign's  side. 
Long  may  his  lady  look  in  vain  ! 
She  ne'er  shall  see  his  gallant  train 
Come  sweeping  back  through  Crichtoun-dear. 
'Twas  a  brave  race,  before  the  name 
'f  hated  Bothwell  stain 'd  their  fame. 

XIII. 
And  here  two  days  did  Marmion  rest. 

With  every  rite  that  honour  claims. 
Attended  as  the  king's  own  guest ; — 

Such  the  command  of  royal  James, 
Who  marshall'd  them  his  lands  array, 
Upon  the  Borough-moor  that  lay. 
Perchance  he  would  not  foeman's  eye 
Upon  his  gathering  host  should  pry, 
Till  full  prepared  was  every  band 
To  march  against  the  English  land. 
Here  while  they  dwelt,  did  Lindesay's  wit 
Oft  cheer  the  baron's  moodier  fit: 
And,  in  his  turn,  he  knew  to  prize 
Lord  Marmion's  powerful  mind,  and  wise 
Train'd  in  the  lore  of  Rome  and  Greece, 
And  policies  of  war  and  peace. 

XIV. 

It  chanced,  as  fell  the  second  night, 

That  on  the  battlement  they  walk'd. 
And,  by  the  slowly  fading  light, 

On  varying  topics  talk'd  ; 
And,  unaware,  the  herald-bard 
Said,  Marmion  might  his  toil  have  spared 

In  travelling  so  far ; 
For  that  a  messenger  from  heaven 
In  vain  to  James  had  counsel  given 

Against  the  English  war  : 
And,  closer  question'd,  thus  he  told 
A  tale  which  chronicles  of  old 
In  Scottish  story  have  enroll'd : — 


SIR   DAVID   lindesay's   TALE. 

"  Of  all  the  palaces  so  fair. 

Built  for  the  royal  dwelling. 
In  Scotland,  far  beyond  compare 

Linlithgow  is  excelling ; 
And  in  its  park,  in  jovial  June, 
How  sweet  the  merry  linnet's  tune, 

How  blithe  the  blackbird's  lay  ! 
The  wild  buck  bells*  from  ferny  brake. 
The  coot  dives  merry  on  the  lake. 
The  saddest  heart  might  pleasure  take 

To  see  all  nature  gay. 
But  June  is  to  our  sovereign  dear 
The  heaviest  month  in  all  the  year: 

♦  An  ancjaat  word  for  the  cry  of  deer. 


C52 


SCOTT. 


Too  well  his  cause  of  grief  you  know, 
June  saw  his  father's  overthrow. 
Wo  to  the  traitors  who  could  bring 
The  princely  boy  against  his  king ! 
Still  in  his  conscience  burns  the  sting. 
In  offices  as  strict  as  lent, 
King  Janxes's  June  is  ever  spent. 

XVI. 
*  When  last  this  ruthful  month  was  come 
And  in  Linlithgow's  holy  dome 

The  king,  as  wont,  was  praying  ; 
While  for  his  royal  father's  soul, 
The  chanters  sung,  the  bells  did  toll, 

The  bishop  mass  v^^as  saying — 
For  now  the  year  brought  round  again 
The  day  the  luckless  king  was  slain — 
In  Katharine's  aisle  the  monarch  knelt, 
With  sackcloth  shirt,  and  iron  belt. 

And  eyes  with  sorrow  streaming ; 
Around  him,  in  their  stalls  of  state. 
The  thistle's  knight-companions  sate, 

Their  banners  o'er  them  beaming. 

I,  too,  was  there,  and,  sooth  to  tell, 

Bedeafen'd  with  the  jingling  knell. 

Was  watching  where  the  sunbeams  fell. 
Through  the  stain'd  casement  gleaming; 

But,  while  I  mark'd  what  next  befell. 
It  seem'd  as  I  were  dreaming. 
Stepp'd  from  the  crowd  a  ghostly  wight. 
In  azure  gown,  with  cincture  white, 
His  forehead  bald,  his  head  was  bare, 
Down  hung  at  length  his  yellow  hair. — 
Now  mock  me  not  when,  good  my  lord, 
I  pledge  to  you  my  knightly  word. 
That,  when  I  saw  his  placid  grace. 
His  simple  majesty  of  face. 
His  solemn  bearing,  and  his  pace 

So  stately  gliding  on, — 
Seem'd  to  me  ne'er  did  limner  paint 
So  just  an  image  of  the  saint 
Who  propp'd  the  virgin  in  her  faint,— 

The  loved  apostle  John. 

XVII. 
"  He  stepp'd  before  the  monarch's  chair 
And  stood  with  rustic  plainness  there, 

And  little  reverence  made ; 
Nor  head,  nor  body,  bow'd  nor  bent,  ' 
But  on  the  desk  his  arm  he  lent. 

And  words  like  these  he  said. 
In  a  low  voice, — but  never  tone 
So  thrill'd  through  vein,  and  nerve,  and  bone; 

'  My  mother  sent  me  from  afar. 
Sir  king,  to  warn  thee  not  to  war, — 

Wo  vvaits  on  thine  array ; 
If  war  thou  wilt,  of  woman  fair, 
Her  witching  wiles  and  wanton  snare, 
James  Stuart,  doubly  warn'd  beware: 

God  keep  thee  as  he  may !' 
The  wondering  monarch  seem'd  to  seek 

For  answer,  and  found  none  ; 
And  when  he  raised  his  head  to  speak. 

The  monitor  was  gone. 
The  marshall  and  myself  had  cast 
To  stop  him  as  he  outward  past ; 


But,  lighter  than  the  whirlwind's  blast 

He  vanish'd  from  our  eyes. 
Like  sunbeam  on  the  billow  cast. 

That  glances  but,  and  dies." — 

XVIIL 

While  Lindesay  told  this  marvel  strange, 

The  twilight  was  so  pale, 
He  mark'd  not  Marmion's  colour  change. 

While  listening  to  the  tale  : 
But,  after  a  suspended  pause. 
The  baron  spoke : — "  Of  nature's  laws 

So  strong  I  held  the  force, 
That  never  superhuman  cause 

Could  e'er  control  their  course ; 
And,  three  days  since,  had  judged  your  aim 
Was  but  to  make  your  guest  your  game. 
But  I  have  seen,  since  past  the  Tweed, 
What  much  has  changed  my  skeptic  creed, 
And  made  me  credit  aught." — He  staid. 
And  seem'd  to  wish  his  words  unsaid: 

But,  by  that  strong  emotion  press'd. 

Which  prompts  us  to  unload  our  breast. 
E'en  when  discovery's  pain, 

To  Lindesay  did  at  length  unfold 

The  tale  his  village  host  had  told 
At  GifFord,  to  his  train. 
Naught  of  the  palmer  says  he  there. 
And  naught  of  Constance  or  of  Clare : 
The  thoughts  which  broke  his  sleep,  he  seems 
To  mention  but  as  feverish  dreams. 

XIX. 

"  In  vain,"  said  he,  "  to  rest  I  spread 
My  burning  limbs,  and  couch'd  my  head: 

Fantastic  thoughts  return'd ; 
And,  by  their  wild  dominion  led, 

My  heart  within  me  burn'd. 
So  sore  was  the  delirious  goad, 
I  took  my  steed  and  forth  I  rode. 
And,  as  the  moon  shone  bright  and  cold, 
Soon  reach'd  the  camp  upon  the  wold. 
The  southern  entrance  I  past  through. 
And  halted,  and  my  bugle  blew. 
Methought  an  answer  met  my  ear,- — 
Yet  was  the  blast  so  low  and  drear, 
So  hollow,  and  so  faintly  blown, 
It  might  be  echo  of  my  own. 

XX. 

"  Thus  judging,  for  a  little  space 
I  listen'd,  ere  I  left  the  place ; 
But  scarce  could  trust  my  eyes. 
Nor  yet  can  think  they  served  me  true 
When  sudden  in  the  ring  I  view. 
In  form  distinct  of  shape  and  hue, 
A  mounted  champion  rise. — 

I've  fought,  lord  lion,  many  a  day. 

In  single  fight  and  mix'd  aflfray. 

And  ever,  I  myself  may  say, 
Have  borne  me  as  a  knight; 

But  when  this  unexpected  foe 

Seem'd  starting  from  the  gulf  below,— 

I  care  not  though  the  truth  I  show, 
I  trembled  with  affright ; 


MARMION. 


G53 


And  as  I  placed  in  rest  my  spear. 

My  hand  so  shook  for  very  fear, 

I  scarce  could  couch  it  right. 

XXI. 

"  Why  need  m}'  tongue  the  issue  tell  ? 
We  ran  our  course, — my  charger  fell  ,— 
What  could  he  'gainst  the  shock  of  hell  ?— 

I  roll'd  upon  the  plain. 
High  o'er  my  head,  with  threatening  hand. 
The  spectre  shook  his  naked  brand, — 

Yet  did  the  worst  remain  : 
My  dazzled  ej'es  I  upward  cast,— 
Not  opening  hell  itself  could  blast 

Their  sight  like  what  I  saw  ! 
Full  on  his  face  the  moonbeam  strook, — 
A  face  could  never  be  mistook  ! 
I  knew  the  stern  vindictive  look, 

And  held  my  breath  for  awe. 
I  saw  the  face  of  one  who,  fled 
To  foreign  climes,  has  long  been  dead, — 

I  well  believe  the  last ; 
For  ne'er,  from  visor  raised,  did  stare 
A  human  warrior,  with  a  glare 

So  grimly  and  so  ghast. 
Thrice  o'er  my  head  he  shook  the  blade : 
But  when  to  good  saint  George  I  pray'd, 
(The  first  time  e'er  I  ask'd  his  aid,) 

He  plunged  it  in  his  sheath  ; 
And,  on  his  courser  mounting  light. 
He  seem'd  to  var>ish  from  my  sight : 
The  moonbeam  droop'd,  and  deepest  night 

Sunk  down  upon  the  heath. — 
'Twere  long  to  tell  what  cause  I  have 

To  know  his  face  that  met  me  there, 
Call'd  by  his  hatred  from  the  grave. 

To  cumber  upper  air ; 
Dead  or  alive,  good  cause  had  he 
To  be  my  mortal  enemy." — 

XXII. 

Marvell'd  Sir  David  of  the  mount ; 
Then,  learn'd  in  story,  'gan  recount 

Such  chance  had  hap'd  of  old, 
Wiisn  once,  near  Norham,  there  did  figfct 
A  spectre  fell,  of  fiendish  might. 
In  likeness  of  a  Scottish  knight, 

With  Brian  Bulmer  bold. 
And  train'd  him  nigh  to  disallow 
The  aid  of  his  baptismal  vow. 
"And  such  a  phantom,  too,  'tis  said. 
With  highland  broadsword,  targe,  and  plaid^ 

And  fingers  red  with  gore, 
Is  seen  in  Rothiemurchus's  glade. 
Or  where  the  sable  pine  trees  shade 
Dark  Tomantoul,  and  Achnaslaid, 

Dromouchty,  or  Glenmore. 
And  yet,  whate'er  such  legends  say, 
Of  warlike  demon,  host,  or  fay. 

On  mountain,  moor,  or  plain. 
Spotless  in  faith,  in  bosom  bold. 
True  son  of  chivalry  should  hold 

These  midnight  terrors  vain  ; 
For  seldom  have  such  spirits  power 
To  harm,  have  in  the  evil  hour, 


When  guilt  we  meditate  within. 
Or  harbour  unrepented  sin." 
Lord  Marmion  turn'd  him  half  aside, 
And  twice  to  clear  his  voice  he  tried. 

Then  press'd  Sir  David's  hand, — 
But  naught,  at  length,  in  answer  said ; 
And  here  their  farther  converse  staid. 

Each  ordering  that  his  band 
Should  bo\i7ne  them  with  the  rising  day, 
To  Scotland's  camp  to  take  their  way,— 

Such  was  the  king's  command. 

XXIII. 
Early  they  took  Dun-Edin's  road, 
And  I  could  trace  each  step  they  trode ; 
Hill,  brook,  nor  dell,  nor  rock,  nor-stone. 
Lies  on  the  path  to  me  unknown. 
Much  might  it  boast  of  storied  lore ; 
But,  passing  such  digression  o'er. 
Suffice  it  that  their  route  was  laid 
Across  the  furzy  hills  of  Braid. 
They  pass'd  the  glen  and  scanty  rill, 
And  climb'd  the  opposing  bank,  until 
They  gain'd  the  top  of  Blackford  Hill. 

XXIV. 
Blackford  !  on  whose  uncultured  breast. 

Among  the  broom,  and  thorn,  and  whin, 
A  truant  boy,  I  sought  the  nest, 
Or  listed,  as  I  lay  at  rest. 

While  rose,  on  breezes  thin, 
The  murmur  of  the  city  crowd, 
And,  from  his  steeple  jangling  loud. 

Saint  G lie's  mingling  din — 
Now,  from  the  summit  of  the  plain. 
Waves  all  the  hill  with  yellow  grain ; 

And,  o'er  the  lanscape  as  I  look. 
Naught  do  I  see  unchanged  remain. 

Save  the  rude  cliffs  and  chiming  brook  t 
To  me  they  make  a  heavy  moan 
Of  early  friendships  past  and  gone. 

XXV. 

But  different  far  the  change  has  been. 

Since  Marmion,  from  the  crown 
Of  Blackford,  saw  that  martial  scene 

Upon  the  bent  so  brown : 
Thousand  pavilions,  white  as  snow. 
Spread  all  the  Borough-moor  below. 

Upland,  and  dale,  and  down  :— ' 
A  thousand  did  I  say  ?     I  ween. 
Thousand  on  thousands  there  were  seen, 
That  checker'd  all  the  heath  between 

The  streamlet  and  the  town  : 
In  crossing  ranks  extending  far. 
Forming  a  camp  irregular  ; 
Oft  giving  way  where  still  there  stood 
Some  relics  of  the  old  oak  wood, 
That  darkly  huge  did  intervene, 
And  tamed  the  glaring  white  with  green t 
In  these  extended  lines  there  lay 
A  martial  kingdom's  vast  array. 

,       XXVL 
For  from  Hebudes,  dark  with  rain, 
To  eastern  Lodon's  fertile  plain. 


«SI 


SCOTT. 


And  from  the  southern  Redswire  edge 
To  farthest  Rosse's  rocky  ledge ; 
From  west  to  east,  from  south  to  north, 
Scotland  sent  all  her  warriors  forth. 
Marmion  might  hear  the  mingled  hum 
Of  myriads  up  the  mountain  come ; 
The  horses'  tramp,  and  tingling  clank 
Where  chiefs  review'd  their  vassal  rank, 

And  charger's  shrilling  neigh ; 
And  see  the  shifting  lines  advance, 
While  frequent  flash'd,  from  shield  and  lance. 

The  sun's  reflected  ray. 

XXVIT. 
Thin  curling  in  the  morning  air, 
The  wreaths  of  falling  smoke  declare 
To  embers  now  the  brand  decay'd, 
Where  the  night-watch  their  fires  had  made. 
They  saw,  slow  rolling  on  the  plain, 
Full  many  a  baggage-cart  and  wain. 
And  dire  artillery's  clumsy  car, 
By  sluggish  oxen  tugg'd  to  war ; 
And  there  were  Bothwick's  sisters  seven,* 
And  culverins  which  France  had  given. 
Ill-omen'd  gift !  the  guns  remain 
The  conqueror's  spoil  on  Flodden  plain. 

XXVIII. 
Nor  mark'd  they  less,  where  in  the  air 
A  thousand  streamers  flaunted  fair ; 
Various  in  shape,  device,  and  hue. 
Green,  sanguine,  purple,  red,  and  blue. 
Broad,  narrow,  swallow-tail'd,  and  square, 
Scroll,  pennon,  pensil,  bandroI,t  there 

O'er  the  pavilions  flew. 
Highest  and  midmost,  was  descried 
The  royal  banner  floating  wide : 
The  staff  a  pine  tree  strong  and  straight, 
Pitch'd  deeply  in  a  massive  stone, 
Which  still  in  memory  is  shown, 
Yet  bent  beneath  the  standard's  weight, 
Whene'er  the  western  wind  unroU'd, 
With  toil,  the  huge  and  cumbrous  fold, 
And  gave  to  view  the  dazzling  field, 
Where,  in  proud  Scotland's  royal  shield, 
Tlie  ruddy  lion  ramp'd  in  gold. 

XXIX. 

Lord  Marmion  view'd  the  landscape  bright,— 
He  view'd  it  with  a  chief's  delight, — 
Until  within  him  burn'd  his  heart, 
And  lightning  from  his  eye  did  part. 

As  on  the  battle-day ; 
Such  glance  did  falcon  never  dart, 

W^hen  stooping  on  his  prey. 
*'  0  !  well,  lord-lion,  hast  thou  said. 
Thy  king  from  warfare  to  dissuade 
Were  but  a  vain  essay ; 
For,  by  St.  George,  were  that  host  mine. 
Not  power  infernal,  nor  divine. 
Should  once  to  peace  my  soul  incline. 
Till  I  had  dimm'd  their  armour's  shine 
In  glorious  battle-fray  !" — 


♦  Seven  culverins,  so  calk-],  cast  by  one  Borthwick. 
t  Each  of  these  feudal  ensigns  intimated  the  different 
rank  of  those  entitled  to  display  them. 


Answer'd  the  bard,  of  milder  mood : 

"  Fair  is  the  sight, — and  yet  'twere  good, 

That  kings  would  think  withal, 
When  peace  and  wealth  their  land  has  bless'd, 
'Tis  better  to  sit  still  at  rest. 

Than  rise,  perchance,  to  fall." 

XXX. 

Still  on  the  spot  Lord  Marmion  stay'd, 
For  fairer  scene  he  ne'er  survey'd. 

When  sated  with  the  martial  show 

That  peopled  all  the  plain  below, 

The  wandering  eye  could  o'er  it  go. 

And  mark  the  distant  city  glow 
With  gloomy  splendour  red ; 

For  on  the  smoke-wreaths,  huge  and  slow 

That  round  her  sable  turret's  flow. 
The  morning  beams  were  shed, 

And  tinged  them  with  a  lustre  proud, 

Like  that  which  streaks  a  thunder-cloud. 

Such  dusky  grandeur  clothed  the  height. 

Where  the  hugecastle  holds  its  state, 
And  all  the  steep  slope  down, 

Whose  ridgy  back  heaves  to  the  sky. 

Piled  deep  and  massy,  close  and  high. 
Mine  own  romantic  town  ! 
But  northward  far,  with  purer  blaze. 
On  Ochil  mountains  fell  the  rays. 
And,  as  each  heathy  top  they  kiss'd. 
It  gleam'd  a  purple  amethyst. 

Yonder  the  shores  of  Fife  you  saw  ; 

Here  Preston-bay,  and  Berwick-law  ; 
And,  broad  between  them  roll'd, 
The  gallant  Frith  the  eye  might  note. 
Whose  islands  on  its  bosom  float 
Like  emeralds  chased  in  gold. 

Fitz-Eustace'  heart  felt  closely  pent; 

As  if  to  give  his  rapture  vent. 
The  spur  he  to  his  charger  lent, 

And  raised  his  bridal  hand. 
And,  making  demi-vault  in  air, 
Cried,  "  Where's  the  coward  that  would  nf  i  iu% 

To  fight  for  such  a  land !" 
The  lion  smiled  his  joy  to  see  ; 
Nor  Marmion's  frown  repress'd  his  glee. 

XXXL 

Thus  while  they  look'd  a  flourish  proud. 
Where  mingled  trump  and  clarion  loud. 

And  fife,  and  kettle-drum, 
And  sackbut  deep,  and  psaltery. 
And  warpipe  wuth  discordant  cry. 
And  cymbal  clattering  to  the  sky, 
Making  wild  music  bold  and  high, 

Did  up  the  mountain  come : 
The  whilst  the  bells,  with  distant  chime, 
Merril}'  toll'd  the  hour  of  prime. 

And  thus  the  lion  spoke : — 
"  Thus  clamour'd  still  the  war-notes,  when 
The  king  to  mass  his  way  has  ta'en. 
Or  to  St.  Catherine's  of  Sienne, 

Or  chapel  of  St.  Rocque. 
To  j'ou  they  speak  of  martial  fame ; 
But  me  remind  of  peaceful  game, 

When  blither  was  their  cheer. 


MARMION. 


655 


Thrilling  in  Falkland  woods  tne  air, 
In  signal  none  his  steed  should  spare, 
But  strive  which  foremost  might  repair 
To  the  downfall  of  the  deer. 

XXXII. 

**  Nor  less,"  he  said, — "  when  looking  forth, 
I  view  yon  empress  of  the  north 

Sit  on  her  hilly  throne  ; 
Her  palace's  imperial  bowers, 
Her  castle,  proof  to  hostile  powers, 
Her  stately  halls  and  holy  towers— 

Nor  less,"  he  said,  "  I  moan 
To  think  what  wo  mischance  may  bring. 
And  how  these  merry  bells  may  ring 
The  death  dirge  of  our  gallant  king ; 

Or,  with  their  larum,  call 
The  burghers  forth  to  watch  and  ward, 
'Gainst  southern  sack  and  fires  to  guard 

Dun-Edin's  leaguer'd  wall. — 
But  not  for  my  presaging  thought, 
Dream  conquest  sure,  or  cheaply  bought ! 

Lord  Marmion,  I  say  nay: — 
God  is  the  guider  of  the  field. 
He  breaks  the  champion's  spear  and  shield. 

But  thou  thyself  shalt  say, 
When  joins  yon  host  in  deadly  stowre. 
That  England's  dames  must  weep  in  bower. 

Her  monks  the  death-mass  sing ; 
Fof  never  saw'st  thou  such  a  power 

Led  on  by  such  a  king." 
And  now,  down  winding  to  the  plain. 
The  barriers  of  the  camp  they  gain. 

And  there  they  make  a  stay. — 
There  stays  the  minstrel,  till  he  fling 
His  hand  o'er  every  border  string, 
And  fit  his  harp  the  pomp  to  sing 
Of  Scotland's  ancient  court  and  king, 

In  the  succeeding  lay. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  V. 
TO    GEORGE    ELLIS,    ESQ. 

,  Edinburgh, 

When  dark  December  glooms  the  day, 
And  takes  our  autumn  joys  away ; 
When  short  and  scant  the  sunbeam  throws. 
Upon  the  weary  waste  of  snows, 
A  cold  and  profitless  regard, 
Like  patron  on  a  needy  bard  ; 
When  sylvan  occupation's  done. 
And  o'er  the  chimney  rests  the  gun. 
And  hang,  in  idle  trophy,  near, 
The  game  pouch,  fishing-rod,  and  spear; 
When  wiry  terrier,  rough  and  grim, 
And  greyhound,  with  his  length  of  limb. 
And  pointer,  now  employ'd  no  more. 
Cumber  our  parlour's  narrow  floor ; 
When  in  his  stall  the  impatient  steed 
Is  long  condemn'd  to  rest  and  feed  ; 
When  from  our  snow-encircled  home. 
Scarce  cares  the  hardiest  step  to  roam. 
Since  path  is  none,  save  that  to  bring 
The  needful  water  fom  the  spring ; 


When  wrinkled  news-page,  thrice-conn'd  o*er, 

Beguiles  the  dreary  hour  no  more. 

And  darkling  politician,  cross'd. 

Inveighs  against  the  lingering  post. 

And  answering  housewife  sore  complains 

Of  carrier's  snow-impeded  wains : 

When  snch  the  country  cheer,  I  come. 

Well  pleased,  to  seek  our  city  home ; 

For  converse,  and  for  books  to  change 

The  forest's  melancholy  range. 

And  welcome,  with  renew'd  delight. 

The  busy  day  and  social  night. 

Not  here  need  my  desponding  rhyme 
Lament  the  ravages  of  time. 
As  erst  by  Newark's  riven  towers. 
And  Ettrick  stripp'd  of  forest  bowers.* 
True, — Caledonia's  queen  is  changed. 
Since,  on  her  dusky  summit  ranged. 
Within  its  steepy  limits  pent, 
By  bulwark,  line,  and  battlement. 
And  flanking  towers,  and  laky  flood. 
Guarded  and  garrison'd  she  stood. 
Denying  entrance  or  resort. 
Save  at  each  tall  embattled  port ; 
Above  whose  arch,  suspended,  hung 
Portcullis  spiked  with  iron  prong. 
That  long  is  gone, — but  not  so  long. 
Since,  early  closed,  and  opening  late. 
Jealous  revolved  the  studded  gate. 
Whose  task,  from  eve  to  morning  tide, 
A  wicket  churlishly  supplied. 
Stern  then,  and  steel-girt  was  thy  brow, 
Dun-Edin  !  0,  how  alter'd  now. 
When  safe  amid  thy  mountain  court  « 

Thou  sit'st,  like  empress  at  her  sport. 
And,  liberal,  unconfined,  and  free, 
Flinging  thy  white  arms  to  the  sea. 
For  thy  dark  cloud  with  umber 'd  lower. 
That  hung  o'er  cliff,  and  lake,  and  tower, 
Thou  gleam'st  against  the  western  ray 
Ten  thousand  lines  of  brighter  day. 

Not  she,  the  championess  of  old. 
In  Spenser's  magic  talc  enroll'd, — 
She  for  the  charmed  spear  renown'd. 
Which  forced  each  knight  to  kiss  the  ground,— 
Not  she  more  changed,  when  placed  at  rest. 
What  time  she  was  Malbecco's  guest,t 
She  gave  to  flow  her  maiden  vest; 
When  from  the  corslet's  grasp  relieved. 
Free  to  the  sight  her  bosom  heaved ; 
Sweet  was  her  blue  eye's  modest  smile. 
Erst  hidden  by  the  aventayle ; 
And  down  her  shoulders  graceful  roll'd 
Her  locks  profuse,  of  paly  gold. 
They  who  whilome,  in  midnigh!  fight. 
Had  marvell'd  at  her  matchless  might. 
No  less  her  maiden  charms  approved. 
But  looking  liked,  and  liking  loved.:^ 
The  sight  could  jealous  pangs  beguile, 
And  charm  Malbecco's  charms  awhile  j 


♦  See  Introduction  to  Canto  II 
t  See  "  The  Fairy  Queen,"  Book  III.,  Canto  IX 
t  "  For  every  one  her  liked,  and  every  one  her  loved.'' 
Spenser,  as  above. 


656 


SCOTT 


Ana  he,  the  wandering  squire  of  dames, 

Forgot  his  Columbella's  claims. 

And  passion,  erst  unknown,  could  gain 

The  breast  of  blunt  Sir  Satyrane  ; 

Nor  durst  light  Paridel  advance, 

Bold  as  he  was,  a  looser  glance. — 

She  charm'd,  at  once,  and  tamed  the  heart, 

Incomparable  Britomarte  ! 

So  thou,  fair  city  !  disarray'd 
Of  battled  wall,  and  rampart's  aid, 
As  stately  seem'st,  but  lovelier  far 
Than  in  that  panoply  of  war. 
Nor  deem  that  from  thy  fenceless  throne 
Strength  and  security  are  flown  ; 
Still,  as  of  yore,  the  queen  of  the  north ! 
Still  canst  thou  send  thy  children  forth. 
Ne'er  readier  at  alarm-bell's  call 
Thy  burghers  rose  to  man  thy  wall, 
"than  now,  in  danger,  shall  be  thine, 
Thy  dauntless  voluntary  line  ; 
For  fosse  and  turret  proud  to  stand. 
Their  breasts  the  bulwarks  of  the  land. 
Thy  thousands,  train'd  to  martial  toil, 
Full  red  would  stain  their  native  soil, 
Ere  from  thy  mural  crown  ther^fell 
The  slightest  knosp,  or  pinnacle. 
And  if  it  come, — as  come  it  may, 
Dun-Edin  !  that  eventful  day, 
Renown'd  for  hospitable  deed. 
That  virtue  much  with  heaven  may  plead, 
In  patriarchal  times  whose  care 
Descending  angels  deign'd  to  share ; 
That  claim  may  wrestle  blessings  down 
On  those  who  fight  for  the  good  town, 
Destined  in  every  age  to  be 
Refuge  of  injured  royalty; 
Since  first,  when  conquering  York  arose, 
To  Henry  meek  she  gave  repose, 
Till  late,  with  wonder,  grief,  and  awe, 
Great  Bourbon's  relics,  sad  she  saw. 

Truce  to  these  thoughts  ! — for,  as  they  rise. 
How  gladly  I  avert  mine  eyes, 
Bodings,  or  true  or  false,  to  change. 
For  fiction's  fair  romantic  range. 
Or  for  tradition's  dubious  light, 
That  hovers  'twixt  the  day  and  night: 
Dazzling  alternately  and  dim, 
Her  wavering  lamp  I'd  rather  trim. 
Knights,  squires,  and  lovely  dames  to  see. 
Creation  of  my  fantasy. 
Then  gaze  abroad  on  reeky  fen. 
And  make  of  mists  invading  men. — 
Who  loves  not  more  the  night  of  June 
Than  dull  December's  gloomy  noon  ? 
The  moonlight  than  the  fog  of  frost  ? 
And  can  we  say,  which  cheats  the  most  ? 

But  who  shall  teach  my  harp  to  gain 
A  sound  of  the  romantic  strain. 
Whose  Anglo-Norman  tones  whilere 
Could  win  the  royal  Henry's  ear. 
Famed  Beauclerc  call'd,  for  that  he  loved 
The  minstrel,  and  *is  lay  approved  ? 
Who  shall  these  -/ngering  notes  redeem. 
Decaying  on  oblivion's  stream  ; 
Such  notes  as  from  the  Breton  tongue 
Marie  translated,  Blondal  sung  ? — 


O  !  born,  time's  ravage  to  repair. 

And  make  the  dying  muse  thy  care  5 

Who,  when  his  scythe  her  hoary  foe 

Was  poising  for  the  final  blow, 

The  weapon  from  his  hand  could  wring 

And  break  his  glass,  and  shear  his  wm%. 

And  bid,  seviving  in  his  strain. 

The  gentle  poet  live  again  ; 

Thou,  who  canst  give  to  lightest  lay 

An  unpedantic  moral  gay, 

Nor  less  the  dullest  theme  bid  flit 

On  wings  of  unexpected  wit; 

In  letters,  as  in  life,  approved. 

Example  honour'd,  and  beloved, 

Dear  Ellis  !  to  the  bard  impart 

A  lesson  of  thy  magic  art. 

To  win  at  once  the  head  and  heart, — 

At  once  to  charm,  instruct,  and  mend. 

My  guide,  my  pattern,  and  my  friend  ! 

Such  minstrel  lesson  to  bestow 

Be  long  thy  pleasing  task, — but,  0 ! 

No  more  by  thy  example  teach 

What  few  can  practise,  all  can  preach. 

With  even  patience  to  endure 

Lingering  disease,  and  painful  cure, 

And  boast  affliction's  pangs  subdued 

By  mild  and  manly  fortitude. 

Enough  the  lesson  has  been  given ; 

Forbid  the  repitition,  Heaven  ! 

Come  listen,  then  !  for  thou  hast  known 
And  loved  the  minstrel's  varying  tone. 
Who,  like  his  border  sires  of  old. 
Waked  a  wild  measure,  rude  and  bold, 
Till  Windsor's  oaks,  and  Ascot  plain. 
With  wonder  heard  the  northern  strain. 
Con>e,  listen  ! — bold  in  thy  applause. 
The  bard  shall  scorn  pedantic  laws. 
And  as  the  ancient  art  could  stain 
Achievements  on  the  storied  pane. 
Irregularly  traced  and  plann'd, 
But  yet  so  glowing  and  so  grand  , 
So  shall  he  strive,  in  changeful  hue. 
Field,  feast,  and  combat,  to  renew, 
And  loves,  and  arm,  and  harpers'  glee. 
And  all  the  pomp  of  chivalry. 


Canto  V. 


THE    COURT. 


I. 

The  train  has  left  the  hills  of  Braid ; 
The  barrier  guard  have  open  made 
(So  Lindesay  bade)  the  palisade, 

That  closed  the  tented  ground. 
Their  men  the  warders  backward  drew. 
And  carried  pikes  as  they  rode  through. 

Into  its  ample  boynd. 
Fast  ran  the  Scottish  warriors  there, 
Upon  the  southern  band  to  stare ; 
And  envy  with  their  v/onder  rose. 
To  see  such  well-appointed  foes  ; 
Such  length  of  shafts,  such  mighty  bow8, 
So  huge,  that  many  simply  thought. 
But  for  a  vaunt  such  weapons  wrought  j 


MARMION. 


657 


And  little  deem'd  their  force  to  feel 
Through  links  of  mail,  and  plates  of  steel, 
When,  rattling  upon  Flodden  Vale, 
The  cloth-yard  arrows  flew  like  hail. 

II. 
Nor  less  did  Marmion's  skilful  view 
Glance  every  line  and  squadron  through ; 
And  much  he  marvell'd  one  small  land 
Could  marshal  forth  such  various  band : 

For  men-at-arms  were  here. 
Heavily  sheathed  in  mail  and  plate, 
Like  iron  towers  for  strength  and  weight, 
On  Flemish  steeds  of  bone  and  height. 

With  battle-axe  and  spear. 
Young  knights  and  squires,  a  lighter  train. 
Practised  their  chargers  on  the  plain, 
By  aid  of  leg,  of  hand,  and  rein. 

Each  warlike  feat  to  show ; 
To  pass,  to  wheel,  the  croup  to  gain, 
And  high  curvett,  that  none  in  vain 
The  sword-sway  might  descend  amain 

On  foeman's  casque  below. 
He  saw  the  hardy  burghers  there 
March  arm'd,  on  foot,  with  faces  bare. 

For  visor  they  wore  none, 
Nor  waving  plume,  nor  crest  of  knight; 
But  burnish'd  were  their  corslets  bright. 
Their  brigantines,  and  gorgets  light. 

Like  very  silver  shone. 
Long  pikes  they  had  for  standing  fight. 

Two-handed  swords  they  wore. 
And  many  wielded  mace  of  weight, 

And  bucklers  bright  they  bore. 

in. 

On  foot  the  yeomen,  too,  but  dress'd 
In  his  steel  jack,  a  swarthy  vest, 

With  iron  quilted  well ; 
Each  at  his  back,  (a  slender  store,) 
His  forty  days'  provision  bore. 

As  feudal  statutes  tell. 
His  arms  were  halbert,  axe,  or  spear, 
A  cross-bow  there,  a  hagbut  here, 

A  dagger-knife,  and  brand — 
Sober  he  seem'd,  and  sad  of  cheer, 
As  loth  to  leave  his  cottage  dear. 

And  march  to  foreign  strand  ; 
Or  musing,  who  would  guide  his  steer, 

To  till  the  fallow  land. 
Yet  deem  not  in  his  thoughtful  eye 
Did  aught  of  dastard  terror  lie  ; — 

More  dreadful  far  his  ire 
Than  theirs,  who,  scorning  danger's  name, 
In  eager  mood  to  battle  came, 
Their  valour  like  light  straw  on  flame, 

A  fierce  but  fading  fire. 

IV. 
Not  so  the  borderer: — bred  to  war, 
He  knew  the  battle's  din  afar. 

And  joy'd  to  hear  it  swell. 
His  peaceful  day  was  slothful  ease ; 
Not  harp,  nor  pipe,  his  ear  could  please, 

Like  the  loud  slogan  yell. 
On  active  steed,  with  lance  and  blade. 
Tne  light  arm'd  pricker  plied  his  trade, 

Let  nobles  fight  for  fame  : 
Vol.  III.— 42 


Let  vassals  follow  where  they  lead. 
Burghers,  to  guard  their  townships,  bleed. 

But  war's  the  borderers'  game. 
Their  gain,  their  glory,  their  delight. 
To  sleep  the  day,  maraud  the  night, 

O'er  mountain,  moss,  and  moor ; 
Joyful  to  fight  they  took  their  way, 
Scarce  caring  who  might  win  the  day. 

Their  booty  was  secure. 
These,  as  Lord  Marmion's  train  pass'd  by, 
Look'd  on,  at  first,  with  careless  eye, 
Nor  marvell'd  aught,  well  taught  to  know 
The  form  and  force  of  English  bow. 

But  when  they  saw  the  lord  array'd 
In  splendid  arms,  and  rich  brocade, 
Each  borderer  to  his  kinsman  said, 
"  Hist,  Ringan  !  seest  thou  there  ! 

Canst  guess  which  road  they'll  homeward  ride. 

O  !  could  we  but,  on  border  side. 

By  Eusdale  glen,  or  Liddell's  tide. 
Beset  a  prize  so  fair  ! 

That  fangless  lion,  too,  their  guide. 

Might  chance  to  lose  his  glistering  hide ; 

Brown  Maudlin,  of  that  doublet  pied. 
Could  make  a  kirtle  rare." 

V. 

Next,  Marmion  mark'd  the  Celtic  race 
Of  different  language,  form,  and  face, 

A  various  race  of  man  ; 
Just  then  the  chiefs  their  tribes  array'd. 
And  wild  and  garish  semblance  made. 
The  checker'd  trews,  and  belted  plaid ; 
And  varying  notes  the  war-pipes  bray'd. 

To  every  varying  clan ; 
Wild  through  their  red  or  sable  hair 
Look'd  out  their  eyes,  with  savage  stare. 

On  Marmion  as  he  past ; 
Their  legs  above  the  knee  was  bare  ; 
Their  frame  was  sinewy,  short,  and  spare. 

And  harden'd  to  the  blast ; 
Of  taller  race,  the  chiefs  they  own 
Were  by  the  eagle's  plumage  known. 
The  hunted  red  deer's  undress'd  hide 
Their  hairy  buskins  well  supplied  ; 
The  graceful  bonnet  deck'd  their  head ; 
Back  from  their  shoulders  hung  the  plaid 

A  broadsword  of  unwieldly  length, 
A  dagger  proved  for  edge  and  strength, 

A  studded  targe  they  wore. 
And  quivers,  bows,  and  shafts, — but,  0  ! 
Short  was  the  shaft,  and  weak  the  bow, 

To  that  which  England  bore. 
The  Isles-men  carried  at  their  backs 
The  ancient  Danish  battle-axe. 
They  raised  a  wild  and  wondering  cry. 
As  with  his  guide  rode  Marmion  by. 
Loud  were  their  clamouring  tongues,  as  wnen 
The  cranging  sea-fowl  leave  the  fen. 
And,  with  their  cries  discordant  mix'd. 
Grumbled  and  yell'd  the  pipes  betwixt. 

VL 

Thus  through  the  Scottish  camp  they  pass'd 
And  reach'd  the  city  gate  at  last, 


658 


SCOTT. 


Where  all  around,  a  wakeful  guard, 
Arm'd  burghers  kept  their  watch  and  ward. 
Well  had  they  cause  of  jealous  fear. 
When  lay  encamp'd,  in  field  so  near. 
The  borderer  and  the  mountaineer. 
As  through  the  bustling  streets  they  go. 
All  was  alive  with  martial  show  ; 
At  every  turn,  with  dinning  clang, 
The  armourer's  anvil  <lash'd  and  rang, 
Or  toil'd  the  swarthy  smith,  to  wheel 
The  bar  that  arms  the  charger's  heel ; 
Or  axe,  or  falchion  to  the  side 
Of  jarring  grindstone  was  applied. 

Page,  groom,  and  squires,  with  hurrying  pace. 

Through  street,  and  lane,  and  market-place, 
Bore  lance,  or  casque,  or  sword ; 

While  burghers,  with  important  face. 
Described  each  new-come  lord, 

Discuss'd  his  lineage,  told  his  name. 

His  following,*  and  his  warlike  fame.— 
The  lion  led  to  lodging  meet. 
Which  high  o'erlook'd  the  crowded  street; 

There  must  the  baron  rest. 
Till  past  the  hour  of  vesper  tide. 
And  then  to  Holy-Rood  must  ride, — 

Such  was  the  king's  behest. 
Meanwhile  the  lion's  care  assigns 
A  banquet  rich,  and  costly  wines. 

To  Marmion  and  his  train  ; 
And  when  the  appointed  hour  succeeds. 
The  baron  dons  his  peaceful  weeds. 
And  following  Lindesay  as  he  leads. 

The  palace  halls  they  gain. 

vn. 

Old  Holy-Rood  rung  merrily. 
That  night,  with  wassel,  mirth  and  glee: 
King  James  within  her  princely  bower 
Feasted  the  chiefs  of  Scotland's  power. 
Summon 'd  to  spend  the  parting  hour ; 

For  he  had  charged,  that  his  array 

Should  Southward  march  by  break  of  day. 

Well  loved  that  splendid  monarch  aye 
The  banquet  and  the  song. 

By  day  the  tourney,  and  by  night 

The  merry  dance,  traced  fast  and  light. 

The  masquers  quaint,  the  pageant  bright. 
The  revel  loud  and  long. 

This  feast  outshone  his  banquets  past; 

It  was  his  blithest— and  his  last. 
The  dazzling  lamps  from  gallery  gay, 
Cast  on  the  court  a  dancing  ray ; 
Here  to  the  harp  did  minstrels  sing; 
There  ladies  touch 'd  a  softer  string; 
With  long-ear'd  cap,  and  motely  vest. 
The  licensed  fool  retail'd  his  jest ; 
His  magic  tricks  the  juggler  plied  ; 
At  dice  and  draughts  the  gallants  vied  ; 

While  some,  in  close  recess  apart. 

Courted  the  ladies  of  their  heart. 
Nor  courted  them  in  vain  ; 

For  often,  in  the  parting  hour. 

Victorious  love  asserts  his  power 
O'er  coldness  and  disdain  ; 

♦  Fbllowing—Feudsil  retainers. 


And  flinty  is  her  heart,  can  view 
To  battle  march  a  lover  true, — 
Can  hear,  perchance,  his  last  adieu. 
Nor  own  her  share  of  pain. 

vni. 

Through  this  mix'd  crowd  of  glee  and  game. 
The  king  to  greet  Lord  Marmion  came. 

While,  reverend,  all  made  room. 
An  easy  task  it  was,  I  trow. 
King  James's  manly  form  to  know. 
Although,  his  courtesy  to  show. 
He  doff' d,  to  Marmion  bending  low, 

His  broider'd  cap  and  plume. 
For  royal  were  his  garb  and  mien. 

His  cloak,  of  crimson  velvet  piled, 
Trimm'd  with  the  fur  of  martin  wild ; 
His  vest  of  changeful  satin  sheen. 

The  dazzled  eye  beguiled ; 
His  gorgeous  collar  hung  adown, 
Wrought  with  the  badge  of  Scotland's  crown, 
The  thistle  brave,  of  old  renown : 
His  trusty  blade,  Toledo  right, 
Descended  from  a  baldric  bright ; 
White  were  his  buskins,  on  the  heel 
His  spurs  inlaid  of  gold  and  steel ; 
His  bonnet,  all  of  crimson  fair, 
Was  button'd  with  a  ruby  rare: 
And  Marmion  deem'd  he  ne'er  had  seen 
A  prince  of  such  a  noble  mien. 

IX. 

The  monarch's  form  was  middle  size ; 
For  feat  of  strength,  or  exercise, 

Shaped  in  proportion  fair ; 
And  hazel  was  his  eagle  eye. 
And  auburn  of  the  deepest  dye 

His  short  curl'd  beard  and  hair. 
Light  was  his  footstep  in  the  dance. 
And  firm  his  stirrup  in  the  lists ; 
And,  0  !  he  had  that  merry  glance 
That  seldom  lady's  heart  resists. 
Lightly  from  fair  to  fair  he  flew, 
And  loved  to  plead,  lament,  and  sue ; 
Suit  lightly  won,  and  short-lived  pain. 
For  monarchs  seldom  sigh  in  vain. 
I  said  he  joy'd  in  banquet-bower; 

But,  mid  his  mirth,  'twas  often  strange, 

How  suddenly  his  cheer  would  charge, 
His  look  o'ercast  and  lower, 

If,  in  a  sudden  turn,  he  felt 

The  pressure  of  his  iron  belt. 

That  bound  his  breast  in  penance  pain. 

In  memory  of  his  father  slain. 
Even  so  'twas  strange  how  evermore, 
Soon  as  the  passing  pang  was  o'er. 
Forward  he  rush'd,  with  double  glee. 
Into  the  stream  of  revelry : 
Thus,  dim-seen  object  of  affright 
Startles  the  courser  in  his  flight, 
And  half  he  halts,  half  cpiings  aside  ; 
But  feels  the  quickening  spur  applied. 
And,  straining  on  the  tighten'd  rein. 
Scours  doubly  swift  o'er  hill  and  plain. 


MARMION. 


659 


X. 

O'er  James's  heart,  the  courtiers  say, 
Sir  Hugh  the  Heron's  wife  held  sway: 

To  Scotland's  court  she  came. 
To  be  a  hostage  for  her  lord. 
Who  Cessford's  gallant  heart  had  gored, 
And  with  the  king  to  make  accord. 

Had  sent  his  lovely  dame. 
Nor  to  that  lady  free  alone 
Did  the  gay  king  allegiance  own ; 

For  the  fair  queen  of  France 
Sent  him  a  Turquois  ring,  and  glove, 
And  charged  him,  as  her  knight  and  love. 

For  her  to  break  a  lance  ; 
And  strike  three  strokes  with  Scottish  brand. 
And  march  three  miles  on  southron  land. 
And  bid  the  banners  of  his  band 

In  English  breezes  dance. 
And  thua,  for  France's  queen  he  drest 
His  manly  limbs  in  mailed  vest ; 
And  thus  admitted  English  fair, 
His  inmost  counsels  still  to  share  ; 

And  thus,  for  both,  he  madly  plann'd 

The  ruin  of  himself  and  land ! 
And  yet,  the  sooth  to  tell, 

Nor  England's  fair,  nor  France's  queen, 

Were  worth  one  pearl-drop  bright  and  sheen. 
From  Margaret's  eyes  that  fell, — 
His  own   Queen  Margaret,  who,  in  Lithgow's 

bower. 
All  lonely  sat,  and  wept  the  weary  hour. 

XI. 

The  queen  sits  lone  in  Lithgow  pile,    ' 
And  weeps  the  weary  day. 

The  war  against  her  native  soil. 

Her  monarch's  risk  in  battle  broil  ;— 

And  in  gay  Holy-Rood,  the  while. 

Dame  Heron  rises  with  a  smile 
Upon  the  harp  to  play. 

Fair  was  her  rounded  arm,  as  o'er 
The  strings  her  finders  flew ; 

And  as  she  touch'd,  and  tuned  them  all. 

Ever  her  bosom's  rise  and  fall 
Was  plainer  given  to  view ; 
For  all,  for  heat,  was  laid  aside, 
Her  wimple,  and  her  hood  untied. 
And  first  she  pitch'd  her  voice  to  sing, 
Then  glanced  her  dark  eye  on  the  king, 
And  then  around  the  silent  ring ; 
And  laugh'd,  and  blush'd,  and  oft  did  say. 
Her  pretty  oath,  by  yea  and  nay. 
She  could  not,  would  not,  durst  not  play  ! 
At  length,  upon  the  harp,  with  glee, 
Mingled  with  arch  simplicity, 
A  soft,  yet  lively  air  she  rung, 
While  thus  the  wily  lady  sung. 

XIT. 

LOCHINVAR. 

LADY  HERON'S  SONG. 
U,  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  west, 
Through  all  the  wide  border  his  steed  was  the  best ; 
And  save  his  good  broadsword  he  weapons  had 

none. 
He  rode  all  unarm 'd,  and  he  rode  all  alone. 


So  faithful  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochin- 
var, 

He  stay'd  not  for  brake,  and  he  stopp'd  not  for 

stone, 
He  swam  the  Eske  river  where  ford  there  was 

none; 
But,  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate, 
The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late : 
For  a  laggard  in  love,  and  a  dastard  in  war, 
Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  enter'd  the  Netherby  hall. 

Among  bride's-men,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers, 

and  all: 
Then   spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his 

sword, 
(For  the  poor  craven   bridegroom   said  never  a 

word,) 
"  0  come  ye  in  peace  here,  oi  rome  ye  in  war. 
Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar  ?'* 

"I  long  woo'd  your  daug?  jer,  my  suit  you  denied: 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,but  ebbs  like  its  tide ; 
And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine, 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine. 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland,  more  lovely  by  far, 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Lochin- 
var." 

The  bride  kiss'd  the  goblet:  the  knight  took  it  up, 
He  quaflPd  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the 

cup. 
She  look'd  down  to  blush,  and  she  look'd  up  to 

sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips,  and  a  tear  in  her  eye, 
He  took  her  soft  hand,  ere  her  mother  could  bar,— 
"  Now  tread  we  a  measure  !"   said  young  Lochin- 
var. 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  his  face, 
That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace ; 
While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume. 
And  the  bride  groom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet  and 

plume ; 
And  the  bride-maidens  whisper'd,  "  'Twere  better 

by  far 
To  have  match'd    our    fair   cousin  with    young 
Lochinvar." 

One  touch  to  her  hand,  and  one  word  in  her  ear. 
When  they  reach'd  the  hall  door,  and  the  charger 

stood  near ; 
So  light  to  the  croup  the  fair  lady  he  swung. 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung  ! 
"  She  is  won  !  we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush,  and 

scaur ; 
They'll  have  fleet  steeds  that  follow,"  quoth  young 

Lochinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes  of  the  Neth- 
erby clan ; 

Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  the}--  rode  and 
they  ran : 

There  was  racing  and  chasing,  on  Cannobie  Lee, 

But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  seoi 


^60 


SCOTT. 


So  daring  in  love,  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochin- 
var? 

XIII. 

The  monarch  o'er  the  syren  hung, 

And  beat  the  measure  as  she  sung ; 

And,  pressing  closer,  and  more  near, 

He  whisper'd  praises  in  her  ear. 

In  loud  applause,  the  courtiers  vied  ; 

And  ladies  wink'd,  and  spoke  aside. 

.    The  witching  dame  to  Marmion  threw 

A  glance,  where  seem'd  to  reign 

The  pride  that  claims  applauses  due. 

And  of  her  royal  conquest,  too, 
A  real  or  feign'd  disdain: 
Familiar  was  the  look,  and  told, 
Marmion  and  she  were  friends  of  old. 

The  king  observed  their  meeting  eyes. 

With  something  like  displeased  surprise ; 

For  monarchs  ill  can  rivals  brook, 

E'en  in  a  word,  or  smile,  or  look. 

Straight  took  he  forth  the  parchment  broad, 

Which  Marmion 's  high  commission  show'd: 
"  Our  borders  sack'd  by  many  a  raid. 
Our  peaceful  liegemen  robb'd,"  he  said ; 
"  On  day  of  truce  our  warden  slain. 
Stout  Barton  kill'd  his  vessels  ta'en — 

Unworthy  were  we  here  to  reign. 

Should  these  for  vengeanc"  cry  in  vain ; 

Our  full  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn. 

Our  herald  has  *o  Henry  borne." 

XIV. 

He  paused,  and  led  where  Douglas  stood. 
And  with  stern  eye  the  pageant  view'd: 

I  mean  that  Douglas,  sixth  of  yore. 

Who  coronet  of  Angus  bore. 
And,  when  his  blood  and  heart  were  high, 
Did  the  third  James  in  camp  defy. 
And  all  his  minions  led  to  die 

On  Lauders  dreary  flat : 
Princes  and  favourites  long  grew  tame. 
And  trembled  at  the  homely  name 

Of  Archibald  Bell-the-cat ; 
The  same  who  left  the  dusky  vale 
Of  Hermitage  in  Liddesdale, 

Its  dungeons,  and  its  towers. 
Where  Bothwell's  turrets  brave  the  air. 
And  Bothwell  bank  is  blooming  fair. 

To  fix  his  princely  bowers. 
Though  now,  in  age,  he  had  laid  down 
His  armour  for  the  peaceful  gown, 

And  for  a  staff  his  brand  ; 
iTet  often  would  flash  forth  the  fire, 
That  could,  in  youth,  a  monarch's  ire 

And  minion's  pride  withstand  ; 
And  e'en  that  day,  at  council  board. 

Unapt  to  sooth  his  sovereign's  mood, 
,   Against  the  war  had  Angus  stood. 
And  chafed  his  royal  lord. 

XV. 

His  giant  form,  like  ruin'd  tower. 

Though  fallen  its  muscles'  brawny  vaunt. 
Huge-boned,  and  tall,  and  grim,  and  gaunt, 

Seem'd  o'er  the  gaudy  scene  to  lower: 


His  locks  and  beard  in  silver  grew ; 
His  eyebrows  kept  their  sable  hue. 
Near  Douglas  when  the  monarch  stood. 
His  bitter  speech  he  thus  pursued : — 
"  Lord  Marmion,  since  these  letters  say, 
That  in  the  north  you  needs  must  stay. 

While  slightest  hopes  of  peace  remain, 
Uncourteous  speech  it  were,  and  stern. 
To  say— Return  to  Lindisfarn, 
Until  my  herald  come  again. — 
Then  rest  you  in  Tantallon  hold ; 
Your  host  shall  be  the  Douglass  bold,— 
A  chief  unlike  his  sires  of  old. 
He  wears  their  motto  on  his  blade. 
Their  blazon  o'er  his  towers  display'd ; 
Yet  loves  his  sovereign  to  oppose. 
More  than  to  face  his  country's  foes. 
And,  I  bethink  me,  by  St.  Stephen, 
But  e'en  this  morn  to  me  was  given 
A  prize,  the  first  fruits  of  the  war, 
Ta'en  by  a  galley  from  Dunbar, 
A  bevy  of  the  maids  of  heaven. 
Under  your  guard,  these  holy  maids 
Shall  safe  return  to  cloister  shades. 
And,  while  they  at  Tantallon  stay. 
Requiem  for  Cochran's  soul  may  say." 
And,  with  the  slaughter'd  favourite  name. 
Across  the  monarch's  brow  there  came 
A  cloud  of  ire,  remorse,  and  shame. 

XVI. 

In  answer  naught  could  Angus  speak  ; 

His  proud  heart  swell'd  well  nigh  to  break  J 

He  turn'd  aside,  and  down  his  cheek 

A  burning  tear  there  stole. 
His  hand  the  monarch  sudden  took. 
That  sight  his  kind  heart  could  not  Irook ; 

"  Now,  by  the  Bruce's  soul, 
Angus,  my  hasty  speech  forgive ! 
For  sure  as  doth  his  spirit  live. 
As  he  said  of  the  Douglas  old, 

I  well  may  say  of  you, — 
That  never  king  did  subject  hold. 
In  speech  more  free,  in  war  more  bold. 

More  tender,  and  more  true  ;* 
Forgive  me,  Douglas,  once  again."— 
And,  while  the  king  his  hand  did  strain. 
The  old  man's  tears  fell  down  like  rain. 
To  seize  the  moment  Marmion  tried. 
And  whisper'd  to  the  king  aside  : 
"  0  !  let  such  tears  unwonted  plead 
For  respite  short  from  dubious  deed  ! 
A  child  will  weep  a  bramble's  smart, 
A  maid  to  see  her  sparrow  part, 
A  stripling  for  a  woman's  heart: 
But  wo  awaits  a  country,  when 
She  sees  the  tears  of  bearded  men. 
Then,  O  !  what  omen,  dark  and  high 
When  Douglas  wets  his  manly  eye  !' 

XVII. 

Displeased  was  James,  that  stranger  view'd 
And  tamper'd  with  his  changing  mood. 


♦  O,  Dowglas!    Dowglas! 
Tendir  and  irew.— 7%c  Houlate. 


MARMION. 


661 


"  Laugh  those  that  can,  weep  those  that  may," 

Thus  did  the  fiery  monarch  say, 

«*  Southward  I  march  by  break  of  day : 

And  if  within  Tantallon  strong, 

The  good  Lord  Marmion  tarries  long, 

Perchance  our  meeting  next  may  fall 

At  Tamworth,  in  his  castle  hall." — 

The  haughty  Marmion  felt  the  taunt, 

And  answer'd,  grave,  the  royal  vaun  : 

"  Much  honour'd  were  my  humble  home. 

If  in  its  hall  king  Jan.es  would  come ; 

But  Nottingham  has  archers  good, 

And  Yorkshiremen  are  stern  of  mood  ; 

Northumbrian  prickers  wild  and  rude. 

On  Derby  hills  the  paths  are  steep : 

In  Ouse  and  Tyne  the  fords  are  deep : 

And  many  a  banner  will  be  torn. 

And  many  a  knight  to  earth  be  borne. 

And  many  a  sheaf  of  arrows  spent, 

Ere  Scotland's  king  shall  cross  the  Trent : 

Yet  pause,  brave  prince,  while  yet  you  may." 

The  monarch  lightly  turn'd  away, 

And  to  his  nobles  loud  did  call, — 

«  Lords,  to  the  dance,— a  hall !  a  hall  !"* 

Himself  his  cloak  and  sword  flung  by. 

And  led  dame  Heron  gallantly  ; 

And  minstrels  at  the  roj'al  order, 

3,ung  out — "  Blue  bonnets  o'er  the  border." 

XVIIf. 
Leave  we  these  revels  now,  to  tell 
What  to  St.  Hilda's  maids  befell. 
Whose  galley,  as  they  sail'd  again 
To  Whitby,  by  a  Scot  was  ta'en. 
Now  at  Dun-Edin  did  they  bide, 
Till  James  should  of  their  fate  decide  ; 

And  soon,  by  his  command. 
Were  gently  summon 'd  to  prepare 
To  journey  under  Marmion's  care. 
As  escort  honour'd,  safe,  and  fair. 

Again  to  English  land. 
The  abbess  told  her  chaplet  o'er. 
Nor  knew  which  saint  she  should  implore ; 
For,  when  she  thought  of  Constance,  sore 

She  fear'd  Lord  Marmion's  mood. 
And  judge  what  Clara  must  have  felt ! 
The  sword,  that  hung  in  Marmion's  belt. 

Had  drunk  De  Wilton's  blood. 
Unwittingly,  King  James  had  given, 

As  guard  to  Whitby's  shades. 
The  man  most  dreaded  under  heaven 

By  these  defenceless  maids ; 
Yet  what  petition  could  avail. 
Or  w^ho  would  listen  to  the  tale 
Of  woman,  prisoner,  and  nun. 
Mid  bustle  of  a  war  begun  ? 
They  deem'd  it  hopeless  to  avoid 
The  convoy  of  their  dangerous  guide. 

XIX. 
Their  lodging,  so  the  king  assign'd. 
To  Marmion's  as  their  guardian,  join'd  ; 
And  thus  it  fell,  that,  passing  nigh. 
The  palmer  caught  the  abbess'  eye, 
Who  warn'd  him  by  a  scroll. 


*  The  ancient  cry  to  make  room  for  a  dance,  or  pageant. 


She  had  a  secret  to  reveal. 

That  much  concern'd  the  church's  weal, 

And  health  of  sinner's  soul ; 
And  with  deep  charge  of  secrecy. 

She  named  a  place  to  meet. 
Within  an  open  balcony, 
That  hung  from  dizzy  pitch,  and  high. 

Above  the  stately  street ; 
To  which,  as  common  to  each  home. 
At  night  they  might  in  secret  come. 

XX. 

At  night,  in  secret,  there  they  came. 
The  palmer  and  the  holy  dame. 
The  moon  among  the  clouds  rode  high, 
And  all  the  city  hum  was  by. 

Upon  the  street,  where  late  before 

Did  din  of  war  and  warriors  roar. 
You  might  have  heard  a  pebble  fall, 

A  beetle  hum,  a  cricket  sing, 

An  owlet  flap  his  boding  wing 
On  Gile's  steeple  tall. 
The  antique  buildings,  climbing  high, 
Whose  Gothic  frontlets  sought  the  sky. 

Were  here  wrapt  deep  in  shade ; 
There  on  their  brows  the  moonbeam  broke 
Through  the  faint  wreaths  of  silvery  smoke. 

And  on  the  casement  play'd. 
And  other  light  was  none  to  see. 

Save  torches  gliding  far. 
Before  some  chieftain  of  degree. 
Who  left  the  royal  revelry 

To  bowne  him  for  the  war, — 
A  solemn  scene  the  abbess  chose  ! 
A  solemn  hour,  her  secret  to  disclose. 

XXL 

"  0,  holy  palmer  !"  she  began, — 
"  For  sure  he  must  be  sainted  man. 
Whose  blessed  feet  have  trod  the  ground 
Where  the  Redeemer's  tomb  is  found ; — 
For  his  dear  church's  sake,  my  tale 
Attend,  nor  deem  of  light  avail, 
Though  I  must  speak  of  earthly  love, — 
How  vain  to  those  who  wed  above  ! 
De  Wilton  and  Lord  Marmion  woo'd 
Clara  de  Clare,  of  Gloster's  blood  ; 
(Idle  it  were  of  Whitby's  dame. 
To  say  of  that  same  blood  I  came  ;) 
And  once,  when  jealous  rage  was  high, 
Lord  Marmion  said  despiteously, 
Wilion  was  traitor  in  his  heart, 
And  had  made  league  with  Martin  Swart, 
When  he  came  here  on  Simnel's  part ; 
And  only  cowardice  did  restrain 
His  rebel  aid  on  Stokefield's  glain, — 
And  down  he  threw  his  glove : — the  thing 
Was  tried,  as  wont,  before  the  king ; 
Where  frankly  did  De  Wilton  own. 
That  Swart  in  Guelders  he  had  known  ; 
And  that  between  them  then  there  went 
Some  scroll  of  courteous  compliment. 
For  this  he  to  his  castle  sent ; 
But  when  his  messenger  return'd, 
Judge  how  De  Wilton's  fury  burn'd ! 


662 


SCOTT. 


For  in  his  packet  there  were  laid 
Letters  that  claim'd  disloyal  aid, 
And  proved  King  Henry's  cause  betray'd. 
His  fame  thus  blighted,  in  the  field 
He  strove  to  clear,  by  spear  and  shield  ;— 
To  clear  his  fame  in  vain  he  strove. 
For  wondrous  are  His  ways  above  ! 
Perchance  some  form  was  unobserved : 
Perchance  in  prayer,  or  faith  he  swerved ; 
Else  how  could  guiltless  champion  quail, 
Or  how  the  blessed  ordeal  fail  ? 

XXII. 

'  His  squire,  who  now  De  Wilton  saw 
As  recreant  doom'd  to  suffer  law. 

Repentant,  own'd  in  vain, 
That,  while  he  had  the  scrolls  in  care, 
A  stranger  maiden,  passing  fair, 
Had  drench'd  him  with  a  beverage  rare  ; 

His  words  no  faith  could  gain. 
With  Clare  alone  he  credence  won, 
Who,  rather  than  wed  Marmion, 
Did  to  St.  Hilda's  shrine  repair. 
To  give  our  house  her  livings  fair, 
And  die  a  vestal  votaress  there — 
The  impulse  from  the  earth  was  given, 
But  bent  her  to  the  paths  of  heaven. 
A  purer  heart  a  lovelier  maid. 
Ne'er  shelter'd  her  in  Whitby's  shade, 
No,  not  since  Saxon  Edelfled ; 
Only  one  trace  of  earthly  stain, 

That  for  her  lover's  loss 
She  cherishes  a  sorrow  vain. 
And  murmurs  at  the  cross. — 
And  then  her  heritage, — it  goes 

Along  the  banks  of  Tame  ; 
Deep  fields  of  grain  the  reaper  mows. 
In  meadows  rich  the  heifer  lows, 
The  falconer,  and  huntsman,  knows     ' 

Its  woodlands  for  the  game. 
Shame  were  it  to  Saint  Hilda  dear, 
And  I,  her  humble  votaress  here. 

Should  do  a  deadly  sin. 
Her  temple  spoil'd  before  mine  eyes. 
If  this  false  Marmion  such  a  prize 

By  my  consent  should  win  ; 
Yet  hath  our  boisterous  monarch  sworn. 
That  Clare  shall  from  our  house  be  torn : 
And  grievous  cause  have  I  to  fear, 
Such  mandate  doth  Lord  Marmion  bear. 

XXIIL 

"  Now,  prisoner,  helpless,  and  betray'd 
To  evil  power,  I  claim  thine  aid. 

By  every  step  that  thou  hast  trod 
To  holy  shrine,  and  grotto  dim, 
By  every  martyr's  tortured  limb, 
By  angel,  saint,  and  seraphim, 

And  by  the  church  of  God  • 
For  mark: — When  Wilton  was  betray'd, 
And  with  his  squire  forged  letters  laid, 
She  was,  alas  !  that  sinful  maid, 

By  w^hom  the  deed  was  done,— 
O  !  shame  ind.  horror  to  be  said. 

She  was  -a  perjured  nun  ? 


No  clerk  in  all  the  land,  like  her, 
Traced  quaint  and  varying  character. 
Perchance  you  may  a  marvel  deem, 

That  Marmion 's  paramour 
(For  such  vile  thing  she  was)  should  schemt 

Her  lover's  nuptial  hour ; 
But  o'er  him  thus  she  hoped  to  gain, 
As  privy  to  his  honour's  stain, 

Illimitable  power. 
For  this  she  secretly  retain'd 

Each  proof  that  might  the  plot  reveal, 

Instructions  with  his  hand  and  seal : 
And  thus  Saint  Hilda  deign 'd. 
Though  sinners  perfidy  impure. 
Her  house's  glory  to  secure. 

And  Clare's  immortal  weal. 

XXIV. 
«  'Twere  long  and  needless,  here  to  tell, 
How  to  my  hand  these  papers  fell ; 

With  me  they  must  not  stay. 
Saint  Hilda  keep  her  abbess  true  ! 
Who  knows  what  outrage  he  might  da 

While  journeying  by  the  way. — 

0  blessed  saint,  if  e'er  again 

1  venturous  leave  thy  calm  domain. 
To  travel  or  by  land  or  main. 

Deep  penance  may  I  pay  ! 
Now,  saintly  palmer,  mark  my  prayer' 
1  give  this  packet  to  thy  care. 
For  thee  to  stop  they  will  not  dare ; 

And,  O  !  with  cautious  speed! 
To  Wolsey's  hand  the  papers  bring. 
That  he  may  show  them  to  the  king ; 

And,  for  thy  well-earn'd  meed. 
Thou  holy  man,  at  Whitby's  shrine 
A  weekly  mass  shall  still  be  thine. 

While  priests  can  sing  and  read. — 
What  ail'st  thou  P— Speak  !" — For  as  he  took 
The  charge  a  strong  emotion  shook 

His  frame  ;  and,  ere  reply. 
They  heard  a  faint,  yet  shrilly  tone. 
Like  distant  clarion  feebly  blown. 

That  on  the  breeze  did  die  ; 
And  loud  the  abbess  shriek'd  in  fear, 
"  Saint  Withold  save  us ! — What  is  .here .? 

Look  at  yon  city  cross  ! 
See  on  its  battled  tower  appear 
Phantoms,  that  scutcheons  seem  to  rear 

And  blazon  banners  toss  !" 

XXV. 

Dun-Edin's  cross,  a  pillar'd  stone, 
Rose  on  a  turret  octagon  ; 

(But  now  is  razed  that  monument. 
Whence  royal  edict  rang. 

And  voice  of  Scotland's  law  was  sent 
In  glorious  trumpet  clang. 
O !  be  his  tomb  as  lead  to  lead, 
Upon  its  dull  destroyer's  head  ! 
A  minstrel's  malison*  is  said. — ) 
Then  on  its  battlements  they  saw 
A  vision,  passing  nature's  law. 

Strange,  wild,  and  dimly  seen  ; 

*  i.  e.  curse. 


MARMION. 


663 


Figures  that  seem'd  to  rise  and  die, 
Gibber  and  sign,  advance  and  fly, 
While  naught  confirm'd  could  ear  or  eye 

Discern  of  sound  or  mien. 
Yet  darkly  did  it  seem,  as  there 
Heralds  and  pursuivants  prepare, 
With  trumpet  sound,  and  blazon'd  fair, 

A  summons  to  proclaim  ; 
But  indistinct  the  pageant  proud, 
As  fancy  forms  of  midnight  cloud. 
When  flings  the  moon  upon  her  shroud 

A  wavering  tinge  of  flame ; 
It  flits,  expands,  and  shifts,  till  loud, 
From  midmost  of  the  spectre  crowd, 

This  awful  summons  came  : 

XXVI. 
«  Prince,  prelate,  potentate,  and  peer, 

Whose  names  I  now  shall  call, 
Scottish,  or  foreigner,  give  ear  ! 
Subjects  of  him  who  sent  me  here. 
At  his  tribunal  to  appear, — 

I  summon  one  and  all: 
I  cite  you  by  each  deadly  sin. 
That  e'er  hath  soil'd  your  hearts  within ; 
I  cite  you  by  each  brutal  lust. 
That  e'er  defiled  your  earthly  dust, 

By  wrath,  by  pride,  by  fear. 
By  each  o'ermastering  passion's  tone, 
By  the  dark  grave,  and  dying  groan  ! 
When  forty  days  are  past  and  gone, 
I  cite  you,  at  your  monarch's  throne. 

To  answer  and  appear." — 
Then  thunder'd  forth  a  roll  of  names : 
The  first  was  thine,  unhappy  James  ? 

Then  all  thy  nobles  came  ; 
Crawford,  Glencairn,  Montrose,  Argyle, 
Ross,  Bothwell,  Forbes,  Lennox,  Lyle, — 
Why  should  I  tell  their  separate  style  ? 

Each  chief  of  birth  and  fame. 
Of  lowland,  highland,  border,  isle, 
Foro-doomed  to  Flodden's  carnage  pile. 

Was  cited  there  by  name  ; 
And  Marmion,  Lord  of  Fontenaye, 
Of  Lutterward,  and  Scrivelbay, 
De  Wilton,  erst  of  Aberley, 
The  self  same  thundering  voice  did  say, — 

But  then  another  spoke : 
"Thy  fatal  summons  I  deny. 
And  thine  infernal  lord  defy, 
Appealing  me  to  Him  on  high. 

Who  burst  the  sinner's  yoke." 
At  that  dread  accent,  with  a  scream, 
Parted  the  pageant  like  a  dream. 

The  summoner  was  gone. 
Prone  on  her  face  the  abbess  fell. 
And  fast,  and  fast,  her  beads  did  tell ; 
Her  nuns  came  startled  by  the  yell. 

And  found  her  there  alone. 
She  mark'd  not,  at  the  scene  aghast, 
What  time,  or  how,  the  palmer  pass'd. 

XXVIL 

Shift  we  the  scene. — The  camp  doth  move, 
Dun-Edin's  streets  are  empty  now, 

Save  when,  for  weal  of  those  they  love, 
To  pray  the  prayer  and  vow  the  vow. 


The  tottering  child,  the  anxious  fair. 
The  gray-haired  sire,  with  pious  care, 
To  chapels  and  to  shrines  repaij;. — 
Where  is  the  palmer  now  ?  and  where 
The  abbess,  Marmion,  and  Clare  !— 
Bold  Douglas  !  to  Tantallon  fair 

They  journey  in  thy  charge  : 
Lord  Marmion  rode  on  his  right  hand, 
The  palmer  still  was  with  the  band  ; 
Angus,  like  Lindesay,  did  command. 

That  none  should  roam  at  large. 
But  in  that  palmer's  alter'd  mien 
A  wondrous  change  might  now  be  seen  ; 

Freely  he  spoke  of  war. 
Of  marvels  wrought  by  single  hand, 
When  lifted  for  a  native  land  ; 
And  still  look'd  high  as  if  he  plann'd 

Some  desperate  deed  afar. 
His  courser  would  he  feed  and  stroke, 
And,  tucking  up  his  sable  frock, 
Would  first  his  metal  bold  provoke, 

Then  soothe  and  quell  his  pride. 
Old  Hubert  said,  that  never  one 
He  saw,  excef  t  Lord  Marmion, 

A  steed  so  fairly  ride. 

xxvin. 

Some  half-hour's  march  behind,  there  came, 
By  Eustace  govern'd  fair, 

A  troop  escorting  Hilda's  dame, 
With  all  her  nuns  and  Clare. 

No  audience  had  Lord  Marmion  sought ; 
Ever  he  fear'd  to  aggravate 
Clara  de  Clare's  suspicious  hate  ; 

And  safer  'twas  he  thought. 
To  wait  till  from  the  nuns  removed. 
The  influence  of  kinsmen  loved. 
And  suit  by  Henry's  self  approved. 

Her  slow  consent  had  wrought. 

His  was  no  flickering  flame,  that  dies 

Unless  when  fann'd  by  looks  and  sighs, 

And  lighted  oft  at  lady's  eyes ; 

He  long'd  to  stretch  his  wide  command 

O'er  luckless  Clara's  ample  land: 

Besides,  when  Wilton  with  him  vied, 

Although  the  pang  of  humbled  pride 

The  place  of  jealousy  supplied, 

Yet  conquest,  by  that  meanness  won, 

He  almost  loatited  to  think  upon, 

Led  him,  at  times,  to  hate  the  cause 

Which  made  him  burst  through  honour's  laws. 

If  e'er  he  lov'd  'twas  her  alone. 

Who  died  within  that  vault  of  stone. 

XXIX. 

And  now  when  close  at  hand  they  saw 
North-Berwick's  town,  and  lofty  Law, 
Fitz-Eustacc  bade  them  pause  awhile 
Before  a  venerable  pile, 

Whose  turrets  view'd  afar 
The  lofty  Bass,  the  Lambie  Isle, 

The  ocean's  peace  or  war. 
At  tolling  of  a  bell,  forth  came 
The  convent's  venerable  dame, 
And  pray'd  saint  Hilda's  abbess  rest 
With  her  a  loved  and  ho  ^ur'd  guestj 


664 


SCOTT. 


Till  Douglas  should  a  bark  prepare. 
To  waft  her  back  to  Whitby  fair. 
Glad  was  the  %bbess,  you  may  guess. 
And  thank'd  the  Scottish  prioress : 
And  tedious  'twere  to  tell,  I  ween, 
The  courteous  speech  that  pass'd  between. 
O'erjoy'd  the  nuns  their  palfreys  leave ; 
But  when  fair  Clara  did  intend, 
Like  them,  from  horseback  to  descend, 
Fitz-Eustaqe  said, — "  I  grieve, 
Fair  lady,  grieve  e'en  from  my  heart, 
Such  gentle  company  to  part ; — 

Think  not  discourtesy. 
But  lords'  commands  must  be  obey'dj 
And  Marmion  and  the  Douglas  said, 
That  you  must  wend  with  me. 
Lord  Marmion  hath  a  letter  broad. 
Which  to  the  Scottish  earl  he  show'd, 
Commanding,  that  beneath  his  care, 
Without  delay,  you  shall  repair 
To  your  good  kinsmen.  Lord  Fitz-Clare." 

XXX. 

The  startled  abbess  loud  exclaim'd  ; 
But  she  at  whom  the  blow  was  aim'd. 
Grew  pale  as  death,  and  cold  as  lead  ;— 
She  deem'd  she  heard  her  death  doom  read. 
•'  Cheer  thee,  my  child  !"  the  abbess  said, 
"  They  dare  not  tear  thee  from  my  hand, 
To  ride  alone  with  armed  band."— 

"  Nay,  holy  mother,  nay," 
Fitz- Eustace,  said  "  the  lovely  Clare 
Will  be  in  Lady  Angus'  care, 

In  Scotland  while  we  stay  ; 
And,  when  we  move,  an  easy  ride 
Will  bring  us  to  the  English  side. 
Female  attendants  to  provide 

Befitting  Gloster's  heir ; 
Nor  thinks,  nor  dreams,  my  noble  lord. 
By  slightest  look,  or  act,  or  word. 

To  harass  lady  Clare  ; 
Her  faithful  guardian  he  will  be. 
Nor  sue  for  slightest  cojirtesy 

That  even  to  stranger  falls. 
Till  he  shall  place  her,  safe  and  free, 

W^ithin  her  kinsman's  halls." 
He  spoke,  and  blush'd  with  earnest  grace 
His  faith  was  painted  on  his  face. 

And  Clare's  worst  fear  relieved. 
The  lady  abbess  loud  t'xclaim'd 
On  Henry,  and  the  Douglas  blamed. 

Entreated  threaten 'd  grieved; 
To  martyr,  saint,  and  prophet  pray'd, 
Against  Lord  Marmion  inveigh 'd. 
And  call'd  the  prioress  to  aid. 
To  curse  with  candle,  bell,  and  book.— 
Her  head  the  grave  Cistertian  shook : 
*  The  Douglas  and  the  king,"  she  said, 
"  In  their  commands  will  be  obey'd  ; 
Grieve  not,  nor  dream  that  harm  can  fall 
The  maiden  in  Tantallon  hall." 

XXXI. 

The  abbess,  seeing  strife  was  vain, 

Assumed  her  wonted  state  again,— 

For  much  of  state  she  had, — 


Composed  her  veil,  and  raised  her  head. 
And — "  Bid,"  in  solemn  voice  she  said, 

"  Thy  master,  bold  and  bad. 
The  records  of  his  house  turn  o'er. 

And,  when  he  there  shall  written  see. 

That  one  of  his  own  ancestry 

Drove  the  monks  forth  of  Coventry, 
Bid  him  his  fate  explore ! 

Prancing  in  pride  of  earthly  trust. 

His  charger  hurl'd  him  to  the  dust. 

And,  by  a  base  plebeian  thrust. 
He  died  his  band  before. 

God  judge  'twixt  Marmion  and  me  j 
He  is  a  chief  of  high  degree. 
And  I  a  poor  recluse ; 

Yet  oft,  in  holy  writ,  we  see 
Even  such  weak  minister  as  me 
May  the  oppressor  bruise : 

For  thus,  inspired,  did  Judith  slay 
The  mighty  in  his  sin, 

And  Jael  thus,  and  Deborah," — 
Here  hasty  Blount  broke  in: 
"  Fitz-Eustace,  we  must  march  our  band  | 
St.  Anton'  fire  thee !  wilt  thou  stand 
All  day  with  bonnet  in  thy  hand. 

To  hear  the  lady  preach  ? 
By  this  good  light !  if  thus  we  stay. 
Lord  Marmion,  for  our  fond  delay 

Will  sharper  sermon  teach. 
Come,  don  thy  cap,  and  mount  thy  horse ; 
The  dame  must  patience  take  perforce."— 

XXXII. 

"  Submit  we  then  to  force,"  said  Clare ; 
"  But  let  this  barbarous  lord  despair 

His  purposed  aim  to  win  ; 
Let  him  take  living,  land,  and  life  ; 
But  to  be  Marmion 's  wedded  wife 

In  me  were  deadly  sin  : 
And  if  it  be  the  king's  decree, 
That  I  must  find  no  sanctuary. 
Where  even  a  homicide  might  come. 

And  safely  rest  his  head, 
Though  at  its  open  portals  stood. 
Thirsting  to  pour  forth  blood  for  blood. 

The  kinsmen  of  the  dead, — 
Yet  one  asylum  is  my  own, 

Against  the  dreaded  hour  ; 
A  low,  a  silent,  and  a  lone. 

Where  kings  have  little  power. 
One  victim  is  before  me  there. — 
Mother,  your  blessing,  and  in  prayer 
Remember  your  unhappy  Clare  !" — 
Loud  weeps  the  abbess,  and  bestows 

Kind  blessings  many  a  one  ; 
Weeping  and  wailing  loud  arose 
Round  patient  Clare,  the  clamorous  woes 

Of  every  simple  nun. 
His  eyes  the  gentle  Eustace  dried. 
And    scarce    rude  Blount    the    sight  could 
bide. 

Then  took  the  squire  her  rein. 
And  gently  led  away  her  steed. 
And,  by  each  courteous  word  and  deed. 

To  cheer  her  strove  in  vain. 


MARMION. 


G65 


XXXIII. 

Then  bade  his  band  they  should  array 

But  scant  three  miles  the  band  had  rode, 

For  march  against  the  dawning  day. 

When  o'er  a  height  they  pass'd, 

And,  sudden,  close,  before  them  show'd 

His  towers,  Tantallon  vast ; 

Broad,  massive,  high,  and  stretching  far, 

INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  VI. 

And  held  impregnable  in  war. 

TO    RICHARD    HEBER,    ESQ. 

On  a  projecting  rock  they  rose. 

And  round  three  sides  the  ocean  flows, 

Mertoun-House^  Christmas 

The  fourth  did  battled  walls  enclose, 

Heap  on  more  wood  I — the  wind  is  chill ; 

And  double  mound  and  fosse. 

But,  let  it  whistle  as  it  will. 

By  narrow  drawbridge,  outworks  strong. 

We'll  keep  our  Christmas  merry  still. 

Through  studded  gates,  an  entrance  long 

Each  age  has  deem'd  the  new-born  year 

To  the  main  court  they  cross. 

The  fittest  time  for  festal  cheer: 

It  was  a  wide  and  stately  square: 

Even,  heathen  yet,  the  savage  Dane 

Around  were  lodgings  fit  and  fair, 

At  lol  more  deep  the  mead  did  drain  ; 

And  towers  of  various  form.. 

High  on  the  beach  his  galleys  drew, 

Which  on  the  court  projected  far. 

And  feasted  all  his  pirate  crew  ; 

And  broke  its  lines  quadrangular. 

Then  in  his  low  and  pine-built  hall. 

Here  was  square  keep,  there  turret  high, 

Where  shields  and  axes  deck'd  the  wall, 

Or  pinnacle  that  sought  the  sky. 

They  gorged  upon  the  half-dress'd  steer; 

Whence  oft  the  warder  could  descry 

Caroused  in  sees  of  sable  beer  ; 

The  gathering  ocean  storm. 

While  round,  in  brutal  jest,  were  thrown 

The  half-gnaw'd  rib,  and  marrow  bone; 

XXXIV. 

Or  listen'd  all,  in  grim  delight. 

Here  did  they  rest — The  princely  care 

While  scalds  yell'd  out  the  joys  of  fight. 

Of  Douglas,  why  should  I  declare, 

Then  forth,  in  frenzy,  would  they  hie, 

Or  say  they  met  reception  fair  ? 

While  wildly  loose  their  red  locks  fly. 

Or  why  the  tiding  say. 

And,  dancing  round  the  blazing  pile. 

Which,  varying,  to  Tantallon  came. 

They  make  such  barbarous  mirth  the  while. 

By  hurrying  posts  or  fleeter  fame, 

As  best  might  to  the  mind  recall 

With  every  varying  day  ? 

The  boisterous  jo3-s  of  Odin's  hall. 

A.nd,  first,  they  heard  king  James  had  won 

And  well  our  Christian  sires  of  old 

Etal,  and  Wark,  and  Ford  ;  and  then, 

Loved  when  the  year  its  course  had  roll'd. 

That  Norham  castle  strong  was  ta'en. 

And  brought  blithe  Christmas  back  again. 

At  that  sore  marvell'd  Marmion  ; — 

With  all  his  hospitable  train. 

And  Douglas  hoped  his  monarch's  hand 

Domestic  and  religious  rite 

Would  soon  subdue  Northumberland: 

Gave  honour  to  the  holy  night : 

But  whisper'd  news  there  came, 

On  Christmas  eve  the  bells  were  rung; 

That,  while  his  host  inactive  lay, 

On  Christmas  eve  the  mass  was  sung : 

And  melted  by  degrees  away. 

That  only  night,  in  all  the  year, 

King  James  was  dallying  off  the  day 

Saw  the  stoled  priest  the  chalice  rear. 

With  Heron's  wily  dame. 

The  damsel  donn'd  her  kirtle  sheen  ; 

Such  acts  to  chronicles  I  j'ield  ; 

The  hall  was  dress'd  with  holy  green ; 

Go  seek  them  there,  and  see 

Forth  to  the  wood  did  merry-men  go. 

Mine  is  a  tale  of  Flodden  field, 

To  gather  in  the  misletoe. 

And  not  a  history. — 

Then  open'd  wide  the  baron's  hall, 

At  length  they  heard  the  Scottish  host 

To  vassal,  tenant,  serf,  and  all ; 

On  that  high  ridge  had  made  their  post. 

Power  laid  his  rod  of  rule  aside, 

Which  frowns  o'er  Millfield  plain  ; 

And  ceremony  dofPd  her  pride. 

And  that  brave  Surrey  many  a  band 

The  heir,  with  roses  in  his  shoes : 

Had  gather'd  in  the  southern  land, 

That  night  might  village  partner  choose  j 

And  march'd  into  Northumberland, 

The  lord,  underogating,  share 

And  camp  at  Wooler  ta'en. 

The  vulgar  game  of  "  post  and  pair." 

Marmion,  like  charger  in  the  stall, 

All  hail'd,  with  uncontroll'd  delight. 

That  hears,  without,  the  trumpet-call. 

And  general  voice,  the  happy  night, 

Began  to  chafe  and  swear : 

That  to  the  cottage,  as  the  crown. 

«  A  sorry  thing  to  hide  my  head 

Brought  tidings  of  salvation  down. 

In  castle  like  a  fearful  maid. 

The  fire,  with  well-dried  logs  supplied. 

When  such  a  field  is  near  I 

Went  roaring  up  the  chimney  wide  ; 

Needs  must  I  see  this  battle-day  : 

The  huge  hall-table's  oaken  face. 

Death  to  my  fame,  if  such  a  fray 

Scrubb'd  till  it  shone,  the  day  to  grace. 

Were  fought,  and  Marmion  away  ! 

Bore  then  upon  its  massive  board 

The  Douglas  too,  I  wot  not  why. 

No  mark  to  part  the  squire  and  lord. 

Hath  'bated  of  his  courtesy : 

Then  was  brought  in  the  lusty  brawn. 

No  longer  in  his  iialls  I'll  stay." 

By  old  blue-coated  serving-man  ; 

C66 


SCOTT. 


Then  the  grim  boar's-head  frown 'd  on  high, 
Crested  with  bays  and  rosemary. 
Well  can  the  green-garb'd  ranger  tell, 
How,  when,  and  where,  the  monster  fell ; 
What  dogs  before  his  death  he  tore. 
And  all  the  baiting  of  the  boar. 
The  wassel  round,  in.  good  brown  bowls. 
Garnish'd  with  ribands,  blithely  trowls. 
There  the  huge  surloin  reek'd  ;  hard  by 
Plum-porridge  stood,  and  Christmas  pie ; 
Nor  fail'd  old  Scotland  to  produce. 
At  such  high-tide,  her  savoury  goose. 
Then  came  the  merry  masquers  in. 
And  carols  roar'd  with  blithesome  din  ; 
If  unmelodious  was  the  song. 
It  was  a  hearty  note,  and  strong. 
Who  lists  may  in  their  mumming  see 
Traces  of  ancient  mystery  ; 
While  shirts  supplied  the  masquerade, 
And  smutted  cheeks  the  visors  made ; 
But,  0  !  what  masquers,  richly  dight 
Can  boast  of  bosoms  half  so  light ! 
England  was  merry  England,  when  , 
Old  Christmas  brought  his  sports  again. 
'Twas  Christmas  broach'd  the  mightiest  ale ; 
'Twas  Christmas  told  the  merriest  tale  ; 
A  Christmas  gambol  oft  could  cheer 
The  poor  man's  heart  through  half  the  year. 

Still  linger  in  our  northern  clime 
Some  remnants  of  the  good  old  time ; 
And  still,  within  our  valleys  here, 
We  hold  the  kindred  title  dear, 
E'en  when,  perchance,  its  far-fetch'd  claim 
To  southern  ear  sounds  empty  name  ; 
For  course  of  blood,  our  proverbs  deem, 
Is  warmer  than  the  mountain  stream,* 
And  thus  my  Christmas  still  I  hold 
Where  my  great-grandsire  came  of  old 
With  amber  beard,  and  flaxen  hair, 
And  reverend,  apostolic  air, 
The  feast  and  holy-tide  to  share, 
And  mix  sobriety  with  wine, 
And  honest  mirth  with  thoughts  divine ; 
Small  thought  was  his,  in  after  time, 
E'er  to  be  hitch 'd  inco  a  rhyme. 
The  simple  sire  could  only  boast 
That  he  was  loyal  to  his  cost ; 
The  banish'd  race  of  kings  revered. 
And  lost  his  land, — but  kept  his  beard. 

In  these  dear  halls,  where  welcome  kin 
Is  with  fair  liberty  combined  ; 
Where  cordial  friendship  gives  the  hand, 
And  flies  constraint  the  magic  wand 
Of  the  fair  dame  that  rules  the  land. 
Little  we  heed  the  tempest  drear. 
While  music,  mirth,  and  social  cheer. 
Speed  on  their  wings  the  passing  year. 
And  Mertoun's  halls  are  fair  e'en  now, 
When  not  a  leaf  is  on  the  bough. 
Tweed*  loves  them  well,  and  turns  again, 
As  loath  to  leave  the  sweet  domain. 
And  holds  his  mirror  to  her  face. 
And  clasps  her  with  a  close  embrace : — 

♦  "Blood  is  warmer  than  water,"— a  proverb  meant  to 
•indicate  our  family  predilections. 


Gladly  as  he,  we  seek  the  dome. 

And  as  reluctant  turns  us  home. 

How  just,  that,  at  this  time  of  glee, 

My  thoughts  should,  Heber,  turn  to  thee ! 

For  many  a  merry  hour  we've  known. 

And  heard  the  chimes  of  midnight's  tone. 

Cease,  then,  my  friend  !  a  moment  cease. 

And  leave  these  classic  tones  in  peace  ! 

Of  Roman  and  of  Grecian  lore 

Sure  mortal  brain  can  hold  no  more. 

These  ancients,  as  Noll  Bluflf  might  say. 

"Were  pretty  fellows  in  their  day:"* 

But  time  and  tide  o'er  all  prevail — 

On  Christmas  eve  a  Christmas  tale — 

Of  wonder  and  of  war. — "  Profane  ! 

What !  leave  the  lofty  Latin  strain. 

Her  stately  prose,  her  verse's  charms^ 

To  hear  the  clash  of  rustic  arms  ; 

In  fairy  land  or  limbo  lost. 

To  jostle  conjuror  and  ghost. 

Goblin  and  witch  !" — Nay,  Heber  dear^ 

Before  you  touch  my  charter,  hear ; 

Though  Leyden  aids,  alas  !  no  more 

My  cause  with  many-languaged  lore, 

This  may  I  say : — in  realms  of  death 

Ulysses  meets  Alcides'  wraith  ^ 

jEneas,  upon  Thracia's  shore, 

The  ghost  of  murder'd  Polydore  ; 

For  omens,  we  in  Livy  cross. 

At  every  turn,  locutus  bos. 

As  grave  and  truly  speaks  that  ox, 

As  if  he  told  the  price  of  stocks ; 

Or  held,  in  Rome  republican, 

The  place  of  common-councilman. 

All  nations  have  their  omens  drear. 
Their  legends  wild  of  wo  and  fear. 
To  Cambria  look — the  peasant  see, 
Bethink  him  of  Glendowerdy, 
And  shun  "  the  spirit's  blasted  tree." 
The  Highlander,  whose  red  claymore 
The  battle  turn'd  on  Maida's  shore, 
Will,' on  a  Friday  morn,  look  pale. 
If  ask'd  to  tell  a  fairy  tale ; 
He  fears  the  vengeful  elfin  king, 
Who  leaves  that  day  his  grassy  ring: 
Invisible  to  human  ken. 
He  walks  among  the  sons  of  men. 

Didst  e'er,  dear  Heber,  pass  along 
Beneath  the  towers  of  Franchemont, 
Which,  like  an  eagle's  nest  in  air. 
Hangs  o'er  the  stream  and  hamlet  fair  ?— 
Deep  in  their  vaults,  the  peasants  say, 
A  mighty  treasure  buried  lay, 
Amass'd,  through  rapine  and  through  wrong. 
By  the  last  Lord  of  Franchemont. 
The  iron  chest  is  bolted  hard, 
A  huntsman  sits,  its  constant  guard ; 
Around  his  neck  his  horn  is  hung. 
His  hanger  in  his  belt  is  slung; 
Before  his  feet  his  bloodhounds  lie ; 
An  'twere  not  for  his  gloomy  eye. 
Whose  withering  glance  no  heart  can  brook, 
As  true  a  huntsman  doth  he  look. 


*  "Hannibal  was  a  pretty  fellow,  sir— a  very  pretty 
fellow  in  his  day."— OZd  Bachelor. 


MARMION 


66: 


As  bugle  e'er  in  brake  did  sound, 

Or  ever  halloo'd  to  a  hound. 

To  chase  the  fiend,  and  win  the  prize. 

In  that  same  dungeon  ever  tries 

An  aged  Necromantic  priest ; 

It  is  an  hundred  years,  at  least, 

Since  'twixt  them  first  the  strife  begun, 

And  neither  yet  has  lost  or  won. 

And  oft  the  conjuror's  words  will  make 

The  stubborn  demon  groan  and  quake ; 

And  oft  the  bands  of  iron  break, 

Or  bursts  one  lock,  that,  still  amain, 

Fast  as  'tis  open'd,  shuts  again. 

That  magic  strife  within  the  tomb 

May  last  until  the  day  of  doom. 

Unless  th'  adept  shall  learn  to  tell 

The  very  word  that  clench'd  the  spell. 

When  Franchemont  lock'd  the  treasure-cell. 

An  hundred  years  are  past  and  gone. 

And  scarce  three  letters  has  he  won. 

Such  general  superstition  may 
Excuse  for  old  Pitscottie  say  ; 
Whose  gossip  history  has  given 
My  song  the  messenger  from  heaven. 
That  warn'd,  in  Lithgow,  Scotland's  king, 
Nor  less  the  infernal  summoning; 
May  pass  the  monk  of  Durham's  tale, 
Whose  demon  fought  in  Gothic  mail ; 
May  pardon  plead  for  Fordon  grave. 
Who  told  of  Gifford's  goblin  cave. 
But  why  such  instances  to  you, 
WhOi  in  an  instant,  can  review 
Your  treasured  hoards  of  various  lore. 
And  furnish  twenty  thousand  more  ? 
Hoards,  not  like  theirs  whose  volumes  rest 
Like  treasures  in  the  Franchemont  chest ; 
While  gripple  owners  still  refuse 
To  others  what  they  cannot  use, — 
Give  them  the  priest's  whole  century, 
They  shall  not  spell  j'ou  letters  three; 
Their  pleasure  in  the  books  the  same 
The  magpie  takes  in  pilfer'd  gem. 
Thy  volumes,  open  as  thy  heart. 
Delight,  amusement,  science,  art, 
To  every  ear  and  eye  impart ; 
Yet  who,  of  all  who  thus  employ  them, 
Can,  like  the  owner's  self,  enjoy  them  ? 
But,  hark  !  I  hear  the  distant  drum : 
The  day  of  Flodden  field  is  come.-^ 
Adieu,  dear  Heber  !  life  and  health, 
And  store  of  literary  wealth. 


Canto  VI. 

THE   BATTLE. 
I. 

While  great  events  were  oh  the  gale, 
And  each  hour  brought  a  varying  tale, 
And  the  demeanour,  changed  and  cold. 
Of  Douglas,    fretted  Marmion  bold. 
And,  like  the  impatient  steed  of  war. 
He  snulPd  the  battle  from  afar ; 
And  hopes  were  none,  that  back  again 
Herald  should  come  from  Terouenne, 


Where  England's  king  in  leaguer  lay, 

Before  decisive  battle-day ; — 

While  these  things  were,  the  mournful  Clare 

Did  in  the  dame's  devotions  share : 

For  the  good  countess  ceaseless  pray*d, 

To  Heaven  and  saints,  her  sons  to  aid, 

And,  with  short  interval,  did  pass 

From  prayer  to  book,  from  book  to  mass. 

And  all  in  high  baronial  pride,— »• 

A  life  both  dull  and  dignified  ; — 

Yet  as  Lord  Marmion  nothing  press'd 

Upon  her  intervals  of  rest. 

Dejected  Clara  well  could  bear 

The  formal  state,  the  lengthen'd  prayer, 

Though  dearest  to  her  wounded  heart 

The  hours  that  she  might  spend  apart. 

n. 

I  said,  Tantallon's  dizzy  steep 

Hung  o'er  the  margin  of  the  deep. 

Many  a  rude  tower  and  rampart  there 

Repell'd  the  insult  of  the  air, 

Which,  when  the  tempest  vex'd  the  sky, 

Half  breeze,  half  spray,  came  whistling  by 

Above  the  rest,  a  turret  square      • 

Did  o'er  its  Gothic  entrance  bear. 

Of  sculpture  rude,  a  stony  shield  ;  i 

The  Bloody  Heart  was  in  the  field. 

And  in  the  chief  three  mullets  stood, 

The  cognizance  of  Douglas  blood. 

The  turret  held  a  narrow  stair. 

Which,  mounted,  gave  you  access  where 

A  parapet's  embattled  row 

Did  seaward  round  the  castle  go. 

Sometimes  in  dizzy  steps  descending, 

Sometimes  in  narrow  circuit  bending. 

Sometimes  in  platform  broad  extending, 

Its  varying  circle  did  combine 

Bulwark,  and  bartizan,  and  line. 

And  bastion,  tower,  and  vantage-coign  ; 

Above  the  booming  ocean  leant 

The  far-projecting  battlement ; 

The  billows  burst,  in  ceaseless  flow, 

Upon  the  precipice  below. 

Where'er  Tantallon  faced  the  land. 

Gate-works,  and  walls,  were  strongly  mann'dt 

No  need  upon  the  sea-girt  side  ; 

The  steepy  rock  and  frantic  tide. 

Approach  of  human  step  denied: 

And  thus  these  lines  and  ramparts  rude, 

Were  left  in  deepest  solitude. 

in. 

And,  for  they  were  so  lonely,  Clare 
Would  to  these  battlements  repair. 
And  muse  upon  her  sorrows  there. 

And  list  the  sea-bird's  cry; 
Or,  slow  like  noontide  ghost,  would  glide 
Along  the  dark  gray  bulwark's  side. 
And  ever  on  the  heaving  tide 

Look  down  with  weary  eye. 
Oft  did  the  clifF,  and  swelling  main. 
Recall  the  thoughts  of  Whitby's  fame, — 
A  home  she  ne'er  might  see  again : 

For  she  had  laid  adown, 


SCOTT. 


So  Douglas   bade,  the  hood  and  veil, 
And  frontlet  of  the  cloister  pale, 

And  Benedictine  gown : 
It  were  unseemly  sight  he  said, 
A  novice  out  of  convent  shade. — 
Now  her  bright  locks,  with  sunny  glow, 
Again  adorn'd  her  brow  of  snow  ; 
Her  mantle  rich,  whose  borders,  round, 
A  deep  and  fretted  broidery  bound. 
In  golden  foldings  sought  the  ground ; 
Of  holy  ornament,  alone 
Remain'd  a  cross  of  ruby  stone ; 

And  often  did  she  look 
On  that  which  in  her*hand  she  bore. 
With  velvet  bound,  and  broider'd  o'er 

Her  breviary  book. 
In  such  a  place,  so  lone,  so  grim. 
At  dawning  pale,  or  twilight  dim. 

It  fearful  would  have  been. 
To  meet  a  form  so  richly  dress'd. 
With  book  in  hand,  and  cross  on  breast, 

And  such  a  woful  mien. 
Fitz-Eustace,  loitering  with  his  bow 
To  practise  on  the  gull  and  crow. 
Saw  her,  at  distance,  gliding  slow. 

And  did  by  Mary  swear, — 
Some  lovelorn  fay  she  might  have  been. 
Or,  in  romance,  some  spell-bound  queen  ; 
For  ne'er,  in  work-day  world,  was  seen 

A  form  so  witching  fair. 

IV. 
Once  walking  thus  at  evening  tide, 
It  chanced  a  gliding  sail  she  spied. 
And,  sighing,  thought — "  The  abbess  there, 
Perchance,  does  to  her  home  repair ; 
Her  peaceful  rule,  where  duty,  free. 
Walks  hand  in  hand  with  charity  ; 
Where  oft  devotion's  tranced  glow 
Can  such  a  glimpse  of  heaven  bestow. 
That  the  enraptured  sisters  see 
High  vision,  and  deep  mystery  ; 
The  very  form  of  Hilda  fair. 
Hovering  upon  the  sunny  air. 
And  smiling  on  her  votaries'  prayer. 
0  !  wherefore,  to  mj*  duller  eye, 
Did  still  the  saint  her  form  deny  ! 
Was  it,  that,  seared  by  sinful  scorn. 
My  heart  could  neither  melt  nor  burn  .' 
Or  lie  my  warm  affections  low 
With  him,  that  taught  them  first  to  glow  { 
Yet,  gentle  abbess,  well  I  knew. 
To  pay  thy  kindness  grateful  due, 
And  well  could  brook  the  mild  command, 
That  rule  thy  simple  maiden  band. — 
How  different  now  !  condemn'd  to  bide 
My  doom  from  this  dark  tyrant's  pride. 
But  Marmion  has  to  learn,  ere  long. 
That  constant  mind,  and  hate  of  wrong, 
Descended  to  a  feeble  girl 
From  red  De  Clare,  stout  Gloster's  earl ; 
Of  such  a  stem  a  sapling  weak. 
He  ne'er  shall  bend,  although  he  break. 

V. 
••  But  see  ! — what  makes  this  armour  here  .?'* 
For  in  her  path  there  lay 


Targe,  corselet,  helm ; — she  view'd  them  near,- 
"  The  breastplate  pierced  ! — Ay,  much  I  fear. 
Weak  fence  wert  thou  'gainst  foeman's  spear 
That  hath  made  fatal  entrance  here, 

As  these  dark  blood-gouts  say.— 
Thus  Wilton  ! — O  !  not  corselet's  ward, 
Not  truth,  as  diamond  pure  and  hard. 
Could  be  thy  manly  bosom's  guard 

On  yon  disastrous  day  !" — 
She  raised  her  eyes  in  mournful  mood, — 
Wilton  himself  before  her  stood  ! 
It  might  have  seem'd  his  passing  ghost. 
For  every  youthful  grace  was  lost ; 
And  joy  unwonted,  and  surprise, 
Gave  their  strange  wildness  to  his  eyes. 
Expect  not,  noble  daraos  and  lords. 
That  I  can  tell  such  scene  in  words: 
What  skilful  limner  e'er  would  choose 
To  paint  the  rainbow's  varying  hues. 
Unless  to  mortal  it  were  given 
To  dip  his  brush  in  dies  of  heaven  ? 

Far  less  can  my  weak  line  declare 
Each  changing  passion's  shade  ; 

Brightening  to  rapture  from  despair. 

Sorrow,  surprise,  and  pit}'  there, 

And  joy,  with  her  angelic  air. 

And  hope,  that  paints  the  future  fair, 
Their  varying  hues  display'd : 
Each  o'er  its  rival's  ground  extending, 
Alternate  conquering,  shifting,  blending 
Till  all,  fatigued,  the  conflict  yield. 
And  mighty  love  retains  the  field. 
Shortly  I  tell  what  then  he  said. 
By  many  a  tender  word  delay'd. 
And  modest  blush,  and  bursting  sigh. 
And  question  kind,  and  fond  reply. 


VI. 


DE   WILTON  S   HISTORY. 

"  Forget  we  that  disastrous  day. 

When  senseless  in  the  lists  I  lay. 

Thence  dragg'd, — but  how  I  cannot  knov 
For  sense  and  recollection  ficd, 

I  found  me  on  a  pallet  low. 

Within  my  ancient  beadsman's  shed. 

Austin, — rememberest  thou,  my  Clare, 
How  thou  didst  blush  when  the  old  maw. 
When  first  our  infant  love  began. 

Said  we  would  make  a  matchless  pair  r 
Menials,  and  friends,  and  kinsmen  fled 
From  the  degraded  traitor's  bed, — 
He,  only,  held  my  burning  head. 
And  tended  me  for  many  a  day  ! 
While  wounds  and  fever  held  their  sway 
But  far  more  needful  was  his  care 
When  sense  return'd,  to  wake  despair 
For  I  did  tear  the  closing  wound, 
And  dash  me  frantic  on  the  grourid, 
If  e'er  I  heard  the  name  of  Clare. 

At  length,  to  calmer  reason  brought, 

Much  by  his  kind  attendance  wrought. 
With  him  I  left  my  native  strand. 

And,  in  a  palmer's  weeds  array'd, 

My  hated  name  and  form  to  shade, 
I  journey'd  many  a  land ; 


MARMION. 


669 


No  more  a  lord  of  rank  and  birth, 

But  mingled  with  the  dregs  of  earth. 

Oft  Austin  for  my  reason  fear'd, 
When  I  would  sit,  and  deeply  brood 
On  dark  revenge,  and  deeds  of  blood, 

Or  wild  mad  schemes  uprear'd. 
My  friend  at  length  fell  sick,  and  said, 

God  would  remove  him  soon  ; 
And,  while  upon  his  dying  bed. 

He  begg'd  of  me  a  boon — 
If  ere  my  deadliest  enemy 
Beneath  my  brand  should  conquer'd  lie, 
E'en  then  my  mercy  should  awake, 
And  spare  his  life  for  Austin's  sake. 

VII. 

"  Still  restless  as  a  second  Cain, 

To  Scotland  next  my  route  was  ta'en. 

Full  well  the  paths  I  knew. 
Fame  of  my  fate  made  various  sound, 
That  death  in  pilgrimage  I  found, 
That  I  had  perish'd  of  my  wound, — 

]^one  cared  which  tale  was  true  : 
And  living  eye  could  never  guess 
De  Wilton  in  his  palmer's  dress : 

For,  now  that  sable  slough  is  shed. 

And  trimm'd  my  shaggy  beard  and  head, 

I  scarcely  know  me  in  the  glass. 

A  chance  most  wondrous  did  provide. 

That  I  should  be  that  baron's  guide — 
I  will  not  name  his  name  ! — 

Vengeance  to  God  alone  belongs  ; 

But,  when  I  think  on  all  my  wrongs, 
My  blood  is  liquid  flame  ! 
And  ne'er  the  time  shall  I  forget, 
When,  in  a  Scottish  hostel  set, 

Dark  looks  we  did  exchange  ; 
What  were  his  thoughts  I  cannot  tell ; 
But  in  my  bosom  muster'd  hell 

Its  plans  of  dark  revenge. 

VIII. 
"  A  v/ord  of  vulgar  augury. 
That  broke  from  me,  I  scarce  knew  why. 

Brought  on  a  village  tale ; 
Which  wrought  upon  his  moody  sprite. 
And  sent  him  armed  forth  by  night. 

I  borrow'd  steed  and  mail. 
And  weapons,  from  his  sleeping  band  ; 

And,  passing  from  a  postern  door. 
We  met,  and  'counter'd,  hand  to  hand, — 

He  fell  on  GifFord  moor. 
For  the  death  stroke  my  brand  I  drew 
(0  then  my  helmed  head  he  knew. 

The  palmer's  cowl  was  gone,) 
Then  had  three  inches  of  my  blade 
The  heavy  debt  of  vengeance  paid, — 
My  hand  the  thought  of  Austin  stay'd 

I  left  him  there  alone. — 
O,  good  old  man  !  e'en  from  the  grave. 
Thy  spirit  could  thy  master  save  : 
If  I  had  slain  my  foeman,  ne'er 
Had  Whitby's  abbess,  in  her  fear. 
Given  to  my  hand  this  packet  dear. 
Of  power  to  clear  my  injured  fame. 
And  vindicate  De  Wilton's  name. — 


Perchance  you  heard  the  abbess  tell 
Of  the  strange  pageantry  of  hell, 

That  broke  our  secret  speech- 
It  rose  from  the  infernal  shade. 
Or  featly  was  some  juggle  play'd, 

A  tale  of  peace  to  teach. 
Appeal  to  Heaven  I  judged  was  best. 
When  my  name  came  among  the  rest. 

IX. 

"  Now  here,  within  Tantallon  hold. 
To  Douglas  late  my  tale  I  told, 
To  whom  my  house  was  known  of  old. 
Won  by  my  proofs,  his  falchion  bright. 
This  eve  anew  shall  dub  me  knight. 
These  were  the  arms  that  once  did  turn 
The  tide  of  fight  on  Otterburne, 
And  Harry  Hotspur  forced  to  yield, 
When  the  dead  Douglas  won  the  field. 
These  Angus  gave — his  armour's  care. 
Ere  morn,  shall  every  breach  repair; 
For  naught,  he  said,  was  in  his  halls. 
But  ancient  armour  on  the  walls. 
And  aged  chargers  in  the  stalls. 
And  women,  priests',  and  gray-hair'd  men; 
The  rest  were  all  in  Twisel  glen.* 
And  now  I  watch  my  armour  here, 
By  law  of  arms,  till  midnight's  near; 
Then,  once  again  a  belted  knight. 
Seek  Surrey's  camp  with  dawn  of  light. 

X. 

"  There  soon  again  we  meet,  my  Clare  ! 
This  baron  means  to  guide  thee  there : 
Douglas  reveres  his  king's  command. 
Else  would  he  take  thee  from  his  band. 
And  there  thy  kinsman,  Surrey,  too. 
Will  give  De  Wilton  justice  due. 
Now  meeter  far  for  martial  broil. 
Firmer  my  limbs,  and  strung  by  toil. 

Once  more" "  0,  Wilton  !  must  we  then 

Risk  new-found  happiness  again. 

Trust  fate  of  arms  once  more  ? 

And  is  there  not  an  humble  glen. 

Where  we,  content  and  poor. 
Might  build  a  cottage  in  the  shade, 
A  shepherd  thou,  and  I  to  aid 

Thy  task  on  dale  and  moor  ? — 
That  reddening  brow  ! — too  well  I  know, 
Not  even  thy  Clare  can  peace  bestow. 

While  falsehood  stains  thy  name : 
Go  then  to  fight !  Clare  bids  thee  go 
Clare  can  a  warrior's  feelings  know, 

And  weep  a  warrior's  shame  ; 
Can  Red  Earl  Gilbert's  spirit  feel. 
Buckle  the  spurs  upon  thy  heel, 
And  belt  thee  with  thy  brand  of  steel. 
And  send  thee  forth  to  fame  !"— 

XI. 

That  night,  upon  the  rocks  and  bay. 
The  midnight  moonbeam  slumbering  lay. 
And  pour'd  its  silver  light,  and  pure. 
Through  loop  hole,  and  through  embrazure 
Upon  Tantallon  tower  and  hall ; 

♦  Where  James  encamped  before  taking  post  at  Floddea 


670 


SCOTT. 


But  chief  were  arched  windows  wide 

XIII. 

Illuminate  the  chapel's  pride. 

The  sober  glances  fall. 

Not  far  advanced  was  morning  day. 

Much  was  there  need ;  though,  seam'd  with  scars. 

When  Marmion  did  his  troop  array 

Two  veterans  of  the  Douglas'  wars, 
Though  two  gray  priests  were  there, 

To  Surrey's  camp  to  ride  ; 

He  had  safe  conduct  for  his  band. 

And  each  a  blazing  torch  held  high, 

Beneath  the  royal  seal  and  hand. 

You  could  not  by  their  blaze  descry 

And  Douglas  gave  a  guide  ; 

The  chapel's  carving  fair. 

The  ancient  earl,  with  stately  grace, 

Amid  that  dim  and  smoky  light. 

Would  Clara  on  her  palfrey  place. 

Checkering  the  silvery  moonshine  bright. 

And  whisper'd,  in  an  under  tone. 

A  bishop  by  the  altar  stood. 

«  Let  the  hawk  stoop,  his  prey  is  flown.*' 

A  noble  lord  of  Douglas'  blood. 

The  train  from  out  the  castle  drew. 

With  mitre  sheen,  and  rocquet  white. 

But  Marmion  stopp'd  to  bid  adieu  : — 

Yet  show'd  his  meek  and  thoughtful  eye 

«  Though  something  I  might  plain,"  he  said. 

But  little  pride  of  prelacy  ; 

"  Of  cold  respect  to  stranger  guest, 

More  pleased  that,  in  a  barbarous  age. 

Sent  hither  by  your  king's  behest. 

He  gave  rude  Scotland  Virgil's  page. 

While  in  Tantallon's  towers  I  stay'd ; 

Than  that  beneath  his  rule  he  held 

Part  we  in  friendship  from  jovr  land. 

The  bishopric  of  fair  Dunkeld. 

And,  noble  earl,  receive  my  hand." 

Beside  him  ancient  Angus  stood. 

But  Douglas  round  him  drew  his  cloak, 

DofTd  his  fair  gown  and  sable  hood ; 

Folded  his  arms,  and  thus  he  spoke : — 

O'er  his  huge  form,  and  visage  pale, 

"  My  manors,  halls,  and  bowers,  shall  still 

He  wore  a  cap  and  shirt  of  mail ; 

Be  open,  at  my  sovereign's  will. 

And  lean'd  his  large  and  wrinkled  hand 

To  each  one  whom  he  lists,  howe'er 

Upon  the  huge  and  sweeping  brand 

Unmeet  to  be  the  owner's  peer. 

Which  wont,  of  yore,  in  battle  fray. 

My  castles  are  my  king's  alone. 

His  foeman's  limbs  to  shred  away. 

From  turret  to  foundation  stone — 

As  wood-knife  lops  the  sapling  spray. 

The  hand  of  Douglas  is  his  own  ; 

He  seem'd  as  from  the  tombs  around, 

And  never  shall  in  friendly  grasp 

Rising  at  judgment-day, 

The  hand  of  such  as  Marmion  clasp." 

Some  giant  Douglas   may  be  found 

In  all  his  old  array ; 

XIV. 

So  pale  his  face,  so  huge  his  limb, 

Burn'd  Marmion's  swarthy  cheek  like  fire. 

So  old  his  arms,  his  look  so  grim. 

And  shook  his  very  frame  for  ire, 

And— «  This  to  me  !"  he  said,— 

XII. 

"  An  'twere  not  for  thy  hoary  beard, 

Then  at  the  altar  Wilton  kneels. 

Such  hand  as  Marmion's  had  not  spared 

And  Clare  the  spurs  bound  on  his  heels ; 

To  cleave  the  Douglas'  head  ! 

And  think  what  next  he  must  have  felt, 

And,  first,  I  tell  thee,  haughty  peer. 

At  buckling  of  the  falchion  belt, 

He,  who  does  England's  message  here. 

And  judge  how  Clara  changed  her  hue, 

Although  the  meanest  in  her  state. 

While  fastening  to  her  lover's  side 

May  well,  proud  Angus,  be  thy  mate: 

A  friend,  whioh,  though  in  danger  tried. 

And,  Douglas,  more  I  tell  thee  here. 

He  once  had  found  untrue  ! 

E'en  in  thy  pitch  of  pride, 

Then  Douglas  struck  him  with  his  blade : 

Here,  in  thy  hold,  thy  vassals  near, 

«  Saint  Michael  and  saint  Andrew  aid. 

(Nay,  never  look  upon  your  lord, 

I  dub  thee  knight. 

And  lay  3''our  hands  upon  your  sword,) 

Anse,  Sir  Ralph,  De  Wilton's  heir ! 

I  tell  thee,  thou'rt  defied  ! 

For  king,  for  church,  for  lady  fair, 

And  if  thou  saidst,  I  am  not  peer 

See  that  thou  fight."— 

To  any  lord  in  Scotland  here. 

And  Bishop  Gawain,  as  he  rose. 

Lowland  or  highland,  far  or  near. 

Said—"  Wilton  !  grieve  not  for  thy  woes, 

Lord  Angus,  thou  hast  lied  !" 

Disgrace,  and  trouble ; 

On  the  earl's  cheek  the  flush  of  rage 

For  he,  who  honour  best  bestows, 

O'ercame  the  ashen  hue  of  age : 

May  give  thee  double." — 

Fierce  he  broke  forth  :  "■  And  dares  t  thou  taen 

De  Wilton  sobb'd,  for  sob  he  must— 

To  beard  the  lion  in  his  den, 

"  Where'er  I  meet  a  Douglas,  trust. 

The  Douglas  in  his  hall  ? 

That  Douglas  ismy  brother  !" 

And  hopest  thou  hence  unscath'd  to  go  ? 

•  Nay,  nay,"  old  Angus  said,  "  not  so ; 

No,  by  St.  Bride  of  Bothwell,  no  !— 

To  Surrey's  camp  thou  now  must  go. 

Up  drawbridge,  grooms — what,  warder,  ho  ! 

Thy  wrongs  no  longer  smother. 

Let  the  portcullis  fall." 

I  have  two  sons  in  yonder  field ; 

Lord  Marmion  turn'd, — well  was  his  need. 

And,  if  thou  meet'st  them  under  shield, 

And  dash'd  the  rowels  in  his  steed. 

Upon  them  bravely — do  thy  worst ; 

Like  arrow  through  the  archway  sprung. 

And  foul  fall  him  that  blenches  first !'» 

The  ponderous  gate  behind  him  rung : 

MARMION. 


67: 


To  pass  there  was  such  scanty  room, 
The  bars,  descending,  razed  his  plume. 

XV. 

The  steed  along  the  drawbridge  flies, 

Just  as  it  trembled  on  the  rise  ; 

Not  lighter  does  the  swallow  skira 

Along  the  smooth  lake's  level  brim: 

And  when  Lord  Marmion  reach'd  his  band. 

He  halts  and  turn'd  with  clenched  hand. 

And  shout  of  loud  defiance  pours. 

And  shook  his  gauntlet  at  the  towers. 

"Horse!     horse!"     the  Douglas    cried,   "and 

chase  !" 
But  soon  he  rein'd  his  fury's  pace ; 
"  A  royal  messenger  he  came, 
Though  most  unworthy  of  the  name. — 
A  letter  forged  !  St.  Jude  to  speed  ! 
Did  ever  knight  so  foul  a  deed  ? 
At  first  in  heart  it  liked  me  ill, 
When  the  king  praised  his  clerkly  skill. 
Thanks  to  St.  Bothan,  son  of  mine, 
Save  Gawain,  ne'er  could  pen  a  line: 
So  swore  I,  and  I  swear  it  still, 
Let  my  boy-bishop  fret  his  fill. — 
St.  Mary  mend  my  fiery  mood  ! 
Old  age  ne'er  cools  the  Douglas'  blood, 
I  thought  to  slay  him  where  he  stood. — 
*Tis  pity  of  him,  too,"  he  cried : 
"  Bold  can  he  speak,  and  fairly  ride  : 
I  warrant  him  a  warrior  tried." — 
With  this  his  mandate  he  recalls. 
And  slowly  seeks  his  castle's  halls. 

XV  L 
The  day  in  Marmion 's  journey  wore  ; 
Yet,  ere  his  passion's  gust  was  o'er. 
They  cross'd  the  heights  of  Stanrig-moor. 
His  troop  more  closely  there  he  scann'd. 
And  miss'd  the  palmer  from  the  band. 
«  Palmer  or  not,"  young  Blount  did  say, 
"  He  parted  at  the  peep  of  iay  ; 
€rOod  sooth  it  was  in  strange  array." 
"In  what  array  ?"  said  Marmion,  quick, 
"My  lord,  I  ill  can  spell  the  trick  ; 
fiut  all  night  long,  with  clink  and  bang. 
Close  to  my  couch  did  hammers  clang; 
At  dawn  the  falling  drawbridge  rang. 
And,  from  a  loop-hole  while  I  peep, 
Old  Bell-the-cat  came  from  the  keep, 
Wrapp'd  in  a  gown  of  sables  fair. 
As  fearful  of  the  morning  air ; 
Beneath,  when  that  was  blown  aside, 
A  rusty  shirt  of  mail  I  spied. 
By  Archibald  won  in  bloody  work. 
Against  the  Saracen  and  Turk : 
Last  night  it  hung  not  in  the  hall ; 
I  thought  some  marvel  would  befall. 
And  next  1  saw  them  saddled  lead 
Old  Cheviot  forth,  the  earl's  best  steed ; 
A  matchless  horse,  though  something  old, 
Prompt  to  his  paces,  cool  and  bold 
I  heard  the  sheriff  Shollo  say. 
The  earl  did  much  the  master*  pray 
To  use  him  on  the  battle  da}-- ; 

*  His  eldest  son,  the  master  of  Angus. 


But  he  preferr'd"— «  Nay,  Henry,  cease  I 
Thou  sworn  horse-courser,  hold  thy  peace. 
Eustace,  thou  bear'st  a  brain — I  pray, 
What  did  Blount  see  at  break  of  day  ?" 

XVH. 

"  In  brief,  my  lord,  we  both  descried 
(For  I  then  stood  by  Henry's  side) 
The  palmer  mount,  and  outward  ride, 

Upon  the  earl's  own  favourite  steed ; 
All  sheath'd  he  was  in  armour  bright. 
And  much  resembled  that  same  knight. 
Subdued  by  you  in  Cotswold  fight: 

Lord  Angus  wish'd  him  speed." 
The  instant  that  Fitz-Eustace  spoke, 
A  sudden  light  on  Marmion  broke ; — 
"  Ah  !  dastard  fool !  to  reason  lost !" 
He  mutter'd ;  «  'Twas  not  fay  nor  ghost, 
I  met  upon  the  moonlight  wold, 
But  living  man  of  earthly  mould.— 

O  dotage  blind  and  gross  ! 
Had  I  but  fought  as  wont,  one  thrust 
Had  laid  De  Wilton  in  the  dust. 

My  path  no  more  to  cross. — 
How  stand  we  now  ? — he  told  his  tale 
To  Douglas  ;  and  with  some  avail ; 

'Twas  therefore  gloom'd  his  rugged  brow.-» 
Will  Surrey  dare  to  entertain, 
'Gainst  Marmion,  charge  disproved  and  vain  ? 

Small  risk  of  that,  I  trow. 
Yet  Clare's  sharp  questions  must  I  shun  ; 
Must  separate  Constance  from  the  nun 

0  what  a  tangled  web  we  weave. 
When  first  we  practise  to  deceive  ! — 
A  palmer,  too  ! — no  wonder  why 

1  felt  rebuked  beneath  his  eye  : 

I  might  have  known  there  was  but  one 
Whose  look  could  quell  Lord  Marmion.'* 

XVIII. 

Stung  with  these  thoughts,  he  urged  to  speed 
His  troop,  and  reach'd,  at  eve,  the  Tweed, 
Where  Lennel's  convent  closed  their  march. 
(There  now  is  left  but  one  frail  arch. 

Yet  mourn  thou  not  its  cells  ; 
Our  time  a  fair  exchange  has  made  ; 
Hard  by,  in  hospitable  shade, 

A  reverend  pilgrim  dwells. 
Well  worth  the  whole  Bernardine  brood. 
That  e'er  wore  sandal,  frock,  or  hood.) 
Yet  did  Saint  Bernard's  abbot  there 
Give  Marmion  entertainment  fair. 
And  lodging  for  his  train,  and  Clare. 
Next  morn  the  baron  climb 'd  the  tower. 
To  view  afar  the  Scottish  power, 

Encamp'd  on  Flodden  edge ; 
The  white  pavilions  made  a  show. 
Like  remnants  of  the  winter  snow. 

Along  the  dusky  ridge. 
Long  Marmion  look'd:— at  length  his  eye 
■  Unusual  movement  might  descry. 

Amid  the  shifting  lines  : 
The  Scottish  host  drawn  out  appears. 
For,  flashing  on  the  hedge  of  spears 

The  eastern  sunbeam  shines. 


672 


SCOTT. 


Their  front  now  deepening,  now  extending, 
Their  flank  inclining,  wheeling,  bending, 
Now  drawing  back,  and  now  descending. 
The  skilful  Marmion  well  could  know 
They  watch  the  motion  of  some  foe. 
Who  traversed  on  the  plain  below. 

XIX. 

Even  so  it  was  : — From  Flodden  ridge 
The  Scots  beheld  the  English  host 
Leave  Barmore-wood,  their  evening  post, 
And  heedful  watch'd  them  as  they  cross'd 

The  Till  by  Twisel  bridge. 

High  sight  it  is,  and  haughty,  while 

They  dive  into  the  deep  defile ; 

Beneath  the  cavern 'd  clifF  they  fall. 

Beneath  the  castle's  airy  wall. 

By  rock,  by  oak,  by  hawthorn  tree. 

Troop  after  troop  are  disappearing ; 

Troop  after  troop  their  banners  rearing 
Upon  the  eastern  bank  you  see. 

Still  pouring  down  the  rocky  den. 
Where  flows  the  sullen  Till, 

And  rising  from  the  dim  wood  glen, 

Standards  on  standards,  men  on  men. 
In  slow  succession  still, 

And  sweeping  o'er  the  Gothic  arch. 

And  pressing  on,  in  ceaseless  march. 
To  gain  the  opposing  hill. 

That  morn,  to  many  a  trumpet-clang, 

Twisel !  thy  rock's  deep  echo  rang; 
And  many  a  chief  of  birth  and  rank, 
Saint  Helen  !  at  thy  fountain  drank. 
Thy  hawthorn  glade,  which  now  we  see 
In  springtide  bloom  so  lavishly. 
Had  then  from  manj-  an  axe  its  doom, 
To  give  the  marching  columns  room. 

XX. 

And  why  stands  Scotland  idly  now, 
Dark  Flodden  !  on  thy  airy  brow. 
Since  England  gains  the  pass  the'  while. 
And  struggles  through  the  deep  defile  ? 
What  checks  the  fiery  soul  of  James  ? 
Why  sits  that  champion  of  the  dames 

Inactive  on  his  steed, 
And  sees,  between  him  and  his  land. 
Between  him  and  Tweed's  southern  strand. 

His  host  lord  Surrey  lead  ? 
What  vails  the  vain  knight-crrant's  brand  !- 
0,  Douglas,  for  thy  leading  wand  ! 

Fierce  Randolph,  for  thy  speed ! 
0  for  one  hour  of  Wallace  wight. 
Or  well-skill'd  Bruce,  to  rule  the  fight. 
And  cry — "  Saint  Andrew  and  our  right  !'* 
Another  sight  had  seen  that  morn, 
From  fate's  dark  book  a  leaf  been  torn. 
And  Flodden  had  been  Bannock-bourne  ! — 
The  precious  hour  has  pass'd  in  vain, 
And  England's  host  has  gain'd  the  plain  ; 
Wheeling  their  march,  and  circling  still. 
Around  the  base  of  Flodden-hill. 

XXI. 

Ere  yet  the  bands  met  Marmion's  eye, 
Fitz-Eustace  shouted  loud  and  high,— 


"  Hark  !  hark  !  my  lord,  an  English  drum  ! 
And  see,  ascending  squadrons  come 

Between  Tweed's  river  and  the  hill. 
Foot,  horse,  and  cannon  : — hap  what  hap, 
My  basnet  to  a  'prentice  cap, 

Lord  Surrey's  o'er  the  Till ! 
Yet  more  !  yet  more  ! — how  fair  array 'd 
They  file  from  out  the  hawthorn  shade, 

And  sweep  so  gallant  by  ! 
With  all  their  banners  bravely  spread, 

And  all  their  armour  flashing  high. 
Saint  George  might  waken  from  the  dead, 

To  see  fair  England's  standards  fly.*' — 
«  Stint  in  thy  prate,"  quoth  Blount,"  thou'dstbett 
And  listen  to  our  lord's  behest." — 
With  kindling  brow  Lord  Marmion  said — 
"  This  instant  be  our  band  array'd ; 
The  river  must  be  quickly  cross'd* 
That  we  may  join  Lord  Surrey's  host. 
If  fight  king  James — as  well  I  trust. 
That  fight  he  will,  and  fight  he  must, — 
The  Lady  Clare  behind  our  lines 
Shall  tarry,  while  the  battle  joins.'* 

XXIL 

Himself  he  swift  on  horseback  threw, 
Scarce  to  the  abbot  bade  adieu. 

Far  less  would  listen  to  his  prayer. 

To  leave  behind  the  helpless  Clare. 
Down  to  the  Tweed  his  band  he  drew. 
And  mutter'd,  as  the  flood  they  view, 
"  The  pheasant  in  the  falcon's  claw. 
He  scarce  will  yield  to  please  a  daw : 
Lord  Angus  may  the  abbot  awe. 

So  Clare  shall  bide  with  me." 
Then  on  that  dangerous  ford,  and  deep, 
Where  to  the  Tweed  Leafs  eddies  creep, 

He  ventured  desperately : 
And  not  a  moment  will  he  bide. 
Till  squire,  or  groom,  before  him  ride; 
Headmost  of  all  he  stems  the  tide, 

And  stems  it  gallantly. 
Eustace  held  Clare  upon  her  horse. 

Old  Hubert  led  her  rein, 
Stoutly  they  braved  the  current's  course. 
And,  though  far  downward  driven  per  force. 

The  southern  bank  they  gain  ; 
Behind  them,  straggling,  came  to  shore, 

As  best  they  might,  the  train  : 
Each  o'er  his  head  his  yew-bow  bore, 

A  caution  not  in  vain  ; 
Deep  need  that  day  that  every  string, 
By  wet  unharm'd  should  sharply  ring. 
A  moment  then  Lord  Marmion  stay'd. 
And  breathed  his  steed,  his  men  array'd. 

Then  forward  moved  his  band, 
Until,  Lord  Surrey's  rear-guard  won. 
He  halted  by  a  cross  of  stone. 
That,  on  a  hillock,  standing  lone. 

Did  all  the  field  command. 

XXIIl. 
Hence  might  they  see  the  full  array 
Of  either  host,  for  deadly  fray  ; 
Their  marshall'd  line  stretch'd  east  and  west. 
And  fronted  north  and  south 


MARMION. 


673 


And  distant  salutation  past 

From  the  loud  cannon  mouth  : 
Not  in  the  close  successive  rattle, 
That  breathes  the  voice  of  modern  battle, 

But  slow  and  far  between. — 
The  hillock  gain'd,  Lord  Marmion  stay*d: 
"  Here,  by  this  cross,"  he  gently  said, 

"  You  well  may  view  the  scene. 
Here  shalt  thou  tarry,  lovely  Clare : 
O  think  of  Marmion  in  thy  prayer  ! 
Thou  wilt  not ! — well, — no  less  my  care 
Shall,  watchful,  for  thy  weal  prepare.— 
You,  Blount  and  Eustace,  are  her  guard, 

With  ten  pick'd  archers  of  my  train  ; 
With  England  if  the  day  go  hard, 

To  Berwick  speed  amain. — 
But,  if  we  conquer,  cruel  maid  ! 
My  spoils  shall  at  your  feet  be  laid, 

When  here  we  meet  again." — 
He  waited  not  for  answer  there ; 
And  would  not  mark  the  maid's  despair, 

Nor  heed  the  discontented  look 
From  either  squire  ;  but  spurr'd  amain. 
And,  dashing  through  the  battle  plain. 

His  way  to  Surrey  took. 

XXIV. 

"    -The  good  Lord  Marmion,  by  my  life  ! 
Welcome  to  danger's  hour  ! 

Short  greeting  serves  in  time  of  strife  :— 
Thus  have  I  ranged  my  power: 

Myself  will  rule  this  central  host, 
Stout  Stanley  fronts  their  right. 

My  sons  command  the  va'ward  post. 
With  Brian  Tunstall,  stainless  knight; 
Lord  Dacre,  with  his  horsemen  light. 
Shall  be  in  rearward  of  the  fight. 

And  succour  those  that  need  it  most. 
Now,  gallant  Marmion,  well  I  know. 
Would  gladly  to  the  vanguard  go ; 
Edmund,  the  admiral,  Tunstall  there. 
With  thee  their  charge  will  blithely  share  j 
There  fight  thine  own  retainers  too, 
Beneath  De  Burgh,  thy  steward  true."— 
"  Thanks,  noble  Surrey  !"  Marmion  said, 
Nor  further  greeting  there  he  paid  ; 
But,  parting  like  a  thunderbolt. 
First  in  the  vanguard  made  a  halt, 

Where  such  a  shout  there  rose 
Of  "  Marmion  !  Marmion  I"  that  the  cry 
Up  Flodden  mountain  shrilling  high. 
Startled  the  Scottish  foes. 

XXV. 

Blount  and  Fitz-Eustace  rested  still 
With  Lady  Clare  upon  the  hill ; 
On  which  (for  far  the  day  was  spent) 
The  western  sumbeams  now  were  bent ; 
The  cry  they  heard,  its  meaning  knew. 
Could  plain  their  distant  comrades  view; 
Sadly  to  Blount  did  Eustace  say, 
"  Unworthy  office  here  to  stay, 
No  hope  of  gilded  spurs  to-day. — 
But,  see  !  look  up — on  Flodden  bent. 
The  Scottish  foe  has  fired  his  tent." 
Vol.  III.— 43 


And  sudden,  as  he  spoke, 
From  the  sharp  ridges  of  the  hill. 
All  downward  to  the  banks  of  Till, 

Was  wreath'd  in  sable  smoke ; 
Volumed  and  vast,  and  rolling  far, 
The  cloud  enveloped  Scotland's  war, 

As  down  the  hill  they  broke ; 
Nor  martial  shout,  nor  minstrel  tone. 
Announced  their  march  ;  their  tread  alone. 
At  times  one  warning  trumpet  blown. 

At  times  a  stifled  hum. 
Told  England,  from  his  mountain  throne 

King  James  did  rushing  come. — 
Scarce  could  they  hear,  or  see  their  foes. 
Until  at  weapon  point  they  close. — 
They  close,  in  clouds  of  smoke  and  dust. 
With  sword-sway,  and  with  lance's  "-^irust; 

And  such  a  yell  was  there. 
Of  sudden  and  portentous  birth. 
As  if  men  fought  upon  the  earth, 
'  And  fiends  in  upper  air ; 
O  !  life  and  death  were  in  the  shout, 
Recoil  and  rally,  charge  and  rout. 

And  triumph  and  despair. 
Long  look'd  the  anxious  squires ;  their  tye 
Could  in  the  darkness  naught  descry. 

XXVL 

At  length  the  freshening  western  blast 
Aside  the  shroud  of  battle  cast ; 
And,  first,  the  ridge  of  mingled  spears 
Above  the  brightening  cloud  appears  ; 
And  in  the  smoke  the  pennons  flew. 
As  in  the  storm  the  white  sea-mew. 
Then  mark'd  they,  dashing  broad  and  far, 
The  broken  billows  of  the  war. 
And  plumed  crest  of  chieftains  brave. 
Floating  like  foam  upon  the  wave. 

But  naught  distinct  they  see: 
Wide  raged  the  battle  on  the  plain  ; 
Spears  shook,  and  falchions  flash'd  amain; 
Fell  England's  arrow-flight  like  rain  ; 
Crests  rose,  and  stoop'd,  and  rose  again, 

Wild  and  disorderly. 
Amid  the  scene  of  tumult,  high 
They  saw  Lord  Marmion 's  falcon  fly : 
And  stainless  Tunstall's  banner  white. 
And  Edmund  Howard's  lion  bright, 
Still  b€ar  them  bravely  in  the  fight ; 

Although  against  them  come. 
Of  gallant  Gordons  many  a  one. 
And  many  a  stubborn  highlandman. 
And  many  a  rugged  border  clan. 

With  Huntley,  and  with  Home. 

XXVIL 

Far  on  the  left,  unseen  the  while, 
Stanley  broke  Lennox  and  Argyle ; 
Though  there  the  western  mountaineer 
Rush'd  with  bare  bosom  on  the  spear. 
And  flung  the  feeble  targe  aside, 
And  with  both  hands  the  broadsword  plied  i 
'Twas  vain : — But  fortune,  on  the  right, 
With  fickle  smile,  cheer'd  Scotland's  fight 
Then  fell  that  spotless  banner  white, — 
The  Howard's  lion  fell ; 


674 


SCOTT. 


Yet  still  Lord  Marra ion's  falcon  flew 
With  wavering  flight,  while  fiercer  grew 

Around  the  battle  yell. 
The  border  slogan  rent  the  sky ! 
A  Home  !  a  Gordon  !  was  the  cry ; 

Loud  were  the  clanging  blows  ; 
Advanced, — forced  back, — now  low,  now  high. 

The  pennon  sunk  and  rose  ; 
As  bends  the  bark's  mast  in  the  gale, 
When  rent  are  rigging,  shrouds,  and  sail, 

It  waver'd  'mid  the  foes. 
No  longer  Blount  the  sight  could  bear: — 
"  By  heaven,  and  all  its  saints,  I  swear, 

I  will  not  see  it  lost ! 
Pitz-Eustace,  you  with  Lady  Clare 
May  bid  your  beads,  and  patter  prayer, — 

I  gallop  to  the  host." 
And  to  the  fray  he  rode  amain, 
Follow'd  by  all  the  archer  train. 
The  fiery  j'^outh,  with  desperate  charge, 
Made,  for  a  space,  an  opening  large, — 

The  rescued  banner  rose, — 
But  darkly  closed  the  war  around, 
Like  pine  tree  rooted  from  the  ground, 

It  sunk  among  the  foes. 
Then  Eustace  mounted  too  ; — ^yet  stay'd. 
As  loath  to  leave  the  helpless  maid, 

When,  fast  as  shaft  can  fly, 
Bloodshot  his  eyes,  his  nostrils  spread. 
The  loose  rein  dangling  from  his  head. 
Housing  and  saddle  bloody  red, 

Lord  Marmion's  steed  rush'd  by; 
And  Eustace,  maddening  at  the  sight, 

A  look  and  sign  to  Clara  cast. 

To  mark  he  would  return  in  haste. 
Then  plunged  into  the  fight. 

xxvin. 

Ask  me  not  what  the  maiden  feels, 
Left  in  that  dreadful  hour  alone: 

Perchance  her  reason  stoops,  or  reels  ; 
Perchancea  courage,  not  her  own. 
Braces  her  mind  to  desperate  tone. 

The  scatter'd  van  of  England  wheels ; — 
She  only  said,  as  loud  in  air 
The  tumult  roar'd,  "  Is  Wilton  there  ?" 
They  fly,  or,  madden'd  by  despair. 
Fight  but  to  die,—"  Is  Wilton  there  ?" 

With  that,  straight  up  the  hill  there  rode 
Two  horsemen  drench 'd  with  gore. 

And  in  their  arms,  a  helpless  load, 
A  wounded  knight  they  bore. 

His  hand  still  strain'd  the  broken  brand; 

His  arms  were  smear'd  with  blood  and  sand: 

Dragg'd  from  among  the  horses'  feet, 

With  dinted  shield,  and  helmet  beat, 

The  falcon  crest  and  plumage  gone, 

Can  that  be  haughty  Marmion  ! — 

Young  Blount  his  armour  did  unlace, 

And,  gazing  on  his  ghastly  face. 
Said — "  By  Saint  George,  he's  gone  ! 

That  spear-wound  has  our  master  sped, 

And  see  the  deep  cut  on  his  head  ! 
Good  night  to  Marmion." 

**  Unnurtured  Blount !  thy  brawling  cease : 

He  Does  his  eyes,"  said  Eustace ;  "  peace  I" 


XXIX. 

When,  dofF'd  his  casque,  he  felt  free  air 
Around  'gan  Marmion  wildly  stare: 
"  Where's  Harry  Blount  ?   Fitz-Eustace,  where , 
Linger  ye  here,  ye  hearts  of  hare  ? 
Redeem  my  pennon, — charge  again  ! 
Cry — *  Marmion  to  the  rescue  !' — Vain ! 
Last  of  my  race,  on  the  battle-plain 
That  shout  shall  ne'er  be  heard  again  ! — 
Yet  my  last  thought  is  England's :— fly. 
To  Dacre  bear  my  signet-ring : 
Tell  him  his  squadrons  up  to  bring: — 
Fitz-Eustace,  to  Lord  Surrey  hie  ; 
Tunstall  lies  dead  upon  the  field, 
His  lifeblood  stains  the  spotless  shield: 
Edmund  is  down  : — my  life  is  reft ; 
The  admiral  alone  is  left. 
Let  Stanley  charge  with  spur  of  fire, — 
With  Chester  charge,  and  Lancashire, 
Full  upon  Scotland's  central  host. 
Or  victory  and  England's  lost. — 
Must  I  bid  twice  ? — hence,  varlets,  fly ! 
Leave  Marmion  here  alone — to  die." 
They  parted,  and  alone  he  lay; 
Clare  drew  her  from  the  sight  away. 
Till  pain  rung  forth  a  lowly  moan. 
And  half  he  murmur'd, — "  Is  there  none. 

Of  all  my  halls  have  nurst, 
Page,  squire,  or  groom,  one  cup  to  bring 
Of  blessed  water  from  the  spring, 
To  slake  my  dying  thirst '" 

XXX. 

0,  woman  !  in  our  hours  of  ease, 
Uncertain,  coy,  and  hard  to  please. 
And  variable  as  the  shade 
By  the  light  quivering  aspen  made, — 
When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow, 
A  ministering  angel  thou  ! — 
Scarce  were  the  piteous  accents  said. 
When,  with  the  baron's  casque,  the  maid 

To  the  nigh  streamlet  ran  : 
Forgot  were  hatred,  wrongs,  and  fears. 
The  plaintive  voice  alone  she  hears, 

Sees  but  the  dying  man. 
She  stoop'd  her  by  the  runnel's  side. 

But  in  abhorrence  backward  drew; 
For,  oozing  from  the  mountain  side, 
Where  raged  the  war,  a  dark  red  tide 

Was  curdling  in  the  streamlet  blue. 
Where  shall  she  turn  ? — behold  her  mark 

A  little  fountain  cell. 
Where  water  clear  as  diamond  spark. 

In  a  stone  basin  fell. 
Above  some  half-worn  letters  saj'. 
Drink,  weary  pilgrim,  drink  and  pray 
For  the  kind  soul  of  Sybil  Grey, 

Who  built  this  cross  and  well. 
She  fill'd  the  helm,  and  back  she  hied. 
And  with  surprise  and  joy  espied 

A  monk  supporting  Marmion's  head  ; 
A  pious  man,  whom  duty  brought 
To  dubious  verge  of  battle  fought. 

To  shrive   the  dying,  bless  the  dead. 


MARMION. 


67£ 


xxxr. 

XXXIIL 

Deep  drank  Lord  Marmion  of  the  wave, 

By  this,  though  deep  the  evening  fell. 

And  as  she  stoop'd  his  brow  to  lave — 

Still  rose  the  battle's  deadly  swell. 

«'  Is  it  the  hand  of  Clare,"  he  said, 

For  still  the  Scots,  around  their  king. 

«« Or  injured  Constance,  bathes  my  head  ?" 

Unbroken,  fought  in  desperate  ring. 

Then,  as  remembrance  rose, — 

Where's  now  their  victor  va'ward  wing. 

"  Speak  not  to  me  of  shrift  or  prayer ! 

Where  Huntley,  and  where  Home  ?— 

I  must  redress  her  woes. 

0  for  a  blast  of  that  dread  horn, 

Short  space,  few  words  are  mine,  to  spare : 

On  Fontarabian  echoes  borne. 

Forgive  and  listen,  gentle  Clare  !" — 

That  to  King  Charles  did  come. 

«  Alas  !"  she  said,  «  the  while,— 

When  Rowland  brave,  and  Olivier, 

0  think  of  your  immortal  weal ! 

And  every  paladin  and  peer. 

In  vain  for  Constance  is  your  zeal ; 

On  Roncesvalles  died ! 

cUp Hiprl  at  Hnlv  T«1p  " 

Such  blast  might  warm  them,  :  %i  in  vain. 

one         uieu  ai  iioiy  isie. 

Lord  Marmion  started  from  the  ground. 

To  quit  the  plunder  of  the  slair , 

As  light  as  if  he  felt  no  wound ; 

And  turn  the  doubtful  day  again. 

Though  in  the  action  burst  the  tide. 

While  yet  on  Flodden  side. 

In  torrents,  from  his  wounded  side. 

Afar  the  royal  standard  flies. 

«  Then  it  was  truth  !"— he  said—"  I  knew 

And  round  it  toils,  and  bleeds,  and  dies. 

That  the  dark  presage  must  be  true. — 

Our  Caledonian  pride ! 

I  would  the  fiend,  to  whom  belongs 

In  vain  the  wish — for,  far  away, 

The  vengeance  due  to  all  her  wrongs, 

While  spoil  and  havoc  mark  their  way, 

Would  spare  me  but  a  day  ! 

Near  Sybil's  cross  the  plunderers  stray. — 

For  wasting  fire,  and  dying  groan, 

«  0,  lady,"  cried  the  monk,  "  away  !" — 

And  priests  slain  on  the  altar  stone, 

And  placed  her  on  her  steed. 

Might  bribe  him  for  delay. 

And  led  her  to  the  chapel  fair 

It  may  not  be  ! — this  dizzy  trance — 

Of  Tilmouth  upon  Tweed. 

Curse  on  yon  base  marauder's  lance, 

There  all  the  night  they  spent  in  prayer. 

And  doubly  cursed  my  failing  brand  ! 

And,  at  the  dawn  of  morning,  there 

A  sinful  heart  makes  feeble  hand." 

She  met  her  kinsman,  Lord  Fitz-Clare. 

Then,  fainting,  down  on  earth  he  sunk. 

Supported  by  the  trembling  monk. 

XXXIV. 

XXXII. 

But  as  they  left  the  darkening  heath. 

More  desperate  grew  the  strife  of  death. 

With  fruitless  labour,  Clara  bound. 

The  English  shafts  in  volleys  hail'd. 

And  strove  to  staunch,  the  gushing  wound : 

In  headlong  charge  their  horse  assail'd  ; 

The  monk,  with  unavailing  cares, 

Front,  flank,  and  rear,  the  squadrons  sweep. 

Exhausted  all  the  church's  prayers. 

To  break  the  Scottish  circle  deep. 

Ever,  he  said,  that,  close  and  near. 

That  fought  around  their  king. 

A  lady's  voice  was  on  his  ear. 

But  yet,  though  thick  the  shafts  as  snow. 

And  that  the  priest  he  could  not  hear. 

Though  charging  knights  like  whirlwmds  go, 

For  that  she  ever  sung. 

Though  bill-men  ply  the  ghastly  blow. 

"In  the  lost  battle,  borne  down  by  the  flying, 

Unbroken  was  the  ring  : 

Where  mingles  war's  rattle  with  groans  of  the 

The  stubborn  spearmen  still  made  good 

dying!" 

Their  dark  impenetrable  wood. 

So  the  notes  rung; — 

Each  stepping  where  his  comrade  stood, 

"  Avoid  thee,  fiend  I — with  cruel  hand. 

The  instant  that  he  fell. 

Shake  not  the  dying  sinner's  sand  ! 

No  thought  was  there  of  dastard  flight ; — 

0  look,  my  son,  upon  yon  sign 

Link'd  in  the  serried  phalanx  tight. 

Of  the  Redeemer's  grace  divine  ; 

Groom  fought  like  noble,  squire  like  knight. 

0  think  on  faith  and  bliss  ! — 

As  fearlessly  and  well ; 

By  many  a  death-bed  I  have  been, 

Till  utter  darkness  closed  her  wing 

And  many  a  sinner's  parting  seen. 

O'er  their  thin  host  and  wounded  king. 

But  never  aught  like  this." — 

Then  skilful  Surrey's  sage  commands 

The  war,  that  for  a  space  did  fail. 

Led  back  from  strife  his  shatter'd  bands  ; 

Now  trebly  thundering  swell'd  the  gale, 

And  from  the  charge  they  drew. 

And — Stanley  !  was  the  cry  ; 

As  mountain  waves,  from  wasted  lands. 

A  light  on  Marmion's  visage  spread. 

Sweep  back  to  ocean  blue. 

And  fired  his  glazing  eye : 

Then  did  their  loss  his  foeman  know  ; 

With  dying  hand,  above  his  head. 

Their  king,  their  lords,  their  mightiest,  low. 

He  shook  the  fragment  of  his  blade. 

They  melted  from  the  field  as  snow, 

And  shouted  "  Victory  ! — 

When   streams   are   swoln  and  south  winds 

Charge,  Chester,  charge  !     On,  Stanley,  on  !"— 

blow. 

Were  the  last  words  of  Marmion. 

Dissolves  in  silent  dew. 

676 


SCOTT. 


Tweed's  echoes  heard  the  ceaseless  plash. 

While  many  a  broken  band, 
Disorder'd,  through  her  currents  dash, 

To  gain  the  Scottish  land  ; 
To  town  and  tower,  to  town  and  dale. 
To  tell  red  Flodden's  dismal  tale. 
And  raise  the  universal  wail. 
Tradition,  legend,  tune,  and  song. 
Shall  many  an  age  that  wail  prolong ; 
Still  from  the  sire  the  son  shall  hear 
Of  the  stern  strife  and  carnage  drear 

Of  Flodden's  fatal  field. 
Where  shiver'd  was  fair  Scotland's  spear, 

And  broken  was  her  shield  ! 

XXXV. 

Day  dawns  upon  the  mountain's  side — 
There,  Scotland !  lay  thy  bravest  pride, 
Chiefs,  knights,  and  nobles,  many  a  one. 
The  sad  survivors  all  are  gone.— 
View  not  that  corpse  mistrustfully. 
Defaced  and  mangled  though  it  be ; 
Nor  to  yon  border  castle  high. 
Look  northward  with  upbraiding  eye ; 

Nor  cherish  hope  in  vain. 
That,  journeying  far  on  foreign  strand, 
The  royal  pilgrim  to  his  land 

May  yet  return  again. 
He  saw  the  wreck  his  rashness  wrought ; 
Reckless  of  life,  he  desperate  fought. 

And  fell  on  Flodden  plain  : 
And  well  in  death  his  trusty  brand. 
Firm  clench'd  within  his  manly  hand, 

Beseem'd  the  monarch  slain. 
But,  0  !  how  changed  since  yon  blithe  night  !- 
Gladly  I  turn  me  from  the  sight, 

Unto  my  tale  again. 

XXXVI. 

Short  is  my  tale  : — Fitz-Eustace's  care 

A  pierced  and  mangled  body  bare 

To  moated  Lichfield's  lofty  pile  ; 

And  there,  beneath  the  southern  aisle, 

A  tomb,  with  Gothic  Sculpture  fair. 

Did  long  Lord  Marmion's  image  bear. 

(Now  vainly  for  its  site  you  look  ; 

'Twas  levell'd,  when  fanatic  Brook 

The  fair  cathedral  storm 'd  and  took ; 

But,  thanks  to  Heaven,  and  good  Saint  Chad, 

A  guerdon  meet  the  spoiler  had  !) 

There  erst  was  martial  Marmion  found. 

His  feet  upon  a  couchant  hound. 

His  hands  to  heaven  upraised  ; 
And  all  around,  on  scutcheon  rich. 
And  tablet  carved,  and  fretted  niche. 

His  arms  and  feats  were  blazed. 
And  yet,  though  all  was  carved  so  fair. 
And  priests  for  Marmion  breathed  the  prayer. 
The  last  Lord  Marmion  lay  not  there. 
From  Ettrick  woods,  a  peasant  swain 
Follow'd  his  lord  to  Flodden  plain, — 
One  of  those  flowers,  whom  plaintive  lay 
In  Scotland  mourns  as  "  wede  away." 
Sore  wounded,  Sybil's  cross  he  spied. 
And  dragg'd  him  to  its  foot  and  died. 
Close  by  the  noble  Marmion's  side. 


The  spoilers  stripp'd  and  gash'd  the  slain. 
And  thus  their  corpses  were  mista'en  ; 
And  thus,  in  the  proud  baron's  tomb. 
The  lowly  woodsman,  took  the  room. 

XXXVII. 

Less  easy  task  it  were,  to  show 
Lord  Marmion's  nameless  grave,  and  low. 
They  dug  his  grave  e'en  where  he  lay, 

But  every  mark  is  gone  ; 
Time's  wasting  hand  has  done  away 
The  simple  cross  of  Sybil  Grey, 
And  broke  her  font  of  stone. 
But  yet  from  out  the  little  hill 
Oozes  the  slender  springlet  still. 

Oft  halts  the  stranger  there. 
For  thence  may  best  his  curious  eye 
The  memorable  field  descry ; 
And  shepherd  boys  repair 
To'seek  the  water-flag  and  rush. 
And  rest  them  by  the  hazel  bush. 

And  plait  their  garlands  fair ; 
Nor  dream  they  sit  upon  the  grave 
That  holds  the  bones  of  Marmion  brave.— 
When  thou  shalt  find  the  little  hill ; 
With  thy  heart  commune,  and  be  still. 
If  ever,  in  temptation  strong, 
Thou  left'st  the  right  path  for  the  wrong : 
If  every  devious  step  thus  trod. 
Still  lead  thee  further  from  the  road  ; 
Dread  thou  to  speak  presumptuous  doom 
On  noble  Marmion's  lowly  tomb; 
But  say,  "  He  died  a  gallant  knight. 
With  sword  in  hand,  for  England's  right" 

xxxvin. 

I  do  not  rhyme  to  that  dull  elf. 

Who  cannot  image  to  himself, 

That  all  through  Flodden's  dismal  night, 

Wilton  was  foremost  in  the  fight ; 

That,  when  brave  Surrey's  steed  was  slain, 

'Twas  Wilton  mounted  him  again  ; 

'Twas  Wilton's  brand  that  deepest  hew'd 

Amid  the  spearmen's  stubborn  wood. 

Unnamed  by  Hollinshed  or  Hall, 

He  was  the  living  soul  of  all ; 

That,  after  fight,  his  faith  made  plain. 

He  won  his  faith  and  lands  again'; 

And  charged  his  old  paternal  shield 

With  bearings  won  on  Flodden  field.— 

Nor  sing  I  to  that  simple  maid. 

To  whom  it  must  in  terms  be  said. 

That  king  and  kinsmen  did  agree 

To  bless  fair  Clara's  constancy  ; 

Who  cannot,  unless  I  relate, 

Paint  to  her  mind  the  bridal's  state ; 

That  Wolsey's  voice  the  blessing  spoke. 

More,  Sands,  and  Denny,  pass'd  the  joke  ; 

That  bluff  king  Hal  the  curtain  drew. 

And  Catherine's  hand  the  stocking  threw: 

And  afterwards  for  many  a  day. 

That  it  was  held  enough  to  say. 

In  blessing  to  a  wedded  pair, 

"  Love  they  like  Wilton  and  like  Clare  ." 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


671 


l'envoy  to  the  reader. 
Why,  then,  a  final  note  prolong 
Or  lengthen  out  a  closing  song, 
Unless  to  bid  the  gentles  speed, 
Who  long  have  listed  to  my  rede  ?*— 
To  statesman  grave,  if  such  may  deign 
To  read  the  minstrel's  idle  strain, 
Sound  head,  clean  hand,  and  piercing  wit, 
And  patriotic  heart— as  Pitt  ! 
A  garland  for  the  hero's  crest. 
And  twined  by  her  he  loves  the  best ; 
To  every  lovely  lady  bright. 
What  can  I  wish  but  faithful  knight  ? 
To  every  faithful  lover  too. 
What  can  I  wish  but  lady  true  ? 
And  knowledge  to  the  studious  sage. 
And  pillow  to  the  head  of  age. 
To  thee,  dear  schoolboy,  whom  my  lay 
Has  cheated  of  thy  hour  of  play. 
Light  task  and  merry  holiday  ! 
To  all,  to  each,  a  fair  good  night. 
And  pleasing  dreams,  and  slumbers  light .' 


THE   LADY  OF  THE   LAKE. 


TO  THE  MOST  NOBLE  JOHN  JAMES,  MARQUIS 
OF  ABERCORN,  &c. 

THIS   POEM   IS    INSCRIBED,   BY   THE    AUTHOR. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 
The  scene  of  the  following  poem  is  laid  chiefly 
in  the  vicinity  of  Loch-Katrine,  in  the  Western 
Highlands  of  Perthshire.  The  time  of  action  in- 
cludes six  days,  and  the  transactions  of  each  day 
occupy  a  canto. 


Canto  L 

THE  CHASE. 

Habp  of  the  North !    that  mouldering  long  hast 
hung 

On  the  witch-elm  that  shades  St.  Fillan's  spring, 
And  down  the  fitful  breeze  thy  numbers  flung, 

Till  envious  ivy  did  around  thee  cling, 
MufHing  with  verdant  ringlet  every  string, — 

O  minstrel  harp,  still  must  thine  accents  sleep  f 
'Mid  rustling  leaves  and  fountains  murmuring, 

Still  must  thy  sweeter  sounds  their  silence  keep, 
Nor  bid  a  warrior  smile,  nor  teach  a  maid  to  weep  ? 

Not  thus,  in  ancient  days  of  Caledon, 

Was  thy  voice  mute  amid  the  festal  crowd, 
When  lay  of  hopeless  love,  or  glory  won, 

Aroused  the  fearful  or  subdued  the  proud. 
At  each  according  pause  was  heard  aloud 

Thine  ardent  symphony  sublime  and  high  ! 
Fair  dames  and  crested  chiefs  attention  bow'd; 

For  still  the  burthen  of  thy  minstrelsy 
Was    knighthood's   dauntless   deed   and    beauty's 
matchless  eye. 


•  Used  generally  for  tale,  or  discourse. 


0  wake  once  more  !  how  rude  soe'er  the  hand 

That  ventures  o'er  thy  magic  maze  to  stray ; 
0  wake  once  more  !    though  scarce  my  skill  com- 
mand 

Some  feeble  echoing  of  thine  earlier  lay : 
Though  harsh  and  faint,  and  soon  to  die  away, 

And  all  unworthy  of  thy  nobler  strain  ; 
Yet,  if  one  heart  throb  higher  at  its  sway. 

The  wizard  note  has  not  been  touch'd  in  vain. 
Then  silent  be  no  more !   Enchantress,  wake  again ! 

I. 
The  stag  at  eve  had  drunk  his  fill, 
Where  danced  the  moon  on  Monan's  nil, 
And  deep  his  midnight  lair  had  made 
In  lone  Glenartney's  hazel  shade  ; 
But  when  the  sun  his  beacon  red 
Had  kindled  on  Benvoirlich's  head. 
The  deep-mouth'd  bloodhound's  heavy  bay 
Resounded  up  the  rocky  way. 
And  faint,  from  farther  distance  borne, 
Were  heard  the  clanging  hoof  and  horn. 

As  chief,  who  hears  his  warder  call, 

"  To  arms  !  the  foemen  storm  the  wall,"— 

The  antler'd  monarch  of  the  waste 

Sprung  from  his  heathery  couch  in  haste. 

But,  e'er  his  fleet  career  he  took. 

The  dewdrops  from  his  flanks  he  shook ; 

Like  crested  leader  proud  and  high, 

Toss'd  his  beam'd  frontlet  to  the  sky; 

A  moment  gazed  adown  the  dalt<, 

A  moment  snufPd  the  tainted  gale, 

A  moment  listen'd  to  the  cry, 

That  thicken'd  as  the  chase  drew  nigh ; 

Then,  as  the  headmost  foes  appear'd. 

With  one  brave  bound  the  copse  he  clear'd. 

And,  stretching  forward  free  and  far. 

Sought  the  wild  heaths  of  Uam-Var. 

III. 
Yell'd  on  the  view  the  opening  pack, 
Rock,  glen,  and  cavern,  paid  them  back ; 
To  many  a  mingled  sound  at  once 
Th'  awaken'd  mountain  gave  response. 
An  hundred  dogs  bay'd  deep  and  strong, 
Clatter'd  a  hundred  steeds  along. 
Their  peal  the  merry  horns  rung  out. 
An  hundred  voices  join'd  the  shout: 
With  hark  and  whoop,  and  wild  halloo, 
No  rest  Benvoirlich's  echoes  knew. 
Far  from  the  tumult  fled  the  roe. 
Close  in  her  covert  cower'd  the  doe. 
The  falcon,  from  her  cairn  on  high. 
Cast  on  the  rout  a  wondering  eye. 
Till  far  beyond  her  piercing  ken 
The  hurricane  had  swept  the  glen. 
Faint,  and  more  faint,  its  failing  din 
Return'd  from  cavern,  cliff,  and  linn. 
And  silence  settled,  wide  and  still. 
On  the  lone  wood  and  mighty  hill. 

IV. 

Less  loud  the  sounds  of  sylvan  war 
risturb'd  the  heights  of  Uam-Var, 


678 


SCOTT. 


And  roused  the  cavern,  where,  'tis  told 

A  giant  made  his  den  of  old : 

For  ere  that  steep  ascent  was  won. 

High  in  his  pathway  hung  the  sun, 

And  many  a  gallant,  stay'd  perforce, 

Was  fain  to  breathe  his  faltering  horse ; 

And  of  the  trackers  of  a  deer 

Scarce  half  the  lessening  pack  was  near ; 

So  shrewdly,  on  the  mountain  side,        • 

Had  the  bold  burst  their  mettle  tried. 

V. 

The  noble  stag  was  pausing  now, 
Upon  the  mountain's  southern  brow, 
Where  broad  extended,  far  beneath. 
The  varied  realms  of  fair  Menteith. 
With  anxious  eye  he  wander'd  o'er 
Mountain  and  meadow,  moss  and  moor. 
And  ponder'd  refuge  from  his  toil, 
By  far  Lochard  or  Aberfoyle. 
But  nearer  was  the  copse-wood  gray, 
That  waved  and  wept  on  Loch-Achray, 
And  mingled  with  the  pine  trees  blue 
On  the  bold  cliffs  of  Ben-venue. 
Fresh  vigour  with  the  hope  return'd. 
With  flying  foot  the  heath  he  spurn'd, 
Held  westward  with  unwearied  race. 
And  left  behind  the  panting  chase. 

VI. 

'Twere  long  to  tell  what  steeds  gave  o'er. 
As  swept  the  hunt  through  Cambus-more  ; 
What  reins  were  tighten 'd  in  despair. 
When  rose  Benledi's  ridge  in  air ; 
Who  flagg'd  upon  Bochastle's  heath. 
Who  shunn'd  to  stem  the  flooded  Teith, 
For  twice,  that  day,  from  shore  to  shore, 
The  gallant  stag  swum  stoutly  o'er. 
Few  were  the  stragglers,  following  far. 
That  reach'd  the  lake  of  Vennachar ; 
And  when  the  Brigg  of  Turk  was  won, 
The  headmost  horseman  rode  alone. 

VH. 
Alone,  but  with  unbated  zeal, 
That  horseman  plied  the  scourge  and  steel ; 
For  jaded  now,  and  spent  with  toil, 
Emboss'd  with  foam,^  and  dark  with  soil. 
While  every  gasp  with  sobs  he  drew. 
The  labouring  stag  strain'd  full  in  view. 
Two  dogs  of  black  Saint  Hubert's  breed, 
Unmatch'd  for  courage,  breath,  and  speed. 
Fast  on  his  flying  traces  came. 
And  all  but  won  that  desperate  game  ; 
For,  scarce  a  spear's  length  from  his  haunch, 
Vindictive  toil'd  the  bloodhounds  staunch; 
Nor  nearer  might  the  dogs  attain, 
Nor  farther  might  the  quarry  strain. 
Thus  up  the  the  margin  of  the  lak^ 
Between  the  precipice  and  brake. 
O'er  stock  and  rock  their  race  they  take. 

vni. 

The  hunter  mark'd  that  mountain  high, 
The  lone  lake's  western  boundary. 
And  deem'd  the  stag  must  turn  to  bay. 
Where  that  huge  rampart  barr'd  the  way. 


Already  glorying  in  the  prize. 
Measures  his  antlers  with  his  eyes ; 
For  the  death-wound,  and  death-halloo, 
Muster'd  his  breath,  his  whinyard  drew  ;-— 
But  thundering  as  he  came  prepared, 
With  ready  arm  and  weapon  bared. 
The  wily  quarry  shunn'd  the  shock. 
And  turn'd  him  from  the  opposing  rock; 
Then,  dashing  down  a  darksome  glen, 
Soon  lost  to  hound  and  hunter's  ken. 
In  the  deep  Trosach's  wildest  nook 
His  solitary  refuge  took. 
There  while,  close  couch'd,  the  thicket  shed 
Cold  dews  and  wild  flowers  on  his  head. 
He  heard  the  baffled  dogs  in  vain 
Rave  through  the  hollow  pass  amain. 
Chiding  the  rocks  that  yell'd  again. 

IX. 

Close  on  the  hounds  the  hunter  came. 
To  cheer  them  on  the  vanish'd  game ; 
But,  stumbling  in  the  rugged  dell. 
The  gallant  horse  exhausted  fell. 
Th'  impatient  rider  strove  in  vain 
To  rouse  him  with  the  spur  and  rein. 
For  the  good  steed,  his  labours  o'er, 
Stretch'd  his  stiff*  limbs  to  rise  no  more. 
Then  touch'd  with  pity  and  remorse, 
He  sorrow'd  o'er  the  expiring  horse : 
"  I  little  thought,  when  first  thy  rein 
I  slack'd  upon  the  banks  of  Seine, 
That  Highland  eagle  e'er  should  feed 
On  thy  fleet  limbs,  my  matchless  steed  ; 
Wo  worth  the  chase,  wo  worth  the  day, 
That  costs  thy  life,  my  gallant  gray  !" 

X. 

Then  through  the  dell  his  horn  resounds. 
From  vain  pursuit  to  call  the  hounds. 
Back  limp'd,  with  slow  and  crippled  pace 
The  sulky  leaders  of  the  chase  ; 
Close  to  their  master's  side  they  press'd. 
With  drooping  tail  and  humbled  crest; 
But  still  the  dingle's  hollow  throat 
Prolong'd  the  swelling  bugle-note. 
The  owlets  started  from  their  dream. 
The  eagles  answer'd  with  their  scream. 
Round  and  around  the  sounds  were  cast 
Till  echo  seem'd  an  answering  blast ; 
And  on  the  hunter  hied  his  way. 
To  join  some  comrades  of  the  day ; 
Yet  often  paused,  so  strange  the  road. 
So  wondrous  were  the  scenes  it  show'fl 

XI. 

The  western  waves  of  ebbing  day 
Ro.l'd  o'er  the  glen  their  level  way; 
Each  purple  peak,  each  flinty  spire. 
Was  bathed  in  floods  of  living  fire, 
But  not  a  setting  beam  could  glow 
Within  the  dark  ravines  below, 
Where  twined  the  path  in  shadow  hid. 
Round  many  a  rocky  pyramid. 
Shooting  abruptly  from  the  dell 
Its  thunder-splinter'd  pinnacle ; 
Round  many  an  insulated  mass. 
The  native  bulwarks  of  the  pass. 


THE    LAD\     OF    THE    LAKE. 


67S 


Huge  as  the  tower  which  builders  vain 

Presumptuous  piled  on  Shinar's  plain. 

The  rocky  summits,  split  and  rent, 

Form'd  turret,  dome,  or  battlement, 

Or  seem'd  fantastically  set 

With  cupola  or  minaret. 

Wild  crests  as  pagod  ever  deck'd, 

Or  mosque  of  eastern  architect. 

Nor  were  these  earth-born  castles  bare. 

Nor  lack'd  they  many  a  banner  fair ; 

For,  from  their  shiver'd  brows  display'd. 

Far  o'er  th'  unfathomable  glade. 

All  twinkling  with  the  dewdrops  sheen. 

The  brier  rose  fell  in  streamers  green. 

And  creeping  shrubs,  of  thousand  dyes. 

Waved  in  the  west  wind's  summer  sighs. 

XII. 
Boon  nature  scatter'd,  free  and  wild, 
Each  plant,  or  flower,  the  mountain's  child. 
Here  eglantine  embalm'd  the  air, 
Hawthorn  and  hazel  mingled  there ; 
The  primrose  pale,  and  violet  flower. 
Found  in  each  cliff  a  narrow  bower ; 
Fox-glove  and  night-shade,  side  by  side, 
Emblems  of  punishment  and  pride, 
Group'd  their  dark  hues  with  every  stain 
The  weather-beaten  crags  retain. 
With  boughs  that  quaked  at  every  breath, 
Gray  birch  and  aspen  wept  beneath  j 
Aloft,  the  ash  and  warrior  oak 
Cast  anchor  in  the  rifted  rock  ; 
And,  higher  yet,  the  pine  tree  hung 
His  shatter'd  trunk,  and  frequent  flung, 
Where  seem'd  the  cliffs  to  meet  on  high, 
His  bows  athwart  the  narrow'd  sky. 
Highest  of  all,  where  white  peaks  glanced. 
Where  glistening  streamers  waved  and  danced. 
The  wanderer's  eye  could  barely  view 
The  summer  heaven's  delicious  blue  ; 
So  wondrous  wild,  the  whole  might  seem 
The  scenery  of  a  fairy  dream. 

XIII. 
Onward,  amid  the  copse  'gan  peep 
A  narrow  inlet,  still  and  deep, 
Affording  scarce  such  breadth  of  brim. 
As  served  the  wild  duck's  brood  to  swim. 
Lost  for  a  space,  through  thickets  veeruig. 
But  broader  when  again  appearing, 
Tall  rocks  and  tufted  knolls  their  face 
Could  on  the  dark  blue  mirror  trace ; 
And  farther  as  the  hunter  stray'd. 
Still  broader  sweep  its  channels  made. 
The  shaggy  mounds  no  longer  stood. 
Emerging  from  entangled  wood, 
But,  wave-encircled,  seem'd  to  float. 
Like  castle  girdled  with  its  moat ; 
Yet  broader  floods  extending  still. 
Divide  them  from  their  parent  hill. 
Till  each,  retiring,  claims  to  be 
An  inlet  in  an  island  sea. 

XIV. 

And  now,  to  issue  from  the  glen, 

No  pathway  meets  the  wanderer's  ken, 


Unless  he  climb,  with  footing  nice, 

A  far-projecting  precipice. 

The  broom's  tough  root  his  ladder  made, 

The  hazel  saplings  lent  their  aid ; 

And  thus  an  airy  point  he  won, 

Where  gleaming  with  the  setting  sun, 

One  burnish'd  sheet  of  living  gold, 

Loch-Katrine  lay  beneath  him  roll'd, 

In  all  her  length  far  winding  lay. 

With  pro'Jnontory,  creek,  and  bay, 

And  islands  that,  empurpled  bright. 

Floated  amid  the  livelier  light, 

And  mountains,  that  like  giants  stand, 

To  sentinel  enchanted  land. 

High  on  the  south,  huge  Ben-venue 

Down  on  the  lake  in  masses  threw 

Crags,  knolls,  and  mounds,  confusedly  hurl'd. 

The  fragments  of  an  earlier  world  ; 

A  wildering  forest  feather'd  o'er 

His  ruin'd  sides  and  summit  hoar. 

While  on  the  north,  through  middle  ajx, 

Ben-an  heaved  high  his  forehead  bare. 

XV. 
From  the  steep  promontory  gazed 
The  stranger,  raptured  and  amazed. 
And  "  What  a  scene  was  here,"  he  cried. 
"  For  princely  pomp,  or  churchman's  pride ! 
On  this  bold  brow  a  lordly  tower ; 
In  that  soft  vale,  a  lady's  bower: 
On  yonder  meadow,  far  away, 
The  turrets  of  a  cloister  gray. 
How  blithely  might  the  bugle  horn 
Chide,  on  the  lake,  the  lingering  morn  ! 
How  sweet,  at  eve,  the  lover's  lute 
Chimes,  when  the  groves  were  still  and  mute  : 
And,  when  the  midnight  moon  should  lave 
Her  forehead  in  the  silver  wave, 
How  solemn  on  the  ear  would  come 
The  holy  matin's  distant  hum. 
While  the  deep  peal's  commanding  tone 
Should  wake,  in  yonder  islet  lone. 
A  sainted  hermit  from  his  cell, 
To  drop  a  bead  with  every  knell — 
And  bugle,  lute,  and  bell,  and  all. 
Should  each  bewilder'd  stranger  call 
To  friendly  feast,  and  lighted  hall. 

XVI. 
"  Blithe  were  it  then  to  wander  here  ! 
But  now, — beshrew  yon  nimble  deer, — 
Like  that  same  hermit's,  thin  and  spare 
The  copse  must  give  my  evening  fare 
Some  mossy  bank  my  couch  must  be, 
Some  rustling  oak  my  canopy. 
Yet  pass  we  that ; — the  war  and  chase 
Give  little  choice  of  resting-place; — 
A  summer  night,  in  green  wood  spent, 
Were  but  to-morrow's  merriment: — ■ 
But  hosts  may  in  these  wilds  abound. 
Such  as  are  better  miss'd  than  found  ; 
To  meet  with  highland  plunderer's  here 
Were  worse  than  loss  of  steed  or  deer. 
I  am  alone  ; — my  bugle  strain 
May  call  some  straggler  of  the  train  ; 
Or,  fall  the  worst  that  may  betide. 
Ere  now  this  falchion  has  been  tried." 


680 


SCOTT 


XVII. 

But  scarce  again  his  horn  he  wound, 

When  lo  !  forth  starting  at  the  sounds 

From  underneath  an  aged  oak, 

That  slanted  from  the  islet  rock, 

A  damsel  guider  of  its  way, 

A  little  skiff  shot  to  the  bay, 

That  round  the  promontory  steep. 

Led  its  deep  line  in  graceful  sweep, 

Eddying,  in  almost  viewless  wave. 

The  weeping-willow  twig  to  lave, 

And  kiss  with  whispering  sound  and  slow, 

The  beach  of  pebbles  bright  as  snow. 

The  boat  had  touch'd  this  silver  strand, 

Just  as  the  hunter  left  his  stand. 

And  stood  conceal'd  amid  the  brake, 

To  view  this  lady  of  the  lake. 

The  maiden  paused,  as  if  again 

She  thought  to  catch  the  distant  strain. 

With  head  up-raised,  and  look  intent. 

And  eye  and  ear  attentive  bent. 

And  locks  flung  back,  and  lips  apart. 

Like  monument  of  Grecian  art, 

In  listening  mood,  she  seem'd  to  stand. 

The  guardian  naiad  of  the  strand. 

XVIII. 

And  ne'er  did  Grecian  chisel  trace 

A  nymph,  a  naiad,  or  a  grace. 

Of  finer  form,  or  lovelier  face  ! 

What  though  the  sun,  with  ardent  frown. 

Had  slightly  tinged  her  cheek  with  brown. 

The  sportive  toil,  which,  short  and  light. 

Had  died  her  glowing  hue  so  bright. 

Served  too  in  hastier  swell  to  show 

Short  glimpses  of  a  breast  of  snow ; 

What  though  no  rule  of  courtly  grace 

To  measured  mood  had  train'd  her  pace,— 

A  foot  more  light,  a  step  more  true. 

Ne'er  from  the  heath  flower  dash'd  the  dew  ; 

E'en  the  slight  harebell  raised  its  head, 

Elastic  from  her  airy  tread  : 

What  though  upon  her  speech  there  hung 

The  accents  of  the  mountain  tongue, — 

Those  silver  sounds,  so  soft,  so  dear, 

The  list'ner  held  his  breath  to  hear. 

XIX. 

A  chieftain's  daughter  seem'd  the  maid  ; 
Her  satin  snood,  her  silken  plaid, 
Her  golden  brooch,  such  birth  betrayed. 
And  seldom  was  a  snood  amid 
Such  wild  luxuriant  ringlets  hid, 
Whose  glossy  black  to  shame  might  bring 
The  plumage  of  the  raven's  wing  ; 
And  seldom  o'er  a  breast  so  fair, 
Mantled  a  plaid  with  modest  care. 
And  never  brooch  the  folds  combined 
Above  a  heart  more  good  and  kind. 
Her  kindness  and  her  worth  to  spy. 
You  need  but  gaze  on  Ellen's  eye  ; 
Not  Katrine,  in  her  mirror  blue. 
Gives  back  the  shaggy  banks  more  true. 
Than  every  free-born  glance  confess'd 
The  guileless  movements  of  her  breast; 


Whether  joy  danced  in  her  dark  eye. 
Or  wo  or  pity  claim'd  a  sigh, 
Or  filial  love  was  glowing  there, 
Or  meek  devotion  pour'd  a  prayer. 
Or  tale  of  injury  call'd  forth 
Th'  indignant  spirit  of  the  north. 
One  only  passion,  unreveal'd. 
With  maiden  pride  the  maid  conceal'd 
Yet  not  less  purely  felt  the  flame — 
0  need  I  tell  that  passion's  name ! 

XX. 

Impatient  of  the  silent  horn. 
Now  OQ  the  gale  her  voice  was  borne : 
"  Father,'*  she  cried  ;  the  rocks  around 
Loved  to  prolong  the  gentle  sound. — 
A  while  she  paused,  no  answer  came  : — 
«  Malcolm,  was  thine  the  blast  ?'*  the  name 
Less  resolutely  utter'd  fell 
The  echoes  could  not  catch  the  swell. 
"  A  stranger  I,"  the  huntsman  said. 
Advancing  from  the  hazel  shade. 
The  maid,  alarm'd,  with  hasty  oar, 
Push'd  her  light  shallop  from  the  shore. 
And,  when  a  space  was  gain'd  between 
Closer  she  drew  her  bosom  screen ; 
(So  forth  the  startled  swan  would  swing, 
So  turn  to  prune  his  ruffled  wing  ;) 
Then  safe,  though  flutter'd  and  amazed, 
She  paused,  and  on  the  stranger  gazed. 
Not  his  the  form,  nor  his  the  eye, 
That  youthful  maidens  wont  to  fly. 

XXI. 

On  his  bold  visage  middle  age 

Had  slightly  press'd  its  signet  sage. 

Yet  had  not  quench'd  the  open  truth 

And  fiery  vehemence  of  youth ; 

Forward  and  frolic  glee  was  there, 

The  will  to  do,  the  soul  to  dare. 

The  sparkling  glance,  soon  blown  to  fire. 

Of  hasty  love,  or  headlong  ire. 

His  limbs  were  cast  in  manly  mould, 

For  hardy  sports,  or  contest  bold  ; 

And  though  in  peaceful  garb  array'd. 

And  weaponless  except  his  blade, 

His  stately  mien  as  well  implied 

A  high-born  heart,  a  martial  pride. 

As  if  a  baron's  crest  he  wore, 

And  sheath'd  in  armour  trod  the  shore. 

Slighting  the  petty  need  he  show'd. 

He*  told  of  his  benighted  road ; 

His  ready  speech  flow'd  fair  and  free. 

In  phrase  of  gentlest  courtesy : 

Yet  seem'd  that  tone,  and  gesture  bland, 

Less  used  to  sue  than  to  command. 

XXII. 
A  while  the  maid  the  stranger  eyed. 
And,  reassured,  at  length  replied. 
That  highland  halls  were  open  still 
To  wilder'd  wanderers  of  the  hill. 
«  Nor  think  you  unexpected  come 
To  yon  lone  isle,  our  desert  home  ; 
Before  the  heath  had  lost  the  dew. 
This  morn,  a  couch  was  puU'd  for  you; 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


68: 


On  yon(ler  mountain's  purple  head 
Have  ptarmigan  and  heath-cock  bled, 
And  our  broad  nets  have  swept  the  mere, 
To  furnish  forth  your  evening  cheer." 
"  Now,  by  the  rood,  my  lovely  maid, 
Your  courtesy  has  err'd,"  he  said  ; 
"  No  right  have  I  to  claim,  misplaced. 
The  welcome  of  expected  guest. 
A  wanderer,  here  by  fortune  tost, 
My  way,  my  friends,  my  courser  lost, 
I  ne'er  before,  believe  me,  fair, 
Have  ever  drawn  j'our  mountain  air. 
Till  on  this  lake's  romantic  strand, 
I  found  a  fay  in  fairy  land." 

XXHI. 

"  I  well  believe,"  the  maid  replied, 

As  her  light  skiff  approach 'd  the  side, 

"  I  well  believe,  that  ne'er  before 

Your  foot  has  trod  Loch-Katrine's  shore ; 

But  yet,  as  far  as  yesternight. 

Old  Allan-bane  foretold  your  plight — 

A  grayhair'd  sire,  whose  eye  intent 

Was  on  the  vision'd  future  bent. 

He  saw  your  steed,  a  dappled  gray 

Lie  dead  beneath  the  birchen  way ; 

Painted  exact  your  form  and  mien. 

Your  hunting  suit  of  Lincoln  green, 

That  tassled  horn  so  gayly  gilt, 

That  falchion's  crooked  blade  and  hilt, 

That  cap  with  heron's  plumage  trim, 

And  yon  two  hounds  so  dark  and  grim. 

He  bade  that  all  should  ready  be 

To  grace  a  guest  of  fair  degree  ; 

But  light  I  held  his  prophecy, 

And  deem'd  it  was  my  father's  horn. 

Whose  echoes  o'er  the  lake  were  borne." 

XXIV. 

The  stranger  smiled  : — "  Since  to  your  home 

A  destined  errant-knight  I  come, 

Announced  by  prophet  sooth  and  old, 

Doom'd,  doubtless,  for  achievement  bold, 

I'll  lightly  front  each  high  em.prize. 

For  one  kind  glance  of  those  bright  eyes. 

Permit  me,  first,  the  task  to  guide 

Your  fairy  frigate  o'er  the  tide." 

The  maid,  with  smile  suppress'd  and  sly. 

The  toil  unwonted  saw  him  try ; 

For  seldom,  sure,  if  e'er  before. 

His  noble  hand  had  grasp'd  an  oar : 

Yet  with  main  strength  his  strokes  he  drew, 

And  o'er  the  lake  the  shallop  flew : 

With  heads  erect,  and  whimpering  cry, 

The  hounds  behind  their  passage  ply. 

Nor  frequent  does  the  bright  oar  break 

The  darkening  mirror  of  the  lake, 

Until  the  rocky  isle  they  reach. 

And  moor  their  shallop  on  the  beach. 

XXV. 

The  stranger  view'd  the  shore  around ; 
'Twas  all  so  close  with  copse-wood  bound. 
Nor  track  nor  pathway  might  declare 
Tiiat  human  foot  frequented  there, 


Until  the  mountain  maiden  show  d 
A  clambering  unsuspected  road, 
That  winded  through  the  tangled  screen, 
And  open'd  on  a  narrow  green, 
Where  weeping  birch  and  willow  round 
With  their  long  fibres  swept  the  ground. 
Here,  for  retreat  in  dangerous  hour, 
Some  chief  had  framed  a  rustic  bower. 

XXVI. 

It  was  a  lodge  of  ample  size. 

But  strange  of  structure  and  device  ; 

Of  such  materials,  as  around 

The  workman's  hand  had  readiest  found. 

Lopp'd  of  their  boughs,  their  hoar  trunks  bared, 

And  by  the  hatchet  rudely  squared, 

To  give  the  walls  their  destined  height. 

The  sturdy  oak  and  ash  unite ; 

While  moss  and  clay  and  leaves  combined 

To  fence  each  crevice  from  the  wind. 

The  lighter  pine  trees,  over  head. 

Their  sleider  length  for  rafters  spread. 

And  wither  *d  heath  and  rushes  dry 

Supplied  a  russet  canopy. 

Due  westward,  fronting  to  the  green^ 

A  rural  portico  was  seen, 

Aloft  on  native  pillars  borne. 

Of  mountain  fir  with  bark  unshorn. 

Where  Ellen's  hand  had  taught  to  twine 

The  ivy  and  Idaean  vine, 

The  clematis,  tjie  favour'd  flower 

Which  boasts  the  name  of  virgin-bower 

And  every  hardy  plant  could  bear 

Loch-Katrine's  keen  and  searching  air. 

An  instant  in  this  porch  she  stay'd. 

And  gayly  to  the  stranger  said, 

"  On  heaven  and  on  thy  lady  call, 

And  enter  the  enchanted  hall !" 

XXVII. 

"  My  hope,  my  heaven,  my  trust  must  be. 

My  gentle  guide,  in  following  thee." 

He  cross'd  the  threshold — and  a  clang 

Of  angry  steel  that  instant  rang. 

To  his  bold  brow  his  spirit  rush'd. 

But  soon  for  vain  alarm  he  blush'd, 

When  on  the  floor  he  saw  display'd, 

Cause  of  the  din,  a  naked  blade 

Dropp'd  from  the  sheath  that,  careless  flung. 

Upon  a  stag's  huge  antlers  swung; 

For  all  around,  the  walls  to  grace. 

Hung  trophies  of  the  fight  or  chase : 

A  target  there,  a  bugle  here, 

A  battle-axe,  a  hunting  spear. 

And  broadswords,  bows,  and  arrows,  store. 

With  the  tusk'd  trophies  of  the  boar. 

Here  grins  the  wolf  as  when  he  died, 

And  there  the  wildcat's  brindled  hide 

The  frontlet  of  the  elk  adorns. 

Or  mantles  o'er  the  bison's  horns : 

Pennons  and  flags  defaced  and  stain'd. 

That  blackening  streaks  of  blood  retain'd. 

And  deer  skins,  dappled,  dun  and  white. 

With  otter's  fur  and  seal's  unite. 

In  rude  and  uncouth  tapestry  all. 

To  garnish  forth  the  sylvan  hall. 


683 


SCOTT. 


XXVIII. 

The  wandering  stranger  round  him  gazed. 

And  next  the  fallen  weapon  raised  ;• 

Few  were  the  arms  whose  sinewy  strength 

Sufficed  to  stretch  it  forth  at  length. 

And  as  the  brand  he  poised  and  sway'd, 

"  I  never  knew  but  one,"  he  said, 

"  Whose  stalwart  arm  might  brook  to  wield 

A  blade  like  this  in  battle  field." 

She  sigh'd,  then  smiled,  and  took  the  word ; 

"  You  see  the  guardian  champion's  sword ; 

As  light  it  trembles  in  his  hand, 

As  in  my  grasp  a  hazel  wand  ; 

My  sire's  tall  form  might  grace  the  part 

Of  Ferragus,  or  Ascapart : 

But  in  the  absent  giant's  hold 

Are  women  now,  and  menials  old." 

XXIX. 

The  mistress  of  the  mansion  came, 

Mature  of  age,  a  graceful  dame  ; 

Whose  easy  step  and  stately  port 

Had  well  become  a  princely  court, 

To  whom,  though  more  than  kindred  knew, 

Young  Ellen  gave  a  mother's  due. 

Meet  welcome  to  her  guest  she  made. 

And  every  courteous  rite  was  paid, 

That  hospitality  could  claim, 

Though  all  unask'd  his  birth  and  name. 

Such  then  the  reverence  to  a  guest, 

That  fellest  foe  might  join  the  feast, 

And  from  his  deadliest  foeman's  door 

Unquestion'd  turn,  the  banquet  o'er. 

At  length  his  rank  the  stranger  names, 

«  The  knight  of  Snowdoun,  James  Fitz-James 

Lord  of  a  barren  heritage. 

Which  his  brave  sires,  from  age  to  age. 

By  their  good  swords  had  held  with  toil ; 

His  sire  had  fallen  in  such  turmoil, 

And  he,  God  wot,  was  forced  to  stand 

Oft  for  his  right  with  blade  in  hand. 

This  morning  with  Lord  Moray's  train 

He  chased  a  stalwart  stag  in  vain, 

Outstripp'd  his  comrades,  miss'd  the  deer, 

Lost  his  good  steed,  and  wander'd  here." 

XXX. 

Fain  would  the  knight  in  turn  require 
The  name  and  state  of  Ellen's  sire  ; 
Well  show'd  the  elder  lady's  mien. 
That  courts  and  cities  she  had  seen  ; 
Ellen,  though  more  her  looks  display'd 
The  simple  grace  of  sylvan  maid. 
In  speech  and  gesture,  form  and  face, 
Show'd  she  was  come  of  gentle  race  ; 
'Twere  strange  in  ruder  rank  to  find 
Such  looks,  such  manners,  and  such  mind. 
Each  hint  the  knight  of  Snowdoun  gave. 
Dame  Margaret  heard  with  silence  grave  ; 
Or  Ellen,  innocently  gay, 
Turn'd  all  inquiry  light  away: 
"  Wierd  women  we  !  by  dale  and  down 
We  dwell,  afar  from  tower  and  town. 
We  stem  the  flood,  we  ride  the  blast, 
On  wandering  knights  our  spells  we  cast ; 


While  viewless  minstrels  touch  the  string, 
'Tis  thus  our  charmed  rhymes  we  sing." 
She  sung,  and  still  a  harp  unseen 
Fill'd  up  the  symphony  between. 

XXXL 

SONG. 

"  Soldier  rest !  thy  warfare  o'er, 

Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking; 
Dream  of  battled  fields  no  more. 

Days  of  danger,  nights  of  waking. 
In  our  isle's  enchanted  hall, 

Hands  unseen  thy  couch  are  strewing, 
Fairy  strains  of  music  fall, 

Every  sense  in  slumber  dewing. 
Soldier  rest !   thy  warfare  o'er. 
Dream  of  fighting  fields  no  more ; 
Sleep  the  sleep  that  knows  not  breaking, 
Morn  of  toil,  nor  night  of  waking. 

«  No  rude  sound  shall  reach  thine  ear. 

Armour's  clang,  or  war-steed  champing, 
Trump  nor  pibroch  summon  here 

Mustering  clan,  or  squadron  tramping. 
Yet  the  lark's  shrill  fife  may  come. 

At  the  daybreak,  from  the  fallow. 
And  the  bittern  sound  his  drum. 

Booming  from  the  sedgy  shallow. 
Ruder  sounds  shall  none  be  near, 
Guards  nor  warders  challenge  here. 
Here's  no  war-steed's  neigh  and  champing, 
Shouting  clans  or  squadrons  stamping." 

XXXII. 

She  paused — then,  blushing,  led  the  lay 
To  grace  the  stranger  of  the  day. 
Her  mellow  notes  a  while  prolong 
The  cadence  of  the  flowing  song, 
Till  to  her  lips  in  measured  frame 
The  minstrel  verse  spontaneous  came. 

SONG    CONTINUED. 

"  Huntsman,  rest !  thy  chase  is  done, 

While  our  slumbrous  spells  assail  ye. 
Dream  not,  with  the  rising  sun. 

Bugles  here  shall  sound  reveillie, 
Sleep  !  the  deer  is  in  his  den  ; 

Sleep  I  the  hounds  are  by  thee  lying ; 
Sleep  !  nor  dream  in  j'onder  glen 

How  thy  gallant  steed  lay  dying. 
Huntsman,  rest !  thy  chase  is  done. 
Think  not  of  the  rising  sun. 
For  at  dawning,  to  assail  ye. 
Here  no  bugles  sound  reveillie." 

XXXIH. 
The  hall  was  clear'd — the  stranger's  bed 
Was  there  of  mountain  heather  spread, 
Where  oft  an  hundred  guests  had  lain. 
And  drcam'd  their  forest  sports  again. 
But  vainly  did  tne  heath  flower  shed 
Its  moorland  fragrance  round  his  head ; 
Not  Ellen's  spell  had  lull'd  to  rest 
The  fever  of  his  troubled  breast. 
In  broken  dreams  the  image  rose 
Of  varied  perils,  pains  and  woes  ; 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


683 


His  steed  now  flounders  in  the  brake, 

Now  sinks  his  barge  upon  the  lake  : 

Now  leader  of  a  broken  host, 

His  standard  falls,  his  honour's  lost. 

Then,  from  my  couch  may  heavenly  might 

Chase  that  worst  phantorn.  of  the  night ! — 

Again  return 'd  the  scenes  of  youth, 

Of  confident  undoubting  truth  ; 

Again  his  soul  he  interchanged 

With  friends  whose  hearts  were  long  estranged. 

They  come,  in  aim  procession  led, 

The  cold,  the  faithless,  and  the  dead  ; 

As  warm  each  hand,  each  brow  as  gay, 

As  if  they  parted  yesterday. 

And  doubts  distract  him  at  the  view, 

O  were  his  senses  false  or  true  ? 

Dream 'd  he  of  death,  or  broken  vow, 

Or  is  it  all  a  vision  now  ? 

XXXIV. 

At  length,  with  Ellen  in  a  grove 

He  seem'd  to  walk,  and  speak  of  love  ; 

She  listen'd  with  a  blush  and  sigh, 

His  suit  was  warm,  his  hopes  were  high. 

He  sought  her  yielded  hand  to  clasp. 

And  a  cold  gauntlet  met  his  grasp; 

The  phantom's  sex  was  changed  and  gone. 

Upon  its  head  a  helmet  shone  ; 

Slowly  enlarged  to  giant  size, 

With  darken 'd  cheek  and  threatening  eyes. 

The  grisly  visage,  stern  and  hoar. 

To  Ellen  still  a  likeness  bore. — 

He  woke,  and,  panting  with  affright, 

Recall'd  the  vision  of  the  night. 

The  hearth's  decaying  brands  were  red. 

And  deep  and  dusky  lustre  shed. 

Half  showing,  half  concealing  all 

The  uncouth  trophies  of  the  hall. 

'Mid  those  the  stranger  fix'd  his  eye 

Where  that  huge  falchion  hung  on  high, 

And  thoughts  on  thoughts,  a  countless  throng, 

Rush'd,  chasing  countless  thoughts  along, 

Until,  the  giddy  whirl  to  cure. 

He  rose,  and  sought  the  moonshine  pure. 

XXXV. 

The  wild  rose,  eglantine,  and  broom, 

Wasted  around  their  rich  perfume  ; 

The  birch  trees  wept  in  fragrant  balm. 

The  aspen  slept  beneath  the  calm  ; 

The  silver  light,  with  quivering  glance, 

Play'd  on  the  water's  still  expanse, — 

Wild  were  the  heart  whose  passion's  sway 

Could  rage  beneath  the  sober  ray  ! 

He  felt  its  calm,  that  warrior  guest, 

While  thus  he  communed  with  his  breast: — 

"  Why  is  it,  at  each  turn  I  trace 

Some  memory  of  that  exiled  rtice  ? 

Can  I  not  mountain  maiden  spy. 

But  she  must  bear  the  Douglas  eye  ? 

Can  I  not  view  a  highland  brand. 

But  it  must  match  the  Douglas  hand  ? 

Can  I  not  frame  a  fever'd  dream, 

But  still  the  Douglas  is  the  theme  ? 

I'll  dream  no  more — by  manly  mind 

Not  e'en  in  sleep  is  will  resign 'd. 


My  midnight  orisons  said  o'er, 

I'll  turn  to  rest,  and  dream  no  more." 

His  midnight  orison  be  told, 

A  prayer  with  every  bead  of  gold. 

Consign 'd  to  heaven  his  cares  and  woes. 

And  sunk  in  undisturb'd  repose  ; 

Until  the  heath-cock  shrilly  crew. 

And  morning  dawn'd  on  Ben-venue. 


Canto  ll. 

THE  ISLAND. 

I. 

At  morn  the  black-cock  trims  his  jetty  wing, 

'Tis  morning  prompts  the  linnet's  blithest  lay; 
All  nature's  children  feel  the  matin  spring 

Of  life  reviving,  with  reviving  da}' ; 
And  while  yon  little  bark  glides  down  the  bay 

Wafting  the  stranger  on  his  way  again. 
Morn's  genial  influejice  roused  a  minstrel  gray, 

And  sweetly  o'er  the  lake  was  heard  thy  strain, 
Mix'd  with  the  sounding  harp,  0  white  hair'd 
Allan-bane  ! 

II. 

lONG. 

"  Not  faster  yonder  rowers'  might 

Flings  from  their  oars  the  spray. 
Not  faster  yonder  rippling  bright. 
That  tracks  the  shallop's  course  in  light, 

Melts  in  the  lake  away. 
Than  men  from  memory  erase 
The  benefits  of  former  days  ; 
Then,  stranger,  go  !  good  speed  the  while. 
Nor  think  again  of  the  lonely  isle. 

"  High  place  to  thee  in  royal  court. 

High  place  in  battle  line. 
Good  hawk  and  hound  for  sylvan  sport, 
Where  beauty  sees  the  brave  resort. 

The  honour'd  meed  be  thine  ! 
True  be  thy  sword,  thy  friend  sincere. 
Thy  lady  constant,  kind,  and  dear, 
And  lost  in  love's  and  friendship's  smile 
Be  memory  of  the  lonely  isle. 

III. 

SONG   CONTINUED. 

"*But  if  beneath  yon  southern  sky 

A  plaided  stranger  roam. 
Whose  drooping  crest  and  stifled  sigh, 
And  sunken  cheek  and  heavy  eye. 

Pine  for  his  highland  home  ; 
Then,  warrior,  then  be  thine  to  show 
The  care  that  soothes  a  wanderer's  wo ; 
Remember  then  thy  hap  erewhile, 
A  stranger  in  the  lonely  isle. 

"  Or,  if  on  life's  uncertain  main 

Mishap  shall  mar  thy  sail, 
If  faithful,  wise,  and  brave  in  vain, 
Wo,  want,  and  exiie  thou  sustain 

Beneath  the  fickle  gale  ; 
Waste  not  a  sigh  on  fortune  changed. 
On  thankless  courts,  or  friends  estrangefl. 
But  come  where  kindred  worth  shall  smile, 
To  greet  thee  in  the  lonely  isle." 


684 


SCOTT. 


IV. 

As  died  the  sounds  upon  the  tide, 
The  shallop  reach'd  the  mainland  side, 
And  ere  his  onward  way  he  took, 
The  stranger  cast  a  lingering  look. 
Where  easily  his  eye  might  reach 
The  harper  on  the  islet  beach, 
Reclined  against  a  blighted  tree, 
As  wasted,  gray,  and  worn  as  he. 
To  minstrel  meditation  given, 
His  reverend  brow  was  raised  to  heaven, 
As  from  the  rising  sun  to  claim 
A  sparkle  of  inspiring  flame. 
His  hand,  reclined  upon  the  wire, 
Seem'd  watching  the  awakening  fire ; 
So  still  he  sate,  as  those  who  wait 
Till  judgment  speak  the  doom  of  fate  ; 
So  still,  as  if  no  breeze  might  dare 
To  lift  one  lock  of  hoary  hair  ; 
So  still,  as  life  itself  were  fled, 
In  tne  last  sound  his  harp  had  sped. 


Upon  a  rock  with  lichens  wild, 
Beside  him  Ellen  sate  and  smiled. 
Smiled  she  to  see  the  stately  drake 
Lead  forth  his  fleet  upon  the  lake. 
While  her  vex'd  spaniel,  from  the  beach, 
Bay'd  at  the  prize  beyond  his  reach  ! 
Yet  tell  me,  then,  the  maid  who  knows, 
Why  deepen 'd  on  her  cheek  the  rose  ? — 
Forgive,  forgive,  fidelity  ! 
Perchance  the  maiden  smiled  to  see 
Yon  parting  lingerer  wave  adieu. 
And  stop  and  turn  to  wave  anew ; 
And,  lovely  ladies,  ere  your  ire 
Condemn  the  heroine  of  my  lyre. 
Show  me  the  fair  would  scorn  to  spy, 
And  prize  such  conquest  of  her  eye ! 

VI. 

While  yet  he  loiter'd  on  the  spot. 
It  seem'd  as  Ellen  mark'd  him  not ; 
But  when  he  turn'd  him  to  the  glade. 
One  courteous  parting  sign  she  made : 
And  after,  oft  the  knight  would  say, 
That  not  when  prize  of  festal  day 
Was  dealt  him  by  the  brightest  fair 
Who  e'er  wore  jewel  in  her  hair. 
So  highly  did  his  bosom  swell. 
As  at  that  simple,  mute  farewell. 
Now  with  a  trusty  mountain  guide, 
And  his  dark  stag-hounds  by  his  side, 
He  parts — the  maid,  unconscious  still, 
Watch'd  him  wind  slowly  round  the  hill ; 
But  when  his  stately  form  was  hid. 
The  guardian  in  her  bosom  chid — 
"  Thy  Malcolm  !  vain  and  selfish  maid  !" 
'Twas  thus  upbraiding  conscience  said, 
«  Not  so  had  Malcolm  idly  hung 
On  the  smooth  phrase  of  southern  tongue ; 
Not  so  had  Malcolm  strain'd  his  eye 
Another  step  than  thine  to  spy.— 
Wake,  Allan-bane,"  aloud  she  cried 
To  the  old  minstrel  by  her  side, 


"  Arouse  thee  from  thy  moody  dream  ! 
I'll  give  thy  harp  heroic  theme. 
And  warm  thee  with  a  noble  name ; 
Pour  forth  the  glory  of  the  Graeme." 
Scarce  from  her  lip  the  word  had  iush*d. 
When  deep  the  conscious  maiden  blush'd. 
For  of  his  clan,  in  hall  and  bower. 
Young  Malcolm  Greeme  was  held  the  flower. 

VII. 
The  minstrel  waked  his  harp — three  times 
Arose  the  well-known  martial  chimes. 
And  thrice  their  high  heroic  pride 
In  melancholy  murmurs  died. 

"  Vainly  thou  bid'st,  O  noble  maid,'* 

Clasping  his  wither'd  hands,  he  said, 

"  Vainly  thou  bid'st  me  wake  the  strain, 

Though  all  unwont  to  bid  in  vain. 

Alas  !  than  mine  a  mightier  hand 

Has  tuned  my  harp,  my  strings  has  spann'd! 

I  touch  the  chords  of  joy,  but  low 

And  mournful  answer  notes  of  wo; 

And  the  proud  march,  which  victors  tread, 

Sinks  in  the  wailing  for  the  dead. 

O  well  for  me,  if  mine  alone 

That  dirge's  deep  prophetic  tone  ! 

If,  as  my  tuneful  fathers  said. 

This  harp,  which  erst  saint  Modan  sway'd. 

Can  thus  its  master's  fate  foretell, 

Then  welcome  be  the  minstrel's  knell  i 

VIII. 
"  But  ah  !  dear  lady,  thus  it  sigh'd 
The  eve  thy  sainted  mother  died ; 
And  such  the  sounds  which,  while  I  strove 
To  wake  a  lay  of  war  or  love. 
Came  marring  all  the  festal  mirth. 
Appalling  me  who  gave  them  birth, 
And,  disobedient  to  my  call, 
Wailed  loud  through  Bothwell's  banner'd  hall. 
Ere  Douglasses,  to  ruin  driven, 
Were  exiled  from  their  native  heaven. 
Oh  !  if  yet  worse  mishap  and  wo 
My  master's  house  must  undergo. 
Or  aught  but  weal  to  Ellen  fair. 
Brood  in  these  accents  of  despair, 
No  future  bard,  sad  harp  !  shall  fling 
Triumph  or  rapture  from  thy  string ; 
One  short,  one  final  strain  shall  flow 
Fraught  with  unutterable  wo. 
Then  shiver'd  shall  tliy  fragments  lie. 
Thy  master  cast  him  down  and  die.  '* 

IX. 

Soothing  she  answer'd  him, "  Assuage, 
Mine  honour'd  friend,  the  fears  of  age ; 
All  melodies  to  thee  are  known. 
That  harp  has  rung,  or  pipe  has  blown. 
In  lowland  vale  or  highland  glen. 
From  Tweed  to  Spey — what  marvel,  then. 
At  times,  unbidden  notes  should  rise. 
Confusedly  bound  in  memory's  ties, 
Entangling,  as  they  rush  along. 
The  war  march  with  the  funeral  song  ? — 
Small  ground  is  now  for  boding  fear; 
Obscure,  but  safe,  we  rest  us  here. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


685 


My  sire,  in  native  virtue  great, 

Resigning  lordship,  lands,  and  state, 

Not  then  to  fortune  more  resign'd 

Than  yonder  oak  might  give  the  wind; 

The  graceful  foliage  storms  may  reave, 

The  noble  stem  they  cannot  grieve. 

For  me" — she  stoop'd,  and,  looking  round, 

Pluck'd  a  blue  harebell  from  the  ground — 

"For  me,  whose  memory  scarce  conveys 

An  image  of  more  splendid  days, 

This  little  flower,  that  loves  the  lea, 

May  well  my  simple  emblem  be  : 

It  drinks  heaven's  dew  as  blithe  as  rose 

That  in  the  king's  own  garden  grows  ; 

And  when  I  place  it  in  my  hair, 

Allan,  a  bard  is  bound  to  swear 

He  ne'er  saw  coronet  so  fair." 

Then  playfully  the  chaplet  wild 

She  wreath'd  in  her  dark  locks,  and  smiled. 

X. 

Her  smile,  her  speech,  with  winning  sway. 
Wiled  the  old  harper's  mood  away. 
With  such  a  look  as  hermits  throw 
When  angels  stoop  to  soothe  their  wo. 
He  gazed,  till  fond  regret  and  pride 
Thrill'd  to  a  tear,  then  thus  replied : 
"  Loveliest  and  best !  thou  little  know'st 
The  rank,  the  honours  thou  hast  lost ! 
O  might  I  live  to  see  thee  grace. 
In  Scotland's  court,  thy  birthright  place, 
To  see  my  favourite's  step  advance, 
The  lightest  in  the  courtly  dance. 
The  cause  of  every  gallant's  sigh, 
And  leading  star  of  every  eye. 
And  theme  of  every  minstrel's  art. 
The  lady  of  the  bleeding  heart !  "* 

XI. 

"  Fair  dreams  are  these,"  the  maiden  cried, 
(Light  was  her  accent,  yet  she  sigh'd,) 
"  This  moss}'  rock,  my  friend,  to  me 
Is  worth  gay  chair  and  canopy  ; 
Nor  would  my  footstep  spring  more  gay 
In  courtly  dance  than  blithe  strathspey  ; 
Nor  half  so  pleased  mine  ear  incline 
To  royal  minstrel's  lay  as  thine ; 
And  then  for  suitors  proud  and  high, 
To  bend  before  my  conquering  eye, 
Thou  flattering  bard,  thyself  wilt  say 
That  grim  Sir  Roderick  owns  its  sway. 
The  Saxon  scourge,  Clan-Alpine's  pride, 
The  terror  of  Loch-Lomond's  side. 
Would  at  my  suit,  thou  know'st,  delay 
A  Lennox  foray — for  a  day.*' 

XIL 

Thfe  ancient  bard  his  glee  repress'd : 
"  111  hast  thou  chosen  theme  for  jest ! 
For  who,  through  all  this  western  wild, 
Named  black  Sir  Roderick  e'er,  and  smiled  i* 
In  Holy-Rood  a  knight  he  slew  ; 
I  saw,  when  back  the  dirk  he  drew, 
Courtiers  gave  place  before  the  stride 
Of  the  undaunted  homicide : 


♦The  well-known  cognizance  of  the  Douglas  family. 


And  since,  though  outlaw 'd,  hath  his  hand 

Full  sternly  kept  his  mountain  land. 

Who  else  dare  give — ah  !  wo  the  day. 

That  I  such  hated  truth  should  say — 

The  Douglas,  like  a  stricken  deer, 

Disown'd  by  every  noble  peer. 

E'en  the  rude  refuge  we  have  here  f 

Alas,  this  wild  marauding  chief 

Alone  might  hazard  our  relief ; 

And,  now  thy  maiden  charms  expand,  • 

Looks  for  his  gi^erdon  in  thy  hand ; 

Full  soon  may  dipensation,  sought 

To  back  his  suit,  from  Rome  he  brought. 

Then,  though  an  exile  on  the  hill. 

Thy  father,  as  the  Douglas,  still 

Be  held  in  reverence  and  fear. 

But  though  to  Roderick  thou'rt  so  dear. 

That  thou  might'st  guide  with  silken  thread, 

Slave  of  thy  will,  this  chieftain  dread. 

Yet,  0  loved  maid,  thy  mirth  refrain  ! 

Thy  hand  is  on  a  lion's  mane." 

xin. 

"  Minstrel,"  the  maid  replied,  and  high 

Her  father's  soul  glanced  from  her  eye, 

"My  debts  to  Roderick's  house  I  knowj 

All  that  a  mother  could  bestow, 

To  Lady  Margaret's  care  I  owe. 

Since  first  an  orphan  in  the  wild  / 

She  sorrow'd  o'er  her  sister's  child. 

To  her  brave  chieftain  son,  from  ire 

Of  Scotland's  king  who  shrouds  my  sire, 

A  deeper,  holier  debt  is  owed  ; 

And,  could  I  pay  it  with  my  blood, 

Allan  !  sir  Roderick  should  command 

My  blood,  my  life — but  not  my  hand. 

Rather  will  Ellen  Douglas  dwell 

A  votaress  in  Maronnan's  cell ; 

Rather  through  realms  beyond  the  sea. 

Seeking  the  world's  cold  charity. 

Where  ne'er  was  spoke  a  Scottish  word, 

And  ne'er  the  name  of  Douglas  heard. 

An  outcast  pilgrim  will  she  rove. 

Than  wed  the  man  she  cannot  love. 

XIV. 
"  Thou  shakest,  good  friend,  thy  tresses  gray- 
That  pleading  look,  what  can  it  say  • 
But  what  I  own  ? — I  grant  him  brave. 
But  wild  as  Bracklinn's  thundering  wave  ; 
And  generous — save  vindictive  mood 
Or  jealous  transport  chafe  his  blood  : 
I  grant  him  true  to  friendly  band. 
As  his  claymore  is  to  his  hand  ; 
But  O  !  that  very  blade  of  steel 
More  mercy  for  a  foe  would  feel  i 
I  grant  him  liberal,  to  fling 
Among  his  clan  the  wealth  they  bring. 
When  back  by  lake  and  glen  they  wind, 
And  in  the  lowland  leave  behind. 
Where  once  some  pleasant  hamlet  stood, 
A  mass  of  ashes  slaked  with  blood. 
The  hand  that  for  my  father  fought, 
I  honour,  as  his  daughter  ought ; 
But  can  I  clasp  it  reeking  red. 
From  peasants  slaughter'd  in  their  shed  ? 


686 


SCOTT. 


No  !  wildly  while  his  virtues  gleam, 

They  make  his  passions  darker  seem, 

And  flash  along  his  spirit  high, 

Like  lightning  o'er  the  midnight  sky. 

While  yet  a  child — and  children  know, 

Instinctive  taught,  the  friend  and  foe — 

I  shudder 'd  at  his  brow  of  gloom, 

His  shadowy  plaid,  and  sable  plume ; 

A  maiden  grown,  I  ill  could  bear  * 

His  haughty  mien  and  lordly  air ; 

But,  if  thou  join'st  a  suitor's  claim, 

In  serious  mood,  to  Roderick's  name, 

I  thrill  with  anguish  !  or,  if  e'er 

A  Douglas  knew  the  word,  with  fear. 

To  change  such  odious  theme  were  best, — 

What  think'st  thou  of  our  stranger  guest  ?" 

XV. 

"  What  tWnk  I  of  him  ?  wo  the  while 

That  brought  such  wanderer  to  our  isle .' 

Thy  father's  battle  brand,  of  yore 

For  Tyneman  forged  by  fairy  lore. 

What  time  he  leagued,  no  longer  foes. 

His  border  spears  with  Hotspur's  bows, 

Did,  self-unscabbarded,  foreshow 

The  footsteps  of  a  secret  foe. 

If  courtly  spy  had  harbour'd  here, 

What  may  we  for  the  Douglas  fear  ? 

What  for  this  island,  deem'd  of  old 

Clan-Alpine's  last  and  surest  hold  r 

If  neither  spy  nor  foe,  I  pray. 

What  yet  may  jealous  Roderick  say  ! 

Nay,  wave  not  thy  disdainful  head ! 

Bethink  thee  of  the  discord  dread 

That  kindled  when  at  Beltane  game 

Thou  led'st  the  dance  with  Malcolm  Graeme ; 

Still,  though  thy  sire  the  peace  renew 'd. 

Smoulders  in  Roderick's  breast  the  feud  ; 

Beware  ! — But  hark,  what  sounds  are  these  ? 

My  dull  ears  catch  no  faltering  breeze. 

No  weeping  birch,  nor  aspen's  wake. 

Nor  breath  is  dimpling  in  the  lake, 

Still  is  the  canna's*  hoary  beard, — 

Yet,  by  my  minstrel  faith,  I  heard — 

And  hark  again  !  some  pipe  of  war 

Sends  the  bold  pibroch  from  afar." 

XVI. 

Far  up  the  lengthen'd  lake  were  spied 
Four  darkening  specks  upon  the  tide. 
That,  slow  enlarging  on  the  view. 
Four  mann'd  and  masted  barges  grew, 
And,  bearing  downwards  from  Glengyle, 
Steer'd  full  upon  the  lonely  isle ; 
The  point  of  Brianchoil  they  pass'd. 
And  to  the  windward  as  they  cast. 
Against  the  sun  they  gave  to  shine 
The  bold  Sir  Roderick's  banner'd  pine. 
Nearer  and  nearer  as  they  bear. 
Spears,  pikes,  and  axes  flash  in  air. 
Now  might  you  see  the  tartans  brave. 
And  plaids  and  plumage  dance  and  wave ; 
Now  see  the  bonnets  sink  and  rise. 
As  his  tough  oar  the  rower  plies ; 


See,  flashing  at  each  sturdy  stroke, 

The  wave  ascending  into  smoke  ; 

See  the  proud  pipers  on  the  bow. 

And  mark  the  gaudy  streamers  dovr 

From  their  loud  chanters*  down,  and  sweep 

The  furrow'd  bosom  of  the  deep, 

As,  rushing  through  the  lake  amain. 

They  plied  the  ancient  highland  strain. 

XVII. 
Ever,  as  on  they  bore,  more  loud 
And  louder  rung  the  pibroch  proud. 
At  first  the  sound,  by  distance  tame, 
Mellow'd  along  the  waters  came. 
And,  lingering  long  by  cape  and  bay, 
Wail'd  every  harsher  note  away; 
Then  bursting  bolder  on  the  ear. 
The  clan's  shrill  gathering  they  could  hearj 
Those  thrilling  sounds,  that  call  the  might 
Of  old  Clan-Alpine  to  the  fight. 
Thick  beat  the  rapid  notes,  as  when 
The  mustering  hundreds  shake  the  glen. 
And  hurrying  at  the  signal  dread. 
The  batter'd  earth  returns  their  tread 
Then  prelude  light,  of  livelier  tone, 
Express'd  their  merry  marching  on, 
Ere  peal  of  closing  battle  rose, 
With  mingled  outcry,  shrieks,  and  blows: 
And  mimic  din  of  stroke  and  ward, 
As  broadsword  upon  target  jarr'd  ; 
And  groaning  pause,  e'er  yet  again. 
Condensed,  the  battle  yell'd  amain  ; 
The  rapid  charge,  the  rallying  shout. 
Retreat  borne  headlong  into  rout. 
And  bursts  of  triumph,  to  declare, 
Clan-Alpine's  conquest — all  were  there. 
Nor  ended  thus  the  strain  ;  but  slow 
Sunk  in  a  moan  prolong'd  and  low. 
And  changed  the  conquering  clarion  swell, 
For  wild  lament  o'er  those  that  fell. 

XVIII. 
The  war-pipes  ceased  ;  but  lake  and  hill 
Were  busy  with  their  echoes  still ; 
And,  when  they  slept,  a  vocal  strain 
Bade  their  hoarse  chorus  wake  again. 
While  loud  a  hundred  clansmen  raise 
Their  voices  in  their  chieftain's  praise. 
Each  boatman,  bending  to  his  oar, 
With  measured  sweep  the  burthen  bore. 
In  such  wild  cadence,  as  the  breeze 
Makes  through  December's  leafless  trees. 
The  chorus  first  could  Allen  know, 
"  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine,  ho  !  ieroe  ?" 
And  near,  and  nearer,  as  they  rowed. 
Distinct  the  martial  ditty  flowed. 

XIX. 

BOAT   SONG. 

Hail  to  the  chief  who  in  triumph  a(i\n;.<,'es  ! 

Honour'd  and  bless'd  be  the  ever-^teen  pine. 
Long  may  the  tree  in  his  banner  that  glances 
Flourish,  the  shelter  and  grace  of  our  line  ! 
Heaven  send  it  happy  dew. 
Earth  lend  it  sap  anew, 


*  The  drone  of  the  bagpipe. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


687 


Gayly  to  bourgeon,  aad  broadly  to  grow  j 

While  every  highland  glen 

Sends  our  shout  back  agen, 
"Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe  !'* 

Ours  is  no  sapling,  chance-sown  by  the  fountain, 

Blooming  at  Beltane,  in  winter  to  fade ; 
When  the  whirlwind  has  stripp'd  every  leaf  on  the 
mountain. 
The  more  shall  Clan-Alpine  exult  in  her  shade. 
Moor'd  in  the  rifted  rock, 
Proof  to  the  tempest's  shock. 
Firmer  he  roots  him  the  ruder  it  blow ; 
Menteith  and  Breadalbane,  then. 
Echo  his  praise  agen, 
**  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe  !" 

XX. 

Proudly  our  pibroch  has  thrill'd  in  Glen  Fruin, 

And  Bannochar's  groans  to  our  slogan  replied, 
Glen  Luss  and  Ross-dhu,  they  are  smoking  in  ruin, 
And  the  best  of  Loch-Lomond  lie  dead  on  her 
side. 
Widow  and  Saxon  maid 
Long  shall  lament  our  aid, 
Think  of  Clan-Alpine  with  fear  and  with  wo  j 
Lennox  and  Leven-glen 
Shake  when  they  hear  agen, 
••  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroc  .*" 

Row,  vassals,  row,  for  the  pride  ot  the  highlanos.  \ 

Stretch  to  your  oars  for  the  ever-green  pine  : 
0  !  that  the  rose-bud  that  graces  yon  islands 

Were  wreath'd    in   a   garland   around    him   *u 
twine  ! 
0  that  some  seedling  gem, 
Worthy  such  noble  stem, 
Honour'd  and  bless'd  in  their  shadow  might  grow  ! 
Loud  should  Clan-Alpine  then 
Ring  from  her  deepmost  glen, 
*  Roderigh  Vich  Alpine  dhu,  ho  !  ieroe." 

XXI. 

With  all  her  joyful  female  band. 

Had  lady  Margaret  sought  the  strand. 

Loose  on  the  breeze  their  tresses  flew. 

And  high  their  snowy  arms  they  threw  ; 

As  echoing  back  with  shrill  acclaim 

And  chorus  wild,  the  chieftain's  name  ; 

While,  prompt  to  please,  with  mother's  art, 

The  darling  passion  of  his  heart, 

The  dame  called  Ellen  to  the  strand. 

To  greet  her  kinsman  ere  he  land  : 

"  Come,  loiterer,  come  !  a  Douglas  thou, 

And  shun  to  wreath  a  victor's  brow  I" — 

Reluctantly,  and  slow,  the  maid 

Th'  unwelcome  summoning  obey'd. 

And,  when  a  distant  bugle  rung, 

In  the  mid  path  aside  she  sprung : — 

«  List,  Allan-bane  !  from  main  land  cast, 

I  hear  my  father's  signal  blast. 

Be  ours,"  she  cried,  "  the  skiff  to  guide. 

And  waft  him  from  the  mountain  side." 

Then,  like  a  sunbeam,  swift  and  bright. 

She  darted  to  her  shallop  light. 

And,  eagerly  while  Roderick  scann'd 

For  her  dear  form  his  mother's  band, 


The  islet  far  behindher  lay. 
And  she  had  landed  in  the  bay. 

XXIL 

Some  feelings  are  to  mortals  given, 

With  less  of  earth  in  them  than  heaven  ; 

And  if  there  be  a  human  tear 

From  passion's  dross  refined  and  clear, 

A  tear  so  limpid  and  so  meek. 

It  would  not  stain  an  angel's  cheek, 

'Tis  that  which  pious  fathers  shed 

Upon  a  duteous  daughter's  head  ! 

And  as  the  Douglas  to  his  breast 

His  darling  Ellen  closely  press'd. 

Such  holy  drops  her  tresses  steep'd. 

Though  'twas  a  hero's  eye  that  weep'd. 

Nor  while  on  Ellen's  faltering  tongue 

Her  filial  welcomes  crowded  hung, 

Mark'd  she  that  fear  (affection's  proof) 

Still  held  a  graceful  youth  aloof: 

No  !  not  till  Douglas  named  his  name, 

Although  the  j'outh  was  Malcolm  Graeme. 

xxin. 

Allan,  with  wistful  look  the  while, 

Mark'd  Roderick  landing  on  the  isle 

His  master  piteously  he  eyed, 

Then  gazed  upon  the  chieftain's  pride, 

Then  dash'd,  with  hasty  hand,  away 

From  his  dimm'd  eye  the  gathering  spray  ; 

And  Douglas,  as  his  hand  he  laid 

On  Malcolm's  shoulder,  kindly  said, 

"  Canst  thou,  young  friend,  no  meaning  spy 

In  mj'  poor  follower's  glistening  eye  ? 

I'll  tell  thee : — he  recalls  the  day. 

When  in  my  praise  he  led  the  lay 

O'er  the  arch'd  gate  of  Bothwell  proxid. 

While  many  a  minstrel  answer'd  loud. 

When  Percy's  Norman  pennon,  won 

In  bloody  field,  before  me  shone, 

And  twice  ten  knights,  the  least  a  name 

As  mighty  as  yon  chief  may  claim. 

Gracing  my  pomp,  behind  me  came. 

Yet  trust  me,  Malcolm,  not  so  proud 

Was  I  of  all  that  marshall'd  crowd, 

Though  the  waned  crescent  own'd  my  miglil 

And  in  my  train  troop'd  lord  and  knight. 

Though  Blantyre  hymn'd  her  holiest  lays, 

And  Bothwell's  harps  flung  back  my  praise, 

As  when  this  old  man's  silent  tear. 

And  this  poor  maid's  affection  dear, 

A  welcome  give  more  kind  and  true 

Than  aught  my  better  fortunes  knew, 

Forgive,,my  friend,  a  father's  boast ; 

P  !  it  outbeggars  all  I  lost !" 

XXIV. 
Delightful  praise  ! — like  summer  rose 
That  brighter  in  the  dewdrop  glows. 
The  bashful  maiden's  cheek  appear'd. 
For  Douglas  spoke,  and  Malcolm  heard. 
The  flush  of  shamefaced  joy  to  hide, 
The  hounds,  the  hawk,  her  cares  divide : 
The  loved  caresses  of  the  maid 
The  dogs  with  crouch  and  whimper  paid ; 
And,  at  her  whistle,  on  her  hand 
The  falcon  took  his  favourite  stand. 


688 


SCOTT. 


Closed  his  dark  wing,  relax'd  his  eye, 
Nor,  though  unhooded,  sought  to  fly. 
And,  trust,  while  in  such  guise  she  stood 
Like  fabled  goddess  of  the  wood, 
That  if  a  father's  partial  thought 
O'erweigh'd  her  worth  and  beauty  aught. 
Well  might  the  lover's  judgment  fail 
To  balance  with  a  juster  scale  ; 
For  with  each  secret  glance  he  stole. 
The  fond  enthusiast  sent  his  soul. 

XXV. 

Of  stature  tall,  and  slender  frame. 

But  firmly  knit,  was  Malcolm  Graeme. 

The  belted  plaid  and  tartan  hose 

Did  ne'er  more  graceful  limbs  disclose; 

His  flaxen  hair,  of  sunny  hue, 

Curl'd  closely  round  his  bonnet  blue. 

Traln'd  to  the  chase,  his  eagle  eye 

The  ptarmigan  in  snow  could  spy : 

Each  pass,  by  mountain,  lake,  and  heath. 

He  knew,  through  Lennox  and  Menteith  ; 

Vain  was  the  bound  of  dark  brown  doe, 

When  Malcolm  bent  his  sounding  bo\v, 

And  scarce  that  doe,  though  wing'd  with  fear, 

Outstripp'd  in  speed  the  mountaineer: 

Right  up  Ben-Lomond  could  he  press, 

And  not  a  sob  his  toil  confess. 

His  form  accorded  with  a  mind 

Lively  and  ardent,  frank  and  kind  : 

A  blither  heart,  till  Ellen  came, 

Did  never  love  nor  sorrow  tame ; 

It  danced  as  lightsome  in  his  breast. 

As  play'd  the  feather  on  his  crest. 

Yet  friends  who  nearest  knew  the  youth. 

His  scorn  of  wrong,  his  zeal  for  truth, 

And  bards,  who  saw  his  features  bold. 

When  kindled  by  the  tales  of  old. 

Said,  were  that  youth  to  manhood  grown, 

Not  long  should  Roderick  Dhu's  renown 

Be  foremost  voiced  by  mountain  fame, 

But  quail  to  that  of  Malcolm  Graeme. 

XXVL 

Now  back  they  wend  their  watery  way, 
And,  "  O  my  sire !"  did  Ellen  say, 
"  Why  urge  thy  chase  so  far  astray  ? 
And  why  so  late  return 'd  ?    And  why" — 
The  rest  was  in  her  speaking  eye. 
"  My  child,  the  chase  I  follow  far, 
'Tis  mimicry  of  noble  war ; 
And  with  that  gallant  pastime  reft 
Were  all  of  Douglas  I  have  left. 
I  met  young  Malcolm  as  I  stray'd 
Far  eastward,  in  Glenfinlas'  shade, 
Nor  stray'd  I  safe  ;  for,  all  around. 
Hunters  and  horsemen  scour'd  the  ground. 
This  youth,  though  still  a  royal  ward, 
Risk'd  life  and  land  to  be  my  guard. 
And  through  the  passes  of  the  wood 
Guided  my  steps,  not  unpursued ; 
And  Roderick  shall  his  welcome  makie. 
Despite  old  spleen,  for  Douglas'  sake. 
Then  must  he  seek  Strath-Endrick  glen, 
Nor  peril  aught  for  me  agen." — 


xxvn. 

Sir  Roderick,  who  to  meet  them  came, 
Redden'd  at  sight  of  Malcolm  Graeme. 
Yet,  not  in  action,  word,  or  eye, 
Fail'd  aught  in  hospitality. 
In  talk  and  sport  they  whiled  away 
The  morning  of  that  summer  day ; 
But  at  high  ncfon  a  courier  light 
Held  secret  parley  with  the  knight; 
Whose  moody  aspect  soon  declared. 
That  evil  were  the  news  h|  heard. 
Deep  thought  seem'd  toiling  in  his  head; 
Yet  was  the  evening  banquet  made. 
E'er  he  assembled  round  the  flame, 
His  mother,  Douglas,  and  the  Graeme, 
And  Ellen,  too  ;  then  cast  around 
His  eyes,  then  fix'd  them  on  the  groand, 
As  studying  phrase  that  might  avail 
Best  to  convey  unpleasant  tale. 
Long  with  his  dagger's  hilt  he  play'd. 
Then  raised  his  haughty  brow,  and  said : 

xxvin. 

"  Short  be  my  speech ; — nor  time  affords, 
Nor  my  plain  temper,  glozing  words. 
Kinsman  and  father, — if  such  name 
Douglas  vouchsafe  to  Roderick's  claim ; 
Mine  honour'd  mother ; — Ellen — why. 
My  cousin,  turn  away  thine  eye  ? 
And  Graeme  ;  in  whom  I  hope  to  know 
Full  soon  a  noble  friend  or  foe, 
When  age  shall  give  thee  thy  command, 
And  leading  in  thy  native  land ; — 
List  all  I — The  king's  vindictive  pride 
Boasts  to  have  tamed  the  border-side. 
Where  chiefs,  with  hound  and  hawk  who  camg 
To  share  their  monarch's  sylvan  game. 
Themselves  in  bloody  toils  were  snared. 
And  when  the  banquet  they  prepared. 
And  wide  their  loyal  portals  flung, 
O'er  their  own  gateway  struggling  hung. 
Loud  cries  their  blood  from  Meggat's  mead» 
•  From  Yarrow  braes,  and  banks  of  Tweed, 
Where  the  lone  streams  of  Ettrick  glide. 
And  from  the  silver  Teviot's  side  ; 
The  dales  where  martial  clans  did  ride 
Are  now  one  sheepwalk  waste  and  wide. 
This  tyrant  of  the  Scottish  throne, 
So  faithless  and  so  ruthless  known, 
Now  hither  comes  ;  his  end  the  same, 
The  same  pretext  of  sylvan  game. 
What  grace  for  highland  chiefs  judge  ye. 
By  fate  of  border  chivalry. 
Yet  more  ;  amid  Glenfinlas'  green, 
Douglas,  thy  stately  form  was  seen. 
This  by  espial  sure  I  know ; 
Your  counsel  in  the  streight  I  show.*' — 

xxix. 

Ellen  and  Margaret  fearfully 

Sought  comfort  in  each  other's  eye. 

Then  turn'd  their  ghastly  look,  each  one. 

This  to  her  sire,  that  to  her  son. 

The  hasty  colour  went  and  came 

In  the  bold  cheek  of  Malcolm  Graeme : 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


689 


But  from  his  glance  it  well  appear'd, 
*Twas  but  for  Ellen  that  he  fear'd ; 
While  sorrowful,  but  undismay'd, 
The  Douglas  thus  his  counsel  said: 
"  Brave  Roderick,  though  the  tempest  roar, 
It  may  but  thunder  and  pass  o'er ; 
Nor  will  I  here  remain  an  hour. 
To  draw  the  lightning  on  thy  bower; 
For,  well  thou  know'st  at  this  gray  head 
The  royal  bolt  were  fiercest  sped. 
For  thee,  who,  at  thy  king's  command. 
Canst  aid  him  with  a  gallant  band, 
Submission,  homage,  humbled  pride, 
Shall  turn  the  monarch's  wrath  aside. 
Poor  remnants  of  the  bleeding  heart 
Ellen  and  I  will  seek,  apart. 
The  refuge  of  some  forest  cell. 
There,  like  the  hunted  quarry,  dwell. 
Till  on  the  mountain  and  the  moor. 
The  stern  pursuit  be  past  and  o'er." — 

XXX. 

"  No,  by  mine  honour,"  Roderick  said, 
*'  So  help  me,  heaven,  and  my  good  blade  ! 
No,  never  !  blasted  be  j'on  pine. 
My  fathers'  ancient  crest  and  mine, 
If  from  its  shade  in  danger  part 
The  lineage  of  the  bleeding  heart ! 
Hear  my  blunt  speech,  grant  me  this  maid 
To  wife,  thy  counsel  to  mine  aid  ; 
To  Douglas,  leagued  with  Roderick  Dhu, 
Will  friends  and  allies  flock  enow ; 
Like  cause  of  doubt,  distrust,  and  grief, 
Will  bind  to  us  each  western  chief. 
When  the  loud  pipes  my  bridal  tell. 
The  links  of  Forth  shall  hear  the  knell, 
The  guards  shall  start  in  Stirling's  porch; 
And,  when  I  light  the  nuptial  torch, 
A  thousand  villages  in  flames 
Shall  scare  the  slumbers  of  King  James  ! 
—Nay,  Ellen,  blench  not  thus  away, 
And,  mother,  cease  these  signs,  I  pray 
I  meant  not  all  my  heart  might  say. 
Small  need  of  inroad,  or  of  fight. 
When  the  sage  Douglas  may  unite 
Each  mountain  clan  in  friendly  band, 
To  guard  the  passes  of  their  land. 
Till  the  foil'd  king,  from  pathless  glen. 
Shall  bootless  turn  him  home  agen." 

XXXI. 

There  are  who  have,  at  midnight  hour. 
In  slumber  scaled  a  dizzy  tower. 
And,  on  the  verge  that  beetled  o'er 
The  ocean  tide's  incessant  roar, 
Dream'd  calmly  out  their  dangerous  dream. 
Till  waken 'd  by  the  morning  beam. 
When,  dazzled  by  the  eastern  glow. 
Such  startler  cast  his  glance  below, 
And  saw  unmeasured  depth  around. 
And  heard  unintermitted  sound, 
And  thought  the  battled  fence  so  frail, 
It  waved  like  cobweb  in  the  gale ; 
Amid  his  senses'  giddy  wheel. 
Did  he  not  desperate  impulse  feel 
Vol.  III.— 44 


Headlong  to  plunge  himself  below, 

And  meet  the  worst  his  fears  foreshow  ? — 

Thus,  Ellen,  dizzy  and  astound. 

As  sudden  ruin  yawn'd  around, 

By  crossing  terrors  wildly  toss'd. 

Still  for  the  Douglas  fearing  most. 

Could  scarce  the  desperate  thought  withstand. 

To  buy  his  safety  with  her  hand. 

XXXII. 

Such  purpose  dread  could  Malcolm  spy 
In  Ellen's  quivering  lip  and  eye, 
And  eager  rose  to  speak — but  ere 
His  tongue  could  hurry  forth  his  fear, 
Had  Douglas  mark'd  the  hectic  strife. 
Where  death  seem'd  combating  with  life ; 
For  to  her  cheek,  in  feverish  flood. 
One  instant  rush'd  the  throbbing  blood. 
Then  ebbing  back,  with  sudden  sway. 
Left  its  domain  as  wan  as  clay 
"  Roderick,  enough  !  enough  !"  he  cried 
"  My  daughter  cannot  be  thy  bride ; 
Not  that  the  blush  to  wooer  dear, 
Nor  paleness  that  of  maiden  fear. 
It  may  not  be — forgive  her,  chief, 
Nor  hazard  aught  for  our  relief. 
Against  his  sovereign  Douglas  ne'er 
Will  level  a  rebellious  spear. 
'Twas  I  that  taught  his  youthful  hand 
To  rein  a  steed  and  wield  a  brand  ; 
I  see  him  yet,  the  princely  boy  ! 
Not  Ellen  more  my  pride  and  joy  : 
I  love  him  still,  despite  my  wrongs 
By  hasty  wrath  and  slanderous  tongues. 
0  seek  the  grace  you  well  may  find, 
Without  a  cause  to  mine  combined." 

xxxin. 

Twice  through  the  hall  the  chieftain  strode; 
The  waving  of  his  tartans  broad, 
And  darken'd  brow,  where  wounded  pride 
With  ire  and  disappointment  vied, 
Seem'd,  by  the  torch's  gloomy  light. 
Like  the  ill  demon  of  the  night. 
Stooping  his  pinions'  shadowy  sway 
Upcn  the  'nighted  pilgrim's  ways 
But,  unrequited  love  !  thy  dart 
Plunged  deepest  its  envenom'd  smart. 
And  Roderick,  with  thine  anguish  stung, 
At  length  the  hand  of  Douglas  wrung. 
While  eyes,  that  mock'd  at  tears  before. 
With  bitter  drops  were  running  o'er. 
The  death  pangs  of  long  cherish'd  hope 
Scarce  in  that  ample  breast  had  scope. 
But,  struggling  with  his  spirit  proud, 
Convulsive  heaved  its  checker'd  shroud, 
While  every  sob — so  mute  were  all — 
Was  heard  distinctly  through  the  hall. 
The  son's  despair,  the  mother's  look, 
111  might  the  gentle  Ellen  brook ; 
She  rose,  and  to  her  side  there  came, 
To  aid  her  parting  steps,  the  Grteme. 

XXXIV 

Then  Roderick  from  the  Douglas  broke- 
As  flashes  flame  through  sable  smoke. 


690 


SCOTT. 


Kindling  its  wreaths,  long,  dark  and  low, 

To  one  broad  blaze  of  ruddy  glow, 

So  the  deep  anguish  of  despair 

Burst,  in  fierce  jealousy,  to  air. — 

With  stalwart  grasp  his  hand  he  laid 

On  Malcolm's  breast  and  belted  plaid : 

"  Back,  beardless  boy  !"  he  sternly  said, 

«  Back,  minion  !  hold'st  thou  thus  at  naught 

The  lesson  I  so  lately  taught  ? 

This  roof,  the  Douglas,  and  that  maid, 

Thank  thou  for  punishment  delay'd." 

Eager  as  greyhound  on  his  game. 

Fiercely  with  Roderick  grappled  Graeme. 

*'  Perish  my  name,  if  aught  afford 

Its  chieftain  safety,  save  his  sword  I" 

Thus  as  they  strove,  their  desperate  hand 

Griped  to  the  dagger  or  the  brand, 

And  death  had  been — but  Douglas  rose, 

And  thrust  between  the  struggling  foes 

His  giant  strength: — "  Chieftains,  forego  ! 

I  hold  the  first  who  strikes,  my  foe. — 

Madmen,  forbear  your  frantic  jar ! 

"What !  is  the  Douglas  fallen  so  far. 

His  daughter's  hand  is  deem'd  the  spoil 

Of  such  dishonourable  broil  I" 

Sullen  and  slowly  they  unclasp. 

As  struck  with  shame,  their  desperate  grasp. 

And  each  upon  his  rival  glared. 

With  foot  advanced,  and  blade  half  bared. 

XXXV. 

Ere  yet  the  brands  aloft  were  flung, 
Margaret  on  Roderick's  mantle  hung. 
And  Malcolm  heard  his  Ellen  scream. 
As  falter'd  through  terrific  dream. 
Then  Roderick  plunged  in  sheath  his  sword, 
And  vei'l'd  his  wrath  in  scornful  word: 
"  Rest  safe  till  morning ;  pity  'twere 
Such  cheek  should  feel  the  midnight  air! 
Then  mayest  thou  to  James  Stuart  tell 
Roderick  will  keep  the  lake  and  fell, 
Nor  lacke}'^,  with  his  freeborn  clan. 
The  pageant  pomp  of  earthly  man. 
More  would  he  of  Clan-Alpine  know, 
Thou  canst  our  strength  and  passes  show  -~ 
Malise,  what  ho  !" — his  henchman  came; 
"  Give  our  safe-conduct  to  the  Graeme." 
Young  Malcolm  answer'd,  calm  and  bold, 
"  Fear  nothing  for  thy  favourite  hold : 
The  spot  an  angel  deign'd  to  grace 
Is  bless'd,  though  robbers  haunt  the  place. 
Thy  churlish  courtesy  for  those 
Reserve,  who  fear  to  be  thy  foes. 
As  safe  to  me  the  mountain  way 
At  midnight,  as  in  blaze  of  day, 
Though  with  his  boldest  at  his  back, 
E'en  Roderick  Dhu  beset  the  track. — 
Brave  Douglas, — lovely  Ellen,  nay, 
Naught  here  of  parting  will  I  say. 
Earth  does  not  hold  a  lonesome  glen. 
So  secret,  but  we  meet  agen. — 
Chieftain  !  we  too  shall  find  an  hour." 
He  said,  and  left  the  sylvan  bower. 

XXXVI. 

Did  Allan  follow'd  to  the  strand, 
Such  was  the  Douglas's  command,) 


And  anxious  told,  how,  on  the  morn. 

The  stern  Sir  Roderick  deep  had  sworn 

The  fiery  cross  should  circle  o'er 

Dale,  glen,  and  valley,  down,  and  moor. 

Much  w«re  the  peril  to  the  Graeme, 

From  those  who  to  the  signal  came* 

Far  up  the  lake  'twere  safest  land. 

Himself  would  row  him  to  the  strand. 

He  gave  his  counsel  to  the  wind. 

While  Malcolm  did,  unheeding,  bind 

Round  dirk,  and  pouch,  and  broadsword  roird. 

His  ample  plaid  in  tighten'd  fold. 

And  stripp'd  his  limbs  to  such  array, 

As  best  might  suit  the  watery  way. 

XXXVII. 

Then  spoke  abrupt:  "  Farewell  to  thee 
Pattern  of  old  fidelity!" 
The  minstrel's  hand  he  kindly  press'd, 
"  0  !  could  I  point  a  place  of  rest ! 
My  sovereign  holds  in  ward  my  land, 
My  uncle  leads  my  vassal  band  ; 
To  tame  his  foes,  his  friends  to  aid. 
Poor  Malcolm  has  but  heart  and  blade. 
Yet,  if  there  be  one  faithful  Graeme 
Who  loves  the  chieftain  of  his  name. 
Not  long  shall  honour'd  Douglas  dwell, 
Like  hunted  stag,  in  mountain  cell ; 
Nor,  ere  yon  pride-swollen  robber  dare, 
I  may  not  give  the  rest  to  air ! — 
Tell  Roderick  Dhu  I  owed  him  naught. 
Not  the  poor  service  of  a  boat. 
To  waft  me  to  yon  mountain  side." — 
Then  plunged  he  in  the  flashing  tide. 
Bold  o'er  the  flood  his  head  he  bore. 
And  stoutly  steer'd  him  from  the  shore ; 
And  Allan  strain'd  his  anxious  eye 
Far  mid  the  lake,  his  form  to  spy 
Darkening  across  each  puny  wave. 
To  which  the  moon  her  silver  gave. 
Fast  as  the  cormorant  could  skim. 
The  swimmer  plied  each  active  limb: 
Then,  landing  in  the  moonlight  dell. 
Loud  shouted  of  his  weal  to  tell. 
The  minstrel  heard  the  far  halloo. 
And  joyful  from  the  shore  withdrew. 


Canto  III. 

THE  GATHERING. 
I. 

Time  rolls  his  ceaseless  course.     The  race  of  yovt 

Who  danced  our  infancy  upon  their  knee, 
And  told  our  marvelling  boyhood  legends  store, 

Of  their  strange  ventures  happ'd  by  land  or  sea 
How  are  they  blotted  from  the  'things  that  be ! 

How  few,  all  weak  and  wither'd  of  their  force. 
Wait,  on  the  verge  of  dark  eternity. 

Like  stranded  wrecks,  the  tide  returning  hoarse. 
To  sweep  them  from  our  sight!     Time  rolls  his' 
ceaseless  course. 

Yet  live  there  still  who  can  remember  well, 
How,  when  a  mountain  chief  his  bugle  blew. 

Both  field  and  forest,  dingle,  cliff,  and  dell, 
And  solitary  heath,  the  signal  knewj 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


601 


And  fast  the  faithful  clan  around  him  drew, 
What  time  the  warning  note  was  keenly  wound, 

What  time  aloft  their  kindred  banner  flew, 

While  clamorous  war-pipes  yell'd  the  gathering 
sound,  • 

And  while  the  fiery  cross  glanced,  like  a  meteor, 
round. 

II. 
The  summer  dawn's  reflected  hue 
To  purple  changed  Loch-Katrine  blue ; 
Mildly  and  soft  the  western  breeze 
Just  kiss'd  the  lake,  just  stirr'd  the  trees, 
And  the  pleased  lake,  like  maiden  coy, 
Trembled,  but  dimpled  not  for  joy ; 
The  mountain  shadows  on  her  breast 
Were  neither  broken  nor  at  rest ; 
In  bright  uncertainty  they  lie, 
Like  future  joys  to  fancy's  eye. 
The  water  lily  to  the  light 
Her  chalice  rear'd  of  silver  bright ; 
The  doe  awoke,  and  to  the  lawn, 
Begemm'd  with  dewdrops,  led  her  fawn  j 
The  gray  mist  left  the  mountain  side, 
The  torrent  show'd  its  glistening  pride; 
Invisible  in  flecked  sky. 
The  lark  sent  down  her  revelry  ; 
The  blackbird  and  the  speckled  thrush 
Good-morrow  gave  from  brake  and  bush ; 
In  answer  coo'd  the  cushat  dove 
Her  notes  of  peace,  and  rest,  and  love. 

IIL 

No  thought  of  peace,  no  thought  of  rest, 
Assuaged  the  storm  in  Roderick's  breast. 
With  sheathed  broadsword  in  his  hand. 
Abrupt  he  paced  the  islet  strand. 
And  eyed  the  rising  sun,  and  laid 
His  hand  on  his  impatient  blade. 
Beneath  a  rock,  his  vassal's  care 
Was  prompt  the  ritual  to  prepare, 
With  deep  and  deathful  meaning  fraught ; 
For  such  antiquity  had  taught 
Was  preface  meet,  ere  yet  abroad 
The  cross  of  fife  should  take  its  road. 
The  shrinking  band  stood  off  aghast 
At  the  impatient  glance  he  cast; — 
Such  glance  the  mountain  eagle  threw, 
As,  from  the  cliffs  of  Ben-venue, 
She  spread  her  dark  sails  on  the  wind. 
And,  high  in  middle  heaven  reclined. 
With  her  broad  shadow  on  the  lake. 
Silenced  the  warblers  of  the  brake. 

IV. 
A  heap  of  wither'd  boughs  was  piled, 
Of  juniper  and  rowan  wild. 
Mingled  with  shivers  from  the  oak. 
Rent  by  the  lightning's  recent  stroke. 
Brian,  the  hermit,  by  it  stood. 
Barefooted,  in  his  frock  and  hood. 
His  grisled  beard  and  matted  hair 
Obscured  a  visage  of  despair ; 
His  naked  arms  and  legs,  seam'd  o'er. 
The  scars  of  frantic  penance  bore. 
That  monk,  of  savage  form  and  face. 
The  impending  danger  of  his  race 


Had  drawn  from  deepest  solitude. 

Far  in  Benharrow's  bosom  rude. 

Not  his  the  mein  of  Christian  priest. 

But  Druid's,  from  the  grave  released, 

Whose  harden'd  heart  and  eye  might  biook 

On  human  sacrifice  to  look  ; 

And  much,  'twas  said,  of  heathen  lore 

Mix'd  an  the  charms  he  mutter'd  o'er. 

The  hallow'd  creed  gave  only  worse 

And  deadlier  emphasis  of  curse  ; 

No  peasant  sought  that  hermit's  prayer, 

His  cave  the  pilgrim  shunn'd  with  care ; 

The  eager  huntsman  knew  his  bound, 

And  in  mid  chase  call'd  off  his  hound ; 

Or  if,  in  lonely  glen  or  strath. 

The  desert-dweller  met  his  path, 

He  pray'd,  and  sign'd  the  cross  between, 

While  terror  took. devotion's  mien. 

V. 
Of  Brian's  birth  strange  tales  were  told  5 
His  mother  watch'd  a  midnight  fold, 
Built  deep  within  a  dreary  glen. 
Where  scatter'd  lay  the  bones  of  men, 
In  some  forgotten  battle  slain, 
And  bleach'd  by  drifting  wind  and  rain. 
It  might  have  tamed  a  warrior's  heart, 
To  view  such  mockery  of  his  art ! 
The  knot-grass  fetter'd  there  the  hand. 
Which  once  could  burst  an  iron  band ; 
Beneath  the  broad  and  ample  bone, 
That  buckler'd  heart  to  fear  unknown, 
A  feeble  and  a  timorous  guest. 
The  fieldfare  framed  her  lowly  nest; 
There  the  slow  blind-worm  left  his  slime 
On  the  fleet  limbs  that  mock'd  at  time  ; 
And  there,  too,  lay  the  leader's  skull. 
Still  wreath'd  with  chaplet,  flush'd  and  full. 
For  heathbell,  with  her  purple  bloom, 
Supplied  the  bonnet  and  the  plume. 
All  night,  in  this  sad  glen,  the  maid 
Sate,  shrouded  in  her  mantle's  shade: 
She  said  no  shepherd  sought  her  side. 
No  hunter's  hand  her  snood  untied. 
Yet  ne'er  again  to  braid  her  hair 
The  virgin  snood  did  Alice  wear ; 
Gone  was  her  maiden  glee  and  sport, 
Her  maiden  girdle  all  too  short. 
Nor  sought  she,  from  that  fatal  night. 
Or  holy  church,  or  blessed  rite. 
But  lock'd'her  secret  in  her  breast, 
And  died  in  travail,  unconfess'd. 

VL 

Alone,  among  his  young  compeers. 
Was  Brian  from  his  infant  years  ; 
A  moody  and  heart-broken  boy. 
Estranged  from  sympathy  and  joj'', 
Bearing  each  taunt  which  careless  tongue 
On  his  mysterious  lineage  flung. 
Whole  nights  he  spent  by  moonlight  pale^ 
To  wood  and  stream  his  hap  to  wail, 
Till,  frantic,  he  as  truth  received 
What  of  his  birth  the  crowd  believed. 
And  sought,  in  mist  and  meteor  fire, 
To  meet  and  know  his  phantom  sire  ! 


692 


SCOTT. 


In  vain,  to  soothe  his  wayward  fate, 

The  clt*ister  oped  her  pitying  gate  ; 

In  vain,  the  learning  of  the  age 

Unclasp'd  the  sable-letter'd  page ; 

E'en  in  its  treasures  he  could  find 

Food  for  the  fever  of  his  mind. 

Eager  he  read  whatever  tells 

Of  magic,  cabala,  and  spells. 

And  every  dark  pursuit  allied 

To  curious  and  presumptuous  pride ; 

Till,  with  fired  brain  and  nerves  o'erstrung, 

And  heart  with  mystic  horrors  wrung. 

Desperate  he  sought  Benharrow's  den, 

And  hid  him  from  the  haunts  of  men. 

VII. 
The  desert  gave  him  visions  wild. 
Such  as  might  suit  the  spectre's  child. 
Where  with  black  cliffs  the  torrents  toil, 
He  watch'd  the  wheeling  eddies  boil. 
Till,  from  their  foam,  his  dazzled  eyes 
Beheld  the  river  demon  rise  j 
The  mountain  mist  took  form  and  limb. 
Of  noontide  hag,  or  goblin  grim  ; 
The  midnight  wind  came  wild  and  dread, 
Swell'd  with  the  voices  of  the  dead ; 
Far  on  the  future  battle-heath 
His  eye  beheld  the  ranks  of  death  : 
Thus  the  lone  seer,  from  mankind  hurl'd, 
Shaped  forth  a  disembodied  world. 
One  lingering  sympathy  of  mind 
Still  bound  him  to  the  mortal  kind ; 
The  only  parent  he  could  claim 
Of  ancient  Alpine's  lineage  came. 
Late  had  he  heard  in  prophet's  dream. 
The  fatal  Ben-Shie's  boding  scream  ; 
Sounds,  too,  had  come  in  midnight  blast. 
Of  charging  steeds,  careering  fast 
Along  Benharrow's  shingly  side. 
Where  mortal  horseman  ne'er  might  ride: 
The  thunderbolt  had  split  the  pine, — 
All  augur'd  ill  to  Alpine's  line. 
He  girt  his  loins,  and  came  to  show 
The  signals  of  impending  wo. 
And  now  stood  prompt  to  bless  or  ban. 
As  bade  the  chieftain  of  his  clan. 

VIII. 
'Twas  all  prepared  ; — and  from  the  rock; 
A  goat,  the  patriarch  of  the  flock. 
Before  the  kindling  pile  was  laid. 
And  pierced  by  Roderick's  ready  blade. 
Patient  the  sickening  victim  eyed 
The  life  blood  ebb  in  crimson  tide 
Down  his  clogg'd  beard  and  shaggy  limb, 
Till  darkness  glazed  his  eyeballs  dim. 
The  grisly  priest,  with  murmuring  prayer, 
A  slender  crosslet  form'd  with  care, 
A  cubit's  length  in  measure  due; 
The  shafts  and  limbs  were  rods  of  yew. 
Whose  parents  in  Inch-Cailliach  wave 
Their  shadows  o'er  Clan-Alpine's  grave, 
And,  answering  Lomond's  breezes  deep. 
Soothe  many  a  chieftain's  endless  sleep. 
The  cross,  thus  form'd,  he  held  on  high, 
With  wasted  hand,  and  haggard  eye. 


And  strange  and  mingled  feelings  woke, 
While  his  anathema  he  spoke : 

IX. 

"  Wo  to  the  clansman,  who  shall  view 
This  symbol  of  sepulchral  yew. 
Forgetful  that  its  branches  grew 
Where  weep  the  heavens  their  holiest  dew 

On  Alpine's  dwelling  low  ! 
Deserter  of  his  chieftain's  trust, 
He  ne'er  shall  mingle  with  their  dust, 
But,  frccn  his  sires  and  kindred  thrust. 
Each  clansman's  execration  just 

Shall  doom  him  wrath  and  wo." 
He  paused ; — the  word  the  vassals  took. 
With  forward  step  and  fiery  look. 
On  high  their  naked  brands  they  shook. 
Their  clattering  targets  wildly  strook ; 

And  first,  in  murmur  low. 
Then,  like  the  billow  in  his  course. 
That  far  to  seaward  finds  his  source. 
And  flings  to  shore  his  mustcr'd  force. 
Burst,  with  loud  roar,  their  answer  hoarse, 

"  Wo  to  the  traitor,  wo  !" 
Ben-an's  gray  scalp  the  accents  knew. 
The  joyous  wolf  from  covert  drew. 
The  exulting  eagle  scream'd  afar, — 
They  knew  the  Toice  of  Alpine's  war. 

X. 

The  shout  was  hush'd  on  lake  and  fell. 
The  monk  resumed  his  mutter'd  spell. 
Dismal  and  low  its  accents  came, 
The  while  he  scathed  the  cross  with  flame  i 
And  the  few  words  that  reach'd  the  air. 
Although  the  holiest  name  was  there, 
Had  more  of  blasphemy  than  prayer. 
But  when  he  shook  above  the  crowd 
Its  kindled  points,  he  spoke  aloud  :- 
"  Wo  to  the  wretch,  who  fails  to  real 
At  this  dread  sign  the  ready  spear .' 
For,  as  the  flames  this  symbol  sear 
His  home,  the  refuge  of  his  fear, 

A  kindred  fate  shall  know  ; 
Far  o'er  its  roof  the  volumed  flame 
Clan-Alpine's  vengeance  shall  proclaim, 
W^hile  maids  and  matrons  on  his  name 
Shall  call  down  wretchedness  and  shame, 

And  infamy  and  wo." 
Then  rose  the  cry  of  females,  shrill 
As  goss-hawk's  whistle  on  the  hill. 
Denouncing  misery  and  ill. 
Mingled  with  childhood's  babbling  trill 

Of  curses  stammer 'd  slow, 
Answering,  with  imprecation  dread, 
"  Sunk  be  his  home  in  embers  red  .' 
And  cursed  be  the  meanest  shed 
That  e'er  shall  hide  the  houseless  head. 

We  doom  to  want  and  wo  !" 
A  sharp  and  shrieking  echo  gave, 
Coir-Uriskin,  thy  goblin  cave  ! 
And  the  gray  pass  where  birches  wave. 

On  Beala-nam-bo. 

XI. 

Then  deeper  paused  the  priest  anew. 
And  hard  his  labouring  breath  he  drew. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


693 


While,  with  set  teeth  and  clenched  hand, 
And  eyes  that  glow'd  like  fiery  brand. 
He  meditated  curse  more  dread. 
And  deadlier,  on  the  clansman's  head. 
Who,  summon'd  to  his  chieftain's  aid, 
The  signal  saw  and  disobey 'd. 
The  crosslet's  points  of  sparkling  wood 
He  quench'd  among  the  bubbling  blood. 
And,  as  again  the  sign  he  rear'd. 
Hollow  and  hoarse  his  voice  was  heard: 
"  When  flits  this  cross  from  man  to  man, 
Vich-Alpine's  summons  to  his  clan, 
Burst  be  the  ear  that  fails  to  heed  .' 
Palsied  the  foot  that  shuns  to  speed  ! 
May  ravens  tear  the  careless  eyes. 
Wolves  make  the  coward  heart  their  prize ! 
As  sinks  that  blood  stream  in  the  earth, 
So  may  his  heart's  blood  drench  his  hearth  J 
As  dies  in  hissing  gore  the  spark,  » 

Quench  thou  his  light,  destruction  dark  ! 
And  be  the  grace  to  him  denied, 
Bought  by  this  sign  to  all  beside  !"— 
He  ceased :  no  echo  gave  agen 
The  murmur  of  the  deep  amen. 

XII. 

Then  Roderick,  with  impatient  look. 

From  Brian's  hand  the  symbol  took : 

"  Speed,  Malise,  speed  !"  he  said,  and  gave 

The  crosslet  to  his  henchman  brave. 

"  The  muster-place  be  Lanric  mead — 

Instant  the  time — speed,  Malise,  speed  .'" 

Like  heath  bird,  when  the  hawks  pursue, 

A  barge  across  Loch-Katrine  flew : 

High  stood  the  henchman  on  the  prow; 

So  rapidly  the  bargemen  row, 

The  bubbles,  where  they  launch'd  the  boat, 

Were  all  unbroken  and  afloat, 

Dancing  in  foam  and  ripple  stilly 

When  it  had  near'd  the  mainland  hill ; 

And  from  the  silver  beach's  side 

Still  was  the  prow  three  fathom  wide, 

When  lightly  bounded  to  the  land 

The  messenger  of  blood  and  brand. 

xin. 

Speed,  Malise,  speed!  the  dun  deer's  hide 
On  fleeter  foot  was  never  tied. 
Speed,  Malise,  speed  !  such  cause  of  haste 
Thine  active  sinews  never  braced. 
Bend  'gainst  the  steepy  hill  thy  breast. 
Burst  down  like  torrent  from  its  crest ; 
With  short  and  springing  footstep  pass 
The  trembling  bog  and  false  morass ; 
Across_the  brook  like  roebuck  bound. 
And  thread  the  brake  like  questing  hound ; 
The  crag  is  high,  the  scaur  is  deep, 
Yet  shrink  not  from  the  desperate  leap ; 
Parth'd  are  thy  burning  lips  and  brow. 
Yet  by  the  fountain  pause  not  now ; 
Herald  of  battle,  fate,  and  fear. 
Stretch  onward  in  thy  fleet  career  ! 
The  wounded  hind  thou  track'st  not  now 
Pursuest  not  maid  through  greenwood  bough, 
Nor  pliest  thou  now  thy  flying  pace, 
With  rivals  in  the  mountain  race ; 


But  danger,  death,  and  warrior  deed,. 
Are  in  thy  course.— Speed,  Malise,  speed  I 

XIV. 
Fast  as  the  fatal  symbol  flies, 
In  arms  the  huts  and  hamlets  rise ; 
From  winding  glen,  from  upland  browi 
They  pour'd  each  hardy  tenant  down. 
Nor  slack'd  the  messenger  his  pace ; 
He  show'd  the  sign,  he  named  the  place, 
And,  pressing  forward  like  the  wind. 
Left  clamour  and  surprise  behind. 
The  fisherman  forsook  the  strand, 
The  swarthy  smith  took  dirk  and  brand  ; 
With  changed  cheer,  the  mower  blithe 
Left  in  the  half-cut  swathe  his  sithe ; 
The  herds  without  a  keeper  stray'd, 
The  plough  was  in  mid  furrow  stay'd. 
The  falc'ner  toss'd  his  hawk  away. 
The  hunter  left  the  stag  at  bay  ; 
Prompt  at  the  signal  of  alarms. 
Each  son  of  Alpine  rush'd  to  arms  ; 
So  swept  the  tumult  and  affray 
Along  the  margin  of  Achray. 
Alas  I  thou  lovely  lake  !  that  e'er 
Thy  banks  should  echo  sounds  of  fear  ! 
The  rocks,  the  bosky  thickets,  sleep 
So  stilly  on  thy  bosom  deep, 
The  lark's  blithe  carol,  from  the  cloud. 
Seems  for  the  scene  too  gayly  loud. 

XV. 

Speed,  Malise,  speed  !  the  lake  is  past, 

Duncraggan's  huts  appear  at  last. 

And  peep,  like  moss-grown  rocks,  half  seen. 

Half  hidden  in  the  copse  so  green  ; 

There  mayst  thou  rest,  thy  labour  done. 

Their  lord  shall  speed  the  signal  on. — 

As  stoops  the  hawk  upon  his  prey. 

The  henchman  shot  him  down  the  way. 

What  woful  accents  load  the  gale  ? 

The  funeral  yell,  the  female  wail  ! — 

A  gallant  hunter's  sport  is  o'er, 

A  valiant  warrior  fights  no  more. 

Who,  in  the  battle  or  the  chase. 

At  Roderick's  side  shall  fill  his  place  ? 

Within  the  hall,  where  torches'  ray 

Supplied  th'  excluded  beams  of  day. 

Lies  Duncan  on  his  lowly  bier. 

And  o'er  him  streams  his  widow's  tear. 

His  stripling  son  stands  mournful  by. 

His  youngest  weeps,  but  knows  not  why  ; 

The  village  maids  and  matrons  round 

The  dismal  coronach*  resound. 

XVL 

CORONACH. 

He  is  gone  on  the  mountain. 

He  is  lost  to  the  forest,  • 

Like  a  summer-dried  fountain. 

When  our  need  was  the  sorest. 
The  font,  reappearing, 

From  the  raindrops  shall  borrow. 
But  to  us  comes  no  cheering, 

To  Duncan  no  morrow  I 

*  Funeral  song. 


694 


SCOTT. 


The  hand  of  the  reaper 

Takes  the  ears  that  are  hoary, 
But  the  voice  of  the  weeper 

Wails  manhood  in  glory  ; 
The  autumn  winds  rushing 

Waft  the  leaves  that  are  searest, 
But  our  flower  was  in  flushing, 

When  blighting  was  nearest. 

Fleet  foot  on  the  correi,* 

Sage  counsel  in  cumber. 
Red  hand  in  the  foray, 

How  sound  is  thy  slumber ! 
Like  the  dew  on  the  mountain, 

Like  the  foam  on  the  river. 
Like  the  bubble  on  the  fountain. 

Thou  art  gone,  and  for  ever  ! 

XVII. 
See  Stumah,t  who,  the  bier  beside. 
His  master's  corpse  with  wonder  eyed. 
Poor  Stumah  !  whom  his  least  halloo 
Could  send  like  lightning  o'er  the  dew. 
Bristles  his  crest,  and  points  his  ears. 
As  if  some  stranger  step  he  hears. 
Tis  not  a  mourner's  muffled  tread. 
Who  comes  to  sorrow  o'er  the  dead. 
But  headlong  haste,  or  deadly  fear 
Urge  the  precipitate  career. 
All  stand  aghast : — unheeding  all, 
The  henchman  bursts  into  the  hall: 
Before  the  dead  man's  bier  he  stood. 
Held  forth  the  cross  besmear'd  with  blood ; 
"  The  muster  place  is  Lanric  mead  ; 
Speed  forth  the  signal !  clansmen,  speed !" 

XVIU. 
Angus,  the  heir  of  Duncan's  line, 
Sprung  forth  and  seized  the  fatal  sign. 
In  haste  the  stripling  to  his  side 
His  father's  dirk  and  broadsword  tied  ; 
But  when  he  saw  his  mother's  eye 
Watch  him  in  speechless  agony. 
Back  to  her  open  arms  he  flew, 
Press'd  on  her  lips  a  fond  adieu — 
"  Alas  !"  she  sobb'd — "  and  yet  be  gone, 
And  speed  thee  forth  like  Duncan's  son  !" 
■    One  look  he  cast  upon  the  bier, 
Dash'd  from  his  eye  the  gathering  tear. 
Breathed  deep,  to  clear  his  labouring  breast. 
And  toss'd  aloft  his  bonnet  crest, 
Then,  like  the  high-bred  colt,  when,  freed. 
First  he  essays  his  fire  and  speed, 
He  vanish'd,  and  o'er  moor  and  moss 
Sped  forward  with  the  fiery  cross. 
Suspended  was  the  widow's  tear, 
While  yet  his  footsteps  she  could  hear: 
And  when  she  mark'd  the  henchman's  eye 
Wet  with  unwonted  sympathy, 
«  Kinsman,"  she  said,  "  his  race  is  run. 
That  should  have  sped  thine  errand  on  ; 
The  oak  has  fallen — the  sapling  bough 
Is  all  Duncraggan's  shelter  now. 

*  Or  corn-The  hollow  side  of  the  hill,  where  game 
isually  lies. 
i  Faithful— The  name  of  a  dos;. 


Yet  trust  I  well,  his  duty  done. 

The  orphan's  God  will  guard  my  son. 

And  you,  in  many  a  danger  true, 

At  Duncan's  hest  your  blades  that  drew, 

To  arms,  and  guard  that  orphan's  head ! 

Let  babes  and  women  wail  the  dead." 

Then  weapon-clang,  and  martial  call, 

Resounded  through  the  funeral  hall. 

While  from  the  walls  th'  attendant  band 

Snatch'd  sword  and  targe,  with  hurried  hand 

And  short  and  flitting  energy 

Glanced  from  the  mourner's  sunken  eye, 

As  if  the  sounds,  to  warrior  dear. 

Might  rouse  her  Duncan  from  his  bier. 

But  faded  soon  that  borrow'd  force; 

Grief  claim'd  his  right,  and  tears  their  coitrste. 

XIX. 

Benledi  saw  the  cross  of  fire. 
It  glanced  like  lightning  up  Strath-Ire. 
O'er  dale  and  hill  the  summons  flew. 
Nor  rest  nor  pause  young  Angus  knew ; 
The  tear  that  gather'd  in  his  eye. 
He  left  the  mountain  breeze  to  dry ; 
Until,  where  Teith's  young  waters  roll. 
Betwixt  him  and  a  wooded  knoll. 
That  graced  the  sable  strath  with  green, 
The  chapel  of  Saint  Bride  was  seen. 
Swoln  was  the  stream,  remote  the  bridge. 
But  Angus  paused  not  on  the  edge  5 
Though  the  dark  waves  danced  dizzily, 
Though  reel'd  his  sympathetic  eye. 
He  dash'd  amid  the  torrent's  roar ; 
His  right  hand  high  the  crosslet  bore, 
His  left  the  pole-axe  grasp'd,  to  guide 
And  stay  his  footing  in  the  tide. 
He  stumbled  twice— the  foam  splash'd  high, 
With  hoarser  swell  the  stream  raced  by; 
And  had  he  fallen — for  ever  there. 
Farewell  Duncraggan's  orphan  heir.' 
But  still,  as  if  in  parting  life. 
Firmer  he  grasp'd  the  cross  of  strife, 
Until  th'  opposing  bank  he  gain'd. 
And  up  the  chapel  pathway  strain'd. 

XX. 

A  blithesome  rout,  that  morning  tide, 
Had  sought  the  chapel  of  Saint  Bride. 
Her  troth  Tombea's  Mary  gave 
To  Norman,  heir  of  Armandave, 
And,  issuing  from  the  Gothic  arch. 
The  bridal  now  resumed  their  march. 
In  rude,  but  glad  procession,  came 
Bonnetted  sire  and  coif-clad  dame ; 
And  plaided  youth,  with  jest  and  jeer. 
Which  snooded  maiden  would  not  hear ; 
And  children,  that,  unwitting  why. 
Lent  the  gay  shout  their  shrilly  cry ; 
And  minstrels,  that  in  measures  vied  ' 
Before  the  young  and  bonny  bride. 
Whose  downcast  eye  and  cheek  disclose 
The  tear  and  blush  of  morning  rose. 
With  virgin  step,  and  bashful  hand. 
She  held  the  kerchief's  snowy  band  5 
The  gallant  bridegroom,  by  her  side. 
Beheld  his  prize  with  victor's  pride. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


695 


And  the  glad  mother  in  her  ear 

Was  closely  whispering  word  of  cheer. 

XXI. 

Who  meets  them  at  the  churchyard  gate  ? — 

The  messenger  of  fear  and  fate  ! 

Haste  in  his  hurried  accent  lies, 

And  grief  is  swimming  in  his  eyes. 

All  dripping  from  the  recent  flood, 

Panting  and  travel-soil'd  he  stood. 

The  fatal  sign  of  fire  and  sword 

Held  forth,  and  spoke  th'  appointed  word ; 

"  The  muster  place  is  Lanric  mead  ; 

Speed  forth  the  signal !  Norman,  speed  !"— 

And  must  he  change  so  soon  the  hand 

Just  link'd  to  his  by  holy  band, 

For  the  fell  cross  of  blood  and  brand  ? 

And  must  the  day,  so  blithe  that  rose, 

And  promised  rapture  in  the  close. 

Before  its  setting  hour,  divide 

The  bridegroom  from  the  plighted  bride  ? 

0  fatal  doom  ! — it  must !  it  must ! 

Clan-Alpine's  cause,  her  chieftain's  trust, 

Her  summons  dread,  brooks  no  delay ; 

Stretch  to  the  race — away !  away  1 

XXII. 

Yet  slow  he  laid  his  plaid  aside. 

And,  lingering,  eyed  his  lovely  bride, 

Until  he  saw  the  starting  tear 

Speak  wo  he  might  not  stop  to  cheer; 

Then,  trusting  not  a  second  look. 

In  haste  he  sped  him  up  the  brook. 

Nor  backward  glanced  till  on  the  heath. 

Where  Lubnaig's  lake  supplies  the  Teith. — 

What  in  the  racer's  bosom  stirr'd  ? — 

The  sicken'd  pang  of  hope  deferr'd, 

And  memory,  with  a  torturing  train 

Of  all  his  morning  visions  vain. 

Mingled  with  love's  impatience,  came 

The  manly  thirst  for  martial  fame: 

The  stormy  joy  of  mountaineers, 

Ere  yet  they  rush  upon  the  spears  ; 

And  zeal  for  clan  and  chieftain  burning. 

And  hope,  from  well-fought  field  returning, 

With  war's  red  honours  on  his  crest, 

To  clasp  his  Mary  to  his  breast. 

Stung  by  his  thoughts,  o'er  ba^ak  and  brae. 

Like  fire  from  flint  he  glanced  away. 

While  high  resolve,  and  feeling  strong. 

Burst  into  voluntary  song. 

XXIII. 

SONG. 

The  heath  this  night  must  be  my  bed, 
The  bracken*  curtain  for  my  head, 
My  lullaby  the  warder's  tread. 

Far,  far  from  love  and  thee,  Mary ! 
To-morrow  eve,  more  stilly  laid, 
My  couch  may  be  my  bloody  plaid, 
My  vesper  song,  thy  wail,  sweet  maid ! 

It  will  not  waken  me,  Mary  ! 


*  Bracken— Fern. 


I  may  not,  dare  not,  fancy  now 

The  grief  that  clouds  thy  lovely  brow, 

I  dare  not  think  upon  thy  vow. 

And  all  it  promised  me,  Mary  ! 
No  fond  regret  must  Norman  know ; 
When  bursts  Clan-Alpine  on  the  foe, 
His  heart  must  be  like  bended  bow. 

His  foot  like  arrow  free,  Mary  ! 

A  time  will  come  with  feeling  fraught  j 
For,  if  I  fall  in  battle  fought. 
Thy  hapless  lover's  dying  thought 

Shall  be  a  thought  on  thee,  Mary ! 
And  if  return'd  from  conquer'd  foes, 
How  blithely  will  the  evening  close, 
How  sweet  the  linnet  sing  repose. 

To  my  youn^  bride  and  me,  Mary  ! 

XXIV. 
Not  faster  o'er  thy  heathery  braes, 
Balquidder,  speeds  the  midnight  blaze, 
Kushing,  in  conflagration  strong. 
Thy  deep  ravines  and  dells  along. 
Wrapping  thy  cliffs  in  purple  glow. 
And  reddening  the  dark  lakes  below; 
Nor  faster  speeds  it,  nor  so  far. 
As  o'er  thy  heaths  the  voice  of  war. 
The  signal  roused  to  martial  coil 
The  sullen  margin  of  Loch-Voil, 
Waked  still  Loch-Doine,  and  to  the  source 
Alarm'd,  Balvaig,  thy  swampy  course  ; 
Thence,  southward  turn'd  its  rapid  road 
Adown  Strath-Gartney's  valley  broad. 
Till  rose  in  arms  each  man  might  claim 
A  portion  in  Clan-Alpine's  name  ; 
From  the  gray  sire,  whose  trembling  hand 
Could  hardly  buckle  on  his  brand. 
To  the  raw  boy,  whose  shaft  and  bow 
Were  yet  scarce  terror  to  the  crow. 
Each  valley,  each  sequester'd  glen, 
Muster'd  its  little  horde  of  men. 
That  met  as  torrents  from  the  height 
In  highland  dales  their  streams  unite. 
Still  gathering  as  they  pour  along, 
A  voice  more  loud,  a  tide  more  strong. 
Till  at  the  rendezvous  they  stood 
By  hundreds,  prompt  for  blows  and  blood ; 
Each  train'd  to  arms  since  life  began. 
Owning  no  tie  but  to  his  clan. 
No  oath,  but  by  his  chieftain's  hand. 
No  law,  but  Roderick  Dhu's  command. 

XXV. 

That  summer  morn  had  Roderick  Dhu 

Survey 'd  the  skirts  of  Ben-venue, 

And  sent  his  scouts  o'er  hill  and  heath. 

To  view  the  frontiers  of  Menteith. 

All  backward  came  with  news  of  truce  ; 

Still  lay  each  martial  Graeme  and  Bruce, 

In  Rednock  courts  no  horsemen  wait. 

No  banner  waved  on  Cardross  gate. 

On  Duchray's_towers  no  beacon  shone, 

Nor  scared  the  herons  from  Loch-Con ; 

All  seem'd  at  peace. — Now,  wot  ye  why 

The  chieftain,  with  such  anxious  ey», 

Ere  to  the  muster  he  repair. 

This  western  frontier  scann'd  with  care  ?— • 


e96                                                         SCOTT. 

In  Ben-venue's  most  darksome  cleft 

It  was  a  fair  and  gallant  sight, 

A  fair,  though  cruel,  pledge  was  left ; 

To  view  them  from  the  neighbouring  height. 

For  Douglas,  to  his  promise  true, 

By  the  low  levell'd  sunbeam's  light ; 

That  morning  from  the  isle  withdrew, 

For  strength  and  stature,  from  the  clan 

And  in  a  deep  sequester'd  dell 

Each  warrior  was  a  chosen  man. 

Had  sought  a  low  and  lonely  cell. 

As  e'en  afar  might  well  be  seen. 

By  many  a  bard,  in  Celtic  tongue, 

By  their  proud  step  and  martial  mien. 

Has  Coir-nan-Uriskin  been  sung ; 

Their  feathers  dance,  their  tartans  float, 

A  softer  name  the  Saxons  gave. 

Their  targets  gleam,  as  by  the  boat 

And  call'd  the  grot  the  Goblin-cave. 

A  wild  and  warlike  group  they  stanS, 

That  well  became  such  mountain  strand 

XXVI. 

It  was  as  wild  and  strange  retreat 

XXVIII. 

As  e'er  was  trod  by  outlaw's  feet. 

Their  chief,  with  step  reluctant,  still 

The  dell,  upon  the  mountain's  crest. 

Was  lingering  on  the  craggy  hill, 

Yawn'd  like  a  gash  on  warrior's  breast ; 

Hard  by  where  turn'd  apart  the  road 

Its  trench  had  stay'd  full  many  a  rock. 

To  Douglas's  obscure  abode. 

^    Hurl'd  by  primeval  earthquake  shock 

It  was  but  with  that  dawning  morn 

From  Ben-venue's  gray  summit  wild ; 

That  Roderick  Dhu  had  proudly  sworn 

And  here,  in  random  ruin  piled, 

To  drown  his  love  in  war's  wild  roar, 

They  frown'd  incumbent  o'er  the  spot. 

Nor  think  of  Ellen  Douglas  more  ; 

And  form'd  the  rugged  sylvan  grot. 

But  he  who  stems  a  stream  with  sand. 

The  oak  and  birch,  with  mingled  shade 

And  fetters  flame  with  flaxen  band. 

At  noontide  there  a  twilight  made, 

Has  yet  a  harder  task  to  prove — 

Unless  when  short  and  sudden  shone 

By  firm  resolve  to  conquer  love  ! 

Some  straggling  beam  on  cliff"  or  stone. 

Eve  finds  the  chief,  like  restless  ghost. 

With  such  a  glimpse  as  prophet's  eye 

Still  hovering  near  his  treasure  lost; 

Gains  on  thy  depth,  futurity. 

For  though  his  haughty  heart  deny 

No  murmur  waked  the  solemn  still, 

A  parting  meeting  to  his  eye. 

Save  tinkling  of  a  fountain  rill ; 

Still  fondly  strains  his  anxious  ear 

But  when  the  wind  chafed  with  the  lake,  ' 

The  accents  of  her  voice  to  hear. 

A  sullen  sound  would  upward  break. 

And  inly  did  he  curse  the  breeze 

With  dashing  hollow  voice,  that  spoke 

That  waked  to  sound  the  rustling  tree?. 

Th'  incessant  war  of  wave  and  rock. 

But  hark  !  what  mingles  in  the  strain  ? 

Suspended  cliffs,  with  hideous  sway, 

It  is  the  harp  of  Allan-bane, 

Seemed  nodding  o'er  the  cavern  gray. 

That  wakes  its  measure  slow  and  high, 

From  such  a  den  the  wolf  had  sprung. 

Attuned  to  sacred  minstrelsy. 

In  such  the  wild  cat  leaves  her  young: 

What  melting  voice  attends  the  strings  .' 

Yet  Douglas  and  his  daughter  fair, 

'Tis  Ellen,  or  an  angel,  sings. 

Sought,  for  a  space,  their  safety  there. 

Gray  superstition's  whisper  dread 

XXIX. 

Debarr'd  the  spot  to  vulgar  tread  : 

HYMN    TO   THE  VIRGIN. 

For  there,  she  said,  did  fays  resort. 

Ave  Maria  !  maiden  mild  ! 

And  satyrs*  hold  their  sylvan  court, 

Listen  to  a  maiden's  prayer ; 

By  moonlight  tread  their  mystic  maze. 

Thou  canst  hear  though  from  the  wild. 

And  blast  the  rash  beholder's  gaze. 

Thou  canst  save  amid  despair. 

XXVII.    - 

Safe  may  we  sleep  beneath  thy  care, 

Now  eve  with  western  shadows  long, 
Floated  on  Katrine  bright  and  strong. 

Though  banish'd,  outcast,  and  reviled — 
Maiden  !  hear  a  maiden's  prayer ; 

Mother,  hear  a  suppliant  child  ! 

Ave  Maria! 
Ave  Maria  !  undefiled  ! 

When  Roderick,  with  a  chosen  few, 

Repass'd  the  heights  of  Ben-venue. 

Above  the  goblin-cave  they  go, 
Th«^ugh  the  wild  pass  of  Beal-nam-bo  j 

The  flinty  couch  we  now  must  share 
Shall  seem  with  down  of  eider  piled. 

The  prompt  retainers  speed  before. 
To  launch  the  shallop  from  the  shore. 

If  thy  protection  hover  there. 
The  murky  cavern's  heavy  air 

For  'cross  Loch-Katrine  lies  his  way. 
To  view  the  passes  of  Achray, 

Shall  breathe  of  balm  if  thou  hast  smiled  { 

Then,  maiden,  hear  a  maiden's  prayer, 

And  place  his  clansmen  in  array. 

Mother,  list  a  suppliant  child  ! 

Yet  lags  the  chief  in  musing  mind. 

Ave  Maria ' 

Unwonted  sight,  his  men  behind. 

Ave  Maria  !    Stainless  styled  I 

A  single  page,  to  bear  his  sword," 

Foul  demons  of  the  earth  and  air. 

Alone  attended  on  his  lord  ; 

From  this  their  wonted  haunt  exiled. 

The  rest  their  way  through  thickets  break. 

Shall  flee  before  thy  presence  fair. 

And  soon  await  him  by  the  lake. 

We  bow  us  to  thy  lot  of  care, 

*  The  Urisk,  or  highland  satyr. 

Beneath  thy  guidance  reconciled ; 

THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


697 


Hear  for  a  maid  a  maiden's  prayer, 
And  for  a  father  hear  a  child  ! 

Ave  Maria  ! 

XXX. 

Died  on  the  harp  the  closing  hymn- 
Unmoved  in  attitude  and  limb, 
As  listening  still,  Clan-Alpine's  lord 
St)od  leaning  on  his  heavy  sword, 
Until  the  page,  with  humble  sign. 
Twice  pointed  to  the  sun's  decline. 
Then,  while  his  plaid  he  round  him  cast, 
«  It  is  the  l&st  time  —'tis  the  last,"— 
He  mutter'd  thrice,—"  the  last  time  e'er 
That  angel  voice  shall  Roderick  hear  I" 
It  was  a  goading  thought — his  stride 
Hied  hastier  down  the  mountain  side  ; 
Sullen  he  flung  him  in  the  boat, 
And  instant  'cross  the  lake  it  shot. 
They  landed  in  that  silvery  bay, 
And  eastward  held  their  hasty  way. 
Till,  with  the  latest  beams  of  light. 
The  band  arrived  on  Lanric  height, 
Where  muster'd,  in  the  vale  below, 
Clan-Alpine's  men  in  martial  show. 

XXXI. 

A  various  scene  the  clansmen  made, 
Some  sate,  some  stood,  some  slowly  stray'd 
But  most,  with  mantles  folded  round, 
Were  couch'd  to  rest  upon  the  ground, 
Scarce  to  be  known  by  curious  eye, 
From  the  deep  heather  where  they  lie, 
So  well  was  match'd  the  tartan  screen 
With  heathbell  dark  and  brackens  green  ; 
Unless  where,  here  and  there,  a  blade. 
Or  lance's  point,  a  glimmer  made, 
Like  glowworm  twinkling  through  the  shade. 
But  when,  advancing  through  the  gloom, 
They  saw  the  chieftain's  eagle  plume, 
Their  shout  of  welcome,  shrill  and  wide. 
Shook  the  steep  mountain's  steady  side. 
Thrice  it  arose,  and  lake  and  fell 
Three  times  return 'd  the  martial  yell ; 
It  died  upon  Bochastle's  plain. 
And  silence  claim 'd  her  evening  reign. 


Canto  IV. 

THE   PROPHECY. 
I. 
**The  rose  is  fairest  when  'tis  budding  new, 

And  hope  is  brightest  when  it  dawns  from  fears; 
The  rose  is  sweetest  wash'd  with  morning  dew. 
And  love  is  loveliest  when  embalm'd  in  tears. 
O  wilding  rose,  whom  fancy  thus  endears, 
I  "bid  your  blossoms  in  my  bonnet  wave. 
Emblem  of  hope  and  love  through  future  years  !" 
Thu3  spoke  young  Norman,  heir  of  Armandave, 
What  time  the  sun  arose  on   Vennachar's  broad 
wave. 

II. 

Such  fond  conceit,  half  said,  half  sung, 
Love  prompted  to  the  bridegroom's  tongue. 


All  while  he  stripp'd  the  wild-rose  spray, 

His  axe  and  bow  beside  him  lay, 

For  on  a  pass  'twixt  lake  and  wood, 

A  wakeful  sentinel  he  stood. 

Hark  !— on  the  rock  a  footstep  rung. 

And  instant  to  his  arms  he  sprung. 

«  Stand,  or  thou  diest  .'—What,  Malise  .'—soon 

Art  thou  return'd  from  braes  of  Doune. 

By  thy  keen  step  and  glance  I  know 

Thou  bring'st  us  tidings  of  the  foe."— 

(  For  while  the  fiery  cross  hied  on, 

On  distant  scout  had  Malise  gone. ) 

«  Where  sleeps  the  chief  ?"    the  henchman  said 

"Apart,  in  yonder  misty  glade  ; 

To  his  lone  couch  I'll  be  your  guide."— 

Then  call'd  a  slumberer  b}'-  his  side, 

And  stirr'd  him  with  his  slacken'd  bow — 

"  Up,  up,  Glentarkin  !  rouse  thee,  ho ! 

We  seek  the  chieftain ;  on  the  track 

Keep  eagle  watch  till  I  come  back." 

in. 

Together  up  the  pass  they  sped : 

"  What  of  the  foeman  .?"  Norman  said. 

"  "Varying  reports  from  near  and  far : 

This  certain — that  a  band  of  war 

Has  for  two  days  been  ready  boune. 

At  prompt  command,  to  march  from  Doune ; 

King  James,  the  while,  with  princely  powers. 

Holds  revelry  in  Stirling  towers. 

Soon  will  this  dark  and  gathering  cloud 

Speak  on  our  glens  in  thunder  loud. 

Inured  to  bide  such  bitter  bout, 

The  warrior's  plaid  may  bear  it  out: 

But,  Norman,  how  wilt  thou  provide 

A  shelter  for  thy  bonny  bride  ?" — 

"  What !  know  ye  not  that  Roderick's  care 

To  the  lone  isle  hath  caused  repair 

Each  maid  and  matron  of  the  clan. 

And  every  child  and  aged  man 

Unfit  for  arms  ;  and  given  his  charge, 

Nor  skiff  nor  shallop,  boat  nor  barge. 

Upon  these  lakes  shall  float  at  large. 

But  all  beside  the  islet  moor. 

That  such  dear  pledge  may  rest  secure  V* 

IV. 

"  'Tis  well  advised — the  chieftain's  plan 

Bespeaks  the  father  of  his  clan. 

But  wherefore  sleeps  Sir  Roderick  Dhu 

Apart  from  all  his  followers  true  ?" 

"  It  is  because  last  evening  tide 

Brian  an  augury  hath  tried,  ^ 

Of  that  dread  kind  which  must  not  be 

Unless  in  cread  extremity. 

The  taghairm  call'd  ;  by  which,  afar. 

Our  sires  foresaw  th'  events  of  war. 

Duncraggan's  milk-white  bull  they  slew. 


"  Ah  !  well  the  gallant  brute  I  knew  ! 
The  choicest  tf  the  prey  we  had, 
When  swept  our  merry  men  Gallangad. 
His  hide  was  snow,  his  horns  were  dark 
His  red  eye  glow'd  like  fiery  spark  j 
3N 


698 


SCOTT. 


So  fierce,  so  tameless,  and  so  fleet, 
Sore  did  he  cumber  our  retreat. 
And  kept  our  stoutest  kernes  in  awe, 
E'en  at  the  pass  of  Beal  'maha. 
But  steep  and  flinty  was  the  road, 
And  sharp  the  hurrying  pikeman's  goad, 
And  when  we  came  to  Dennan's  row 
A  child  might  scatheless  stroke  his  brow.' 


NORMAN. 

«  That  bull  was  slain :  his  reeking  hide 
They  stretch'd  the  cataract  beside, 
Whose  waters  their  wild  tumult  toss 
Adown  the  black  and  craggy  boss 
Of  that  huge  cliff,  whose  ample  verge 
Tradition  calls  the  Hero's  Targe. 
Couch'd  on  a  shelve  beneath  its  brink. 
Close  where  the  thundering  torrents  sink, 
Hocking  beneath  their  headlong  sway. 
And  drizzled  by  the  ceaseless  spray. 
Midst  groan  of  rock,  and  roar  of  stream. 
The  wizard  waits  prophetic  dream. 
Nor  distant  rests  the  chief; — but,  hush  • 
See,  gliding  slow  through  mist  and  bush. 
The  hermit  gains  yon  rock,  and  stands 
To  gaze  upon  our  slumbering  bands. 
Seems  he  not,  Malise,  like  a  ghost, 
That  hovers  o'er  a  slaughter'd  host  ? 
Or  raven  on  the  blasted  oak, 
That,  watching  while  the  deer  is  broke,* 
His  morsel  claims  with  sullen  croak  ?" 
— "  Peace  !  peace  !  to  other  than  to  me. 
Thy  words  were  evil  augury ; 
But  still  I  hold  Sir  Roderick's  blade 
Clan-Alpine's  omen  and  her  aid. 
Not  aught  that,  glean 'd  from  heaven  or  hell, 
Yon  fiend-begotten  monk  can  tell. 
The  chieftain  joins  him,  see — and  now. 
Together  they  descend  the  brow." — 

VI. 

And,  as  they  came,  with  Alpine's  lord 
The  hermit  monk  held  solemn  word : 
"  Roderick  !  it  is  a  fearful  strife, 
For  man  endow 'd  with  mortal  life. 
Whose  shroud  of  sentient  clay  can  still 
Feel  feverish  pang  and  fainting  chill. 
Whose  eye  can  stare  in  stony  trance. 
Whose  hair  can  rouse  like  warrior's  lance,- 
'Tis  hard  for  such  to  view,  unfurl'd. 
The  curtain  of  the  future  world. 
Yet,  witness  every  quaking  limb. 
My  sunken  pulse,  mine  eyeballs  dim. 
My  soul  with  harrowing  anguish  torn. 
This  for  my  chieftain  have  I  borne  ! — 
The  shapes  that  sought  my  fearful  couch, 
A  human  tongue  may  ne'er  avouch ; 
No  mortal  man — save  he,  who,  bred 
Between  the  living  and  the  dead, 
Is  gifted  beyond  nature's  law, — 
Had  e'er  survived  to  say  he  saw. 
At  length  the  fateful  answer  came, 
In  characters  of  living  flame  ! 


Quartered. 


Not  spoke  in  word,  nor  blazed  in  scroll. 
But  borne  and  branded  on  my  soul ; — 
Which  spills  the  foremost  foeman's  life 
That  party  conquers  in  the  strife.** 

vn. 

"  Thanks,  Brian,  for  thy  zeal  and  care ! 
Good  is  thine  augury,  and  fair. 
Clan-Alpine  ne'er  in  battle  stood, 
But  first  our  broadswords  tasted  blood. 
A  surer  victim  still  I  know, 
Self-ofFer'd  to  th'  auspicious  blow  w 
A  spy  has  sought  my  land  this  morn. 
No  eve  shall  witness  his  return  ! 
My  followers  guard  each  pass's  mouth, 
To  east,  to  westward,  and  to  south ; 
Red  Murdoch,  bribed  to  be  his  guide. 
Has  charge  to  lead  his  steps  aside. 
Till,  in  deep  path  or  dingle  brown, 
He  light  on  those  shall  bring  him  down. 
But  see  who  comes  his  news  to  show ! 
Malise !  what  tidings  of  the  foe  ?" 

VIII. 

"  At  Doune,  o'er  many  a  spear  and  glaive 

Two  barons  proud  their  banners  wave, 

I  saw  the  Moray's  silver  star. 

And  mark'd  the  sable  pale  of  Mar." — 

<'  By  Alpine's  soul,  high  tidings  those  ! 

I  love  to  hear  of  worthy  foes. 

When  move  they  on  ?" — "  To-morrow's  noon 

Will  see  them  here  for  battle  boune." 

"  Then  shall  it  see  a  meeting  stern  ! 

But,  for  the  place — say,  couldst  thou  learn 

Naught  of  the  friendly  clans  of  Earn  ? 

Strengthen'd  by  them,  we  well  might  bide 

The  battle  on  Benledi's  side. — 

Thou  couldst  not  ? — well !  Clan-Alpine's  men 

Shall  man  the  Trosach's  shaggy  glen  ; 

Within  Loch-Katrine's  gorge  we'll  fight, 

All  in  our  maids'  and  matrons'  sight, 

Each  for  his  hearth  and  household  fire. 

Father  for  child,  and  son  for  sire. 

Lover  for  maid  beloved ! — but  why — 

Is  it  the  breeze  affects  mine  eye  ? 

Or  dost  thou  come,  ill-omen'd  tear, 

A  messenger  of  doubt  and  fear  ? 

No  !  sooner  may  the  Saxon  lance 

Unfix  Benledi  from  his  stance, 

Than  doubt  or  terror  can  pierce  through 

Th'  unyielding  heart  of  Roderick  Dhu ! 

'Tis  stubborn  as  his  trusty  targe. — 

Each  to  his  post ! — all  know  their  charge."— 

The  pibroch  sounds,  the  bands  advance. 

The  broadswords  gleam,  the  banners  dance. 

Obedient  to  the  chieftain's  glance. 

I  turn  me  from  the  martial  roar. 

And  seek  Coir-Uriskin  once  more. 

IX. 

Where  is  the  Douglas  ? — he  is  gone ; 
And  Ellen  sits  on  the  gray  stone 
Fast  by  the  cave,  and  makes  her  moan ; 
While  vainly  Allan's  words  of  cheer 
Are  pour'd  on  her  unheeding  ear- 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


699 


"  He  will  return — dear  lady,  trust ! 
With  joy  return  ; — he  will — he  must. 
Well  was  it  time  to  seek,  afar, 
Some  refuge  from  impending  war, 
When  e'en  Clan-Alpine's  rugged  swarm 
Are  covv'd  by  the  approaching  storm. 
I  saw  their  boats,  with  many  a  light, 
Floa'riing  the  livelong  yesternight, 
Shifting  like  flashes  darted  forth 
By  the  red  streamers  of  the  north  ; 
I  mark'd  at  morn  how  close  they  ride, 
Thick  moor'd  by  the  lone  islet's  side. 
Like  wild  ducks  couching  in  the  fen. 
When  stoops  the  hawk  upon  the  glen. 
Since  this  rude  race  dare  not  abide 
The  peril  on  the  mainland  side, 
Shall  not  thy  noble  father's  care 
Some  safe  retreat  for  thee  prepare  ?" — 


X. 


**  No,  Allan,  no  !  pretext  so  kind 

My  wakeful  terrors  could  not  blind. 

When  in  such  tender  tone,  yet  grave, 

Douglas  a  parting  blessing  gave, 

The  teat  that  glisten'd  in  his  eye 

Drown'd  not  his  purpose  fix'd  and  high. 

My  soul,  though  feminine  and  weak, 

Can  image  his,  e'en  as  the  lake, 

Itself  disturb'd  by  slightest  stroke. 

Reflects  th'  invulnerable  rock. 

He  hears  report  of  battle  rife. 

He  deems  himself  the  cause  of  strife. 

I  saw  him  redden  when  the  theme 

Turn'd,  Allan,  on  thine  idle  dream. 

Of  Malcolm  Graeme  in  fetters  bound. 

Which  I,  thou  saidst,  about  him  wound. 

Think'st  thou  he  trovv'd  thine  omen  aught  ? 

O  no  !  'twas  apprehensive  thought 

For  the  kind  youth, — for  Roderick  too — 

(Let  me  be  just)  that  friend  so  true ; 

In  danger  both,  and  in  our  cause 

Minstrel,  the  Douglas  dare  not  pause. 

Why  else  that  solemn  warning  given, 

*  If  not  on  earth,  we  meet  in  heaven  ?' 

Why  else,  to  Cambus-Kenneth's  fane. 

If  eve  return  him  not  again. 

Am  I  to  hie  and  make  me  known  ? 

Alas  !  he  goes  to  Scotland's  throne. 

Buys  his  friends'  safety  with  his  own ; — 

He  goes  to  do — what  I  had  done. 

Had  Douglas'  daughter  been  his  son  !" 

XI. 


«*  Nay,  lovely  Ellen  ! — dearest,  nay ! 
If  aught  should  his  return  delay. 
He  only  named  yon  holy  fane 
As  fitting  place  to  meet  again. 
Be  sure  he's  safe ;  and  for  the  Graeme, 
Heaven's  blessing  on  his  gallant  name  .' 
My  vision 'd  sight  may  yet  prove  true, 
Nor  bode  of  ill  to  him  or  you. 
When  did  my  gifted  dream  beguile  ? 
Think  of  the  stranger  at  the  isle, 


And  think  upon  the  harpings  slow. 
That  presaged  this  approaching  wo  ! 
Sooth  was  my  prophecy  of  fear ; 
Believe  it  when  it  augurs  cheer. 
Would  we  had  left  this  dismal  spot  I 
111  luck  still  haunts  a  fairy  grot. 
Of  such,  a  wondrous  tale  I  know — 
Dear  lady,  change  that  look  of  wo  ! 
My  harp  was  wont  thy  grief  to  cheer." 

ELLEN. 

"  Well,  be  it  as  thou  wilt ;  I  hear. 
But  cannot  stop  the  bursting  tear." 
The  minstrel  tried  his  simple  art. 
But  distant  far  was  Ellen's  heart. 

xn. 


ALICE   BRAND. 

Merry  it  is  in  the  good  green  wood. 

When  the  mavis*  and  merlef  are  singing, 

When  the  deer  sweeps  by,  and  the  hounds  arc 
in  cry. 
And  the  hunter's  horn  is  ringing. 

"  0  Alice  Brand,  my  native  land 

Is  lost  for  love  of  you  ; 
And  we  must  hold  by  wood  and  wold, 

As  outlaws  wont  to  do. 

«*  0  Alice,  'twas  all  for  thy  locks  so  bright. 
And  'twas  all  for  thine  eyes  so  blue. 

That  on  the  night  of  our  luckless  flight, 
Thy  brother  bold  I  slew. 

"  Now  must  I  teach  to  hew  the  beach. 

The  hand  that  held  the  glaive, 
For  leaves  to  spread  our  lovv'ly  bed. 

And  stakes  to  fence  our  cave. 

"  And,  for  vest  of  pall,  thy  fingers  small. 

That  wont  on  harp  to  stray, 
A  cloak  must  shear  from  the  slaughter'd  deer, 

To  keep  the  cold  away." 

"  0  Richard  !  if  my  brother  died, 

'Twas  but  a  fatal  chance  ; 
For  darkling  was  the  battle  tried, 

And  fortune  sped  the  lance. 

"  If  pall  and  vair  no  more  I  wear. 

Nor  thou  the  crimson  sheen, 
As  warm,  we'll  say,  is  the  russet  gray. 

As  gay  the  forest  green. 

"  And,  Richard,  if  our  lot  be  hard. 

And  lost  thy  native  land. 
Still  Alice  has  her  own  Richard, 

And  he  his  Alice  Brand." — 

xin. 

BALLAD   CONTINUED. 

'Tis  merry,  'tis  merry  in  good  green  wood, 

So  blithe  Lady  Alice  is  singing ; 
On  the  beech's  pride,  and  oak's  brown  side, 

Lord  Richard's  axe  is  ringing. 


*  Thrush. 


\  Blackbird. 


700 


SCOTT. 


Up  spoke  the  moody  elfin  king,     . 

Who  won'd  within  the  hill, —  ; 

Like  wind  in  the  porch  of  a  ruin'd  church, 

His  voice  was  ghostly  shrill. 

"  Why  sounds  yon  stroke  on  beach  and  oak, 

Our  moonlight  circle's  screen  ? 
Or  who  comes  here  to  chase  the  deer. 

Beloved  of  our  elfin  queen  ? 
Or  who  may  dare  on  wold  to  wear 

The  fairies'  fatal  green  ? 

"  Up,  Urgan,  up  !  to  yon  mortal  hie. 

For  thou  wert  christen'd  man  ; 
For  cross  or  sign  thou  wilt  not  fly. 

For  mutter'd  word  or  ban. 

« 'Lay  on  him  the  curse  of  the  wither'd  heart, 

The  curse  of  the  sleepless  eye ; 
Till  he  wish  and  pray  that  his  life  would  part, 

Nor  yet  find  leave  to  die." 

XIV. 

BALLAD   CONTINUED. 

*Tis  merry,  'tis  merry  in  good  green  wood. 
Though  the  birds  have  still'd  their  singing ; 

The  evening  blaze  doth  Alice  raise, 
And  Richard  is  fagots  bringing. 

Up  Urgan  starts,  that  hideous  dwarf. 

Before  Lord  Richard  stands. 
And,  as  he  cross'd  and  bless'd  himself, 
"  I  fear  not  sign,"  quoth  the  grisly  elf, 

"  That  is  made  with  bloody  hands." — 

But  out  then  spoke  she,  Alice  Brand, 

That  woman  void  of  fear, — 
"  And  if  there's  blood  upon  his  hand, 

'Tis  but  the  blood  of  deer." — 

"  Now  loud  thou  liest,  thou  bold  of  mood  ! 

It  cleaves  unto  his  hand. 
The  stain  of  thine  own  kindly  blood. 

The  blood  of  Ethert  Brand." 

Then  forward  stepp'd  she,  Alice  Brand, 

And  made  the  holy  sign, — 
"  And  if  there's  blood  on  Richard's  hand, 

A  spotless  hand  is  mine. 

"  And  I  conjure  thee,  demon  elf. 

By  him  who  demons  fear. 
To  show  us  whence  thou  art  thyself, 

And  what  thine  errand  here  ?" — 

XV. 

BALLAD   CONTINUED. 

"  'Tis  merry,  'tis  merry  in  fairy  land. 

When  fairy  birds  are  singing, 
When  the  court  doth  ride  by  their  monarch's  side. 

With  bit  and  bridle  ringing: 

"  And  gayly  shines  the  fairy  land 

But  all  is  glistening  show, 
Like  the  idle  gleam  that  December's  beam 

Can  dart  on  ice  and  snow. 

"  And  fading  like  that  varied  gleam. 

Is  our  inconstant  shape. 
Who  now  like  knight  and  lady  seem. 

And  now  like  dwarf  and  ape. 


"  It  was  betw:een  the  night  and  day, 

When  the  fairy  king  has  power. 
That  I  sunk  down  in  a  sinful  fray, 
And,  'twixt  life  and  death,  was  snatch'd  zvnjf 

To  the  joyless  elfin  bower. 

"  But  wist  I  of  a  woman  bold. 

Who  thrice  my  brow  durst  sign, 
I  might  regain  my  mortal  mould. 

As  fair  a  form  as  thine." — 

She  cross'd  him  once,  she  cross'd  him  twice-^ 

That  lady  was  so  brave ; 
The  fouler  grew  his  goblin  hue. 

The  darker  grew  the  cave. 

She  cross'd  him  thrice,  that  lady  bold ; 

He  rose  beneath  her  hand 
The  fairest  knight  on  Scottish  mould, 

Her  brother,  Ethert  Brand  ! 

Merry  it  is  in  good  green  wood. 

When  the  mavis  and  merle  are  singing ; 

But  merrier  were  they  in  Dunfermline  graf 
When  all  the  bells  were  ringing. 

XVL 

Just  as  the  minstrel  sounds  were  stay'd, 

A  stranger  climb'd  the  steepy  glade ; 

His  martial  step,  his  stately  mien. 

His  hunting  suit  of  Lincoln  green. 

His  eagle  glance,  remembrance  claims — 

'Tis  Snowdoun's  knight,  'tis  James  Fitz-Jameau 

Ellen  beheld  as  in  a  dream, 

Then,  starting,  scarce  suppress'd  a  scream: 

"  O  stranger  !  in  such  hour  of  fear. 

What  evil  hap  has  brought  thee  here  f" 

"  An  evil  hap  !  how  can  it  be. 

That  bids  me  look  again  on  thee  ? 

By  promise  bound,  my  former  guide 

Met  me  betimes  this  morning  tide, 

And  marshall'd,  over  bank  and  bourne. 

The  happy  path  of  my  return." — 

"  The  happy  path  ! — what !  said  he  naught 

Of  war,  of  battle  lo  be  fought. 

Of  guarded  pass  ?" — "  No,  by  my  faith  ! 

Nor  saw  I  aught  could  augur  scathe." 

"  0  !  haste  thee,  Allan,  to  the  kern, — 

Yonder  his  tartans  I  discern  ; 

Learn  thou  his  purpose,  and  conjure 

That  he  will  guide  the  stranger  sure  !— 

What  prompted  thee,  unhappy  man  ? 

The  meanest  serf  in  Roderick's  clan 

Had  not  been  bribed  by  love  or  fear. 

Unknown  to  him,  to  guide  thee  here."- 

XVII. 
"  Sweet  Ellen,  dear  my  life  must  be. 
Since  it  is  worth}'  care  from  thee ; 
Yet  life  I  hold  but  idle  breath. 
When  love  or  honour's  weigh'd  with  death. 
Then  let  me  profit  by  my  chance. 
And  speak  my  purpose  bold  at  once. 
I  come  to  bear  thee  from  a  wild. 
Where  ne'er  before  such  blossom  smiled  ; 
By  this  soft  hand  to  lead  thee  far 
From  frantic  scenes  of  feud  and  war. 
Near  Bochastle  my  horses  wait. 
They  bear  us  soon  to  Stirling  gate: 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


701 


I'll  place  thee  in  a  lovely  bower, 

I'll  guard  thee  like  a  tender  flower " 

"  O,  hush,  sir  knight !  'twere  female  art 

To  say  I  do  not  read  thy  heart ; 

Too  much,  before,  my  selfish  ear 

Was  idly  soothed  my  praise  to  hear. 

That  fatal  bait  hath  lured  thee  back, 

In  deathful  hour,  o'er  dangerous  track ! 

And  how,  0  how,  can  I  atone 

The  wreck  my  vanity  brought  on  ; — 

One  way  remains — I'll  tell  him  all — 

Yes  I  struggling  bosom,  forth  it  shall ! 

Thou,  whose  light  folly  bears  the  blame, 

Buy  thine  own  pardon  with  thy  shame ! 

But  first — my  father  is  a  man 

Outlaw'd  and  exiled,  under  ban  ; 

The  price  of  blood  is  on  his  head, 

With  me  'twere  infamy  to  wed. — 

Still  wouldst  thou  speak  ? — then  hear  the  truth : 

Fitz-James,  there  is  a  noble  youth — • 

If  yet  he  is  ! — exposed  for  me 

And  mine  to  dread  extremity — 

Thou  hast  the  secret  of  my  heart ; 

Forgive,  be  generous,  and  depart." 

XVIII. 
Fitz-James  knew  every  wily  train 
A  lady's  fickle  heart  to  gain. 
But  here  he  knew  and  felt  them  vain. 
There  shot  no  glance  from  Ellen's  eye, 
To  give  her  steadfast  speech  the  lie  ; 
In  maiden  confidence  she  stood, 
Though  mantled  in  her  cheek  the  blood. 
And  told  her  love  with  such  a  sigh 
Of  deep  and  hopeless  agony. 
As  deatb  had  seal'd  her  Malcolm's  doom, 
And  she  sat  sorrowing  on  his  tomb. 
Hope  vanish'd  from  Fitz-James's  eye, 
But  not  with  hope  fled  sympathy. 
He  proffer'd  to  attend  her  side, 
As  brother  would  a  sister  guide. — 
"  O  !  little  know'st  thou  Roderick's  heart  I 
Safer  for  both  we  go  apart. 
O  haste  thee,  and  from  Allan  learn, 
If  thou  may'st  trust  yon  wily  kern." — 
With  hand  upon  his  forehead  laid, 
The  conflict  of  his  mind  to  shade, 
A  parting  step  or  two  he  made  5 
Then,  as  some  thought  had  cross'd  his  brain 
He  paused,  and  turn'd,  and  came  again. 

XIX. 

*'  Hear,  lady,  yet,  a  parting  word  ! — 
It  chanced  in  fight  that  my  poor  sword 
Preserved  the  life  of  Scotland's  lord. 
This  ring  the  grateful  monarch  gave, 
And  bade,  when  I  had  boon  to  crave. 
To  bring  it  back,  and  boldly  claim 
The  recompense  that  I  would  name. 
Ellen,  I  am  no  courtly  lord 
But  one  who  lives  by  lance  and  sword, 
Whose  castle  is  his  helm  and  shield, 
His  lordship  the  embattled  field. 
What  from  a  prince  can  I  demand. 
Who  neither  reck  of  state  nor  land  ? 


Ellen,  thy  hand— the  ring  is  thine ; 

Each  guard  and  usher  knows  the  sign. 

Seek  thou  the  king  without  delay ; 

This  signet  shall  secure  thy  way ; 

And  claim  thy  suit,  whate'er  it  be. 

As  ransom  of  his  pledge  to  me." — 

He  placed  the  golden  circlet  on. 

Paused — kiss'd  her  hand — and  then  was  gone. 

The  aged  minstrel  stood  aghast, 

So  hastily  Fitz-James  shot  past. 

He  join'd  his  guide,  and  wending  down 

The  ridges  of  the  mountain  brown. 

Across  the  stream  they  took  their  way, 

That  joins  Loch-Katrine  to  Achray. 

XX. 

All  in  the  Trosach's  glen  "c  as  still 
Noontide  was  sleeping  on  the  hill : 
Sudden  his  guide  whoop'd  loud  and  high— 
"  Murdoch  !  was  that  a  signal  cry  ?" 
He  stammer'd  forth, — "  I  shout  to  scare 
Yon  raven  from  his  dainty  fare." 
He  look'd — he  knew  the  raven's  prey. 
His  own  brave  steed : — "  Ah  !  gallant  gray  ! 
For  thee — for  me,  perchance — 'twere  well 
We  ne'er  had  left  the  Trosach's  dell. 
Murdoch,  move  first — but  silently; 
Whistle  or  whoop,  and  thou  shalt  die." 
Jealous  and  sullen  on  they  fared. 
Each  silent,  each  upon  his  guard. 

XXI. 

Now  wound  the  path  its  dizzy  ledge 
Around  a  precipice's  edge. 
When  lo  !  a  wasted  female  form. 
Blighted  by  wrath  of  sun  and  storm, 
In  tatter'd  weeds  and  wild  array. 
Stood  on  a  cliff  beside  the  way. 
And  glancing  round  her  restless  eye. 
Upon  the  wood,  the  rock,  the  sky, 
Seem'd  naught  to  mark,  yet  all  to  spy. 
Her  brow  was  wreath 'd  with  gaudy  broom  ; 
With  gesture  wild  she  waved  a  plume 
Of  feathers,  which  the  eagles  fling 
To  crag  and  cliff  uom  dusky  wing ; 
Such  spoils  her  desperate  step  had  sought. 
Where  scarce  was  footing  for  the  goat. 
The  tartan  plaid  she  first  descried. 
And  shriek'd  till  all  the  rocks  replied ; 
As  loud  she  laugh'd  when  near  they  drew, 
For  then  the  lowland  garb  she  knew  ; 
And  then  her  hands  she  wildly  wrung. 
And  then  she  wept,  and  then  she  sung. — 
She  sung : — the  voice,  in  better  time. 
Perchance  to  harp  or  lute  might  chime  ; 
And  now,  though  strain 'd  and  roughen'd,  stit 
Rung  wildly  sweet  to  dale  and  hill. 

XXII. 

SONG. 

"  They  bid  me  sleep,  they  bid  me  pray, 
They  say  my  brain  is  warp'd  and  wrung— 

I  cannot  sleep  on  highland  brae, 
I  cannot  pray  in  highland  tongue. 

But  were  I  now  where  Allan  glides. 

Or  heard  my  native  Devan's  tides, 
3n2 


702 


SCOTT. 


So  sweetly  would  I  rest,  and  pray- 
That  heaven  would  close  my  wintry  day  ! 

"Twas  thus  my  hair  they  bade  me  braid. 
They  bade  me  to  the  church  repair  j 

It  was  my  bridal  morn,  they  said, 
And  my  truelove  would  meet  me  there. 

But  wo  betide  the  cruel  guile,- 

That  drown'd  in  blood  the  morning  smile  ! 

And  wo  betide  the  fairy  dream  ! 

I  only  waked  to  sob  and  scream." 

XXIII. 

«  Who  is  this  maid  ?  what  means  her  lay  ? 

She  hovers  o'er  the  hollow  way, 

And  flutters  wide  her  mantle  gray. 

As  the  lone  heron  spreads  his  wing. 

By  twilight,  o'er  a  haunted  spring." 

«« Tis  Blanche  of  Devan,"  Murdoch  said, 

"  A  crazed  and  captive  lowland  maid, 

Ta'en  on  the  morn  she  was  a  bride, 

Wr«ii  Roderick  foray'd  Devan  side : 

The  gay  bridegroom  resistance  made, 

And  felt  our  chief's  unconquer'd  blade. 

I  marvel  she  is  now  at  large. 

But  oft  she  'scapes  from  Maudlin's  charge. 

Hence,  brain-sick  fool !" — He  raised  his  bow: 

«  Now,  if  thou  strik'st  her  but  one  blow, 

I'll  pitch  thee  from  the  cliff  as  far 

As  ever  peasant  pitch'd  a  bar." 

«'  Thanks,  champion,  thanks  !"  the  maniac  cried, 

And  press'd  her  to  Fitz-James's  side. 

«*  See  the  gray  pennons  I  prepare. 

To  seek  my  truelove  through  the  air ! 

I  will  not  lend  that  savage  groom, 

To  break  his  fall,  one  downy  plume  ! 

No  ! — deep  among  disjointed  stones 

The  wolves  shall  batten  on  his  bones, 

And  then  shall  his  detested  plaid, 

By  bush  £fhd  brier  in  mid  air  stay'd. 

Wave  forth  a  banner  fair  and  free. 

Meet  signal  for  their  revelry." 

XXIV. 
"Hush  thee,  poor  maiden,  and  be  still !" 
"0  !  thou  look'st  kindly,  and  I  will. 
Mine  eye  has  dried  and  wasted  been. 
But  still  it  loves  the  Lincoln  green  ; 
And  though  mine  ear  is  all  unstrung, 
Still,  still  it  loves  the  lowland  tongue. 

"  For  0,  my  sweet  William  was  forester  true. 
He  stole  poor  Blanche's  heart  away  ! 

His  coat  it  was  all  of  the  greenwood  hue, 
And  so  blithely  he  trill'd  the  lowland  lay  ! 

"  It  was  not  that  I  meant  to  tell — 
But  thou  art  wise,  and  guessest  well." 
Then,  in  a  low  and  broken  tone. 
And  hurried  note,  the  song  went  on. 
Still  on  the  clansman,  fearfully 
She  fix'd  her  apprehensive  eye  ; 
Then  turn'd  it  on  the  knight,  and  then 
Her  look  glanced  wildly  o'er  the  glen. 

XXV 

**  The  toils  are  pitch'd,  and  the  stakes  are  set. 
Ever  sing  merrily,  merrily; 


The  bows  they  bend,  and  the  knives  they  whel 
Hunters  live  so  cheerily. 

"  It  was  a  stag,  a  stag  of  ten,* 

Bearing  his  branches  sturdily ; 
He  came  stately  down  the  glen. 

Ever  sing  hardily,  hardily. 

"  It  was  there  he  met  with  a  wounded  doe. 

She  was  bleeding  deathfully ; 
She  warn'd  him  of  the  toils  below, 

0,  so  faithfully,  faithfully  ! 

*'  He  had  an  eye  and  he  could  heed, 

Ever  sing  warily,  warily ; 
He  had  a  foot  and  he  could  speed — 

Hunters  watch  so  narrowly." 

XXVI. 

Fitz-James's  mind  was  passion-toss'd 
When  Ellen's  hints  and  fears  were  lost ; 
But  Murdoch's  shout  suspicion  wrought, 
And  Blanche's  song  conviction  brousfht. — 
Not  like  a  stag  that  spies  the  snare. 
But  lion  of  the  hunt  aware. 
He  waved  at  once  his  blade  on  high, 
"  Disclose  thy  treachery,  or  die  !" — 
Forth  at  full  speed  the  clansman  flew, 
But  in  his  race  his  bow  he  drew : 
The  shaft  just  grazed  Fitz-James's  crest. 
And  thrill'd  in  Blanche's  faded  breast. — 
Murdoch  of  Alpine,  prove  thy  speed, 
For  ne'er  had  Alpine's  son  such  need  ! 
With  heart  of  fire  and  foot  of  wind, 
The  fierce  avenger  is  behind  ! 
Fate  judges  of  the  rapid  strife — 
The  forfeit  death — the  prize  is  life  ! 
Thy  kindred  ambush  lies  before. 
Close  couch 'd  upon  the  heathery  moor  ; 
Them  couldst  thou  reach  I — it  may  not  be— 
Thine  ambush'd  kin  thou  ne'er  shalt  see. 
The  fiery  Saxon  gains  on  thee  ! 
•—Resistless  speeds  the  deadly  thrust. 
As  lightning  strikes  the  pine  to  dust ; 
With  foot  and  hand  Fitz-James  must  strain. 
Ere  he  can  win  his  blade  again. 
Bent  o'er  the  fallen,  with  falcon  eye, 
He  grimly  smiled  to  see  him  die  ; 
Then  slower  wended  back  his  way. 
Where  the  poor  maiden  bleeding  lay. 

XXVII. 

She  sate  beneath  the  birchen  tree. 

Her  elbow  resting  on  her  knee  ; 

She  had  withdrawn  the  fatal  shaft. 

And  gazed  on  it  and  feebly  laughed  ; 

Her  wreath  of  broom  and  feathers  gray, 

Daggled  with  blood,  beside  her  lay. 

The  knight  to  stanch  the  life-stream  tried  :— 

«  Stranger,  it  is  in  vain  !"  she  cried, 

"  This  hour  of  death  has  given  me  more 

Of  reason's  power  than  years  before ; 

For,  as  these  ebbing  veins  decay, 

My  frenzied  visions  fade  away. 


♦  Having  ten  branches  on  his  antlers. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


703 


A  helpless  injured  wretch  I  die, 

And  something  tells  me  in  thine  eye. 

That  thou  wert  my  avenger  born. 

Secst  thou  this  tress  ?" — 0  !  still  I've  worn 

This  little  tress  of  yellow  hair, 

Through  danger,  frenzy,  and  despair  ! 

It  once  was  bright  and  clear  as  thine,  •• 

But  blood  and  tears  have  dimm'd  its  shine. 

I  wi41  not  tell  thee  when  'twas  shred, 

Nor  from  what  guiltless  victim's  head — 

My  brain  would  turn  ! — but  it  shall  wave 

Like  plumage  on  thy  helmet  brave, 

Till  sun  and  wind  shall  bleach  the  stain, 

And  thou  wilt  bring  it  me  again. — 

I  waver  still.     O  God  !  more  bright 

Let  reason  beam  her  parting  light ! 

O  !  by  thy  knighthood's  honour'd  sign. 

And  for  thy  life  preserved  bj'  mine, 

When  thou  shalt  see  a  darksome  man. 

Who  boasts  him  chief  of  Alpine's  clan. 

With  tartans  broad  and  shadowy  plume. 

And  hand  of  blood,  and  brow  of  gloom 

Be  thy  heart  bold,  thy  weapon  strong. 

And  wreak  poor  Blanche  of  Devan's  wrong! 

They  watch  for  thee  by  pass  and  fell — 

Avoid  the  path — O  God  1 — farewell!" 

XXVIII, 

A  kindly  heart  had  brave  Fitz-James  ; 

Fast  pour'd  his  eye  at  pity's  claims. 

And  now,  with  mingled  grief  and  ire, 

He  saw  the  murder'd  maid  expire. 

"  God,  in  my  need,  be  my  relief. 

As  I  wreak  this  on  yonder  chief !" 

A  lock  from  Blanche's  tresses  fair 

He  blended  with  her  bridegroom's  hair; 

The  mingled  braid  in  blood  he  died. 

And  placed  it  on  his  bonnet  side  ; 

«  By  him  whose  word  is  truth  !  I  swear 

No  other  favour  will  I  wear. 

Till  this  sad  token  I  imbrue 

In  the  best  blood  of  Roderick  Dhu  ! 

— But  hark  !  what  means  yon  faint  halloo  .? 

The  chase  is  up — but  they  shall  know. 

The  stag  at  bay's  a  dangerous  foe." 

Barr'd  from  the  known  but  guarded  way. 

Through  copse  and  cliffs  Fitz-James  must  stray, 

And  oft  must  change  his  desperate  track. 

By  stream  and  precipice  turn'd  back. 

Heartless,  fatigued,  and  faint,  at  length. 

From  lack  of  food  and  loss  of  strength. 

He  couch'd  him  in  a  thicket  hoar. 

And  thought  his  toils  and  perils  o'er : 

"  Of  all  my  rash  adventures  past, 

This  frantic  feat  must  prove  the  last  ! 

Who  e'er  so  mad  but  might  have  guess'd. 

That  all  this  highland  hornet's  nest 

Would  muster  up  in  swarms  so  soon 

As  e'er  they  heard  of  bands  at  Doune  ^ 

Like  bloodhounds  now  they  search  me  out. 

Hark  to  the  whistle  and  the  shout! 

If  farther  through  the  wilds  I  go, 

I  only  fall  upon  the  foe  ; 

I'll  couch  me  here  till  evening  gray. 

Then  darkling  try  my  dangerous  way." — 


XXIX. 

The  shades  of  eve  come  slowly  down. 

The  woods  are  wrapp'fl  in  deeper  brown. 

The  owl  awakens  from  her  dell, 

The  fox  is  heard  upon  the  fell ; 

Enough  remains  of  glimmering  light,         • 

To  guide  the  wanderer's  steps  aright. 

Yet  not  enough  from  far  to  show 

His  figure  to  the  watchful  loe. 

With  cautious  step  and  ear  awake, 

He  climbs  the  crag,  and  threads  the  brake; 

And  not  the  summer  solstice  there, 

Temper'd  the  midnight  mountain  air. 

But  every  breeze  that  swept  the  wold, 

Benumb'd  his  drenched  limbs  with  cold. 

In  dread,  in  danger,  and  alone, 

Famish'd  and  chill'd,  through  ways  unkiiown, 

Tangled  and  steep,  he  journey'd  on  ; 

Till,  as  a  rock's  huge  point  he  turn'd, 

A  watch-fire  close  beside  him  buru'd. 

XXX. 

Beside  its  embers  red  and  clear, 

Bask'd  in  his  plaid,  a  mountaineer  ; 

And  up  he  sprung  with  sword  in  hand — 

"  Thy  name  and  purpose  !  Saxon,  stand  I" 

«  A  stranger."—"  What  dost  thou  require  .?" 

«  Rest  and  a  guide,  and  food  and  fire. 

My  life's  beset,  my  path  is  lost, 

The  gale  has  chill'd  my  limbs  with  frost.»* 

«  Art  thou  a  friend  to  Roderick  ?" — «  No." — 

«  Thou  dar'st  not  call  thyself  a  foe  ?" 

"  I  dare  !  to  him  and  all  the  band 

He  brings  to  aid  his  murderous  hand.'* 

«  Bold  words  !— but,  though  the  beast  of  game 

The  privilege  of  chase  may  claim, 

Though  space  and  law  the  stag  we  lend, 

Ere  hound  we  slip,  or  bow  we  bei^. 

Who  ever  reck'd  where,  how,  or  when. 

The  prowling  fox  was  trapp'd  and  slain  ? 

Thus  treacherous  scouts  ; — yet  sure  they  lie. 

Who  say  thou  cam'st  a  secret  spy  !" — 

"  They  do,  by  heaven  I — Come  Roderick  Dhu, 

And  of  his  clan  the  boldest  two. 

And  let  me  but  till  morning  rest, 

I  write  the  falsehood  on  their  crest." — 

"  If  by  the  blaze  I  mark  aright. 

Thou  bear'st  the  belt  and  spur  of  knight." 

"  Then  by  these  tokens  may'st  thou  know 

Each  proud  oppressor's  mortal  foe." 

"  Enough,  enough  ;  sit  down  and  share 

A  soldier's  couch,  a  soldier's  fare." — 

XXXL 

He  gave  him  of  his  highland  cheer. 
The  harden'd  flesh  of  mountain  deer ; 
Dry  fuel  on  the  fire  he  laid, 
And  bade  the  Saxon  share  his  plaid. 
He  tended  hiva  like  welcome  guest. 
Then  thus  his  further  speech  address'd, 
«  Stranger,  I  am  to  Roderick  Dhu 
A  clansman  born, a  kinsman  true; 
Each  word  against  his  honour  spoke 
Demands  of  me  avenging  stroke ; 


704 


SCOTT. 


Yet  more — upon  thy  fate,  'tis  said, 

A  mighty  augury  is  laid. 

It  rests  with  me  to  wigd  my  horn — 

Thou  art  with  numbers  overborne  ; 

It  rests  with  me,  here,  brand  to  brand. 

Worn  as  thou  art,  to  bid  thee  stand : 

But,  not  for  clan,  nor  kindred's  cause. 

Will  I  depart  from  honour's  laws  ; 

T'  assail  a  wearied  man  were  shame, 

And  stranger  is  a  holy  name ; 

Guidance  and  rest,  and  food  and  fire. 

In  vain  he  never  must  require. 

Then  rest  thee  here  till  dawn  of  day ; 

Myself  will  guide  thee  on  the  way, 

O'er  stock  and  stone,  through  watch  and  ward. 

Till  past  Clan-Alpine's  outmost  guard. 

As  far  as  Coilantogle's  ford ; 

From  thence  thy  warrant  is  thy  sword." 

I  take  thy  courtesy,  by  heaven. 
As  freely  as  'tis  nobly  given  !" — 
**  Well,  rest  thee  ;  for  the  bittern's  cry 
Sings  us  the  lake's  wild  lullaby." — 
With  that  he  shook  the  gather'd  heath. 
And  spread  his  plaid  upon  the  wreath  ; 
And  the  brave  foemen,  side  by  side, 
Lay  peaceful  down  like  brothers  tried, 
And  slept  until  the  dawning  beam 
Purpled  the  mountain  and  the  stream. 


Canto  V. 

THE  COMBAT. 

I. 

Fair  as  the  earliest  beam  of  eastern  light, 

When  first  by  the  bewilder'd  pilgrim  spied. 
It  smiles  upon  the  dreary  brow  of  night, 

And  silvers  o'er  the  torrent's  foaming  tide. 
And  lights  t^e  fearful  path  on  mountain  side ; 

Fair  as  that  beam,  although  the  fairest  far. 
Giving  to  horror  grace,  to  danger  pride, 

Shine  martial  faith,  and  courtesy's  bright  star. 
Through  all  the  wreckful  storms  that  cloud  the 
brow  of  war. 

II. 
That  early  beam,  so  fair  and  sheen, 
Was  twinkling  through  the  hazel  screen, 
When,  rousing  at  its  glimmer  red, 
The  warriors  left  their  lowly  bed, 
Look'd  out  upon  the  dappled  sky, 
Mutter'd  their  soldier  matins  by. 
And  then  awaked  their  fire,  to  steal. 
As  short  and  rude,  their  soldier  meal. 
That  o'er,  the  Gael*  around  him  threw 
His  graceful  plaid  of  varied  hue. 
And,  true  to  promise,  led  the  way. 
By  thicket  green  and  mountain  gray. 
A  wildering  path  I — They  winded  now 
Along  the  precipice's  brow. 
Commanding  the  rich  scenes  beneath, 
The  windings  of  the  Forth  and  Teith, 
And  all  the  vales  between  that  lie. 
Till  Stirling's  turrets  melt  in  sky; 

•  The  Scollish  highlander  calls  himself  Gael,  or  Gaul, 
and  terms  the  lowlanders  Sassenach,  or  Saxons. 


Then,  sunk  in  copse,  their  farthest  glance 
Gain'd  not  the  length  uf  horseman's  lance 
'Twas  oft  so  steep,  the  foot  was  fain 
Assistance  from  the  hand  to  gain  ; 
So  tangled  oft,  that,  bursting  through. 
Each  hawthorn  shed  her  showers  of  dew, 
That  diamond  dew,  so  pure  and  clear. 
It  rivals  all  but  beauty's  tear  J 

III. 
At  length  they  came  where,  stern  and  steej* 
The  hill  sinks  down  upon  the  deep. 
Here  Vennachar  in  silver  flows. 
There,  ridge  on  ridge,  Benledi  rose ; 
Ever  the  hollow  path  twined  on, 
Beneath  steep  bank  and  threatening  stone } 
An  hundred  men  might  hold  the  post 
With  hardihood  against  a  host. 
The  rugged  mountain's  scanty  cloak 
Was  dwarfish  shrubs  of  birch  and  oak, 
With  shingles  bare,  and  cliffs  between. 
And  patches  bright  of  bracken  green. 
And  heather  black,  that  waved  so  high. 
It  held  the  copse  in  rivalry. 
But  where  the  lake  slept  deep  and  still. 
Dank  osiers  fringed  the  swamp  and  hill ; 
And  oft  both  path  and  hill  were  torn. 
Where  wintry  torrents  down  had  borne, 
And  heap'd  upon  the  cumber'd  land 
Its  wreck  of  gravel,  rocks,  and  sand. 
So  toilsome  was  the  road  to  trace. 
The  guide,  abating  of  his  pace. 
Led  slowly  through  the  pass's  jaws. 
And  ask'd  Fitz-James,  by  what  strange  cauM 
He  sought  these  wilds,  travers'd  by  few 
Without  a  pass  from  Roderick  Dhu. 

IV. 

"  Brave  Gael,  my  pass,  in  danger  tried, 
Hangs  in  my  belt,  and  by  my  side ; 
Yet,  sooth  to  tell,"  the  Saxon  said, 
"  I  dream'd  not  now  to  claim  its  aid. 
When  here,  but  three  days  since,  I  came, 
Bewilder'd  in  pursuit  of  game. 
All  seem'd  as  peaceful  and  as  still. 
As  the  mist  slumbering  on  yon  hill ; 
Thy  dangerous  chief  was  then  afar. 
Nor  soon  expected  back  from  war. 
Thus  said,  at  least,  my  mountain  guide. 
Though  deep,  perchance,  the  villain  lied." 
"  Yet  why  a  second  venture  try  ?" — 
"  A  warrior  thou,  and  ask  me  why  ! 
Moves  our  free  course  by  such  fix'd  cause, 
As  gives  the  poor  mechanic  laws  ? 
Enough,  I  sought  to  drive  away 
The  lazy  hours  of  peaceful  day ; 
Slight  cause  will  then  suflice  to  guide 
A  knight's  free  footsteps  far  and  wide, — 
A  falcon  flown,  a  grayhound  stray'd. 
The  merry  glance  of  mountain  maid  ; 
Or,  if  a  path  be  dangerous  known. 
The  danger's  self  is  lure  alone." — 


" Thy  secret  keep,  I  urge  thee  not;— 
Yet,  ere  again  ye  sought  this  spot. 


c. 


THE    LADY    OF  THE    LAKE. 


705 


Say,  heard  ye  naught  of  lowland  war 
Against  Clan-Alpine  raised  by  Mar  ?" 
"No,  by  my  word  ;  of  bands  prepared 
To  guard  king  James's  sports  I  heard  ; 
Nor  doubt  I  aught,  but,  when  they  hear 
This  muster  of  the  mountaineer, 
Their  pennons  will  abroad  be  flung, 
Which  else  in  Doune  had  peaceful  hung." 
"Free  be  they  flung  I — for  we  were  loth 
Their  silken  folds  should  feast  the  moth. 
Free  be  they  flung  !  as  free  shall  wave 
Clan-Alpine's  pine  in  banner  brave. 
But,  stranger,  peaceful  since  you  came, 
Bewilder'd  in  the  mountain  game. 
Whence  the  bold  boast  by  which  you  show 
Vich-Al pine's  vow'd  and  mortal  foe  ?" 
"  Warrior,  but  yestermorn  I  knew 
Naught  of  thy  chieftain,  Roderick  Dhu, 
Save  as  an  outlaw'd  desperate  man. 
The  chief  of  a  rebellious  clan. 
Who,  in  the  regent's  court  and  sight, 
With  ruffian  dagger  stabb'd  a  knight: 
Yet  this  alone  might  from  his  part 
Sever  each  true  and  loyal  heart." 

VI. 

Wrothful  at  such  arraignment  foul. 
Dark  lour'd  the  clansman's  sable  scowl. 
A  space  he  paused,  then  sternly  said, 
"  And  heard'st  thou  why  he  drew  his  blade  ? 
Heard'st  thou  that  shameful  word  and  blow 
Brought  Roderick's  vengeance  on  his  foe  .' 
What  reck'd  the  chieftain  if  he  stood 
On  highland  heath,  or  Holy-Rood  ? 
He  rights  such  wrong  where  it  is  given. 
If  it  were  in  the  court  of  heaven." 
"  Still  was  it  outrage  ; — yet  'tis  true. 
Not  then  claim'd  sovereignty  his  due; 
While  Albany,  with  feeble  hand, 
Held  borrow'd  truncheon  of  command, 
The  young  king,  mew'd  in  Stirling  tower, 
Was  stranger  to  respect  and  power. 
But  then,  thy  chieftain's  robber  life  ! 
Winning  mean  prey  by  causeless  strife. 
Wrenching  from  ruin'd  lowland  swain 
His  herds  and  harvest  rear'd  in  vain — 
Methinks  a  soul  like  thine  should  scorn 
The  spoils  from  such  foul  foray  borne." 

VII. 
The  Gael  beheld  him  grim  the  while, 
And  answer'd  with  disdainful  smile — 
"Saxon, from  yonder  mountain  high, 
I  mark'd  thee  send  delighted  eye, 
Far  to  the  south  and  east,  where  lay. 
Extended  in  succession  gay. 
Deep  waving  fields  and  pastures  green, 
W^ith  gentle  slopes  and  groves  between ; 
These  fertile  plains,  that  soften'd  vale. 
Were  once  the  birthright  of  the  Gael ; 
The  stranger  came  with  iron  hand. 
And  from  our  fathers  reft  the  land. 
Where  dwell  we  now  ?     See,  rudely  swell 
Crag  over  crag,  and  fell  o'er  fell. 
Ask  we  this  savage  hill  we  tread. 
For  fatten'd  steer  or  household  bread  { 
Vol.  IIL— 45 


Ask  we  for  flocks  these  shingles  dry. 
And  well  the  mountain  might  reply, — 
'  To  you,  as  to  your  sires  of  yore. 
Belong  the  target  and  claymore  ! 
I  give  you  shelter  in  my  breast, 
Your  own  good  blades  must  win  the  rest.* 
Pent  in  this  fortress  of  the  north, 
Think'st  thou  we  will  not  sally  forth. 
To  spoil  the  spoiler  as  we  may. 
And  from  the  i-obber  rend  the  prey  ? 
Ay,  by  my  soul ! — While  on  yon  plain 
The  Saxon  rears  one  shock  of  grain  ; 
While,  of  ten  thousand  herds,  there  strays 
But  one  along  yon  river's  maze, 
The  (jael,  of  plain  and  river  heir. 
Shall,  with  strong  hand,  redeem  his  share. 
Where  live  the  mountain  chiefs  who  hold 
That  plundering  lowland  field  and  fold 
Is  aught  but  retribution  true  ? 
Seek  other  cause  'gainst  Roderick  Dhu. 

VIII. 
Answer'd  Fitz-James, — "  And,  if  I  sought, 
Think'st  thou  no  other  could  be  brought  ? 
What  deem  ye  of  my  path  waylaid  .^ 
My  life  given  o'er  to  ambuscade  ?" 
"  As  of  a  meed  to  rashnes!*  due  ; 
Hadst  thou  sent  warning  fair  and  true, 
I  seek  my  hound,  or  falcon  stray'd, 
I  seek,  good  faith,  a  highland  maid; 
Free  hadst  thou  been  to  come  and  go  ; 
But  secret  path  marks  secret  foe. 
Nor  yet,  for  this,  e'en  as  a  spy, 
Hadst  thou,  unheard,  been  doom'd  to  die, 
Save  to  fulfil  an  augury." 
"  Well,  let  it  pass  ;  nor  will  I  now 
Fresh  cause  of  enmity  avow. 
To  chafe  thy  mood  and  cloud  thy  brow 
Enough,  I  am  b^'  promise  tied  * 

To  match  me  with  this  man  of  pride: 
Twice  have  I  sought  Clan-Alpine's  glen 
In  peace  ;  but  when  I  come  agen, 
I  come  with  banner,  brand,  and  bow, 
As  leader  seeks  his  mortal  foe. 
For  lovelorn  swain  in  lady's  bower. 
Ne'er  panted  for  th'  appointed  hour 
As  I,  until  before  me  stand 
This  rebel  chieftain  and  bis  band.** 

IX. 

«  Have,  then,  thy  wish  !" — he  whistled  shrill 

And  he  was  answer'd  from  the  hill ; 
Wild  as  the  scream  of  the  curlew. 
From  crag  to  crag  the  signal  flew. 
Instant,  through  copse  and  heath,  arose 
Bonnets,  and  spears,  and  bended  bows; 
On  right,  on  left,  above,  below, 
Sprung  up  at  once  the  lurking  foe; 
From  shingles  gray  their  lances  start. 
The  bracken  bush  sends  forth  the  dart. 
The  rushes  and  the  willow  wand 
Are  bristling  into  axe  and  brand, 
And  every  tuft  of  broom  gives  life 
To  plaided  warrior  arm'd  for  strife. 
That  whistle  garrison'd  the  glen 
At  once  with  full  five  hundred  men. 


706 


scorT. 


As  if  the  yawning  hill  to  heaven 

A  subterranean  host  had  given. 

Watching  their  leader's  beck  and  will, 

All  silent  there  they  stood,  and  still ; 

Like  the  loose  crags  whose  threatening  mass 

Lay  tottering  o'er  the  hollow  pass. 

As  if  an  infant's  touch  could  urge 

Their  headlong  passage  down  the  verge. 

With  step  and  weapon  forward  flung, 

Upon  the  mountain  side  they  hung. 

The  mountaineer  cast  glance  of  pride 

Along  Benledi's  living  side, 

Then  fix'd  his  eye  and  sable  brow 

Full  on  Fitz-James — "  How  say'st  thou  now 

These  are  Clan-Alpine's  warriors  true ; 

And,  Saxon — I  am  Iloderick  Dhu  !" 

X. 

Fitz-Tames  was  brave : — though  to  his  heart 

The  liieolood  thrill'd  with  sudden  start, 

He  manri'd  himself  with  dauntless  air, 

Return'd  the  chief  his  haughty  stare, 

His  back  against  a  rock  he  bore. 

And  firmly  placed  his  foot  before. 

"  Come  one,  come  all .'  this  rock  shall  fly 

From  its  firm  base  as  soon  as  L" 

Sir  Roderick  mark'd — and  in  his  eyes 

Respect  was  mingled  with  surprise. 

And  the  stern  joy  which  warriors  feel 

In  foeman  worthy  of  their  steel. 

Short  space  he  stood — then  waved  his  hand: 

Down  sunk  the  disappearing  band  ; 

Each  warrior  vanish 'd  where  he  stood, 

In  broom  or  bracken,  heath  or  wood  ; 

Sunk  brand  and  spear  and  bended  bow, 

In  osiers  pale  and  copses  low  ; 

It  seem'd  as  if  their  mother  earth 

Had  swallow'd  up  her  warlike  birth. 

The  wind's  last  breath  had  toss'd  in  air 

Pennon,  and  plaid,  and  plumage  fair  ; — 

The  next  but  swept  a  lone  hill  side. 

Where  heath  and  fern  were  waving  wide ; 

The  sun's  last  glance  was  glinted  back 

From  spear  and  glaive,  from  targe  and  jack  5 — 

The  next,  all  unreflected,  shone 

On  bracken  green,  and  cold  gray  stone. 

XL 

Fitz-James  look'd  round — yet  scarce  believed 

The  witness  that  his  sight  received ; 

Such  apparition  well  might  seem 

Delusion  of  a  dreadful  dream. 

Sir  Roderick  in  suspense  he  eyed. 

And  to  his  look  the  chief  replied, 

"  Fear  naught — nay,  that  I  need  not  say — 

But  doubt  not  aught  from  mine  array. 

Thou  art  my  guest ;  I  pledged  my  word 

As  far  as  Coilantogle  ford: 

Nor  would  I  call  a  clansman's  brand 

For  aid  against  one  valiant  hand. 

Though  on  our  strife  lay  every  vale 

Rent  by  the  Saxon  from  the  Gael. 

So  move  we  on  ;  I  only  meant 

To  show  the  reed  on  which  you  leant. 

Deeming  this  path  you  might  pursue 

Without  a  pass  from  Roderick  Dhu." 


They  moved  : — I  said  Fitz-James  was  brave 
As  ever  knight  that  belted  glaive  ; 
Yet  dare  not  say,  that  now  his  blood 
Kept  on  its  wont  and  temper'd  flood. 
As,  following  Roderick's  stride,  he  drew 
That  seeming  lonesome  pathway  through, 
Which  yet,  by  fearful  proof,  was  rife 
With  lances,  that,  to  take  his  life. 
Waited  but  signal  from  a  guide 
So  late  dishonour'd  and  defied. 
Ever,  by  stealth,  his  eye  sought  round 
The  vanish'd  guardians  of  the  ground. 
And  still,  from  copse  and  heather  deep. 
Fancy  saw  spear  and  broadsword  peep 
And  in  the  plover's  shrilly  strain. 
The  signal  whistle  heard  again. 
Nor  breathed  he  free  till  far  behind 
The  pass  was  left ;  for  then  they  wind 
Along  a  wide  and  level  green, 
Where  neither  tree  nor  tuft  was  seen. 
Nor  rush,  nor  bush  of  broom  was  near, 
To  hide  a  bonnet  or  a  spear. 

XII. 

The  chief  in  silence  strode  before, 

And  reach'd  that  torrent's  sounding  shore. 

Which,  daughter  of  three  mighty  lakes. 

From  Vennachar  in  silver  breaks, 

Sweeps  through  the  plain,  and  ceaseless  mines 

On  Bochaslle  the  mouldering  lines. 

Where  Rome,  the  empress  of  the  world, 

Of  yore  her  eagle  wings  unfurl'd. 

And  here  his  course  the  chieftain  stay'd. 

Threw  down  his  target  and  his  plaid. 

And  to  the  lowland  warrior  said: 

"  Bold  Saxon  !  to  his  promise  just, 

Vich-Alpine  has  discharged  his  trust. 

This  murderous  chief,  this  ruthless  man, 

This  head  of  a  rebellious  clan, 

Hath  led  thee  safe,  through  watch  and  waro 

Far  past  Clan-Alpine's  outmost  guard. 

Now,  man  to  man,  and  steel  to  steel, 

A  chieftain's  vengeance  thou  shalt  feel. 

See,  here,  all  vantageless  I  stand, 

Arm'd,  like  thyself,  with  single  brand; 

For  this  is  Coilantogle  ford. 

And  thou  must  keep  thee  with  thy  sword." 

XIIL 

The  Saxon  paused : — "  I  ne'er  delay'd, 

When  foeman  bade  me  draw  my  blade ; 

Nay  more,  brave  chief,  I  vow'd  thy  death: 

Yet  sure  thy  fair  and  generous  faith. 

And  my  deep  debt  for  life  preserved, 

A  better  meed  have  well  deserved  « 

Can  naught  but  blood  our  feud  atone  • 

Are  there  no  means  ?" — "  No,  stranger,  none  ! 

And  hear — to  fire  thy  flagging  zeal — 

The  Saxon  cause  rests  on  thy  steel ; 

For  thus  spoke  fate,  by  prophet  bred 

Between  the  living  and  the  dead : — 

'  Who  spills  the  foremost  foeman's  life. 

His  party  conquers  in  the  strife.'  " 

"  Then,  by  mj--  word,"  the  Saxon  said, 

"  The  riddle  is  already  read. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


7(W 


Seek  yonder  brake  beneath  the  cliff, 
There  lies  red  Murdoch,  stark  and  stiff. 
Thus  fate  has  solved  her  prophecy, 
Then  yield  to  fate,  and  not  to  me. 
To  James,  at  Stirling,  let  us  go, 
When,  if  thou  wilt  be  still  his  foe, 
Or  if  the  king  shall  not  agree 
To  grant  thee  grace  and  favour  free, 
I  plight  mine  honour,  oath,  and  word, 
That,  to  thy  native  strengths  restored, 
With  each  advantage  shall  thou  stand. 
That  aids  thee  now  to  guard  thy  land." 

XIV. 
Dark  lightning  flash'd  from  Roderick's  eye — 
"  Soars  thy  presumption  then  so  high, 
Because  a  wretched  kern  ye  slew. 
Homage  to  name  to  Roderick  Dhu  ? 
He  yields  not,  he,  to  man  nor  fate  ! 
Thou  add'st  but  fuel  to  my  hate : 
My  clansman's  blood  demands  revenge. — 
Not  yet  prepared  ? — By  heaven,  I  change 
My  thought,  and  hold  thy  valour  light 
As  that  of  some  vain  carpet-knight, 
Who  ill  deserved  my  courteous  care. 
And  whose  best  boast  is  but  to  wear 
A  braid  of  his  fair  lady's  hair." — 
"  I  thank  thee,  Roderick,  for  the  word  ! 
It  nerves  my  heart,  it  steels  my  sword ; 
For  I  have  sworn,  this  braid  to  stain 
In  the  best  blood  that  warms  thy  vein. 
Now,  truce  farewell !  and  ruth  begone  !— 
Yet  think  not  that  by  thee  alone. 
Proud  chief!  can  courtesy  be  shown; 
Though  not  from  copse,  or  heath,  or  cairn. 
Start  at  my  whistle  clansmen  stern, 
Of  this  small  horn  one  feeble  blast 
Would  fearful  odds  against  thee  cast. 
But  fear  not — doubt  not — which  thou  wilt — 
We  try  this  quarrel  hilt  to  hilt." — 
Then  each  at  once  his  falchion  drew. 
Each  on  the  ground  his  scabbard  threw. 
Each  look'd  to  sun,  and  stream,  and  plain. 
As  what  they  ne'er  might  see  again  ; 
Then  foot,  and  point,  and  eye  opposed, 
In  dubious  strife  they  darkly  closed. 

XV. 

Ill  fared  it  then  with  Roderick  Dhu, 
That  on  the  field  his  targe  he  threw, 
Whose  brazen  studs  and  tough  bull  hide 
Had  death  so  often  dash'd  aside  ; 
For,  train'd  abroad  his  arms  to  wield, 
Fitz-James's  blade  was  sword  and  shield. 
He  practised  every  pass  and  ward, 
To  thrust,  to  strike,  to  feint,  to  guard ; 
While  less  expert,  though  stronger  far, 
The  Gael  maintain'd  unequal  war. 
Three  times  in  closing  strife  they  stood. 
And  thrice  the  Saxon  blade  drank  blood. 
No  stinted  draught,  no  scanty  tide. 
The  gushing  flood  the  tartans  dyed. 
Fierce  Roderick  felt  the  fatal  drain. 
And  shower'd  his  blows  like  wintry  rain ; 
And,  as  firm  rock,  or  castle  roof, 
Against  the  winter  shower  is  proof. 


The  foe,  invulnerable  still, 
Foil'd  his  wild  rage  by  steady  skill ; 
Till,  at  advantage  ta'en,  his  brand 
Forced  Roderick's  weapon  from  his  hand. 
And,  backward  borne  upon  the  lea. 
Brought  the  proud  chieftain  to  his  knee. 

XVI. 

"  Now,  yield  ye,  or,  by  Him  who  made 

The  world,  thy  heart's  blood  dies  my  blade  !*' 

"  Thy  threats,  thy  mercy,  I  defy  ! 

Let  recreant  yield,  who  fears  to  die." — 

Like  adder  darting  from  his  coil, 

Like  wolf  that  dashes  through  the  toil. 

Like  mountain  cat  who  guards  her  j'oung. 

Full  at  Fitz-James's  throat  he  sprung; 

Received,  but  reck'd  not  of  a  wound. 

And  lock'd  his  arms  his  foeman  round. — 

Now,  gallant  Saxon,  hold  thine  own  ! 

No  maiden's  hand  is  round  thee  thrown  ! 

That  desperate  grasp  thy  frame  might  feel. 

Through  bars  of  brass  and  triple  steel ! 

They  tug,  they  strain ; — down,  down,  they  go 

The  Gael  above,  Fitz-James  below. 

The  chieftain's  gripe  his  throat  compress'd. 

His  knee  was  planted  in  his  breast ; 

His  clotted  locks  he  backward  threw. 

Across  his  brow  his  hand  he  drew. 

From  blood  and  mist  to  clear  his  sight. 

Then  gleam'd  aloft  his  dagger  bright !— 

— But  hate  and  fury  ill  supplied 

The  stream  of  life's  exhausted  tide. 

And  all  too  late  th'  advantage  came. 

To  turn  the  odds  of  deadly  game  ; 

For  while  the  dagger  gleam'd  on  high, 

Reel'd  soul  and  sense,  reel'd  brain  and  eye. 

Down  came  the  blow;  but  in  the  heath 

The  erring  blade  found  bloodless  sheath. 

The  struggling  foe  may  now  unclasp 

The  fainting  chiePs  relaxing  grasp  ; 

Unwounded  from  the  dreadful  close, 

But  breathless  all,  Fitz-James  arose. 

XVIL 
He  faltered  thanks  to  heaven  for  life, 
Redeera'd,  unhoped,  from  desperate  strife  ; 
Next  on  his  foe  his  look  he  cast, 
Whose  every  gasp  appear'd  his  last ; 
In  Roderick's  gore  he  dipp'd  the  braid, — 
"  Poor  Blanche  I  thy  wrongs  are  dearly  paid 
Yet  with  thy  foe  must  die  or  live 
The  praise  that  faith  and  valour  give." — 
With  that  he  blew  a  bugle  note. 
Undid  the  collar  from  his  throat, 
Unbonnetted,  and  by  the  wave 
Sat  down,  his  brow  and  hands  to  lave. 
Then  faint  afar  are  heard  the  feet- 
Of  rushing  steeds  in  gallop  fleet ; 
The  sounds  increase,  and  now  are  seen 
Four  mounted  squires  in  Lincoln  green ; 
Two  who  bear  lance,  and  two  who  lead. 
By  loosen'd  rein,  a  saddled  steed  ; 
Each  onward  held  his  headlong  course. 
And  by  Fitz-James  reiu'd  up  his  horse — 
With  wonder  view'd  the  bloody  spot. — 
— ^'  Exclaim  not,  gallants  !  question  not  r— 


708 


SCOTT. 


You,  Herbert  and  Luffness,  alight, 
And  bind  the  wounds  of  yonder  knight ; 
Let  the  gray  palfrey  bear  his  weight, 
We  destined  for  a  fairer  freight, 
And  bring  him  on  to  Stirling  straight ; 
I  will  before  at  better  speed. 
To  seek  fresh  horse  and  fitting  weed. 
The  sun  rides  high  ; — I  must  be  boune 
To  see  the  archer  game  at  noon  ; 
But  lightly  Bayard  clears  the  lea. — 
De  Vaux  and  Herries,  follow  me. 

XVIII. 
"  Stand,  Bayard,  stand  !" — the  steed  obey'd. 
With  arching  neck  and  bended  head. 
And  glancing  eye,  and  quivering  ear. 
As  if  he  loved  his  lord  to  hear. 
No  foot  Fitz-James  in  stirrup  stay'd, 
No  grasp  upon  the  saddle  laid. 
But  wreath'd  his  left  hand  in  the  mane. 
And  lightly  bounded  from  the  plain, 
Turn'd  on  the  horse  his  armed  heel, 
And  stirr'd  his  courage  with  the  steel. 
Bounded  the  fiery  steed  in  air, 
The  rider  sate  erect  and  fair, 
Then,  like  a  bolt  from  steel  crossbow 
Forth  kunoh'd,  along  the  plain  they  go. 
They  dash'd  that  rapid  torrent  through. 
And  up  Carhonie's  hill  they  flew  ; 
Still  at  the  gallop  prick'd  the  knight. 
His  merry  men  follow'd  as  they  might. 
Along  thy  banks,  swift  Teith  !  they  ride. 
And  in  the  race  they  mock  thy  tide ; 
Torry  and  Lendrick  now  are  past. 
And  Deanstown  lies  behind  them  cast; 
They  rise,  the  banner 'd  towers  of  Doune, 
They  sink  in  distant  woodland  soon  ; 
Blair-Drummond  sees  the  hoofs  strike  fire. 
They  sweep  like  breeze  through  Ochtertyre ; 
They  mark  just  glance  and  disappear 
The  lofty  brow  of  ancient  Kier ; 
They  bathe  their  coursers'  sweltering  sides, 
Dark  Forth  !  amid  thy  sluggish  tides, 
And  on  th'  opposing  shore  take  ground. 
With  plash,  with  scramble,  and  with  bound. 
Right  hand  they  leave  thy  cliffs,  Craig-Forth  . 
And  soon  the  bulwark  of  the  north, 
3ray  Stirling,  with  her  towers  and  town. 
Upon  their  fleet  career  look'd  down. 

XIX. 

As  up  the  flinty  path  they  strain'd. 

Sudden  his  steed  the  leader  rein'd; 

A  signal  to  his  squire  he  flung. 

Who  instant  to  his  stirrup  sprung: 

"  Secst  thou,  De  Vaux,  yon  woodsman  gray, 

Who  townward  holds  the  rocky  way, 

Of  stature  tall  and  poor  array  ? 

Mark'st  thou  the  firm,  yet  active  stride, 

With  which  he  scales  the  mountain  side  ? 

Know'st  thou  from  whence  he  comes,  or  whom  ?' 

"  No,  by  my  word  ; — a  hurley  groom 

He  seems,  who  in  the  field  or  chase 

A  baron's  train  would  nobly  grace." 

•  Out,  out,  De  Vaux  !  can  fear  supply, 

And  jealousy,  no  sharper  eye  ? 


Afar,  ere  to  the  hill  he  drew, 

That  stately  form  and  step  I  knew : 

Like  form  in  Scotland  is  not  seen, 

Treads  not  such  step  on  Scottish  greej 

'Tis  James  of  Douglas,  by  St.  Serle  ! 

The  uncle  of  the  banish'd  earl. 

Away,  away,  to  court,  to  show 

The  near  approach  of  dreaded  foe : 

The  king  must  stand  upon  his  guard: 

Douglas  and  he  must  meet  prepared.'* 

Then  right  hand  wheel'd  their  steeds,  a«<l  utraiglW 

They  won  the  castle's  postern  gate. 

XX. 

The  Douglas,  who  had  bent  his  wsty 

From  Cambus-Kenneth's  abbey  gray, 

Now,  as  he  climb'd  the  rocky  sheif. 

Held  sad  communion  with  himselt: — 

"  Yes  !  all  is  true  my  fears  could  Irame : 

A  prisoner  lies  the  noble  Graeme, 

And  fiery  Roderick  soon  will  feel 

The  vengeance  of  the  royal  steel. 

I,  only  I,  can  ward  their  fate, 

God  grant  the  ransom  come  not  late  ! 

The  abbess  hath  her  promise  given. 

My  child  shall  be  the  bride  of  heaven : 

Be  pardon 'd  one  repining  tear  ! 

For  He,  who  gave  her,  knows  how  dear, 

How  excellent ! — but  that  is  by. 

And  now  m}'  business  is — to  die. 

— Ye  towers  !  within  whose  circuit  dread 

A  Douglas  by  his  sovereign  ble^d, 

And  thou,  0  sad  and  fatal  mound  ! 

That  oft  hast  heard  the  death  axe  sound, 

As  on  the  noblest  of  the  land 

Fell  the  stern  headsman's  bloody  hand. 

The  dungeon,  block,  and  nameless  tomb 

Prepare,  for  Douglas  seeks  his  doom  ! 

— But  hark  !  what  blithe  and  jolly  peal 

Makes  the  Franciscan  steeple  reel  ? 

And  see  !  upon  the  crowded  street. 

In  motley  groups  what  masquers  meet ! 

Banner  and  pageant,  pipe  and  drum. 

And  merry  morrice  dancers  come. 

I  guess,  by  all  this  quaint  array, 

The  burghers  hold  their  sports  to-day 

James  will  be  there ;  he  loves  such  show, 

Where  the  good  yeoman  bends  his  bow, 

And  the  tough  wrestler  foils  his  foe. 

As  well  as  where,  in  proud  career, 

The  high-born  tilter  shivers  spear. 

I'll  follow  to  the  castle  park, 

And  play  my  prize :  King  James  shall  mark. 

If  age  has  tamed  these  sinews  stark. 

Whose  force  so  oft,  in  happier  days. 

His  boyish  wonder  loved  to  praise.'* 

XXI. 

The  castle  gates  were  open  flung. 
The  quivering  drawbridge  rock'd  anu  .4ng, 
And  echoed  loud  the  flinty  street 
Beneath  the  courser's  clattering  feet, 
As  slowly  down  the  deep  descent 
Fair  Scotland's  king  and  nobles  went. 
While  all  along  the  crowded  way 
Was  jubilee  and  loud  huzza. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


709 


And  ever  James  was  bending  low, 
To  his  white  jennet's  saddle  bow, 
Doffing  his  cap  to  city  danae, 
Who  smiled  and  blush'd  for  pride  and  shame. 
And  well  the  siraperer  might  be  vain, — 
He  chose  the  fairest  of  the  train. 
Gravely  he  greets  each  city  sire, 
Commends  each  pageant's  quaint  attire. 
Gives  to  the  dancers  thanks  aloud. 
And  smiles  and  nods  upon  the  crowd. 
Who  rend  the  heavens  with  their  acclaims, 
"  Long  live  the  commons'  king.  King  James  !' 
Behind  the  king  throng'd  peer  and  knight. 
And  noble  dame  and  damsel  bright. 
Whose  fier}'  steeds  ill  brook'd  the  stay 
Of  the  steep  street  and  crowded  way. 
But  in  the  train  you  might  discern 
Dark  lowering  brow  and  visage  stern; 
There  nobles  mourn'd  their  pride  restrain'd, 
And  the  mean  burghers' joys  disdain'd  ; 
And  chiefs,  who,  hostage  for  their  clan. 
Were  each  from  home  a  banish'd  man, 
There  thought  upon  their  own  gray  tower, 
Their  waving  woods,  their  feudal  power. 
And  deem'd  themselves  a  shameful  part 
Of  pag:eant  which  they  cursed  in  heart. 

XXII. 

Now,  in  the  castle  park,  drew  out 
Their  chequer'd  bands  the  joyous  rout. 
There  morricers,  with  bell  at  heel, 
And  blade  in  hand,  their  mazes  wheel ; 
But  chief,  beside  the  butts,  there  stand 
Bold  Robin  Hood  and  all  his  band — 
Friar  Tuck,  with  quarterstaff  and  cowl. 
Old  Scathelocke,  with  his  surly  scowl, 
Maid  Marion,  fair  as  ivory  bone. 
Scarlet,  and  Mutch,  and  Little  John ; 
Their  bugles  challenge  all  that  will, 
In  archery  to  prove  their  skill. 
The  Douglas  bent  a  bow  of  might, 
His  first  shaft  center'd  in  the  white. 
And,  when  in  turn  he  shot  again, 
His  second  split  the  first  in  twain. 
From  the  king's  hand  must  Douglas  take 
A  silver  dart,  the  archers'  stake  ; 
Fondly  he  watch'd,  with  watery  eye. 
Some  answering  glance  of  sympathy ; — 
No  kind  emotion  made  reply  ! 
Indifferent  as  to  archer  wight. 
The  monarch  gave  the  arrow  bright 

xxin. 

Now,  clear  the  ring !  for,  hand  to  hand. 
The  manly  wrestlers  take  their  stand. 
Two  o'er  the  rest  superior  rose, 
And  proud  demanded  mightier  foes 
Nor  call'd  in  vain  ;  for  Douglas  came. 
— For  life  is  Hugh  of  Larbert  lame ; 
Scarce  better  John  of  Alloa's  fare. 
Whom  senseless  home  his  comrades  bear. 
Prize  of  the  wrestling  match,  the  king 
To  Douglas  gave  a  golden  ring. 
While  coldly  glanced  his  eye  of  blue. 
As  frozen  drop  of  wintry  dew. 


Douglas  would  speak,  but  in  his  breast 

His  struggling  soul  his  words  suppress'd: 

Indignant  then  he  turn'd  him  where 

Their  arms  the  brawny  yeomen  bare. 

To  hurl  the  massive  bar  in  air. 

When  each  his  utmost  strength  had  shown. 

The  Douglas  rent  an  earth-fast  stone 

From  its  deep  bed,  then  heaved  it  high, 

And  sent  the  fragment  through  the  sky, 

A  rood  beyond  the  farthest  mark  ; — 

And  still  in  Stirling's  royal  park. 

The  gray-hair'd  sires,  who  know  the  past. 

To  strangers  point  the  Douglas-cast, 

And  moralize  on  the  decay 

Of  Scottish  strength  in  modern  day. 

XXIV. 

The  vale  with  loud  applauses  rang, 
The  Ladie's  Rock  sent  back  the  clang. 
The  king,  with  look  unmoved,  bestow'd 
A  purse  well  fiU'd  with  pieces  broad. 
Indignant  smiled  the  Douglas  proud. 
And  threw  the  gold  among  the  crowd, 
Who  now,  with  anxious  wonder,  scan, 
And  sharper  glance,  the  dark  gray  man  ; 
Till  whispers  rose  among  the  throng. 
That  heart  so  free,  and  hand  so  strong, 
Must  to  the  Douglas'  blood  belong: 
The  old  men  mark'd,  and  shook  the  head, 
To  see  his  hair  with  silver  spread, 
And  wink'd  aside,  and  told  each  son 
Of  feats  upon  the  English  done, 
Ere  Douglas  of  the  stalwart  hand 
Was  exiled  from  his  native  land. 
The  women  praised  his  stately  form, 
Though  wreck'd  by  many  a  winter's  storm; 
The  youth  with  awe  and  wonder  saw 
His  strength  surpassing  nature's  law. 
Thus  judged,  as  is  their  wont,  the  crowd. 
Till  murmur  rose  to  clamours  loud. 
But  not  a  glance  from  that  proud  ring 
Of  peers  who  circled  round  the  king, 
With  Douglas  held  communion  kind, 
Or  call'd  the  banish'd  man  to  mind  ; 
No,  not  from  those  who,  at  the  chase. 
Once  held  his  side  the  honour'd  place. 
Begirt  his  board,  and,  in  the  field, 
Found  safety  underneath  his  shield 
For  he  whom  royal  eyes  disown. 
When  was  his  form  to  courtiers  known  ? 

XXV. 

The  monarch  saw  the  gambols  flag, 
And  bade  let  loose  a  gallant  slag, 
Whose  pride,  the  holiday  to  crown, 
Two  favourite  greyhounds  should  pull  down 
That  venison  free,  and  Bourdeaux  wine 
Might  serve  the  archery  to  dine. 
But  Lufra — whom  from  Douglas'  side. 
Nor  bribe  nor  threat  could  e'er  divide, 
The  fleetest  hound  in  all  the  north- 
Brave  Lufra  saw,  and  darted  forth. 
She  left  the  royal  hounds  midway. 
And,  dashing  on  the  antler'd  prey, 
Sunk  her  sharp  muzzle  in  his  flank, 
And  deep  the  flowing  lifeblood  drank. 


ao 


SCOTT. 


The  king's  stout  huntsman  saw  the  sport 

By  strange  intruder  broken  short, 

Came  up,  and,  with  his  leash  unbound, 

Tn  anger  struck  the  noble  hound. 

—The  Douglas  had  endured,  that  morn, 

The  king's  cold  look,  the  nobles'  scorn, 

And  last,  and  worst  to  spirit  proud, 

Had  borne  the  pity  of  the  crowd  ; 

But  Lufra  had  been  fondly  bred 

To  share  his  board,  to  watch  his  bed, 

And  oft  would  Ellen  Lufra's  neck. 

In  maiden  glee,  with  garlands  deck ; 

They  were  such  playmates,  that  with  name 

Of  Lufra,  Ellen's  image  came. 

His  stifled  wrath  is  brimming  high. 

In  darken'd  brow  and  flashing  eye; 

As  waves  before  the  bark  divide. 

The  crowd  gave  way  before  his  stride ; 

Needs  but  a  buffet  and  no  more, 

The  groom  lies  senseless  in  his  gore. 

Such  blow  no  other  hand  could  deal. 

Though  gauntleted  in  glove  of  steel. 

XXVI. 

Then  clamour'd  loud  the  royal  train, 

And  brandish'd  swords  and  staves  amain. 

But  stern  the  baron's  warning — "  Back  ! 

Back,  on  your  lives,  ye  menial  pack  ! 

Beware  the  Douglas  I — yes,  behold. 

King  James  !  the  Douglas,  doom'd  of  old, 

And  vainly  sought  for  near  and  far, 

A  victim  to  atone  the  war: 

A  willing  victim  now  attends, 

Nor  craves  thy  grace  but  for  his  friends." 

— "  Thus  is  my  clemency  repaid  ? 

Presumptuous  lord  !"  the  monarch  said; 

"Of  thy  misproud  ambitious  clan. 

Thou,  James  of  Bothwell,  wert  the  man. 

The  only  man,  in  whom  a  foe 

My  woman  mercy  would  not  know ; 

But  shall  a  monarch's  presence  brook 

Injurious  blow  and  haughty  look  ? 

What  ho  !  the  captain  of  our  guard  ! 

Give  the  offender  fitting  ward. 

Break  off  the  sports  !" — for  tumult  rose. 

And  yeomen  'gan  to  bend  their  bows  ; — 

"  Break  off  the  sports  !" — he  said,  and  frown 'd 

"  And  bid  our  horsemen  clear  the  ground." 

XXVII. 

Then  uproar  wild  and  misarray 

Marr'd  the  fair  form  of  festal  day. 

The  horsemen  prick'd  among  the  crowd, 

Repell'd  by  threats  and  insult  loud ; 

To  earth  are  borne  the  old  and  weak  ; 

The  timorous  fly,  the  women  shriek  ; 

With  flint,  with  shaft,  with  staff,  with  bar, 

The  hardier  urge  tumultuous  war. 

At  once  round  Douglas  darkly  sweep 

The  royal  spears  in  circle  deep. 

And  slowly  scale  the  pathway  steep ; 

While  on  the  rear  in  thunder  pour 

The  rabble  with  disorder'd  roar. 

With  grief  the  noble  Douglas  saw 

The  commons  rise  against  the  law. 


And  to  the  leading  soldier  said, 
"  Sir  John  of  Hyndford  !  'twas  my  blade 
That  knighthood  on  thy  shoulder  laid ; 
For  that  good  deed  permit  me,  then, 
A  word  with  these  misguided  men. 

XXVIII. 

"  Hear,  gentle  friends  !  ere  yet  for  noe 

Ye  break  the  bands  of  fealty. 

My  life,  my  honour,  and  my  cause, 

I  tender  free  to  Scotland's  laws  ; 

Are  these  so  weak  as  must  require 

The  aid  of  our  misguided  ire  ? 

Or,  if  I  suffer  causeless  wrong, 

Is  then  my  selfish  rage  so  strong. 

My  sense  of  public  weal  so  low, 

That,  for  mean  vengeance  on  a  foe, 

Those  cords  of  love  I  should  unbind 

Which  knit  my  country  and  my  kind  ? 

Oh  no  !  believe,  in  yonder  tower 

It  will  not  soothe  my  captive  hour. 

To  know  those  spears  our  foes  should  dread, 

For  me  in  kindred  gore  are  red. 

To  know,  in  fruitless  brawl  begun 

For  me,  that  mother  wails  her  son  ; 

For  me,  that  widow's  mate  expires  ; 

For  me,  that  orphans  weep  their  sires. 

That  patriots  mourn  insulted  laws, 

And  curse  the  Douglas  for  the  cause. 

0  !  let  your  patience  ward  such  ill. 

And  keep  your  right  to  love  me  still!'* 

XXIX. 

The  crowd's  wild  fury  sunk  again 
In  tears  as  tempests  melt  in  rain  : 
With  lifted  hands  and  eyes,  tiiey  pray'd 
For  blessings  on  his  generous  head. 
Who  for  his  country  felt  alone. 
And  prized  her  blood  beyond  his  own. 
Old  men,  upon  the  verge  of  life 
Bless'd  him  who  stay'd  the  civil  strife  r 
And  mothers  held  their  babes  on  high, 
The  self-devoted  chief  to  spy. 
Triumphant  over  wrong  and  ire. 
To  whom  the  prattlers  owed  a  sire : 
E'en  the  rough  soldier's  heart  was  mv    A* 
As  if  behind  some  bier  beloved. 
With  trailing  arms  and  drooping  hea4. 
The  Douglas  up  the  hill  he  led. 
And  at  the  castle's  battled  verge, 
With  sighs  resign 'd  his  honour'd  charg<» 

XXX. 

Th'  offended  monarch  rode  apart. 
With  bitter  thought  and  swelling  heart, 
And  would  not  now  vouchsafe  again 
Through  Stirling's  streets  to  lead  his  train. 
"  0  Lennox,  who  would  wish  to  rule 
This  changeling  crowd,  this  common  fool  ? 
Hear'st  thou,"  he  said,"  the  loud  acclaim. 
With  which  they  shout  the  Douglas'  name .' 
With  like  acclaim  the  vulgar  throat 
Strain'd  for  King  James  their  morning  notei 
With  like  acclaim  they  hail'd  the  day 
When  first  I  broke  the  Douglas'  sway ; 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


711 


And  like  acclaim  would  Douglas  greet. 
If  he  could  hurl  me  froir  my  seat. 
Who  o'er  the  herd  would  wish  to  reign, 
Fantastic,  fickle,  fierce,  and  vain  ? 
Vain  as  the  leaf  upon  the  stream. 
And  fickle  as  a  changeful  dream  ; 
Fantastic  as  a  woma'n's  mood, 
And  fierce  as  frenzy's  fever'd  blood. 
Thou  many-headed  monster  thing, 

0  !  who  would  wish  to  be  thy  king  ! — 

XXXI. 

"  But  soft !  what  messenger  of  speed 
Spurs  hitherward  his  panting  steed  ? 

1  guess  his  cognizance  afar — 

What  from  our  cousin,  John  of  Mar  ?" — 

"  He  prays,  my  liege,  your  sports  keep  bound 

Within  the  safe  and  guarded  ground  ; 

For  some  foul  purpose  yet  unknown — 

Most  sure  for  evil  to  the  throne — 

The  outlaw 'd  chieftain,  Roderick  Dhu, 

Has  summon'd  his  rebellious  crew  ; 

'Tis  said,  in  James  of  Bothwell's  aid 

These  loose  banditti  stand  array'd. 

The  Earl  of  Mar,  this  morn,  from  Doune, 

To  break  their  muster  nlarch'd,  and  soon 

Your  grace  will  hear  of  battle  fought ; 

But  earnestly  the  earl  besought, 

Till  for  such  danger  he  provide. 

With  scanty  train  you  will  not  ride." — 

XXXIt. 

"  Thou  warn'st  me  I  have  done  amiss — 
I  should  have  earlier  look'd  to  this ; 
I  lost  it  in  this  bustling  day. 
— Retrace  with  speed  thy  former  way ; 
Spare  not  for  spoiling  of  thy  steed. 
The  best  of  mine  shall  be  thy  meed. 
Say  to  our  faithful  Lord  of  Mar, 
We  do  forbid  th'  intended  war ; 
Roderick,  this  morn,  in  single  fight. 
Was  made  our  prisoner  by  a  knight; 
And  Douglas  hath  himself  and  cause 
Submitted  to  our  kingdom's  laws. 
The  tidings  of  tlieir  leaders  lost 
Will  soon  dissolve  the  mountain  host, 
Nor  would  we  that  the  vulgar  feel, 
For  their  chiefs'  crimes,  avenging  steel. 
Bear  Mar  our  message,  Braco ;  fly  !" — 
He  turn'd  his  steed — "  My  liege,  I  hie. 
Yet,  ere  I  cross  this  lily  lawn, 
I  fear  the  broadswords  will  be  drawn." 
The  turf  the  flying  courser  spurn'd, 
And  to  his  towers  the  king  return'd. 

XXXIII. 

Ill  with  King  James's  mood  that  day 
Suited  gay  feast  and  minstrel  lay  5 
Soon  were  dismiss'd  the  courtly  throng. 
And  soon  cut  short  the  festal  song. 
Nor  less  upon  the  sadden 'd  town, 
The  evening  sunk  in  sorrow  down. 
The  burghers  spoke  of  civil  j^r. 
Of  ramour'd  feuds  and  mountain  war, 
Of  Moray,  Mar,  and  Roderick  Dhu, 
All  up  in  arms ; — the  Douglas  too. 


They  mourn'd  him  pent  within  the  hold, 

"  Where  stout  Earl  William  was  of  old  ;"♦- 

And  there  his  word  the  speaker  stay'd, 

And  finger  on  his  lip  he  laid. 

Or  pointed  to  his  dagger  blade. 

But  jaded  horsemen,  from  the  west, 

At  evening  to  the  castle  press'd  ; 

And  busy  talkers  said  they  bore 

Tidings  of  fight  on  Katrine's  shore  ; 

At  noon  the  deadly  fray  begun. 

And  lasted  till  the  set  of  sun. 

Thus  giddy  rumour  shook  the  town, 

Till  closed  the  night  her  pennons  brown. 


Canto  VL 

THE  GUARD-ROOM. 

T. 

The  sun  awakening,  through  the  smoky  ab 

Of  the  dark  city  casts  a  sullen  glance. 
Rousing  each  caitiff  to  his  task  of  care, 

Of  sinful  man  the  sad  inheritance  ; 
Summoning  revellers  from  the  lagging  dance 

And  scaring  prowling  robber  to  his  den  ; 
Gilding  on  battled  tower  the  warder's  lance. 

And  warning  student  pale  to  leave  his  pen. 
And  yield  his  drowsy  eyes  to  the  kind  nurse  of  mei*. 

What  various  scenes,  and,  O  !  what  scenes  of  wo, 

Are  witness'd  by  that  red  and  struggling  beam  ! 
The  fever'd  patient,  from  his  pallet  low, 

Through  crowded  hospitals  beholds  its  stream  j 
The  ruin'd  maiden  trembles  at  its  gleam  ; 

The  debtor  wakes  to  thought  of  gyve  and  jail; 
The  lovelorn  wretch  starts  from  tormenting  dream; 

The  wakeful  mother,  by  the  glimmering  pale, 
Trims  her  sick  infant's  couch,  and  soothes  his  feeble 
wail. 

TI. 
At  dawn  the  towers  of  Stirling  rang 
With  soldier  step  and  weapon  clang, 
While  drums,  with  rolling  note,  foretell 
Relief  to  weary  sentinel. 
Through  narrow  loop  and  casement  barr'd, 
The  sunbeams  nought  the  court  of  guard. 
And  struggling  with  the  smoky  air, 
Deaden'd  the  torch's  yellow  glare. 
In  comfortless  alliance  shone 
The  lights  through  arch  of  blacken'd  stone, 
And  show'd  wild  shapes  in  garb  of  war, 
Faces  deform'd  with  beard  and  scar. 
All  haggard  from  the  midnight  watch. 
And  fever'd  with  the  stern  debauch  ; 
For  the  oak  table's  massive  board, 
Flooded  with  wine,  with  fragments  stored. 
And  beakers  drain'd,  and  cups  o'erthrown, 
Show'd  in  what  sport  the  night  had  flown. 
Some,  weary,  snored  on  floor  and  bench  : 
Some  labour'd  still  their  thirst  to  quench  ; 
Some,  chill'd  with  watching,  spread  their  hands 
O'er  the  huge  chimney's  dying  brands, 
While  round  them,  or  beside  them  flung. 
At  every  step  their  harness  rung. 


♦  Stabt)ed  by  James  II.  in  Stirling  castle. 


713 


SCOTT. 


III. 
These  drew  not  for  their  fields  the  sword, 
Like  tenants  of  a  feudal  lord, 
Nor  own'd  the  patriarchal  claim 
Of  chieftain  in  their  leader's  name  ; 
Adventurers  they,  from  far  who  roved, 
To  live  by  battle  which  they  loved. 
There  th'  Italian's  clouded  face ; 
The  swarthy  Spaniard's  there  you  trace  ; 
The  mountain-loving  Switzer  there 
More  freely  breathed  in  mountain  air  ; 
The  Fleming  there  despised  the  soil. 
That  paid  so  ill  the  labourer's  toil ; 
The  rolls  show'd  French  and  German  name ; 
And  merry  England's  exiles  came. 
To  share,  with  ill-conceal'd  disdain 
Of  Scotland's  pay  the  scanty  gain. 
All  brave  in  arms,  well  train'd  to  wield 
The  heavy  halbert,  brand,  and  shield ; 
In  camps  licentious,  wild,  and  bold  ; 
In  pillage,  fierce  and  uncontroll'd ; 
And  now,  by  holy-tide  and  feast, 
From  rules  of  discipline  released. 

IV. 
They  held  debate  of  bloody  fray, 
Fought  'twixt  Loch-Katrine  and  Achray. 
Fierce  was  their  speech,  and  'mid  their  words. 
Their  hands  oft  grappled  to  their  swords  ; 
Nor  sunk  their  tone  to  spare  the  ear 
Of  wounded  comrades  groaning  near, 
Whose  mangled  limbs,  and  bodies  gored. 
Bore  token  of  the  mountain  sword. 
Though  neighbouring  to  the  court  of  guard, 
Their  prayers  and  feverish  wails  were  heard : 
Sad  burden  to  the  ruffian  joke, 
And  savage  oath  by  fury  spoke ! — 
At  length  up  started  John  of  Brent, 
A  yeoman  from  the  banks  of  Trent ; 
A  stranger  to  respect  or  fear,. 
In  peace  a  chaser  of  the  deer, 
In  host  a  hardy  mutineer. 
But  still  the  boldest  of  the  crew. 
When  deed  of  danger  was  to  do. 
He  grieved,  that  day,  their  games  cut  shor'-,. 
And  marr'd  the  dicer's  brawling  sport. 
And  shouted  loud,  "  Renew  the  bowl ! 
And,  while  a  merry  catch  I  troll. 
Let  each  the  buxom  chorus  bear. 
Like  brethren  of  the  brand  and  spear." 

V. 

soldier's  song. 
Our  vicar  still  preaches  that  Peter  and  Pouia 
Laid  a  swinging  long  curse  on  the  bonny  brown 

bowl. 
That  there's  wrath  and  despair  in  the  jolly  black 

jack, 
And  the  seven  deadly  sins  in  a  flagon  of  sack  5 
Yet  whoop,  Barnaby  !  off  with  the  liquor. 
Drink  upsees*  out,  and  a  fig  for  the  vicar  ! 

Our  vicar  he  calls  it  damnation  to  sip 
The  ripe  ruddy  dew  of  a  woman's  dear  lip, 


♦  A  bacchanalian  interjection,  borrowed  from  the  Dutch. 


Says  that  Beelzebub  lurks  in  her  kerchief  so  sly. 
And  Apollyon  shoots  darts  from  her  merry  blacli 

eye; 
Yet  whoop,  Jack  !  kiss  Gillian  the  quicker. 
Till  she  bloom  like  a  rose,  and  a  fig  for  the  vicar  ! 

Our  vicar  thus  preaches — and  why  should  he  not  ? 
For  the  dues  of  his  cure  are  the  placket  and  pot : 
And  'tis  right  of  his  office  poor  laymen  to  lurch, 
Who  infringe  the  domains  of  our  good   mothei 

church. 
Yet  whoop,  bully-boys  !  off  with  your  liquor, 
Sweet  Marjorie's  the  word,  and  a  fig  for  the  vicar 

VI. 

The  warder's  challenge,  heard  without, 

Stay'd  in  mid  roar  the  merry  shout. 

A  soldier  to  the  portal  went — 

"  Here  is  old  Bertra.an,  sirs,  of  Ghent ; 

And, beat  for  jubilee  tlie  drum  ! 

A  maid  and  minstrel  with  him  come." 

Bertram,  a  Fleming,  gray  and  scarr'd, 

Was  entering  now  the  court  of  guard, 

A  harper  with  him,  and  in  plaid 

All  muffled  close,  a  mountain  maid, 

Who  backward  shrunl^  to  'scape  the  vievv 

Of  the  loose  scene  and  boisterous  crew. 

"  What  news  ?"  they  roar'd : — "  I  only  know. 

From  noon  till  eve  we  fought  the  foe. 

As  wild  and  as  untameable 

As  the  rude  mountains  where  they  dwell. 

On  both  sides  store  of  blood  is  lost. 

Nor  much  success  can  either  boast." 

"  But  whence  thy  captives,  friend  ?  such  spoil 

As  theirs  must  needs  reward  thy  toil. 

Old  dost  thou  wax,  and  wars  grow  sharp ; 

Thou  now  hast  glee-maiden  and  harp  ! 

Get  thee  an  ape,  and  trudge  the  land. 

The  leader  of  a  juggler  band." — 

VII. 
"  No,  comrade ;  no  such  fortune  mine. 
After  the  fight,  these  sought  our  line. 
That  aged  harper  and  the  girl. 
And,  having  audience  of  the  earl, 
Mar  bade  I  should  purvey  them  steed, 
And  bring  them  hitherward  with  speed. 
Forbear  your  mirth  and  rude  alarm, 
For  none  shall  do  them  shame  or  harm." 
"  Hear  ye  his  boast  ?"  cried  John  of  Brent, 
E'er  to  strife  and  jangling  bent ; 
"  Shall  he  strike  doe  beside  our  lodge. 
And  yet  the  jealous  niggard  grudge 
To  pay  the  forester  his  fee ! 
I'll  have  my  share,  howe'er  it  be, 
Despite  of  Moray,  Mar,  or  thee." 
Bertram  his  forward  step  withstood  ; 
And,  burning  in  his  vengeful  mood, 
Old  Allan,  though  unfit  for  strife, 
Laid  hand  upon  his  dagger-knife  ; 
But  Ellen  boldly  stepp'd  between. 
And  dropp'd  at  once  the  tartan  screen : 
So,  from  his  morning  cloud,  appears 
The  sun  of  May,  through  summer  tears. 
The  savage  soldiery  amazed, 
As  on  descendant  angel  gazed  j 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


713 


E'en  hardy  Brent,  abash'd  and  tamed. 
Stood  half  admiring,  half  ashamed. 

VIII. 
Boldly  she  spoke : — "  Soldiers,  attend  ! 
My  father  was  the  soldier's  friend ; 
Cheer'd  him  in  caraps,  in  marches  led, 
And  with  him  in  the  battle  bled. 
Not  from  the  valiant,  or  the  strong, 
Should  exile's  daughter  suffer  wrong." 
Answer'd  De  Brent,  most  forward  stiL 
In  every  feat,  or  good  or  ill — 
"  I  shame  me  of  the  part  I  play'd ; 
And  thou  an  outlaw's  child,  poor  maid  . 
An  outlaw  I  by  forest  laws. 
And  merry  Needwood  knows  the  cause. 
Poor  Rose  !  if  Rose  be  living  now — ' 
He  wiped  his  iron  eye  and  brow — 
"  Must  bear  such  age,  I  think,  as  thou. 
Hear  ye,  my  mates  ; — I  go  to  call 
The  captain  of  our  watch  to  hall ; 
There  lies  my  halbert  on  the  floor ; 
And  he  that  steps  my  halbert  o'er. 
To  do  the  maid  injurious  part. 
My  shaft  shall  quiver  in  his  heart ! 
Beware  loose  speech,  or  jesting  rough ; 
Ye  all  know  J(An  De  Brent.     Enough." 

IX. 

Their  captain  came ;  a  gallant,  young, 

(  Of  Tullibardine's  house  he  sprung,) 

Nor  wore  he  yet  the  spurs  of  knight; 

Gay  was  his  mien,  his  humour  light. 

And,  though  by  courtesy  controll'd. 

Forward  his  speech,  his  bearing  bold: 

The  high-born  maiden  ill  could  brook 

The  scanning  of  his  curious  look 

And  dauntless  e^'^e  ; — and  yet,  in  sooth. 

Young  Lewis  was  a  generous  youth  ; 

But  Ellen's  lovely  face  and  mien, 

^U-suited  to  the  garb  and  scene, 

Might  lightly  bear  construction  strange, 

And  give  loose  fancy  scope  to  range. 

"  Welcome  to  Stirling  towers,  fair  maid ! 

Come  ye  to  seek  a  champion's  aid, 

On  pal  fry  white,  with  harper  hoar. 

Like  errant  damosel  of  yore  ? 

Does  thy  high  quest  a  knight  require. 

Or  may  the  venture  suit  a  squire  ?" 

Her  dark  eye  flash'd  ; — she  paused  and  sigh'd, 

«'  O  what  have  I  to  do  with  pride ! 

Through  scenes  of  sorrow,  shame,  and  strife, 

A  suppliant  for  a  father's  life, 

I  crave  an  audience  of  the  king. 

Behold,  to  back  my  suit,  a  ring, 

The  royal  pledge  of  grateful  claims. 

Given  by  the  monarch  to  Fitz-James." — 

X. 

The  signet  ring  young  Lewis  took. 
With  deep  respect  and  alter'd  look ; 
And  said — '*  This  ring  our  duties  own ; 
And  pardon,  if  to  worth  unknown, 
In  semblance  mean  obscurely  veil'd. 
Lady,  in  aught  my  folly  fail'd. 
Soon  as  the  day  flings  wide  his  gates, 
The  kin."  snail  know  what  suitor  waits. 


Please  you,  meanwhile,  in  fitting  bower 

Repose  you  till  his  waking  hour ; 

Female  attendance  shall  obey 

Your  best  for  service  or  array : 

Permit  I  marshal  you  the  way." 

But,  ere  she  follow'd,  with  the  grace 

And  open  bounty  of  her  race, 

She  bade  her  slender  purse  be  shared 

Among  the  soldiers  of  the  guard. 

The  rest  with  thanks  their  guerdon  took ; 

But  Brent,  with  shy  and  awkward  look, 

On  the  reluctant  maiden's  hold 

Forced  bluntly  back  the  proffer'd  gold ; — 

"  Forgive  a  haughty  English  heart, 

And  O  forget  its  ruder  part ; 

The  vacant  purse  shall  be  my  share, 

Which  in  my  barret  cap  I'll  bear, 

Perchance,  in  jeopardy  of  war. 

Where  gayer  crests  may  keep  afar." 

With  thanks — 'twas  all  she  could — the  maid 

His  rugged  crurtesy  repaid. 

XL 

When  Ellen  forth  with  Le"?^  s  went, 
Allan  made  suit  to  John  of  Brent: 
"  My  lady  safe,  O  let  your  grace 
Give  me  to  see  my  master's  face  ! 
His  minstrel  I — to  share  his  doom 
Bound  from  the  cradle  to  the  tomb. 
Tenth  in  descent,  since  first  my  sires 
Waked  for  his  noble  house  their  lyres. 
Nor  one  of  all  the  race  was  known 
But  prized  its  weal  above  their  own. 
With  the  chief's  birth  begins  our  care; 
Our  harp  must  soothe  the  infant  heir, 
Teach  the  youth  tales  of  fight,  and  grace 
His  earliest  feat  of  field  or  chase  ; 
In  peace,  in  war,  our  rank  we  keep. 
We  cheer  his  board,  we  soothe  his  sleep. 
Nor  leave  him  till  we  pour  our  verse, 
A  doleful  tribute  !  o'er  his  hearse. 
Then  let  me  share  his  captive  lot ; 
It  is  my  right — deny  it  not !" — 
"  Little  we  reck,"  said  John  of  Brent, 
"  We  southern  men,  of  long  descent ; 
Nor  wot  we  how  a  name — a  word — 
Makes  clansmen  vassals  to  a  lord : 
Yet  kind  my  noble  landlord's  part, 
God  bless  the  house  of  Beaudesert ! 
And,  but  I  loved  to  drive  the  deer 
More  than  to  guide  the  labouring  steer, 
I  had  not  dwelt  an  outcast  here. 
Come,  good  old  minstrel,  follow  me 
Thy  lord  and  chieftain  shall  thou  see." 

XII. 
Then,  from  a  rusted  iron  hook, 
A  bunch  of  ponderous  keys  he  took. 
Lighted  a  torch,  and  Allan  led 
Through  grated  arch  and  passage  dread. 
Portals  they  pass'd,  where,  deep  within, 
Spoke  prisoner's  moan,  and  fetters'  din ; 
Through  rugged  vaults,  where  loosely  stored. 
Lay  wheel,  and  axe,  and  headsman's  sword, 
And  many  a  hideous  engine  grim, 
For  wrenching  joints,  and  crushing  limb. 


714 


SCOTT. 


By  artists  form'd,  who  deem'd  it  shame 

And  sin  to  give  their  work  a  name. 

They  halted  at  a  low-brow'd  porch, 

\nd  Brent  to  Allan  gave  the  torch, 

kVhile  bolt  and  chain  he  backward  roll'd, 

And  made  the  bar  unhasp  its  hold. 

f  hej'  enter'd  : — 'twas  a  prison  room 

Of  stern  security  and  gloom, 

Yet  not  a  dungeon ;  for  the  day 

Through  lofty  gratings  found  its  way, 

And  rude  and  antique  garniture 

Dcck'd  the  sad  walls  and  oaken  floor; 

Such  as  the  rugged  days  of  old 

Deem'd  fit  for  captive  noble's  hold. 

"Here,"  said  De  Brent,  «  thou  mayst  remain 

Till  the  leach  visit  him  again. 

Strict  is  his  charge,  the  warders  tell, 

To  tend  the  noble  prisoner  well." 

Retiring  then,  the  bolt  he  drew. 

And  the  lock's  murmurs  growl'd  anew. 

Roused  at  the  sound,  from  lowly  bed 

A  captive  feebly  raised  his  head ; 

The  wondering  minstrel  look'd,  and  knew — 

Not  his  dear  lord,  but  Roderick  Dhu  ! 

For,  come  from  where  Clan-Alpine  fought. 

They,  erring,  deem'd  the  chief  he  sought. 

XIII. 
As  the  tall  ship,  whose  lofty  prore 
Shall  never  stem  the  billows  more. 
Deserted  by  her  gallant  band, 
Amid  the  breakers  lies  astrand — 
So.  on  his  couch,  lay  Roderick  Dhu  ! 
And  oft  his  fever'd  limbs  he  threw 
In  toss  abrupt,  as  when  her  sides 
Lie  rocking  in  th'  advancing  tides. 
That  shake  her  frame  to  ceaseless  beat, 
Yet  cannot  heave  her  from  her  seat ; 
O !  how  unlike  her  course  at  sea  ! 
Or  his  free  step  on  hill  and  lea ! 
Soon  as  the  minstrel  he  could  scan, 
— "  What  of  thy  lady  ?  of  my  clan  ? 
My  mother  ? — Douglas  ? — tell  me  all ! 
Have  they  been  ruin'd  in  my  fall  ? 
Ah,  yes  !  or  wherefore  art  thou  here  ? 
Yet  speak — speak  boldly — do  not  fear." 
(For  Allan,  who  his  mood  well  knew. 
Was  choak'd  with  grief  and  terror  too.) 
"  Who  fought — who  fled  ? — Old  man,  be  brief  j 
Some  might — for  they  had  lost  their  chief. 
Who  basely  live  ? — who  bravely  died  ?" 
"0,  calm  thee,  chief!"  the  minstrel  cried, 
"  Ellen  is  safe  ;" — "  For  that,  thank  heaven  I'' 
"  And  hopes  are  for  the  Douglas  given  ; 
The  Lady  Margaret  too  is  well, 
And,  for  thy  clan — on  field  or  fell. 
Has  never  harp  of  minstrel  told. 
Of  combat  fought  so  true  and  bold. 
Thy  stately  pine  is  yet  unbent. 
Though  many  a  goodly  bough  is  rent." 

XIV. 
The  chieftain  rear'd  his  form  on  high. 
And  fever's  fire  was  in  his  eye ; 
But  ghastly,  pale,  and  livid  streaks 
Checker'd  his  swarthy  brow  and  cheeks. 


— "  Hark,  minstrel !  I  have  heard  thte  play. 

With  measure  bold,  on  festal  day. 

In  yon  lone  isle — again  where  ne'er 

Shall  harper. play,  or  warrior  hear  ! 

That  stirring  air  that  peals  on  high 

O'er  Dermid's  race  our  victory. 

Strike  it ! — and  then  (for  well  thou  canst) 

Free  from  thy  minstrel  spirit  glanced. 

Fling  me  the  picture  of  the  fight. 

When  met  my  clan  the  Saxon  might. 

I'll  listen,  till  my  fancy  hears 

The  clang  of  swords,  the  crash  of  spears! 

These  grates,  these  walls,  shall  vanish  then, 

For  the  fair  field  of  fighting  men. 

And  my  free  spirit  bursts  away, 

As  if  it  soar'd  from  battle  fray." 

The  trembling  bard  with  awe  obey'd— 

Slow  on  the  harp  his  hand  he  laid ; 

But  soon  remembrance  of  the  sight 

He  witness'd  from  the  mountain's  height. 

With  what  old  Bertram  told  at  night, 

Awaken'd  the  full  power  of  song. 

And  bore  him  in  career  along ; 

As  shallop  launch'd  on  river's  tide. 

That  slow  and  fearful  leaves  the  side, 

But,  when  it  feels  the  middle  stream, 

Drives  downward  swift  as  lightning's  beano, 

XV. 

BATTLE  OF  BEAL'  AN  DUINK. 

"  The  minstrel  came  once  more  to  view 
The  eastern  ridge  of  Ben-venue, 
For,  ere  he  parted,  he  would  say 
Farewell  to  lovely  Loch-Achray — 
Where  shall  he  find,  in  foreign  land. 
So  lone  a  lake,  so  sweet  a  strand ! 
There  is  no  breeze  upon  the  fern, 

No  ripple  on  the  lake. 
Upon  her  eyrie  nods  the  erne, 

The  deer  has  sought  the  brake ; 
The  small  birds  will  not  sing  aloud, 

The  springing  trout  lies  still, 
So  darkly  glooms  yon  thunder  cloud, 
That  swathes,  as  with  a  purple  shroud, 

Benledi's  distant  hill. 
Is  it  the  thunder's  solemn  sound 

That  mutters  deep  and  dread. 
Or  echoes  from  the  groaning  ground 

The  warrior's  measured  tread  ? 
Is  it  the  lightning's  quivering  glance 

That  on  the  thicket  streams. 
Or  do  they  flash  on  spear  and  lance 

The  sun's  retiring  beams  ? 
I  se-e  the  dagger  crest  of  Mar, 

I  see  the  Moray's  silver  star 
Wave  o'er  the  cloud  of  Saxon  war. 

That  up  the  lake  comes  winding  far  I 
To  hero  boune  for  battle  strife, 

Or  bard  of  martial  lay, 
'Twere  worth  ten  years  of  peaceful  life 

One  glance  at  their  array  ! 

XVL 

"  Their  light-arm'd  archers  far  and  near 
Survey 'd  the  tang'«d  ground. 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


715 


Their  centre  ranks,  with  pike  and  spear, 

A  twilight  forest  frown 'd, 
Their  barbed  horsemen,  in  the  rear, 

The  stern  battalia  crown 'd. 
No  cymbal  clash'd,  no  clarion  rang, 

Still  were  the  pipe  and  drum  ; 
Save  heavy  tread,  and  armour's  clang 

The  sullen  march  was  dumb. 
There  breathed  no  wind  their  crests  to  shake, 

Or  wave  their  flags  abroad  ; 
Scarce  the  frail  aspen  seem'd  to  quake. 

That  shadow'd  o'er  their  road. 
Their  va'ward  scouts  no  tidings  bring. 

Can  rouse  no  lurking  foe. 
Nor  spy  a  trace  of  living  thing, 

Save  when  they  stirr'd  the  roe ; 
The  host  moves  like  a  deep  sea  wave. 
Where  rise  no  rocks  its  pride  to  brave, 

High  swelling,  dark,  and  slow. 
The  lake  is  pass'd,  and  now  they  gain 
A  narrow  and  a  broken  plain, 
Before  the  Trosach's  rugged  jaws  ; 
And  here  the  horse  and  spearmen  pause, 
While,  to  explore  the  dangerous  glen, 
Dive  through  the  pass  the  archer  men. 

XVII. 

"  At  once  there  rose  so  wild  a  yell 
Within  that  dark  and  narrow  dell, 
As  all  the  fiends,  from  heaven  that  fell, 
Had  peal'd  the  banner  cry  of  hell ! 
Forth  from  the  pass  in  tumult  driven, 
Like  chaff  before  the  wind  of  heaven. 

The  archery  appear: 
For  life  !  for  life  !  their  flight  they  ply — 
And  shriek,  and  shout,  and  battle  cry, 
And  plaids  and  bonnets  waving  high, 
And  broadswords  flashing  to  the  sky. 

Are  maddening  in  the  rear. 
Onward  they  drive,  in  dreadful  race, 

Pursuers  and  pursued ; 
Before  that  tide  of  flight  and  chase, 
How  shall  it  keep  its  rooted  place, 

The  spearmen's  twilight  wood  ? 
— '  Down,  down,'  cried  Mar, '  your  lances  down 

Bear  baiii  both  friend  and  foe  !' 
Like  reed*  oefore  the  tempest's  Irown, 
That  serritJ  grove  of  lances  brown 

At  once  lay  levell'd  low  ; 
And  closely  shouldering  side  to  side, 
The  bristling  ranks  the  onset  bide. — 
~'  We'll  quell  the  savage  mountaineer, 

As  their  Tinchel*  cuws  ihe  game  ! 
They  come  as  fleet  as  forest  dter. 

We'll  drive  them  back  as  tjune. 

XYIIL 

"  Bearing  before  them,  in  their  courst^ 
The  relics  oi  the  archer  force. 
Like  Avave  with  crest  of  sparkling  fo.'^. 
Right  onward  did  Clan-Alpine  come. 


♦  A  circle  of  sportsmen,  who,  by  surrounding  a  great 
jpace,  and  gradually  narrowing,  brought  immeinje  quan- 
tities of  deer  together,  which  usually  made  Jesperate 
efforts  to  break  through  the  Tinchel. 


Above  the  tide,  each  broadsword  bright 
Was  brandishing  like  beam  of  light. 

Each  targe  was  dark  below ; 
And  with  the  ocean's  mighty  swing. 
When  heaving  to  the  tempest's  wing. 

They  hurl'd  them  on  the  foe. 
I  heard  the  lance's  shivering  crash, 
As  when  the  whirlwind  rends  the  ash ; 
I  heard  the  broadsword's  deadly  clang. 
As  if  a  hundred  anvils  rang  ! 
But  Moray  wheel'd  his  rearward  rank 
Of  horsemen  on  Clan-Alpine's  flank — 

— « My  banner  man,  advance ! 
I  see,'  he  cried,  *  their  columns  shake. 
Now,  gallants  .'  for  your  ladies'  sake. 

Upon  them  with  the  lance  ." 
The  horsemen  dash'd  among  the  rout. 

As  deer  break  through  the  broom  ; 
Their  steeds  are  stout,  their  swords  are  out, 

They  soon  make  lightsome  room. 
Clan-Alpine's  best  are  backward  borne— 

Where,  where  was  Roderick  then  ! 
One  blast  upon  his  bugle  horn 

Were  worth  a  thousand  men. 
And  refluent  through  the  pass  of  fear 

The  battle's  tide  was  pour'd ; 
Vanish'd  the  Saxcn's  struggling  spear, 

Vanish'd  the  mountain  sword. 
As  Bracklinn's  chasm,  so  black  and  steep. 

Receives  her  roaring  linn, 
As  the  dark  caverns  of  the  deep 

Suck  the  wild  whirlpool  in, 
So  did  the  deep  and  darksome  pass 
Devour  the  battle's  mingled  mass  ; 
None  linger  now  upon  the  plain. 
Save  those  who  ne'er  shall  fight  again. 

XIX. 

"  Now  westward  rolls  the  battle's  din, 
That  deep  and  doubling  pass  within. 
— Minstrel,  away  !  the  work  of  fate 
Is  bearing  on  :  its  issue  wait 
Where  the  rude  Trosach's  dread  defile 
Opens  on  Katrine's  lake  and  isle. 
Gray  Ben-venue  I  soon  repass'd, 
Loch-Katrine  lay  beneath  me  cast. 
The  sun  is  set ; — the  clouds  are  met, 

The  lowering  scowl  of  heaven 
An  inky  hue  of  livid  blue 

To  the  deep  lake  has  given  ; 
Strange  gusts  of  wind  from  mountain  g.eu 
Swept  o'er  the  lake,  then  sunk  agen. 
I  heeded  not  the  eddying  surge. 
Mine  eye  but  saw  the  Trosach's  gorge. 
Mine  ear  but  heard  the  sullen  sound. 
Which  like  an  earthquake  shook  the  ground, 
And  spoke  the  stern  and  desperate  strife. 
That  parts  not  but  with  parting  life. 
Seeming,  to  minstrel  ear,  to  toll 
The  dirge  of  many  a  passing  soul. 
Nearer  it  comes — the  dim  wood  glen 
The  martial  flood  disgorged  agen, 

iJut  not  in  mingled  tide; 
The  plaided  warriors  of  the  north. 
High  on  the  mountain  thunder  forth, 

And  overhang  its  side  ; 


716 


SCOTT. 


While  by  the  lake  below  appears 
The  darkening  cloud  of  Saxon  spears. 
At  weary  bay  each  shatter'd  band, 
Eyeing  their  foemen,  sternly  stand  ; 
Their  banners  stream  like  tatter'd  sail, 
That  flings  its  fragments  to  the  gale ; 
And  broken  arms  and  disarray 
Mark'd  the  fell  havoc  of  the  day. 

XX. 

"Viewing  the  mountain's  ridge  askance. 
The  Saxons  stood  in  sullen  trance, 
Till  Moray  pointed  with  his  lance, 

And  cried — '  Behold  yon  isle  ! — 
See  !  none  are  left  to  guard  its  strand. 
But  women  weak,  that  wring  the  hand: 
*Tis  there  of  yore  the  robber  band 

Their  booty  wont  to  pile ; 
My  purse,  with  bonnet-pieces  store, 
To  him  will  swim  a  bowshot  o'er. 
And  loose  a  shallop  from  the  shore. 
Lightly  we'll  tame  the  war  wolf  then, 
Lords  of  his  mate,  and  brood,  and  den.' — 
Forth  from  the  ranks  a  spearman  sprung, 
On  earth  his  casque  and  corslet  rung, 

He  plunged  him  in  the  wave: — 
All  saw  the  deed — the  purpose  knew, 
And  to  their  clamours  Ben-venue 

A  mingled  echo  gave : 
The  Saxons  shout,  their  mate  to  cheer, 
The  helpless  females  scream  for  fear, 
And  yells  for  rage  the  mountaineer. 
'Twas  then,  as  by  the  outcry  riven, 
Pour'd  down  at  once  the  louring  heaven ; 
A  whirlwind  swept  Loch-Katrine's  breast. 
Her  billows  rear'd  their  snowy  crest. 
Weii  for  the  swimmer  swell'd  they  high. 
To  mar  the  highland  marksman's  eye ; 
For  round  him  shower'd,  'mid  rain  and  hail, 
The  vengeful  arrows  of  the  Gael. 
In  vain. — He  nears  the  isle — and  lo  I 
His  hand  is  on  a  shallop's  bow. 
— ^Just  then  a  flash  of  lightning  came. 
It  tinged  the  waves  and  strand  with  flame; 
I  mark'd  Duncraggan's  widow'd  dame— 
Behind  an  oak  I  saw  her  stand, 
A  naked  dirk  gleam'd  in  her  hand : 
It  darken'd — but  amid  the  moan 
Of  waves  I  heard  a  dying  groan  ; — 
Another  flash  I — the  spearman  floats 
A  weltering  corse  beside  the  boats. 
And  the  stern  matron  o'er  him  stood. 
Her  hand  and  dagger  streaming  blood. 

XXL 

**  *  Revenge  !  revenge  !'  the  Saxons  cried, 

The  Gael's  exulting  shout  replied. 

Despite  the  elemental  rage. 

Again  they  hurried  to  engage ; 

But,  ere  they  closed  in  desperate  fight, 

Bloody  with  spurring  came  a  knight. 

Sprung  from  his  horse,  and,  from  a  crag. 

Waved  'twixt  the  hosts  a  milk-white  flag. 

Clarion  and  trumpet  by  his  side 

Rung  forth  a  truce-note  high  and  wide ; 


While,  in  the  monarch's  name,  afar 

An  herald's  voice  forbade  the  war. 

For  Bothwell's  lord,  and  Roderick  bold, 

Were  both,  he  said,  in  captive  hold." — 

But  here  the  lay  made  sudden  stand. 

The  harp  escaped  the  minstrel's  hand! 

Oft  had  he  stolen  a  glance,  to  spy 

How  Roderick  brook'd  his  minstrelsy : 

At  first,  the  chieftain,  to  the  chime, 

With  lifted  hand,  kept  feeble  time  ; 

That  motion  ceased — yet  feeling  strong 

Varied  his  look  as  changed  the  song ; 

At  length  no  more  his  deafen'd  ear 

The  minstrel  melody  can  hear : 

His  face  grows  sharp,  his  hands  are  clencn  j. 

As  if  some  pang  his  heartstrings  wrench'd  ; 

Set  are  his  teeth,  his  fading  eye 

Is  sternly  fix'd  on  vacancy  ; 

Thus,  motionless,  and  moanless,  drew 

His  parting  breath,  stout  Roderick  Dhu  ! 

Old  Allan-bane  look'd  on  aghast. 

While  grim  and  still  his  spirit  pass'd ; 

But  when  he  saw  that' life  was  fled. 

He  pour'd  his  wailing  o'er  the  dead. 

xxn. 

LAMENT. 

"  And  art  thou  cold  and  lowly  laid. 
Thy  foeman's  dread,  thy  people's  aid, 
Breadalbane's  boast,  Clan-Alpine's  shade  ! 
For  thee  shall  none  a  requiem  say  ? 
— For  thee — who  loved  the  minstrel's  lay 
For  thee,  of  Bothwell's  house  the  stay. 
The  shelter  of  her  exiled  line — 
E'en  in  this  prison-house  of  thine, 
I'll  wail  for  Alpine's  honour'd  pine  !' 

"  What  groans  shall  yonder  valleys  fill ! 
What  shrieks  of  grief  shall  rend  yon  hill .' 
What  tears  of  burning  rage  shall  thrill. 
When  mourns  thy  tribe  thy  battles  done, 
Thy  fall  before  the  race  was  won. 
Thy  sword  ungirt  ere  set  of  sun  ! 
There  breathes  not  clansman  of  thy  line, 
But  would  have  given  his  life  for  thine. 
0  wo  for  Alpine's  honour'd  pine  ! 

"  Sad  was  thy  lot  on  mortal  stage  ! 
The  captive  thrush  may  brook  the  cage, 
The  prison 'd  eagle  dies  for  rage. 
Brave  spirit,  do  not  scorn  my  strain  ! 
And  when  its  notes  awake  again. 
E'en  she,  so  long  beloved  in  vain. 
Shall  with  my  harp  her  voice  combine. 
And  mix  her  wo  and  tears  with  mine, 
To  wail  Clan-Alpine's  honour'd  pine.'* 

XXIIL 
Ellen,  the  while,  with  bursting  heart, 
Remain'd  in  lordly  bower  apart, 
Where  play'd,  with  many-colour'd  gleam*. 
Through  storied  pane,  the  rising  beams. 
In  vain  on  gilded  roof  they  fall. 
And  lighten'd  up  a  tapestried  wall, 
And  for  her  use  a  menial  train 
A  rich  collation  spread  in  vain. 
The  banquet  proud,  the  chamber  gay. 
Scarce  drew  one  curious  glance  astray ; 


THE    LADY    OF    THE    LAKE. 


ri7 


Or,  if  she  look'd,  'twas  but  to  say, 

With  better  omen  dawn'd  the  day 

In  that  lone  isle,  where  waved  on  high 

The  dun  deer's  hide  for  canopy; 

Where  oft  her  noble  father  shared 

The  simple  meal  her  care  prepared. 

While  Lufra,  crouching  by  her  side, 

Her  station  claim'd  with  jealous  pride. 

And  Douglas,  bent  on  woodland  game. 

Spoke  of  the  chase  to  Malcolm  Graeme, 

Whose  answer,  oft  at  random  made, 

Tne  wandering  of  his  thoughts  betray'd. 

Those  who  such  simple  joys  have  known 

Are  taught  to  prize  them  when  they're  gone, 

But  sudden,  see,  she  lifts  her  head  ! 

The  window  seeks  with  cautious  tread. 

V/hat  distant  music  has  the  power 

To  win  her  in  this  woful  hour  ! 

'Twas  from  a  turret  that  o'erhung 

Her  latticed  bower,  the  strain  was  sung. 

XXIV. 

«AT  OF  THi:  IMPRISONED  HUNTSMAN. 

*vly  hawk  is  tired  of  perch  and  hood, 
»^y  idle  greyhound  loathes  his  food, 
M}'  horse  is  weary  of  his  stall, 
And  I  am  sick  of  captive  thrall. 
I  wish  I  were  as  I  have  been. 
Hunting  the  hart  in  forest  green, 
With  bended  bow  and  bloodhound  free^ 
For  that's  the  life  is  meet  for  me. 

**  I  hate  to  learn  the  ebb  of  time 
From  yon  dull  steeple's  drowsy  chime. 
Or  mark  it  as  the  sunbeams  crawl. 
Inch  after  inch,  along  the  wall. 
The  lark  was  wont  my  matins  ring. 
The  sable  rook  my  vespers  sing  ; 
These  towers,  although  a  king's  they  be. 
Have  not  a  hall  of  joy  for  me. 

"  No  more  at  dawning  morn  I  rise. 
And  sun  myself  in  Ellen's  eyes, 
Drive  the  fleet  deer  the  forest  through. 
And  homeward  wend  with  evening  dew; 
A  blithesome  welcome  blithely  meet, 
And  lay  my  trophies  at  her  feet. 
While  fled  the  eve  on  wing  of  glee. — 
That  life  is  lost  to  love  and  me  !" 

XXV. 

The  heart-sick  lay  was  hardly  said, 

The  listener  had  not  turn'd  her  head, 

It  trickled  still,  the  starting  tear. 

When  light  a  footstep  struck  her  ear, 

And  Snowdoun's  graceful  knight  was  near. 

She  turn'd  the  hastier,  lest  again 

The  prisoner  should  renew  his  strain. 

«*0  welcome,  brave  Fitz-James  I"  she  said; 

•*How  may  an  almost  orphan  maid 

Pay  the  deep  debt" — "  0  say  not  so  ! 

To  me  no  gratitude  you  owe. 

Not  mine,  alas  I  the  boon  to  give. 

And  bid  thy  noble  father  live  ; 

I  can  but  be  thy  guide,  sweet  maid. 

With  Scotland's  king  thy  suit  to  aid. 


No  tyrant  he,  though  ire  and  pride 
May  lead  his  better  mood  aside. 
Come,  Ellen,  come  I — 'tis  more  than  time  ; 
He  holds  his  court  at  morning  prime."- 
With  beating  heart  and  bosom  wrung. 
As  to  a  brother's  arm  she  clung; 
Gently  he  dried  the  falling  tear, 
And  gently  whisper'd  hope  and  cheer ; 
Her  faltering  steps  half  led,  half  stay'd. 
Through  gallery  fair  and  high  arcade, 
Till,  at  his  touch,  its  wings  of  pride 
A  portal  arch  unfolded  wide. 

XXVI. 

Within  'twas  brilliant  all  and  light, 
A  thronging  scene  of  figures  bright; 
It  glow'd  on  Ellen's  dazzled  sight, 
As  when  the  setting  sun  has  given 
Ten  thousand  hues  to  summer  even. 
And,  from  their  tissue,  fancy  frames 
Aerial  knights  and  fairy  dames. 
Still  by  Fitz-James  her  footing  stay'd, 
A  few  faint  steps  she  forward  made. 
Then  slow  her  drooping  head  she  raised. 
And  fearful  round  the  presence  gazed ; 
For  him  she  sought  who  own'd  this  state. 
The  dreadful  prince  whose  will  was  fate  I— 
She  gazed  or.  many  a  princely  port. 
Might  well  have  ruled  a  royal  court ; 
On  many  a  splendid  garb  she  gazed — 
Then  turn'd  bewilder'd  and  amazed. 
For  all  stood  bare :  and,  in  the  room, 
Fitz-James  alone  wore  cap  and  plume. 
To  him  each  lady's  look  was  lent ; 
On  him  each  courtier's  eye  was  bent; 
Midst  furs  and  silks  and  jewels  sheen. 
He  stood,  in  simple  Lincoln  green. 
The  centre  of  the  glittering  ring ; 
And  Snowdoun's  knight  is  Scotland's  king. 

XXVII. 

As  wreath  of  snow,  on  mountain  breast. 

Slides  from  the  rock  that  gave  it  rest. 

Poor  Ellen  glided  from  her  stay. 

And  at  the  monarch's  feet  she  lay ; 

No  word  her  choking  voice  commands — 

She  show'd  the  ring — she  clasp'd  her  hands. 

0  !  not  a  moment  could  he  brook. 

The  generous  prince,  that  suppliant  look  ! 

Gently  he  raised  her — and,  the  while, 

Check'd  with  a  glance  the  circle's  smile; 

Graceful,  but  grave,  her  brow  he  kiss'd. 

And  bade  her  terrors  be  dismiss'd ; — 

"  Yes,  fair,  the  wandering  poor  Fitz-James 

The  fealty  of  Scotland  claims. 

To  him  thy  woes,  thy  wishes,  bring ; 

He  will  redeem  his  signet  ring. 

Ask  naught  for  Douglas  :— yestereven 

His  prince  and  he  have  much  forgiven : 

Wrong  hath  he  had  from  slanderous  tongue  . 

I,  from  his  rebel  kinsman,  wrong. 

We  would  not  to  the  vulgar  crowd 

Yield  what  they  craved  with  clamour  loud ; 

Calmly  we  heard  and  judged  his  cause  ; 

Our  council  aided,  and  our  laws. 


718 


SCOTT. 


I  stanch 'd  thy  father's  death-feud  stern, 
With  stout  De  Vaux  and  gray  Glencairn  ; 
And  Bothwell's  lord  henceforth  we  own 
The  friend  and  bulwark  df  our  throne. — 
5ut,  lovely  infidel,  how  now  ? 
What  clouds  thy  misbelieving  brow  ? 
Lord  James  of  Douglas,  lend  thine  aid — 
Thou  must  confirm  this  doubting  maid." 

XXVIII. 

Then  forth  the  noble  Douglas  sprung, 

And  on  his  neck  his  daughter  hung. 

The  monarch  drank,  that  happy  hour, 

The  sweetest,  holiest  draught  of  power — 

When  it  can  say,  with  godlike  voice. 

Arise,  sad  virtue,  and  rejoice  ! 

Yet  would  not  James  the  general  eye 

On  nature's  raptures  long  should  pry ; 

He  stepp'd  between — "  Nay,  Douglas,  nay, 

Steal  not  my  proselyte  away  ! 

The  riddle  'tis  my  right  to  read, 

That  brought  this  happy  chance  to  speed.^ 

Yes,  Ellen,  when  disguised  I  stray 

In  life's  more  low  bu-t  happier  way, 

'Tis  under  name  which  veils  my  power, 

Nor  falsely  veils — for  Stirling's  tower 

Of  yore  the  name  of  Snowdoun  claims, 

And  Normans  call  me  James  Fitz-James. 

Thus  watch  I  o'er  insulted  laws. 

Thus  learn  to  right  the  injured  cause." 

Then  in  a  tone  apart  and  low, 

— "  Ah,  little  tra  t'ress  I  none  must  know 

What  idle  dream,  what  lighter  thought, 

What  vanity  full  dearly  bought, 

Join'd  to  thine  eye's  dark  witchcraft,  drew 

My  spell-bound  steps  to  Ben-venue, 

In  dangerous  hour,  and  all  but  gave 

Thy  monarch's  life  to  mountain  glaive  !" 

Aloud  he  spoke — "  Thou  still  dost  hold 

That  little  talisman  of  gold, 

Pledge  of  my  faith,  Fitz-James's  ring — 

What  seeks  fair  Ellen  of  the  king  ?" 

XXIX. 

Full  well  the  conscious  maiden  guess'd 
He  probed  the  weakness  of  her  breast; 
But,  with  that  consciousness  there  came 
A  lightening  of  her  fears  for  Graeme, 
And  more  she  deem'd  the  monarch's  ire 
Kindled  'gainst  him,  who,  for  her  sire, 
Rebellious  broadsword  boldly  drew; 
And,  to  her  generous  feeling  true. 
She  craved  the  grace  of  Roderick  Dhu. — 
"  Forbear  thy  suit ; — the  King  of  kings 
Alone  can  stay  life's  parting  wings: 
I  knew  his  heart,  I  knew  his  hand. 
Have  shared  his  cheer  and  proved  his  brand. 


My  fairest  earldom  would  I  give 
To  bid  Clan-Alpine's  chieftain  live  !— • 
Hast  thou  no  other  boon  to  crave  ? 
No  other  captive  friend  to  save  ?"^ 
Blushing  she  turn'd  her  from  the  king, 
And  to  the  Douglas  gave  the  ring. 
As  if  she  wished  her  sire  to  speak 
The  suit  that  stain'd  her  glowing  cheek.— 
"  Nay,  then  my  pledge  has  lost  its  force. 
And  stubborn  justice  holds  her  course. 
Malcolm,  come  forth  !" — And,  at  the  word, 
Down  kneel'd  the  Graeme  to  Scotland's  lord. 
"  For  thee,  rash  youth,  no  suppliant  sues. 
From  thee  may  vengeance  claim  her  dues, 
Who,  nurtured  underneath  our  smile, 
Has  paid  our  care  by  treacherous  wile. 
And  sought,  amid  thy  faithful  clan, 
A  refuge  for  an  outlaw'd  man. 
Dishonouring  thus  thy  loyal  name,— 
Fetters  and  warder  for  the  Graeme  !** 
His  chain  of  gold  the  king  unstrung. 
The  links  o'er  Malcolm's  neck  he  flung. 
Then  gently  drew  the  glittering  band, 
And  laid  the  clasp  on  Ellen's  hand. 


Harp  of  the  north,  farewell !  the  hills  grow  dark, 

On  purple  peaks  a  deeper  shade  descending; 
In  twilight  copse  the  glowworm  lights  her  spark  ; 

The  deer,  half  seen,  are  to  the  covert  wending. 
Resume  thy  wizard  elm  I  the  fountain  lending. 

And  the  wild  breeze,  thy  wilder  minstrelsy ; 
Thy  numbers  sweet  with  nature's  vespers  blending. 

With  distant  echo  from  the  fold  and  lea. 
And  herd-boy's  evening  pipe,  and  hum  of  housing 
bee. 

Yet  once  again,  farewell,  thou  minstrel  harp  J 

Yet,  once  again,  forgive  my  feeble  sway, 
And  little  reck  I  of  the  censure  sharp. 

May  idly  cavil  at  an  idle  lay. 
Much  have  I  owed  thy  strains  on  life's  long  way. 

Thro'  secret  woes  the  world  has  never  known, 
When  on  the  weary  night  dawn'd  wearier  day. 

And  bitter  was  the  grief  devour'd  alone. 
That  I  o'erlive  such  woes,  enchantress  !  is   thine 
own. 

Hark !  as  my  lingering  footsteps  slow  retire — 

Some  spirit  of  the  air  has  waked  thy  string ! 
'Tis  now  a  seraph  bold,  with  touch  of  fire, 

'Tis  now  the  brush  of  fairy's  frolic  wing; 
Receding  now*,  the  dying  numbers  ring 

Fainter  and  fainter  down  the  rugged  dell. 
And  now  the  mountain  breezes  scarcely  bring 

A  wandering  witch-note  of  the  distant  spell— 
And  now,   'tis  silent  all !   Enchantress,  fare  the* 
well. 


THE    FIRE    KING. 


719 


THE  FIRE  KING. 


''  The  blessings  of  the  evil  genii,  which  are  curses,  were 
upon  him.'  Eastern  Tale. 

This  ballad  was  written  at  the  request  of  Mr. 
Lewis,  to  be  inserted  in  his  Tales  of  Wonder.  It 
is  the  third  in  a  series  of  four  ballads,  on  the  sub- 
ject of  Elementary  Spirits.  The  story  is,  however, 
partly  historical ;  for  it  is  recorded,  that,  during  the 
struggles  of  the  Latin  kingdom  of  Jerusalem,  a 
knight  templar,  called  Saint  Alban,  deserted  to  the 
Saracens,  and  defeated  the  Christians  in  many 
combats,  till  he  was  finally  routed  and  slain,  in  a 
conflict  with  King  Baldwin,  under  the  walls  of  Je- 
rusalem. 


Bold  knights  and  fair  dames,  to  my  harp  give  an  ear. 
Of  love,  and  of  war,  and  of  wonder  to  hear ; 
And  you  haply  may  sigh,  in  the  midst  of  your  glee. 
At  the  tale  of  Count  Albert,  and  fair  Rosalie. 

O  see  you  that  castle,  so  strong  and  so  high  ? 
And  see  you  that  lady,  the  tear  in  her  eye  ? 
And  see  j'ou  that  palmer  from  Palestine's  land. 
The  shell  on  his  hat,  and  the  staff  in  his  hand  ? 

"  Now,  palmer,  gray  palmer,  0  tell  unto  me. 
What  news  bring  you  home  from  the  Holy  Countrie  ? 
And  how  goes  the  warfare  by  Galilee's  strand  ? 
And  how  fare  our  nobles,  the  flower  of  the  land  ?" 

"  0  well  goes  the  warfare  by  Galilee's  wave, 
For  Gilead,  and  Nablous,  and  Ramah  we  have  ; 
And  well  fare  our  nobles  by  Mount  Lebanon, 
For  the  heathen  have  lost,  and  the  Christians  have 
won." 

A  fair  chain  of  gold  mid  her  ringlets  there  hung : 
O'er  the  palmer's  gray  locks  the  fair  chain  has  she 

flung; 
*0  palmer,  gray  palmer,  this  chain  be  thy  fee. 
For  the  news  thou  hast  brought  from  the  Holy 

Countrie. 

"  And,  palmer,  good  palmer,  by  Galilee's  wave, 
O  saw  ye  Count  Albert,  the  gentle  and  brave  ? 
When  the  crescent  went  back,  and  the  red-cross 

rush'd  on, 
O  saw  ye  him  foremost  on  Mount  Lebanon  ?" 

"  0  lady,  fair  lady,  the  tree  green  it  grows  ; 

0  lady,  fair  lady,  the  stream  pure  it  flows : 

Your  castle  stands  strong,  and  your  hopes  soar  on 

high ; 
But  lady,  fair  lady,  all  blossoms  to  die. 

«  The  green  boughs  they  wither,  the  thunderbolt 

falls. 
It  leaves  of  your  castle  but  levin-scorch'd  walls  ; 
The  pure  stream  runs  muddy  ;  the  gay  hope  is  gone ; 
Count  Albert  is  prisoner  on  Mount  Lebanon." 

O  she's  ta'en  a  horse,  should  be  fleet  at  her  speed ; 
And  she's  ta'en  a  sword,  should  be  sharp  at  her 
need; 


And  she  has  ta'en  shipping  for  Palestine's  land, 
To  ransom  Count  Albert  from  Soldanrie's  hand. 

Small  thought  had  Count  Albert  on  fair  Rosalie, 
Small  thought  on  his  faith,  or  his  knighthood  had  he 
A  heathenish  damsel  his  light  heart  had  won. 
The  Soldan's  fair  daughter  of  Mount  Lebanon. 

"  0  Christian,  brave  Christian,  my  love  wouldst 

thou  be. 
Three  things  must  thou  do  ere  I  hearken  to  thee; 
Our  laws  and  our  worship  on  thee  shalt  thou  take; 
And  this  thou  shalt  first  do  for  Zulema's  sake. 

"  And,  next,  in  the  cavetn,  where  burns  evermore 
The  mystical  flame  which  the  Kurdmans  adore. 
Alone,  and  in  silence,  three  nights  shalt  thou  wake  ; 
And  this  thou  shalt  next  do  for  Zulema's  sake. 

"And,  last,  thou  shalt  aid  us  with  counsel  and 

hand. 
To  drive  the  Frank  robber  from  Palestine's  land ; 
For  my  lord  and  my  love  then  Count  Albert  I'll  take. 
When  all  this  is  accomplish'd  for  Zulema's  sake." 

He  has  thrown  by  his  helmet  and  cross-handled 

sword, 
Renouncing  his  knighthood,  denying  his  Lord  ; 
He  has  ta'en  the  green  caftan,  and  turban  put  on. 
For  the  love  of  the  maiden  of  fair  Lebanon. 

And  in  the  dread  cavern,  deep,  deep  under  ground, 
Which  fifty  steel  gates  and  steel  portals  surround. 
He  has  watch'd  until  daybreak,  but  sight  saw  he 

none, 
Save  the  flame  burning  bright  on  its  altar  of  stone. 

Amazed  was  the  princess,  the  Soldan  amazed. 
Sore    murmur'd    the   priests    as   on    Albert   they 

gazed ; 
They   search'd   all   his  garments,  and,  under  his 

weeds. 
They  found,  and  took  from  him,  his  rosary  beads* 

Again  in  the  cavern,  deep,  deep  under  ground. 

He  watch'd  the  lone  night,  while  the  winds  whis- 
tled round ; 

Far  off  was  their  murmur,  it  came  not  more  nigh  ; 

The  flame  burn'd  unmoved,  and  naught  else  did  he 
spy. 

Loud  murmur'd  the  priests,  and  amazed  was  the 

king. 
While  many  dark  spells  of  their  witchcraft  they 

sing; 
They  search'd  Albert's  body,  and,  lo  !  on  his  breast 
Was  the  sign  of  the  cross,  by  his  father  impress'd. 

The  priests  they  erase  it  with  care  and  with  pain, 
And  the  recreant  return'd  to  the  cavern  again ; 
But,  as  he  descended,  a  whisper  there  fell — 
It  was  his  good  angel,  who  bade  him  farewell ! 

High  bristled  his  hair,  his  heart  flutter'd  and  beat, 

And  he  turn'd  him  five  steps,  half  resolved  to  re- 
treat ; 

But  his  heart  it  was  harden'd,  his  purpose  was 
gone. 

When  \ie  thought  of  the  maid  of  fair  Lebanon. 


720 


SCOTT. 


Scarce  pass'd  he  the  archway,  the  threshold  scarce 

trod, 
When  the  winds  from  the  four  points  of  heaven 

were  abroad  j 
They  made  each  steel  portal  to  rattle  and  ring, 
And,  borne  on  the  blast,  came  the  dread  Fire-King. 

Full  sore  rock'd  the  cavern  whene'er  he  drew  nigh ; 
The  fire  on  the  altar  blazed  bickering  and  high ; 
In  volcanic  explosions  the  mountains  proclaim 
The  dreadful  approach  of  the  monarch  of  flame. 

Unmeasured  in  height,  undistinguish'd  in  form, 
His  breath  it  was  lightning,  his  voice  it  was  storm  ; 
I  ween  the  stout  heart  of  Count  Albert  was  tame, 
When  he  saw  in  his  terrors  the  monarch  of  flame. 

In  his  hand  a  broad  falchion  blue  glimmer'd  through 

smoke. 
And  Mount  Lebanon  shook  as  the  monarch  he 

spoke : 
"  With  this  brand  shalt  thou  conquer,  thus  long, 

and  no  more, 
Till  thou  bend  to  the  cross,  and  the  virgin  adore." 

The  cloi\d-shrouded  arm  gives  the  weapon  ;  and, 

jee ! 
The  recreant   receives   the  charm'd    gift  on  his 

knee: 
The   thunders  grow  distant,  and  faint  gleam  the 

fires. 
As,  borne  on  his  whirlwind,  the  phantom  retires. 

Count  Albert  has  arm'd  him  the  Paynim  among ; 
Though  his  heart  it Was  false,  yet  his  arm  it  was 

strong ; 
And  the  red-cross  wax'd  faint,  and  the   crescent 

came  on. 
From  the  day  he  commanded  on  Mount  Lebanon. 

From  Lebanon's  forest  to  Galilee's  wave. 

The  sands  of  Samaar  drank  the  blood  of  the  brave  ; 

Till  the  knights  of  the  temple  and  knights  of  St. 

John, 
With  Salem's  king  Baldwin,  against  him  came  on. 

The  war-cymbals  clatter'd,  the  trumpets  replied. 
The  lances  were  couch'd,  and  thSy  closed  on  each 

side ; 
And  horsemen  and  horses  Count  Albert  o'erthrew, 
Till  he  pierced  the  thick  tumult  King  Baldwin 

unto. 

Against  the  charm'd  blade  which  Count  Albert  did 
wield. 

The  fence  had  been  vain  of  the  king's  red-cross 
shield ; 

But  a  page  thrust  him  forward  the  monarch  be- 
fore. 

And  cleft  the  proud  turban  the  renegade  wore. 

So  fell  was  the  dint,  that  Count  Albert  stoop'd  low 
Before  the  cross'd  shield,  to  his  steel  saddle-bow; 
And  scarce  had  he  bent  to  the  red-cross  his  head, 
"  Bonne  grace,  notre  dame,''  he  unwittingly  said. 

Sore  sigh'd  the  charm'd  sword,  for  its  virtue  was 

o'er ;  , 

It  sprung  from  his  grasp,  and  was  never  seen  more : 


But  true  men  have  said,  that  the  lightning's  red 

wing 
Did  waft  back  the  brand  to  the  dread  Fire-King. 

He  clench'd  his  set  teeth,  and  his  gauntletted  hand ; 
He  stretch'd,  with  one  buffet,  that  page  on  the 

strand ; 
As  back  from  the  stripling  the   broken  casque 

roll'd. 
You  might  see  the  blue  eyes,  and  the  ringlets  of 

gold. 

Short  time  had  Count  Albert  in  horror  to  stare 
On  those  death-swimming  eye-balls,  and  blood- 
clotted  hair ; 
For  down  came  the  Templars,  like  Cedron  in  flood, 
And  died  their  long  lances  in  Saracen  blood. 

The  Saracens,  Kurdmans,  and  Ishmaelites  yield 
To  the  scallop,  the  saltier,  and  crosletted  shield; 
And  the  eagles  were  gorged  with  the  infidel  dead, 
From  Bethsaida's  fountains  to  Napthali's  head.     • 

The  battle  is  over  on  Bethsaida's  plain. 

0  !    who  is  yon  Paynim  lies  stretched  'mid  the 

slain  ? 
And  who  is  yon  page  lying  cold  at  his  knee  ? 
0  !  who  but  Count  Albert  and  fair  Rosalie. 

The  lady  was  buried  in  Salem's  bless'd  bound. 
The  count  he  was  left  to  the  vulture  and  hound : 
Her  soul  to  high  mercy  our  lady  did  bring ; 
His  went  on  the  blast  to  the  dread  Fire-King. 

Yet  many  a  minstrel,  in  harping,  can  tell. 

How  the  red-cross  it  conquer'd,  the  crescent  it  fell ; 

And  lords  and  gay  ladies  have  sigh'd,  'mid  their 

glee. 
At  the  tale  of  Count  Albert  and  fair  Rosalie. 


THE  WILD  HUNTSMEN. 

This  is  a  translation,  or  rather  an  imitation,  of 
the  Wilde  Jager  of  the  German  poet  Biirger.  The 
tradition  upon  which  it  is  founded  bears,  that  for- 
merly a  wildgrave,  or  keeper  of  a  royal  forest, 
named  Falkenburg,  was  so  much  addicted  to  the 
pleasures  of  the  chase,  and  otherwise  so  extremely 
profligate  and  cruel,  that  he  not  only  followed  this 
unhallowed  amusement  on  the  Sabbath,  and  other 
days  consecrated  to  religious  duty,  but  accompa- 
nied it  with  the  most  unheard-of  oppression  upon 
the  poor  peasants  who  were  under  his  vassalage. 
When  this  second  Nimrod  died,  the  people  adopt- 
ed a  superstition,  founded  probably  on  the  many 
various  uncouth  sounds  heard  in  the  depth  of  a 
German  forest,  during  the  silence  of  the  night. 
They  conceived  they  still  heard  the  cry  of  the 
wildgrave's  hounds  ;  and  the  well-known  cheer  of 
the  deceased  hunter,  the  sound  of  his  horse's  feet, 
and  the  rustling  of  the  branches  before  the  game, 
the  pack,  and  the  sportsmen,  are  also  distinctly 
discriminated ;  but  the  phantoms  are  rarely,  if 
ever,  visible.  Once,  as  a  benighted  chasseur  heard 
this  infernal  chase  pass  by  him,  at  the  sound  of  the 
halloo,  with  which  the  spectre  huntsman  cheered 


THE    WILD    HUNTSMEN. 


721 


his  hounds,  he  could  not  refrain  from  crying, 
"  Gluck  zu,  FalkenburgJ"  (Good  sport  to  ye, 
Falkenburg!)  "Dost  thou  wish  me  good  sport?" 
answered  a  hoarse  voice ;  "  thou  shalt  share  the 
game ;"  and  there  was  thrown  at  him  what  seemed 
to  be  a  huge  piece  of  foul  carrion.  The  daring 
chasseur  lost  two  of  his  best  horses  soon  after,  and 
never  perfectly  recovered  the  personal  effects  of 
this  ghostly  greeting.  This  tale,  though  told  with 
some  variation,  is  universally  believed  all  over 
Germany. 

The  French  had  a  similar  tradition  concerning 
an  aerial  hunter,  who  infested  the  forest  of  Fon- 
tainebleau.  He  was  sometimes  visible ;  when  he 
appeared  as  a  huntsman,  surrounded  with  dogs,  a 
tall  grisly  figure.  Some  account  of  him  may  be 
found  in  "  Sully's  Memoirs,"  who  says  he  was 
called  Le  Grande  Veneur.  At  one  time  he  chose 
to  hunt  so  near  the  palace,  that  the  attendants,  and, 
if  I  mistake  not.  Sully  himself,  came  out  into  the 
court,  supposing  it  was  the  sound  of  the  king  re- 
turning from  the  chase.  This  phantom  is  else- 
where called  Saint  Hubert. 

The  superstition  seems  to  have  been  very  ge- 
neral, as  appears  from  the  following  fine  poetical 
description  of  this  phantom  chase,  as  it  was  heard 
in  the  wilds  of  Ross-shire. 

"Ere  since,  of  old,  the  haughty  thanes  of  Ross— 

So  to  the  simple  swain  tradition  tells—     < 

Were  wont  with  clans,  and  ready  vassals  throng'd 

To  wake  the  bounding  stag,  or  guilty  wolf. 

There  oft  is  heard,  at  midnight,  or  at  noon, 

Beginning  faint,  but  rising  still  more  loud, 

And  nearer,  voice  of  hunters,  and  of  hounds, 

And  horns  hoarse-winded,  blowing  far  and  keen: — 

Forthwith  the  hubbub  multiplies;  the  gale 

Labours  with  wilder  shrieks  and  rifer  din 

Of  hot  pursuit;  the  broken  cry  of  deer 

Mangled  ly  throttling  dogs;  the  shouts  of  men, 

And  hoofs  thick  beating  on  the  hollow  hill. 

Sudden  the  grazing  heifer  in  the  vale 

Starts  at  the  noise,  and  both  the  herdsman's  ears 

Tingle  with  inward  dread.    Aghast  he  eyes 

The  mountain's  height,  and  all  the  ridges  round, 

Yet  not  one  trace  of  living  wight  discerns; 

Nor  knows,  o'eraw'd,  and  trembling  as  he  stands, 

To  what  or  whom  he  owes  his  idle  fear, 

To  ghost,  to  witch,  to  fairy,  or  to  fiend ; 

But  wonders,  and  no  end  of  wondering  finds." 

Scottish  Descriptive  Poems,  pp.  167, 168. 

A  posthumous  miracle  of  father  Lesly,  a  Scottish 
Capuchin,  related  to  his  being  buried  on  a  hill 
haunted  by  these  unearthly  cries  of  hounds  and 
huntsmen.  After  his  sainted  relics  had  been  de- 
posited there,  the  noise  was  never  heard  more. 
The  reader  will  find  this,  and  other  miracles,  re- 
.  corded  in  the  life  of  father  Bonaventura,  which  is 
written  in  the  choicest  Italian. 


The  wildgrave  winds  his  bugle  horn, 
To  horse,  to  horse  !  halloo,  halloo  I 

His  fiery  courser  snufFs  the  morn. 
And  thronging  serfs  their  lord  pursue. 

The  eager  pack,  from  couples  freed, 

Dash  through  the  bush,  the  brier,  the  brake  ; 

While  answering  hound,  and  horn,  and  steed, 
The  mountain  echoes  startling  wake. 
Vol.  III.— 46 


The  beams  of  God's  own  hallow'd  day 
Had  painted  yonder  spire  with  gold. 

And,  calling  sinful  men  to  pray. 
Loud,  long,  and  deep,  the  bell  had  toll'dr 

But  still  the  wildgrave  onward  rides  ; 

Halloo,  halloo  !  and  hark  again  ! 
When,  spurring  from  opposing  sides, 

Two  stranger  horsemen  join  the  train. 

Who  was  each  stranger,  left  and  right. 
Well  may  I  guess,  but  dare  not  tell ; 

The  right  hand  steed  was  silver  white, 
The  left,  the  swarthy  hue  of  hell. 

The  right  hand  horseman,  young  and  fair, 
His  smile  was  like  the  morn  of  May ; 

The  left,  from  eye  of  tawny  glare, 
Shot  midnight  lightning's  lurid  ray. 

He  waved  his  huntsman's  cap  on  high, 
Cried,  "  Welcome,  welcome,  noble  lord ! 

What  sport  can  earth,  or  sea,  or  sky, 
To  match  the  princely  chase,  afford  .?" 

"  Cease  thy  loud  bugle's  clanging  knell," 
Cried  the  fair  youth,  with  silver  voice ; 

"  And  for  devotion's  choral  swell 
Exchange  the  rude  unhallow'd  noise. 

"  To-day  the  ill-omen'd  chase  forbear. 
Yon  bell  yet  summons  to  the  fane  ; 

To-day  the  warning  spirit  hear. 

To-morrow  thou  mayst  mourn  in  vain.* 

«  Away,  and  sweep  the  glades  along  !" 
The  sable  hunter  hoarse  replies  ; 

«  To  muttering  monks  leave  matin  song, 
And  bells,  and  books,  and  mysteries.'* 

The  wildgrave  spurr'd  his  ardent  steed. 
And,  lanching  forward  with  a  bound, 

"  Who,  for  thy  drowsy  priest-like  rede, 
Would  leave  the  ^ovial  horn  and  hound . 

*'  Hence,  if  our  manly  sport  offend  ! 

With  pious  fools  go  chant  and  pray: 
Well  hast  thou  spoke,  my  dark-brow'd  friend 

Halloo,  halloo  !  and,  hark  away !" 

The  wildgrave  spurr'd  his  courser  light. 
O'er  moss  and  moor,  o'er  holt  and  hill 

And  on  the  left,  and  on  the  right, 
Each  stranger  horseman  follow'd  stiU. 

Up  springs,  from  yonder  tangled  thorn, 
A  stag  more  white  than  mountain  snow 

And  louder  rung  the  wildgrave's  horn, 
"Hark  forward,  forward  !  holla,  ho  1" 

A  heedless  wretch  had  cross'd  the  way; 

He  gasps,  the  thundering  hoofs  below  : 
But,  live  who  can,  or  die  who  may, 

Still,  "  Forward,  forward  !"  on  they  go 

See,  where  yo«  simple  fences  meet, 
A  field  with  autumn's  blessings  crown 

See,  prostrate  at  the  wildgrave's  feet, 
A  husbandman,  with  toil  embrown*d 


722 


SCOTT. 


"  0  mercy,  mercy,  roble  lord  ! 

Spare  the  poor's  pittance,"  was  his  cry, 
"Earn'd  by  the  sweat  these  brows  have  pour'd, 

m  scorching  hour  of  fierce  July  ?" 

Earnest  the  right  hand  stranger  pleads, 
The  left  still  cheering  to  the  prey, 

Th'  impetuous  earl  no  warning  heeds, 
But  furious  holds  the  onward  way. 

"  Away,  thou  hound  so  basely  born, 
Or  dread  the  scourge's  echoing  blow  !" 

Then  loudly  rung  his  bugle  horn, 
Hark  forward,  forward,  holla,  ho  !" 

So  said,  so  done :  a  single  bound 
Clears  the  poor  labourer's  humble  pale  ? 

Wild  follows  man,  and  horse,  and  houndj 
Like  dark  December's  stormy  gale. 

And  man,  and  horse,  and  hound,  and  horn. 
Destructive  sweep  the  field  along ; 

While  joying  o'er  the  wasted  corn, 
Fell  famine  marks  the  maddening  throng. 

Again  uproused,  the  timorous  prey 

Scours  moss,  and  moor,  and  holt,  and  hill ; 

Hard  run,  he  feels  his  strength  decay, 
And  trusts  for  life  his  simple  skill. 

Too  dangerous  solitude  appear'd ; 

He  seeks  the  shelter  of  the  crowd ; 
Amid  the  flock's  domestic  herd 

His  harmless  head  he  hopes  to  shroud. 

O'er  moss,  and  moor,  and  holt,  and  hill. 
His  track  the  steady  bloodhounds  trace  ; 

O'er  moss  and  moor,  unwearied  still. 
The  furious  earl  pursues  the  chase. 

Full  lowly  did  the  herdsman  fall ; 

"  0  spare,  thou  noble  baron,  spare 
These  herds,  a  widow's  little  all ; 

These  flocks  an  orphan's  fleecy  care  ?'■* 

Earnest  the  right  hand  stranger  pleads, 
The  left  still  cheering  to  the  prey ; 

The  earl  nor  prayer  nor  pity  heeds, 
But  tunous  keeps  the  onward  way. 

**  Unmanner'd  dog  !  to  stop  my  sport 
Vain  were  thy  cant  and  beggar  whine. 

Though  human  spirits,  of  thy  sort, 
Were  tenants  of  these  carrion  kine  !" 

Again  he  winds  his  bugle  horn, 
"  Hark  forward,  forward,  holla,  ho  !" 

And  through  the  herd,  in  ruthless  scorn, 
He  cheers  his  furious  hounds  to  go. 

In  heaps  the  throttled  victims  fall ; 

Down  sinks  their  mangled  herdsman  near. 
The  murderous  cries  the  stag  appal — 

Again  he  starts,  new  nerved  by  fear. 

With  blood  besmear'd,  and  white  with  foam, 
While  big  the  tears  of  anguish  pour 

He  seeks,  amid  the  forest's  gloom, 
The  humble  hermit's  hallow'd  bower. 


But  maaand  horse,  and  horn  and  hound. 

Fast  rattling  on  his  traces  go ; 
The  sacred  chapel  rung  around 

With,  «  Hark  away  !  and,  holla,  ho  '" 

All  mild,  amid  the  route  profane. 
The  holy  hermit  pour'd  his  prayer; 

"  Forbear  with  blood  God's  house  to  stain ; 
Revere  his  altar,  and  forbear ! 

"  The  meanest  brute  has  rights  to  plead. 
Which  wrong'd  by  cruelty  or  pride. 

Draw  vengeance  on  the  ruthless  head : 
Be  warn'd  at  lerf^th,  and  turn  aside." 

Still  the  fair  horseman  anxious  pleads  ; 

The  black,  wild  whooping,  points  the  prey  i 
Alas  !  the  earl  no  warning  heeds. 

But  frantic  keeps  the  forward  way. 

"  Holy  or  not,  or  right  or  wrong, 
Thy  altar,  and  its  rites,  I  spurn ; 

Not  sainted  martyr's  sacred  song, 
Not  God  himself,  shall  make  me  turn  !" 

He  spurs  his  horse,  he  winds  his  horn, 
"  Hark  forward,  forward,  holla,  ho  !" 

But  off,  on  wirlwind's  pinions  borne. 
The  stag,  the  hut,  the  hermit,  go. 

And  horse,  and  man,  and  horn,  and  hound, 
And  clamour  of  the  chase  was  gone  ; 

For  hoofs,  and  howls,  and  bugle  sound, 
A  deadly  silence  reign 'd  alone. 

Wild  gazed  th'  affrighted  earl  around ; 

He  strove  in  vain  to  wake  his  horn  j 
In  vain  to  call ;  for  not  a  sound 

Could  from  his  anxious  lips  be  borne. 

He  listens  for  his  trusty  hounds ; 

No  distant  baying  reach'd  his  ears: 
His  courser,  rooted  to  the  ground. 

The  quickening  spur  unmindful  bears. 

Still  dark  and  darker  frown  the  shades, 
Dark  as  the  darkness  of  the  grave ; 

And  not  a  sound  the  still  invades. 
Save  what  a  distant  torrent  gave. 

High  o'er  the  sinner's  humbled  head 
At  length  the  solemn  silence  broke ; 

And  from  a  cloud  of  swarthy  red. 
The  awful  voice  of  thunder  spoke. 

"  Oppressor  of  creation  fair  ! 

Apostate  spirits'  harden'd  tool ! 
Scorner  of  God  !  Scourge  of  the  poor ! 

The  measure  of  thy  cup  is  full. 

"  Be  chased  forever  through  the  wood ; 

Forever  roam  th'  affrighted  wild ; 
And  let  thy  fate  instruct  the  proud, 

God's  meanest  creature  is  his  child." 

'Twas  hush'd :  one  flash,  of  sombre  glare, 
With  yellow  ting'd  the  forest  brown  ; 

Up  rose  the  wildgrave's  bristling  hair. 
And  horror  chill'd  each  nerve  and  bone. 


THE    BATTLE    OF    SEMPACH. 


723 


Celd  pour'd  the  sweat  in  freezing  rill ; 

A  rising  wind  began  to  sing ; 
And  louder,  louder,  louder  still. 

Brought  storm  and  tempest  on  its  wing. 

Earth  heard  the  call !  Her  entrails  rend  ; 

From  yawning  rifts,  with  many  a  yell, 
Mix'd  with  sulphureous  flames,  ascend 

The  misbegotten  dogs  of  hell. 

What  ghastly  huntsman  next  arose. 
Well  may  I  guess,  but  dare  not  tell ; 

His  eye  like  midnight  lightning  glows, 
His  steed  the  swarthy  hue  of  Iiell. 

The  wildgrave  flies  o'er  bush  and  thorn, 
With  many  a  shriek  of  helpless  wo ;     " 

Behind  him  hound,  and  horse,  and  horn, 
And,  "Hark  away,  and  holla,  h-: !" 

With  wild  despair's  reverted  eye. 

Close,  close  behind,  he  marks  the  throng. 

With  bloody  fangs,  and  eager  cry, 
In  frantic  fear  he  scours  along. 

Still,  still  shall  last  the  dreadful  chase. 
Till  time  itself  shall  have  an  end : 

By  day  they  scour  earth's  cavern'd  space. 
At  midnight's  witching  hour  ascend. 

This  is  the  horn,  and  hound,  and  horse, 
That  oft  the  lated  peasant  hears ; 

Appall'd  he  signs  the  frequent  cross, 
When  the  wild  din  invades  his  ears. 

The  wakeful  priest  oft  drops  a  tear 
For  human  pride,  for  human  wo. 

When  at  his  midnight  mass,  he  hears 
Th'  infernal  cry  of  "  Holla,  ho  !" 


THE  BATTLE  OP  SEMPACH. 


Thesl  verses  are  a  literal  translation  of  an 
ancient  S-wiss  ballad  upon  the  battle  of  Sempach, 
fougiit  9th  July,  1386,  being  the  victory  by  which 
the  Swiss  cantons  established  their  independence. 
The  author  is  Albert  Tehudi,  denominated  the 
Souter,  from  his  profession  of  a  shoemaker.  He 
was  a  citizen  of  Lucerne,  esteemed  highly  among 
his  countrymen,  both  for  his  powers  as  a  Meister- 
singer,  or  minstrel,  and  his  courage  as  a  soldier; 
so  that  he  might  share  the  praise  conferred  by 
Collins  on  Eschylus,  that— 

Not  alone  he  nursed  the  poel's  flame. 

But  reach'd  from  Virtue's  hand  the  patriot  steel. 

The  circumstance  of  their  being  written  by  a 
poet  returning  from  a  well-fought  field  he  de- 
scribes, and  in  which  his  country's  fortune  was  se- 
cured, may  confer  on  Tehudi's  verses  an  interest 
which  they  are  not  entitled  to  claim  from  their 
poetical  merit.  But  ballad  poetry,  the  more  lite- 
rally it  is  translated,  the  more  it  loses  its  simpli- 
city, without  acquiring  either  grace  or  strength; 
and  therefore  some  of  the  faults  of  the  verses  must 
be  imputed  to  the  translator's  feeling  it  a  duty  to 


keep  as  closely  as  possible  to  his  original.  The 
various  puns,  rude  attempts  at  pleasantry,  and  dis- 
proportioned  episodes,  must  be  set  down  to  Tehu- 
di's account,  or  to  the  taste  of  his  age. 

The  military  antiquary  will  derive  some  amuse- 
ment from  the  minute  particulars  which  the  mar- 
tial poet  has  recorded.  The  mode  in  which  the 
Austrian  men-at-arms  received  the  charge  of  the 
Swiss  was  by  forming  a  phalanx,  which  they  de- 
fended with  their  long  lances.  The  gallant  Winlff* 
eiried,  who  sacrificed  his  own  life  by  rushing 
among  the  spears,  clasping  in  his  arms  as  many  as 
he  could  grasp,  and  thus  opening  a  gap  in  these 
iron  battalions,  is  celebrated  in  Swiss  history. 
When  fairly  mingled  together,  the  unwieldy  length 
of  their  weapons,  and  cumbrous  iveight  of  their  de- 
fensive armour,  rendered  the  Austrran  men-at-arms 
a  very  unequal  match  for  the  light-armed  moun- 
taineers. The  victories  obtained  by  the  Swiss  over 
the  German  chivalry,  hitherto  deemed  as  formi- 
dable on  foot  as  on  horseback,  led  to  important 
changes  in  the  art  of  war.  The  poet  describes  the 
Austrian  knights  and  squires  as  cutting  the  peaks 
from  their  boots  ere  they  could  act  upon  foot,  in 
allusion  to  an  inconvenient  piece  of  foppery,  often 
mentioned  in  the  middle  ages.  Leopold  III.,  Arch- 
duke of  Austria,  called  "  The  handsome  man-atr 
arms,"  was  slain  in  the  battle  of  Sempach,  with  the 
flower  of  his  chivalry. 


'TwAS  when  among  our  linden  trees 

The  bees  had  housed  in  swarms, 
(  And  gray-hair'd  peasants  say  that  these 
Betoken  foreign  arms,) 

Then  look'd  we  down  to  Willisow, 

The  land  was  all  in  flame  ; 
We  knew  the  Archduke  Leopold 

With  all  his  army  came. 

The  Austrian  nobles  made  their  vow, 

So  hot  their  hearts  and  bold, 
"  On  Switzer  carles  we'll  trample  now. 

And  slay  both  young  and  old." 

With  clarion  loud,  and  banner  proud. 

From  Zurich  on  the  lake. 
In  martial  pomp  and  fair  array. 

Their  onward  march  they  make. 

«  Now  list  ye,  lowland  nobles  all 
Ye  seek  the  mountain  strand. 

Nor  wot  ye  what  shall  be  your  lot 
In  such  a  dangerous  land. 

"I  rede  ye,  shrive  you  of  your  sins 

Before  you  further  go  ; 
A  skirmish  in  Helvetian  hills 

May  send  your  souls  to  wo." 

"  But  where  now  shall  we  find  a  priest, 
Our  shrift  that  he  may  hear  ?" 

"The  Switzer  priest*  has  ta'en  the  field, 
He  deals  a  penance  drear. 


*  All  the  Swiss  clergy  who  were  able  to  bear  arms  fought 
in  this  patriotic  war. 


724 


SCOTT. 


"  Right  heavily  upon  your  head 

He'll  lay  his  hand  of  steel ; 
And  with  his  trusty  partizan 

Your  absolution  deal." 

*Twas  on  a  Monday  morning  then. 

The  corn  was  steep'd  in  dew, 
And  merry  maids  had  sickels  ta'en. 

When  the  host  to  Sempach  drew. 

The  stalwart  men  of  fair  Lucerne 

Together  have  they  join'd ; 
The  pith  and  core  of  manhood  stern — 

Was  none  cast  looks  behind. 

It  was  the  Lord  of  Hare  castle. 

And  to  the  duke  he  said, 
**  Yon  little  band  of  brethren  true 

Will  meet  us  undismay'd." 

«*  0  Hare-castle,*  thou  heart  of  hare  .'" 

Fierce  Oxenstern  replied ; 
**  Shalt  see  then  how  the  game  will  fare," 

The  taunting  knight  replied. 

There  was  lacing  then  of  helmets  bright, 

And  closing  ranks  amain  ; 
The  peaks  they  hew'd  from  their  boot-points 

Might  well  nigh  load  a  wain.f 

And  thus  they  to  each  other  said,       " 

"  Yon  handful  down  to  hew 
Will  be  no  boastful  tale  to  tell. 

The  peasants  arc  so  few." 

The  gallant  Swiss  confederates  there, 

They  pray'd  to  God  aloud, 
And  he  display 'd  his  rainbow  fair 

Against  a  swarthy  cloud. 

Then  heart  and  pulse  throbb'd  more  and  more 

With  courage  firm  and  high. 
And  down  the  good  confederates  bore 

On  the  Austrian  chivalry. 

The  Austrian  lion^  »gan  to  growl. 

And  toss  his  main  and  tail ; 
And  ball,  and  shaft,  and  crossbow  bolt 

Went  whistling  forth  like  hail. 

Lance,  pike,  and  halberd,  mingled  the?  a 

The  game  was  nothing  sweet ; 
The  boughs  of  many  a  stately  tree 

Lay  shiver'd  at  their  feet. 

The  Austrian  men-at-arms  stood  fast, 

So  close  their  spears  they  laid : 
It  chafed  the  gallant  Winkelried, 

Who  to  his  comrades  said — 


♦  In  the  original,  Haasenstein,  or  Hare-stone. 

t  This  seems  to  allude  to  the  preposterous  fashion,  du- 
ring the  middle  ages,  of  wearing  boots  with  the  points  or 
peaks  turned  upwards,  and  so  long  that,  in  some  cases, 
they  were  fastened  to  the  knees  of  the  wearer  with  small 
chains.  When  they  alighted  to  fight  upon  foot,  it  would 
eeem  that  the  Austrian  gentlemen  found  it  necessary  to 
cut  off  these  peaks,  that  they  might  move  with  the  neces- 
sary activity. 

t  A  cuu  on  the  archduke's  name,  Leopold. 


« I  have  a  virtuous  wife  at  home, 

A  wife  and  infant  son  ; 
I  leave  them  to  my  country's  care- 

This  field  shall  soon  be  won. 

«  These  nobles  lay  their  spears  right  thick, 

And  keep  full  firm  array. 
Yet  shall  my  charge  their  order  break. 

And  make  my  brethren  way." 

He  rush'd  against  the  Austrian  band. 

In  desperate  carefer, 
And  with  his  body,  breast,  and  hand. 

Bore  down  each  hostile  spear. 

Four  lances  splinter'd  on  bis  crest 

Six  shiver'd  in  his  side ; 
Still  on  the  serried  files  he  press'd 

He  broke  their  ranks  >xid  died. 

This  patriot's  self-devoted  (  eed 

First  tamed  the  lion's  mood, 
And  the  four  forest  cantons  freed 

From  thraldom  by  his  blood. 

Right  where  his  charge  had  made  a  .-ane. 

His  valiant  comrades  burst. 
With  sword,  and  axe,  and  partizan. 

And  hack,  and  stab,  and  thrust. 

The  daunted  lion  'gan  to  whine. 

And  granted  ground  amain ; 
The  mountain  bull,*  he  bent  his  brows. 

And  gored  his  sides  again. 

Then  lost  was  banner,  spear,  and  shield, 

At  Sempach,  in  the  flight ; 
The  cloister  vaults  at  Koningsfield 

Hold  many  an  Austrian  knight. 

It  was  the  Archduke  T^eopold, 

So  lordly  would  he  ride. 
But  he  came  against  the  Switzer  churls, 

And  they  slew  him  in  his  pride. 

The  heifer  said  unto  the  bull, 

"  And  shall  I  not  complain  ? 
There  came  a  foreign  nobleman 

To  milk  me  on  the  plain. 

"  One  thrust  of  thine  outrageous  r-orn 

Has  gall'd  the  knight  so  sore. 
That  to  the  churchyard  he  is  borne. 

To  range  our  glens  no  more." — 

An  Austrian  noble  left  the  stour, 

And  fast  the  flight  'gan  take ; 
And  he  arrived  in  ;\uckless  hour 

At  Sempach,  on  the  lake. 

He  and  his  squire  a  fisher  call'd, 
(  His  name  was  Hans  Von  Rot,) 

"  For  love,  or  meed,  or  charity, 
Receive  us  in  thy  boat." 

Their  anxious  call  the  fisher  heard. 
And  glad  the  meed  to  win,      ♦ 


*  A  pun  on  the  Orus,  or  wild  bull,  which  gives  name  to 
the  canton  of  Uri. 


WAR-SONG. 


725 


His  shallop  to  the  shore  he  steer'd. 
And  took  the  fliers  in. 

And  while  against  the  tide  and  wind 

Hans  stoutl}'  row'd  his  way, 
The  noble  to  his  follower  sign'd 

He  should  the  boatman  slay. 

The  fisher's  back  was  to  them  tum'd, 

The  squire  his  dagger 'drew, 
Hans  saw  his  shadow  in  the  lake, 
The  boat  he  overthrew. 

He  whelm'd  the  boat,  and  as  they  strove, 
He  stunn'd  them  with  his  car; 

«  Now  drink  ye  deep,  rny  gentle  sirs, 
You'll  ne'er  stab  boatman  more. 

*'  Two  gilded  fishes  in  the  lake 

This  morning  have  I  caught. 
Their  silver  scales  may  much  avail, 

Their  carrion  flesh  is  naught." 

It  was  a  messenger  of  wo 

Has  sought  the  Austrian  land ; 

«  Ah  !  gracious  lady,  evil  news  ! 
My  lord  lies  on  the  strand. 

«  At  Sempach,  on  the  battle  field. 
His  bloody  corpse  lies  there." 

«' Ah,  gracious  God  !"  the  lady  cried. 
What  tidings  of  despair  !" 

Now  would  you  know  the  minstrel  wight, 

Who  sings  of  strife  so  stern, 
Albert  the  Souter  is  he  hight, 

A  burgher  of  Lucerne. 

A  merry  man  was  he,  I  wot, 

The  night  he  made  the  lay. 
Returning  from  the  bloody  spot 

Where  God  had  judged  the  day. 


THE  MAID  OF  TORO. 

0  LOW  shone  the  sun  on  the  fair  lake  of  Tore, 
And  weak  were  the  whispers  that  waved  the  dark 
wood, 
All  as  a  fair  maiden  bewilder'd  in  sorrow. 

Sorely  sigh'd  to  the  breezes,  and  wept  to  the 
flood. 
«  0  saints  !  from  the  mansions  of  bliss  lowly  bend- 
ing ; 
Sweet  virgm  .  who  hearest  the  suppliant's  cry ; 
Now  grant  my  petition,  in  anguish  ascending. 
My  Henry  restore,  or  let  Eleanor  die  ! 

All  distant  and  faint  were  the  sounds  of  the  battle, 
With  the  breezes  they  rise,  with  the  breezes 
they  fail, 
Till  the  shout,  and  the  groan,  and  the  conflict's 
dread  rattle, 
And  the  chase's  wild  clamour,  came  loading  the 
gale. 
Breathless  she  gazed  on  the  woodlands  so  dreary ; 
Slowly  approaching  a  warrior  was  seen ; 


Life's  ebbing  tide  mark'd  his  footsteps  so  weary. 
Cleft  was  his  helmet,  and  wo  was  his  mien. 

"  0,  save  thee,  fair  maid,  for  our  armies  are  flying , 

O,  save  thee,  fair  maid,  for  thy  guardian  is  low! 
Deadly  cold  on  yon  heath  thy  brave  Henry  is  lying: 

And  fast  through  the  woodland  approaches  the 
foe,"— 
Scarce  could  he  falter  the  tidings  of  sorrow. 

And  scarce  could  she  hear  them,  benumb'd  with 
despair: 
And  when  the  sun  sunk  on  the  sweet  lake  of  Toro, 

For  ever  he  set  to  the  brave  and  the  fair. 


WAR-SONG 

or     I  HE   ROYAL    EDINBURGH   LrSHT   DRAGOONS. 

Sennius.    Is  not  peace  the  end  of  arms  % 
Caratach.    Not  where  the  cause  implies  a  general  con. 
quest. 
Had  we  a  difference  with  some  petty  isle, 
Or  with  our  neighbours,  Britons,  for  our  landmarks, 
Tiie  taking  in  of  some  rebellious  lord, 
Or  making  head  against  a  slight  commotion, 
After  a  day  of  blood  peace  might  be  argued : 
But  where  we  grapple  for  the  land  we  live  on, 
Tiie  liberty  we  hold  more  dear  than  life, 
The  gods  we  worship,  and,  next  these,  our  honours. 
And,  with  those,  swords  that  know  no  end  of  battle— 
Those  men,  beside  themselves,  allow  no  neighbour, 
Those  minds,  that,  where  the  day  is  claim  inheritance, 
And,  where  the  sun  makes  ripe  the  fruit,  their  harvest, 
And  where  they  march  but  measure  out  more  ground 

To  add  to  Rome 

It  must  not  be. — No !  as  they  are  our  foes, 

Let's  use  the  peace  of  honour— that's  fair  dealing ; 

But  in  our  hands  our  swords.    The  hardy  Roman, 

That  thinks  to  graft  himself  into  my  stock. 

Must  first  begin  his  kindred  under  ground, 

And  be  allied  in  ashes.  Bonduca. 

The  following  war-song  was  written  during  the 
apprehension  of  an  invasion.  The  corps  of  volun- 
teers, to  which  it  was  addressed,  was  raised  in 
1797,  consisting  of  gentlemen,  mounted  and  armed 
at  their  own  expense.  It  still  subsists,  as  the  Right 
Troop  of  the  Royal  Mid-Lothian  Light  Cavalry, 
commanded  by  the  honourable  Lieutenant-colonel 
Dundas.  The  noble  and  constitutional  measure,  of 
arming  freemen  in  defence  of  their  own  rights,  was 
nowhere  more  successful  than  in  Edinburgh,  which 
furnished  a  force  of  3000  armed  and  disciplined 
volunteers,  including  a  regiment  of  cavalry,  from 
the  city  and  county,  and  two  corps  of  artillery, 
each  capable  of  serving  twelve  guns.  To  such  a 
force,  above  all  others,  might,  in  similar  circum- 
stances, be  applied  the  exhortation  of  our  ancient 
Galgacus :  "  Proinde  ituri  in  aciem,  et  majores  ves* 
tros  et  posteros  cogitate.^' 

To  horse  !  to  horse  !  the  standard  flies, 

The  bugles  sound  the  call ; 
The  Gallic  navy  stems  the  seas. 
The  voice  of  battle's  on  the  breeze, 

Arouse  ye,  one  and  all ! 


796 


SCOTT. 


From  high  Dunedin's  towers  we  come, 

A  band  of  brothers  true  ; 
Our  casques  the  leopard'^  spoils  surround ; 
With  Scotland's  hardy  thistle  crown'd, 

We  boast  the  red  and  blue.* 

Though  tamely  crouch  to  Gallia's  frown 

Dull  Holland's  tardy  train  ; 
Their  ravish'd  toys  though  Romans  mourn, 
Though  gallant  Switzers  vainly  spurn. 

And  foaming  gnaw  the  chain  ; 

0  !  had  they  mark'd  th'  avenging  calif 

Their  brethren's  murder  gave, 
Disunion  ne'er  their  ranks  had  mown, 
Nor  patriot  valour,  desperate  grown. 

Sought  freedom  in  the  grave  ! 

Shall  we,  too,  bend  the  stubborn  head. 

In  freedom's  temple  born, 
Dress  our  pale  cheeks  in  timid  smile. 
To  hail  a  master  in  our  isle. 

Or  brook  a  victor's  scorn  ? 

No  I  though  destruction  o'er  the  land 

Come  pouring  as  a  flood. 
The  sun  that  sees  our  falling  day 
Shall  mark  our  sabres'  deadly  sway. 

And  set  that  night  in  blood. 

For  gold  let  Gallia's  legions  fight. 

Or  plunder's  bloody  gain  ; 
Unbribed,  unbought,  our  swords  we  draw, 
To  guard  our  king,  to  fence  our  law. 

Nor  shall  their  edge  be  vain. 

If  ever  breath  of  British  gale 

Shall  fan  the  tri-colour. 
Or  footstep  of  invader  rude. 
With  rapine  foul,  and  red  with  blood. 

Pollute  our  happy  shore — 

Then  farewell  home  !  and  farewell  friends  ! 

Adieu  each  tender  tie  ! , 
Resolved,  we  mingle  in  the  tide. 
Where  charging  squadrons  furious  ride. 

To  conquer  or  to  die. 

To  horse  !  to  horse  !  the  sabres  gleam ; 

High  sounds  our  bugle  call ; 
Combined  by  honour's  sacred  tie. 
Our  word  is,  Laivs  and  Liberty  ! 

March  forward,  one  and  all ! 


*  The  royal  colours. 

t  The  allusion  is  to  the  massacre  of  the  Swiss  guards, 
on  the  fatal  10th  of  August,  1792.  It  is  painful,  but  not  use- 
less, to  remark,  that  the  passive  temper  with  which  the 
Swiss  regarded  the  death  of  their  bravest  countrymen, 
mercilessly  slaughtered  in  discharge  of  their  duty,  encou- 
raged and  authorized  the  progressive  injustice  by  which 
the  Alps,  once  the  seat  of  the  most  virtuous  and  free  peo- 
ple upon  the  continent,  have,  at  length,  been  converted 
Into  the  citadel  of  a  foreign  and  military  despot.  A  state 
degraded  is  half  enslaved. 


MAC-GREGOR'S  GATHERING. 

WRITTEN    FOR    A  L  B  YN's     ANTHOLOGY 

Air— TViam'  a  Grigalach.* 

These  verses  are  adapted  to  a  very  wild,  ye> 
lively  gathering-tune,  used  by  the  Mac-Gregors, 
The  severe  treatment  of  this  clan,  their  outlawry 
and  the  proscription  of  their  very  name,  are  alluded 
to  in  the  ballad. 

The  moon's  on  the  lake,  and  the   mist's  on  the 

brae. 
And  the  clan  has  a  name  that  is  nameless  by  day ! 

Then  gather,  gather,  gather,  Gregalach  ! 

Gather,  gather,  gather,  &c. 

Our  signal  for  fight,  that  from  monarch?  we  drew, 
Must  be  heard  but  by  night  in  our  vengeful  haloo  ! 

Then  haloo,  Gregalach  !  haloo,  Gregalach  ! 

Haloo,  haloo,  haloo,  Gregalach,  &c. 

Glen  Orchy's  proud  mountains,  Coalchuirn  and  her 

towers, 
Glenstrae  and  Glenlyon  no  longer  are  ours  : 

We're  landless,  landless,  landless,  Gregalach  i 

Landless,  landless,  landless,  &c. 

But  doom'd  and  devoted  by  vassal  and  lord 
Mac-Gregor  has  still  both  his  heart  and  his  sword ! 

Then  courage,  courage,  courage,  Gregalach  ! 

Courage,  courage,  courage,  &c. 

If  they  rob  us  of  name,  and  pursue  us  with  beagles, 
Give  their  roofs  to  the  flame,  and  their  flesh  to  the 
eagles ! 
Then  vengeance,  vengeance,  vengeance,  Gre- 
galach ! 
Vengeance,  vengeance,  vengeance,  &c. 

While  there's  leaves  in  the  forest,  and  foam  on  the 

river, 
Mac-Gregor,  despite  them,  shall  flourish  for  ever ! 

Come  then,  Gregalach  !  come  then,  Gregalach  ! 

Come  then,  come  then,  come  then,  &c. 

Through  the  depths  of  Loch  Katrine  the  steed  shall 

career, 
O'er  the  peak  of  Ben  Lomond  the  galley  shall 

;    steer. 
And  the  rocks  of  Craig  Royston  like  icicles  melt. 
Ere  our  wrongs  be  forgot,  or  our  vengeance  unfelt .' 

Then  gather,  gather,  gather,  Gregalach  ! 

Gather,  gather,  gather,  &c. 


MACKRIMMON'S  LAMENT. 
Air— CAa  till  mi  tuille.-f 

Mackrimmon,  hereditary  piper  to  the  laird  of 
Macleod,  is  said  to  have  composed  this  lament 
when  the  clan  was  about  to  depart  upon  a  distan 


*  "  The  Mac-Gregor  is  come." 
t  "  We  return  no  more." 


THE    DANCE    OF    DEATH. 


'27 


and  dangerous  expedition.  The  minstrel  was  im- 
pressed with  a  belief,  which  the  event  verified, 
that  he  was  to  be  slain  in  the  approaching  feud ; 
and  hence  the  Gaelic  words,  "  C/ia  till  mi  tuille  ; 
ged  thillis  Maclcod,  cha  till  Macrimmon"  «  I  shall 
never  return  ;  although  Macleod  returns,  yet  Mack- 
riinmon  shall  never  return  !"  The  piece  is  but  too 
well  known,  from  its  being  the  strain  with  which 
the  emigrants  from  the  west  highlands  and  isles 
usually  take  leave  of  their  native  shore. 


MacLeod's  wizard  flag  from  the  gray  castle  sallies, 

The  rowers  are  seated,  unmoor'd  are  the  galleys  ; 

Gleam  war-axe  and  broadsword,  clang  target  and 
quiver. 

As  Mackrimmon  sings,  "  Farewell  to  Dunvegan 
for  ever  I 

Farewell  to  each  cliff  on  which  breakers  are  foam- 
ing; 

Farewell,  each  dark  glen,  in  which  red  deer  are 
roaming; 

Farewell,  lonely  Syke,  to  lake,  mountain,  and  river, 

Macleod  may  return,  but  Mackrimmon  shall  never  I 

*•  Farewell  the  bright  clouds  that  on  Quillan  are 
sleeping  ; 

Farewell  the  bright  eyes  in  the  Dun  that  are 
weeping  ; 

To  each  minstrel  delusion,  farewell ! — and  for 
ever  ! 

Mackrimmon  departs  to  return  to  you  never  ! 

The  banshee''s  wild  voice  sings  the  death-dirge  be- 
fore me, 

The  pall  of  the  dead  for  a  mantle  hangs  o'er  me  : 

But  my  heart  shall  not  flag,  and  my  nerves  shall 
not  shiver, 

Though  devoted  I  go — to  return  again  never  ! 

'*  Too  oft  shall  the  notes  of  Mackrimmon's  bewail- 
ing 

Be  heard  when  the  Gael  on  their  exile  are  sailing ; 

■Dear  land  !  to  the  shores,  whence  unwilling  we 
sever, 

Re^n — return — return — shall  we  never  I 
Cha  till,  cha  till,  cha  till  sin  tuille  ! 
Cha  till,  cha  till,  cha  till  sin  tuille, 
Cha  till,  cha  till,  cha  till  sin  tuille, 
Ged  thillis  Macleod,  cha  till  Macrimmon  !" 


PIBROCH  OF  DONALD  DHU. 

WRITTEN    rOR    ALBYN'S    ANTHOLOGY. 

A\T—Piobair  of  Dhonuil  Duidh.* 

This  is  a  very  ancient  pibroch  belonging  to  the 
.Ian  Mac-Donald,  and  supposed  to  refer  to  the  ex- 
pedition of  Donald  Balloch,  who,  in  1431,  launched 
from  the  isles  with  a  considerable  force,  invaded 
Lochabar,  and  at  Inverlochy  defeated  and  put  to 
flight  the  Earls  of  Marr  and  Caithness,  though  at 

♦  "  The  pibroch  of  Donald  the  Black." 


the  head  of  an  army  superior  to  his  own.  Th« 
words  of  the  set  theme,  or  melody,  to  which  th« 
pipe  variations  are  applied,  run  thus  in  Gaelic : 

Piobaireachd  Dhonuil,  piobaireachd  Dhonuil; 
Piobaireachd  Dhonuil  Duidh,  piobaireachd  Dhonuil ; 
Piobaireachd  Dhonuil  Duidh,  piobaireachd  Dhonuil; 
Piob  agus  braiach  air  faiche  Inverlochi. 

The  pipe  summons  of  Donald  the  Black, 
The  pipe  summons  of  Donald  the  Black, 
The  war-pipe  and  the  pennon  are  on  the  gathering-pI«o« 
at  Inverlochy. 

Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Pibroch  of  Donuil, 
Wake  thy  wild  voice  anew, 

Summon  Clan-Conuil. 
Come  away,  come  away. 

Hark  to  the  summons  ! 
Come  in  your  war  array. 

Gentles  and  commons. 

Come  from  deep  glen,  and 

From  mountain  so  rocky, 
The  war-pipe  and  pennon 

Are  at  Inverlochy : 
Come  every  hill-plaid,  and 

True  heart  that  wears  one. 
Come  every  steel  blade,  and 

Strong  hand  that  bears  one. 

Leave  unlended  the  herd. 

The  flock  without  shelter ; 
Leave  the  corpse  uninterr'd, 

The  bride  at  the  altar  ; 
Leave  the  deer,  leave  the  steer, 

Leave  nets  and  barges  ; 
Come  with  your  fighting  gear, 

Broadswords  and  targes. 

Come  as  the  winds  come  when 

Forests  are  rended ; 
Come  as  the  waves  come  when 

Navies  are  stranded ; 
Faster  come,  faster  come, 

Faster  and  faster, 
Chief,  vassal,  page,  and  groom. 

Tenant  and  master. 

Fast  they  come,  fast  they  come  ; 

See  how  they  gather  ! 
Wide  w^aves  the  eagle  plume, 

Blended  with  heather. 
Cast  your  plaids,  draw  your  blades, 

Forward  each  man  set ! 
Pibroch  of  Donuil  Dhu, 

Knell  for  the  onset ! 


THE  DANCE  OF  DEATH. 

Night  and  morning  were  at  meeting 

Over  Waterloo  ; 
Cocks  had  sung  their  earliest  greeting, 

Faint  and  low  they  crew, 
For  no  paly  beam  yet  shone 
On  the  heights  of  Mount  Saint  John  i 


1-28 


SCOTT. 


Tempest  clouds  prolong'd  the  sway 
Of  timeless  darkness  over  day  ; 
Whirlwind,  thunderclap,  and  shower, 
MarkM  it  a  predestined  hour. 
Broad  and  frequent  through  the  night 
Flash'd  the  sheets  of  levin  light ; 
Muskets,  glancing  lightnings  back, 
Show'd  the  dreary  bivouack 

Where  the  soldier  lay, 
Chill  and  stiff,  and  drench'd  with  rain. 
Wishing  dawn  of  morn  again, 
Though  death  should  come  with  day. 
'Tis  at  such  a  tide  and  hour, 
Wizard,  witch,  and  fiend  have  power. 
And  ghastly  forms  through  mist  and  shower, 

Gleam  on  the  gifted  ken  ; 
And  then  th'  affrighted  prophet's  ear 
Drinks  whispers  strange  of  fate  and  fear. 
Presaging  death  and  ruin  near 

Among  the  sons  of  men. 
Apart  from  Albyn's  war-array, 
'Twas  then  gray  Allan  sleepless  lay ; 
Gray  Allan,  who  for  many  a  day, 

Had  follow'd  stout  and  stern. 
Where  through  battle's  rout  and  reel, 
Storm  of  shout  and  hedge  of  steel, 
Led  the  grandson  of  Lochiel, 

Valiant  Fassiefern. 
Through  steel  and  shot  he  leads  no  more — 
Low  laid  mid  friends  and  foemen's  gore — 
But  long  his  native  lake's  wild  shore, 
And  Sunart  rough,  and  high  Ardgower, 

And  Morven  long  shall  tell. 
And  proud  Ben  Nevis  hear  with  awe. 
How,  upon  bloody  Quatre-Bras, 
Brave  Cameron  heard  the  wild  hurra 
Of  conquest  as  he  fell. 

Lone  on  the  outskirts  of  the  host. 

The  weary  sentinel  held  post. 

And  heard,  through  darkness,  far  aloof. 

The  frequent  clang  of  courser's  hoof, 

W^here  held  the  cloak'd  patrol  their  course. 

And  spurr'd  'gainst  storm  the  swerving  horse  j 

But  there  are  sounds  in  Allan's  ear 

Patrol  nor  sentinel  may  hear; 

And  sights  before  his  eyes  aghast 

Invisible  to  them  have  pass'd, 

When  down  the  destined  plain 
'Twixt  Britain  and  the  bands  of  France, 
Wild  as  marsh-borne  meteors  glance. 
Strange  phantoms  wheel'd  a  revel  dance. 

And  doom'd  the  future  slain. — 
Such    forms    were    seen,    such    sounds    were 

heard, 
When  Scotland's  James  his  marcb  prepared 

For  Flodden's  fatal  plain  ; 
Such,  when  he  drew  his  ruthless  sword. 
As  choosers  of  the  slain,  adored 

The  yet  unchristen'd  Dane. 
An  indistinct  and  phantom  band. 
They  wheel'd  their  ring-dance  hand  in  hand. 

With  gesture  wild  and  dread; 
The  seer,  who  watch'd  them  ride  the  storm, 
Saw  through  their  faint  and  shadowy  form 

The  lightnings  flash  more  red  ; 


And  still  their  ghastly  roundelay 
Was  of  the  coming  battle-fray. 
And  of  the  destined  dead. 


Wheel  the  wild  dance. 
While  lightnings  glance. 

And  thunders  rattle  loud, 
And  call  the  brave 
To  bloody  grave. 

To  sleep  without  a  shroud. 

Our  airy  feet, 
So  light  and  fleet. 

They  do  not  bend  the  rye. 
That  sinks  its  head  when  whirlwinds  ra7«. 
And  swells  again  in  eddying  wave, 

As  each  wild  gust  blows  by ; 
But  still  the  corn, 
At  dawn  of  morn. 

Our  fatal  steps  that  bore. 
At  eve  lies  waste, 
A  trampled  paste 

Of  blackening  mud  and  gore. 

Wheel  the  wild  dance. 
While  lightnings  glance. 

And  thunders  rattle  loud. 
And  call  the  brave 
To  bloody  grave. 

To  sleep  without  a  shroud. 

Wheel  the  wild  dance, 
Brave  sons  of  France  ! 

For  you  our  ring  makes  room ; 
Make  space  fujl  wide 
For  martial  pride. 

For  banner,  spear,  and  plume. 
Approach,  draw  near, 
Proud  cuirassier ! 

Room  for  the  men  of  steel ! 
Through  crest  and  plate 
The  broadsword's  weight, 

Both  head  and  heart  shail  feeL 

Wheel  the  wild  dance. 
While  lightnings  glance. 

And  thunders  rattle  loud. 
And  call  the  brave 
To  bloody  grave. 

To  sleep  without  a  shroud. 

Sons  of  the  spear ! 
You  feel  us  near. 

In  many  a  ghastly  dream  ; 
With  fancy's  eye 
Our  forms  you  spy. 

And  hear  our  fatal  scream. 
With  clearer  sight 
Ere  falls  the  night. 

Just  when  to  weal  cr  wo 
Your  disembodied  souls  take  flight 
On  trembling  wing — each  startled  sprite 

Our  choir  of  death  shall  know. 

Wheel  the  wild  dance. 
While  lightnings  glance. 
And  thunders  rattle  loud, 


HELLVELLYN. 


789 


And  call  the  brave 
To  blood}'  grave, 
To  sleep  without  a  shroud. 

Burst,  ye  clouds,  in  tempest  showers, 
Redder  rain  shall  soon  be  ours — 

See,  the  east  grows  wan — 
Yield  we  place  to  sterner  game. 
Ere  deadlier  bolts  and  drearer  flame 
Shall  the  welkin's  thunders  shame ; 
Elemental  rage  is  tame 

To  the  wrath  of  man. 

At  morn,  gray  Allan's  mates  with  awe 
HeaiKi  of  the  vision'd  sights  he  saw. 

The  legend  heard  him  say : 
But  the  seer's  gifted  eye  was  dim, 
Deafen 'd  his  ear,  and  stark  his  limb. 

Ere  closed  that  "bloody  day. 
He  sleeps  far  from  his  highland  heath — 
But  often  of  the  Dance  of  Death 

His  comrades  tell  the  tale 
On  piquet-post,  when  ebbs  the  night. 
And  waning  watch-fires  grow  less  bright, 

And  dawn  is  glimmering  pale. 


FAREWELL  TO  THE  MUSE. 

Enchantress,  farewell,  who  so  oft  has  decoy'd  me. 
At  the  close  of  the  evening,  through  woodlands  to 
roam. 
Where  the  forester,  lated,  with  wonder  espied  me 
Explore  the  wild  scenes  he  was  quitting  for  home. 
Farewell,  and  take  with  thee  thy  numbers  wild, 
speaking 
The  language  alternate  of  rapture  and  wo : 
0 !  none  but  some  lover,  whose  heart-strings  are 
breaking, 
The  pang  that  I  feel  at  our  parting  can  know. 

Each  joy  thou  couldst  double,  and  when  there  came 
sorrow. 
Or  pale  disappointment,  to  darken  my  way. 
What  voice  was  like  thine,  that  could  sing  of  to- 
morrow. 
Till  forgot  in  the  strain  was  the  grief  of  to-day  ! 
But  when  friends  drop  around  us  in  life's  weary 
waning. 
The  grief,  queen  of  numbers,  thou  canst  not  as- 
suage ; 
Nor  the  gradual  estrangement  of  those  yet  remain- 
ing, 
The  languor  of  pain,  and  the  chillness  of  age. 

'Twas  thou  that  once  taught  me,  in  accents  bewail- 

To  sing  how  a  warrior  lay  stretch'd  on  the  plain. 
And  a  maiden  hung  o'er  him  with  aid  unavailing. 

And  held  to  his  lips  the  cold  goblet  in  vain  ; 
A.S   vain   those   enchantments,  0   queen   of    wild 
numbers. 
To  a  bard  when  the  reign  of  his  fancy  is  o'er, 
A.nd  the  quick  pulse  of  feeling  in  apathy  slumbers. 
Farewell  then !   Enchantress  !   I  meet  thee   no 
more. 


HELLVELLYN. 


In  the  spring  of  1805,  a  young  gentleman  of 
talents,  and  of  a  most  amiable  disposition,  perishe*! 
by  losing  his  way  on  the  mountain  Hellvellyn. 
His  remains  were  not  discovered  till  three  months 
afterwards,  when  they  were  found  guarded  by  a 
faithful  terrier  bitch,  his  constant  attendant  during 
frequent  solitarj'  rambles  through  the  wilds  of  Cum- 
berland and  Westmoreland. 


I  climb'd  the  dark  brow  of  the  mightj'  Hellvellyn^ 
Lakes  and  mountains  beneath  me  gleara'd  misty 
and  wide ; 
All  was  still,  save  by  >  ts  when  the  eagle  was  yell- 
ing. 
And  startins  around  me  the  echoes  replied. 
On  the  right,  Striden-edge  round  the  Red-tarn  was 

bending, 
And  Catchedicam  its  left  verge  was  defending, 
One  huge  nameless  rock  in  the  front  was  ascending, 
When  I  mark'd  the  sad  spot  where  the  wanderer 
had  died. 

Dark  green  was  the  spot  'mid  the  brown  mountain 
heather. 
Where  the  pilgrim  of  nature  lay  stretch'd  in 
decay. 
Like  the  corpse  of  an  outcast  abandoned  to  weather. 
Till  the  mountain  winds  wasted  the  tenantless 
clay. 
Nor  yet  quite  deserted,  though  lonely  extended. 
For,  faithful  in  death,  his  mute  favourite  attended, 
The  much-loved  remains  of  her  master  defended. 
And  chased  the  hill  fox  and  the  raven  away. 

How  long  didst  thou  think  that  his  silence  was 
slumber  ? 
When  the  wind  waved   his  garment,  how  oft 
didst  thou  start  ? 
How  many  long  days  and  long  weeks  didst  thou 
number, 
Ere  he  faded  before  thee,  the  friend  of  thy  heart  ? 
And,  0 !  was  it  meet  that,  no  requiem  read  o'er 

him. 
No  mother  to  weep,  and  no  friend  to  deplore  him. 
And  thou,  little  guardian,  alone  stretch'd  teforo 
him, 
Unhonour'd  the  pilgrim  from  life  should  depart  ? 

When  a  prince  to  the  fate  of  the  peasant  naj 
yielded, 
The  tapestry  waves  dark  round  the  dim-lighted 
hall ; 
With  'scutcheons  of  silver  the  coflin  is  shielded. 

And  pages  stand  mute  by  the  canopied  pall: 
Through  the  courts,  at  deep  midnight,  the  torchet 

are  gloaming ; 
In  the  proudly-arch'd  chapel  the  banners  are  beam- 
ing; 
Far  adown  the  lone  aisle  sacred  music  is  streaming 
Lamenting  a  chief  of  the  people  should  fall. 


730 


SCOTT. 


But  meeter  for  thee,  gentle  lover  of  nature, 
To  lay  down  thy  head  like  the  meek  mountain 
lamb : 
When,  wilder'd,  he  drops  from  some  cliff  huge  in 
stature. 
And  draws  his  last  sob  by  the  side  of  his  dam. 
And  more  stately  thy  couch  by  this  desert  lake 

lying, 
Thy  obsequies  sung  by  the  gray  plover  flying, 
With  one  faithful  friend  but  to  witness  thy  dying, 
In  the  arms  of  Hellvellyn  and  Catchedicam. 


WANDERING  WILLIE. 

All  joy  was  bereft  me  the  day  that  you  left  me. 
And  climb'd  the  tall  vessel  to  sail  yon  wide  sea ; 

0  weary  betide  it !  I  wander'd  beside  it, 
And  bann'd  it  for  parting  my  Willie  and  me. 

Far  o'er  the  wave  hast  thou  follow'd  thy  fortune, 
Oft  fought  the  squadrons  of  France  and  of  Spain  ; 

Ae  kiss  of  welcome's  worth  twenty  at  parting, 
Now  I  hae  gotten  my  Willie  again. 

When  the  sky  it  was  mirk,  and  the  winds  they  were 
wailing, 
I  sat  on  the  beach  wi'  the  tear  in  my  e'e. 
And  thought  o'  the  bark  where  my  Willie  was 
sailing, 
And  wish'd  that  the  tempest  could  a'  blaw  on  me. 

Now  that  thy  gallant  ship  rides  at  her  mooring. 
Now  that  my  wanderer's  in  safety  at  hame. 

Music  to  me  were  the  wildest  winds'  roaring, 
That  e'er  o'er  Inch-Keith  drove  the  dark  ocean 
faem. 

When  the  lights  they  did  blaze,  and  the  guns  they 
did  rattle, 

And  blithe  was  each  heart  for  the  great  victory. 
In  secret  I  wept  for  the  dangers  of  battle, 

And  thy  glory  itself  was  scarce  comfort  to  me. 

But  now  shalt  thou  tell,  while  I  eagerly  listen, 
Of  each  bold  adventure,  and  every  brave  scar. 

And,  trust  me,  I'll  smile  though  my  e'en  they  may 
glisten ;  "* 

For  sweet  after  danger's  the  tale  of  the  war. 

And  0  !  how  we  doubt  when  there's  distance  'tween 
lovers, 
W^hen  there's  naethi.ig  to  speak  to  the  heart  thro' 
the  e'e ; 
How  often  the  kindest  and  warmest  prove  rovers. 
And  the  love  of  the  faithfullest  ebbs  like  the  sea. 

Till,  at  times,  could  I  help  it  ?  I  pined  and  I  pon- 

der'd. 

If  love  could  change  notes  like  the  bird  on  the 

tree — 

Now  I'll  ne'er  ask  if  thine  eyes  may  hae  wander'd. 

Enough,  thy  leal  heart  has  been  constant  to  me. 


Welcome,  from   sweeping  o'er  sea  and  through 
channel. 

Hardships  and  danger  despising  for  fame, 
Furnishing  story  for  glory's  bright  annal. 

Welcome,  my  wanderer,  to  Jeanie  and  hame  I 

Enough,  now  thy  story  in  annals  of  glorj'. 
Has  humbled  the  pride  of  France,  Holland,  anil 
Spain  ; 
No  more  shalt  thou  grieve  me,  no  more  shalt  tho« 
leave  me, 
I  never  will  part  with  my  Willie  again. 


HUNTING  SONG. 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay, 

On  the  mountain  dawns  the  day, 

All  the  jolly  chase  is  here, 

With  hawk,  and  horse,  and  nunting  spear; 

Hounds  are  in  their  coupler  yelling. 

Hawks  are  whistling,  horns  are  knelling. 

Merrily,  merrily,  mingle  they, 

"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay. 

The  mist  has  left  the  mountain  gray, 

Springlets  in  the  dawn  are  streaming. 

Diamonds  on  the  brake  are  gleaming ; 

And  foresters  have  busy  been. 

To  track  the  buck  in  thicket  green ; 

Now  we  come  to  chant  our  lay, 

"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay. 
To  the  greenwood  haste  away 
We  can  show  you  where  he  lies, 
Fleet  of  foot,  and  tall  of  size  ;   • 
We  can  show  the  marks  he  made, 
When  'gainst  the  oak  his  antlers  fray'd 
You  shall  see  him  brought  to  bay, 
"  Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay." 

Louder,  louder  chant  the  lay. 
Waken,  lords  and  ladies  gay ! 
Tell  them  j-outh,  and  mirth,  and  glee. 
Run  a  course  as  well  as  we : 
Time,  stern  huntsman  !  who  can  balk. 
Stanch  as  hound,  and  fleet  as  hawk: 
Think  of  this,  and  rise  with  day. 
Gentle  lords  and  ladies  gay. 


THE  BARD'S  INCANTATION. 

WRITTEN  UNDER  THE  THREAT  OF  INVASION,  IN  THl 
AUTUMN  OF  1804. 

The  forest  of  Glenmore  is  drear, 

It  is  all  of  black  pine  and  the  dark  oak  tree  | 
And  the  midnight  wind  to  the  mountain  deer 

Is  whistling  the  forest  lullaby: 


THE    TROUBADOUR. 


781 


The  moon  looks  through  the  drifting  storm. 
But  the  troubled  lake  reflects  not  her  form. 
For  the  waves  roll  whitening  to  the  land. 
And  dash  against  the  shelvy  strand. 

There  is  a  voice  among  the  trees 

That  mingles  with  the  groaning  oak — 

That  mingles  with  the  stormy  breeze, 
And  the  lake-waves  dashing  against  the  rock ; 

There  is  a  voice  within  the  wood, 

The  voice  of  the  bard  in  fitful  mood ; 

His  song  was  louder  than  the  blast, 

As  the  bard  of  Glenmore  through  the  forest  past. 

"  Wake  ye  from  your  sleep  of  death, 
Minstrels  and  bards  of  other  days  ! 
For  the  midnight  wind  is  on  the  heath, 

And  the  midnight  meteors  dimly  blaze : 
The  spectre  with  his  bloody  hand,* 
Is  wandering  through  the  wild  woodland  ; 
The  owl  and  the  raven  are  mute  for  dread. 
And  the  time  is  m.eet  to  awake  the  dead  ! 

"  Souls  of  the  mighty,  wake  and  say. 

To  what  high  strain  your  harps  were  strung, 

When  Lochlin  plough'd  her  billowy  way. 
And  on  your  shores  her  Norsemen  flung  ? 

Her  Norsemen  train'd  to  spoil  and  blood, 

Skill'd  to  prepare  the  raven's  food, 

All  by  your  harpings  doom'd  to  die 

On  bloody  Largs  and  Loncarty.f 

"  Mute  are  ye  all :  No  murmurs  strange 

Upon  the  midnight  breeze  sail  by  ; 
Nor  through  the  pines  with  whistling  change. 

Mimic  the  harp's  wild  harmony  ! 
Mute  are  ye  now  ? — Ye  ne'er  were  mute. 
When  Murder  with  his  bloody  foot. 
And  Rapine  with  his  iron  hand, 
Were  hovering  near  yon  mountain  strand. 

"  0  yet  awake  the  strain  to  tell. 

By  every  deed  in  song  enroll'd. 
By  every  chief  who  fought  or  fell, 

For  Albion's  weal  in  battle  bold ; — 
FrDm  Coilgach,^  first  who  rolled  his  car. 
Through  the  deep  ranks  of  Roman  war, 
To  him,  of  veteran  memory  dear. 
Who  victor  died  on  Aboukir. 

"  By  all  their  swo(tds,  by  all  their  scars. 

By  all  their  names,  a  mighty  spell ! 
By  all  their  wounds,  by  all  their  wars. 

Arise,  the  mighty  strain  to  tell ! 
Fiercer  than  fierce  Hengist's  strain. 
More  impious  than  the  heathen  Dane, 
More  grasping  than  all-grasping  Rome, 
Gaul's  ravening  legions  hither  come  .'" — 

The  wind  is  hush'd,  ar.d  still  the  lake — 
Strange  murmurs  fill  my  tingling  ears. 

Bristles  my  hair,  my  sinews  quake, 
At  the  dread  voice  of  other  years — 


*  The  forest  of  Glenmore  is  haunted  by  a  spirit  called 
lihamdearg,  or  Red-hand. 

t  Where  the  Norwegian  invader  of  Scotland  received 
'.wo  bloody  defeats. 

t  Tho  Galgacus  of  Tacitus. 


"  When  targets  clash'd,  and  bugles  rung, 
And  blades  round  warriors'  heads  were  flung, 
The  foremost  of  the  band  were  we, 
And  hymn'd  the  joys  of  Liberty  ]" 


ROMANCE  OF  DUNOIS. 

FR03I   THE   TRENCH. 

The  original  of  this  little  romance  makes  pari 
of  a  manuscript  collection  of  French  songs,  proba- 
bly compiled  by  some  3-oung  officer,  which  was 
found  on  the  field  of  Waterloo,  so  much  stained 
with  clay  and  blood,  as  sufficiently  to  indicate 
what  had  been  the  fate  of  its  late  owner.  The 
song  is  popular  in  France,  and  is  rather  a  good 
specimen  of  the  style  of  composition  to  which  it  be 
longs.     The  translation  is  strictly  literal. 

It  was  Dunois,  the  young  and  brave. 

Was  bound  for  Palestine, 
But  first  he  made  his  orison 

Before  Saint  Mary's  shrine  : 
"  And  grant,  immortal  queen  of  heaven," 

Was  still  the  soldier's  prayer, 
"  That  I  may  prove  the  bravest  knight, 

And  love  the  fairest  fair." 

His  oath  of  honour  on  the  shrine 

He  graved  it  with  his  sword. 
And  follow 'd  to  the  Holy  Land 

The  banner  of  his  lord  ;  i 

Where,  faithful  to  his  noble  vow. 

His  war-cry  fill'd  the  air, 
"  Be  honour'd  aye  the  bravest  knight. 

Beloved  the  fairest  fair." 

They  owed  the  conquest  to  his  arm. 

And  then  his  liege  lord  said, 
"  The  heart  that  has  for  honour  beat. 

By  bliss  must  bo  repaid  ; — 
My  daughter  Isabel  and  thou 

Shall  be  a  wedded  pair, 
For  thou  art  bravest  of  the  brave. 

She  fairest  of  the  fair." 

And  then  they  bound  the  hoi}'  knot 

Before  Saint  Mary's  shrine. 

That  makes  a  paradise  on  earth, 

If  hearts  and  hands  combine  : 
And  every  lord  and  lady  bright 

That  were  in  chapel  there. 
Cried, "  Honour'd  be  the  bravest  knight. 

Beloved  the  fairest  fair  !" 


THE  TROUBADOUR. 
Glowing  with  love,  on  fire  for  fame, 

A  Troubadour  that  hated  sorrow, 
Beneath  his  lady's  window  came. 

And  thus  he  sung  his  last  good  morrow  1 


r32 


SCOTT. 


"My  arm  it  is  my  country's  right, 
My  heart  is  in  my  truelove's  bower; 

Gayly  for  love  and  fame  to  fight 
Befits  the  gallant  Troubadour.'* 

And  while  he  march'd  with  helm  on  head 

And  harp  in  hand,  the  descant  rung, 
As  faithful  to  his  favourite  maid, 

The  minstrel  burden  still  he  sung; 
"My  arm  it  is  my  country's  right. 

My  heart  is  in  my  lady's  bower ; 
Resolved  for  love  and  fame  to  fight, 

I  come,  a  gallant  Troubadour." 

E'en  when  the  battle-roar  was  deep, 

With  dauntless  heart  he  hew'd  his  way 
'Mid  splintering  lance  and  falchion-sweep. 

And  still  was  heard  his  warrior-lay : 
"My  life  it  is  my  country's  right. 

My  heart  is  in  my  lady's  bower; 
For  love  to  die,  for  fame  to  fight. 

Becomes  the  valiant  Troubadour." 

Alas  I  upon  the  bloody  field 

He  fell  beneath  the  foeman's  glaive, 
But  still,  reclining  on  his  shield, 

Expiring  sung  th'  exulting  stave  : 
"My  life  it  is  my  country's  right. 

My  heart  is  in  my  lady's  bower  ; 
For  love  and  fame  to  fall  in  fight. 

Becomes  the  valiant  Troubadour." 


CARLE,  NOW  THE  KING'S   COME.* 

BEING  NEW  WORDS  TO  AN  AULD  SPRING. 

The  news  has  flown  frae  mouth  to  mouth  ; 
The  north  for  ance  has  bang'd  the  south ; 
The  de'il  a  Scotsman's  die  of  drouth. 
Carle,  now  the  king's  come. 

CHORUS. 

Carle,  now  the  king's  come  ! 
Carle,  now  the  king's  come ! 
Thou  shait  dance  and  I  will  sing, 
Carle,  now  the  king's  come  I 

Auld  England  held  him  lang  and  fast ; 
And  Ireland  had  a  joyfu'  cast ; 
But  Scotland's  turn  has  come  at  last — 
Carle,  now  the  king's  come  ! 

Auld  Reikie,  in  her  rokela  gray, 
Thought  never  to  have  seen  the  day ; 
He's  been  a  weary  time  away— 

But,  Carle,  now  the  king's  come ! 

She's  skirling  frae  the  Castle  Hill, 
The  carline's  voice  is  grown  sae  shrill, 
Ye'll  hear  her  at  the  Canon  Mill, 

Carle,  now  the  king's  come  I 


"  Up,  bairns,"  she  cries,  "  baith  great  and  sma', 
And  busk  ye  lor  the  weapon  shaw  ! — 
Stand  by  me  and  we'll  bang  them  a' ! 
Carle,  now  the  king's  come  ! 

♦  Composed  on  the  occasion  of  the  royal  visit  to  Scot- 
land, in  August,  1822. 


"  Come,  from  Newbattle's*  ancient  spires, 
Bauld  Lothian,  with  your  knights  and  squires 
And  match  the  mettle  of  your  sires, 
Carle,  now  the  king's  come  ! 

«  You're  welcome  hame,  my  Montague  Ij 
Bring  in  your  hand  the  young  Buccleugh  ; 
I'm  missing  some  that  I  may  rue. 

Carle,  now  the  king's  come ! 

"  Come,  Haddington,  the  kind  and  gay. 
You've  graced  my  causeway  mony  a  day  j 
I'll  weep  the  cause  if  you  should  stay. 
Carle,  now  the  king's  come  ! 

"  Come,  premier  duke.f  and  carry  doun, 
Frae  yonder  craig§  his  ancient  croun; 
It's  had  a  lang  sleep  and  a  soun' — 

But,  Carle,  now  the  king's  come  ! 

"  Come,  Athole,  from  the  hill  and  wood, 
Bring  down  your  clansmen,  like  a  cloud  ; — 
Come,  Morton,  show  the  Douglas  blood,  - 
^     Carle,  now  the  king's  come  ! 

"  Come,  Tweeddale,  true  as  sword  to  sheath ; 
Come,  Hopetoun,  fear'd  on  fields  of  death ; 
Come,  Clerk,  and  give  your  bugle  bre&ih ; 
Carle,  now  the  king's  come  ! 

"  Come,  Wemyss,  who  modest  merit  aids ; 
Come,  Roseberry,  from  Dalmeny  shades  ; 
Qreadalbane,  bring  your  belted  plaids  ; 
Carle,  now  the  king's  come ! 

"  Come,  stately  Niddrie,]]  auld  and  true. 
Girt  with  the  sword  that  Minden  knew  ; 
We  have  ower  few  such  lairds  as  you — 
Carle,  now  the  king's  come  ! 

"  King  Arthur's  grown  a  common  crier. 
He's  heard  in  Fife  and  far  Cantire, — 
*  Fie,  lads,  behold  my  crest  of  fire  !'1f 
Carle,  now  the  king's  come  ! 

"  Saint  Abb  roars  out,  *  I  see  him  pass 
Between  Tantallon  and  the  Bass !' — 
Calton,**  get  on  your  keeking-glass, 

Carle,  now  the  king's  come  i" 

The  carline  stopp'd  ;  and  sure  I  am, 
For  very  glee  had  ta'en  a  dwam. 
But  Oman  help'd  her  to  a  dram. — 

Cogie,  now  the  king's  come  ! 

Cogie,  now  the  king's  come  ! 
Cogie,  now  the  king's  come  ! 
I'se  be  four  and  j'e's  be  toom, 
Cogie,  now  the  king's  come  ! 


*  Seat  of  the  Marquis  of  Lothian. 

t  Uncle  to  the  Duke  of  Buccleugh. 

t  Hamilton,  §  The  castlfl. 

II  Wauchope  of  Niddrie,  a  noble-looking  old  man,  and 
a  fine  specimen  of  an  ancient  baron. 

IT  There  is  to  be  a  bonfire  on  the  top  of  Arthur's  seat. 

♦*  The  Castle-hill  commands  the  finest  view  of  tha 
Frilh  of  Forth,  and  will  be  covered  with  thousands,  anx- 
iously looking  for  the  royal  squadron. 

THE    END. 


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